Page 33
“Right now,” he said, “we are going to do what people do at the seaside. We are going to fritter away the day. Recline under one of those tents on the beach. Watch the sand fleas hop about.”
“You can read your novel.” She was sitting on it. She raised herself up and pulled it free. “Some Points on the Extirpations of Tumors of the Brain.” She read the title and let the book smack down on her thigh.
“What if we go down into town instead?” she suggested. “I can scout for a painter who isn’t an unreasonably attractive reincarnation of Vlad the Impaler, and you can scout for a fisherman with an attack of the ague.”
“Infinitely preferable,” replied James at once. “I despise sand fleas. And bathing tents. Anything striped. You’ll note I always wear solid colors.” He stood. “Let me get my surgical bag. One of the maids told me her youngest sister slipped on the stairs the other day and broke her arm. The doctor set the bone, but I wouldn’t mind paying a visit regardless. Fore Street, she said.”
“Fore Street, then.” She came to her feet and hooked her elbow through his. “Who knows? We might accomplish our aims with daylight to spare.”
“In that case, I’m also scouting for a tennis partner.”
“Failing that,” said Muriel, “I can at least provide us with a proper picnic.”
9
There was no daylight to spare. Muriel and James found themselves completely occupied in the fishing quarter, where illness and injury were rampant. James’s first visit, to the maid’s sister, concluded with the grateful mother, Mrs. Grenfell, leading them to another cottage, up a steep flight of stone stairs into her cousin’s sickroom, and from there, to another cottage, and another. As night fell, they wound their way back up to the hotel through lanes that reeked of fish oil and brine. Muriel’s head still ached. She’d failed to approach a single artist, although she’d seen half a dozen painting in the boatyard, and more ducking into ale houses with their paint boxes and folded tripod easels. Thoughts of James’s blackmailer assailed her constantly, so that her stomach churned. But James himself seemed invigorated by the day’s work, and she let his improved mood improve hers.
The next morning, they returned to the harbor and parted ways. James went to look in on the Grenfell girl, and she went to canvass the artists of St. Ives. Most of them leased studios in crumbling buildings near the water. Not many of the artists were in their studios, but those who were toured her through repurposed sail lofts and netmaking factories. One overly inspired photographer had even established himself in an outhouse. Again and again, Muriel found herself stepping around heaps of netting and cracked spars to peer at oil paintings of girls peeling potatoes or ships on the harbor by moonlight. None of the paintings stirred her. So what, though? She should have learned by now to doubt the wisdom of relying on her own compass when it came to hiring an artist. She’d believed it would point her toward the sublime, and instead, it had pointed her toward a caddish, pretty-faced brute.
She attempted to commission a Bostonian in a long black cape, but he scoffed at her through his pipe smoke, speechifying on his dislike for the dainty and the tender. The following person to whom she applied—the wife of a man who took up the superior portion of their shared loft with his inferior pictures—said she hadn’t the time. The most promising candidate actually painted floral subjects, lovely watercolors that brightened the tarry walls. Alas, he was to depart St. Ives on Thursday, for the Forest of Fontainebleau. He recommended a painter called Podge, but after spending a short, shocked interval in Podge’s studio—rat and ferret infested—Muriel decided to give up, at least until tomorrow.
The afternoon was warm and calm, the thin scrim of clouds as radiant as pearl. She veered onto the beach—this one busy with working fishermen—and gazed out over the water.
“Muriel Pendrake!”
She jerked her head in the other direction. The man who’d hailed her was sitting in a battered old rowboat, an easel set up in front of him, practically between his knees due to the space constraints imposed by the thwarts.
She’d never seen him before. Doubtless he’d seen her at that blasted joust.
“Thomas Ponsonby!” He hollered the introduction, beaming. He had hair like a rooster’s comb—in both color and direction of growth—and his green-checkered sack coat was buttoned only at the top button, revealing a blue-checkered waistcoat.
“Where’s Raleigh?” he demanded, somewhat grandly, pointing at her with his paintbrush. “Off saving lives?”
“You know James?” Muriel approached. “From London?”
“From here. From the tiltyard. We repaired the fence together. He didn’t mention it?”
“He did.” Muriel’s brow creased as she tried to remember.
“Did he?” Mr. Ponsonby grinned more widely. “Not surprised. It was legendary.”
“Erm, yes.” Muriel hesitated as details returned to her. All thumbs was the phrase James had applied to his fellow fence-mender. And something along the lines of held the railing like it was a live eel.
“We made a crack team.” Mr. Ponsonby adjusted his straw boater, leaving a smear of blue paint on the brim.
“He’s looking for a tennis partner.” Muriel wasn’t sure that James would thank her for this overture. All thumbs didn’t recommend a man to racket sports. But Mr. Ponsonby lit up.
“Now?” He cast down his brush. “Serves you right,” he told his easel, and vaulted from the rowboat. He was taller than Muriel had guessed, and immediately pulled one long leg up to his chest, gripping it just below the knee and balancing like a stork.
“Do you play?” he asked Muriel, switching legs. “Why don’t we make a four? There’s Griffith.” He dropped his leg and waved.
Muriel tensed.
St. Ives was far too small a place. As was Cornwall. England. The Earth.
She turned by slow degrees.
Griffith was strolling toward them, in a top hat and a smoke-gray suit with a mulberry-colored waistcoat. He should have looked laughably out of place—the London bon vivant picking his way around piles of mackerel guts—but he carried himself with such easy assurance that she felt suddenly like an anxious caller, waiting to be received by the lord of the manor.
