The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The dinner had been a success. Lord Patron had admired the table arrangement ('how clever you are') and complimented the wine, while Viridian had made him laugh with a slightly naughty story about his time on the streets.

Hope played the shocked wife, covering up her mock horror by quickly changing the topic and filling up everyone's cups. She made sure to pour the wine right to the brim for their patron, and sent her husband a sly wink as the young earl tipped it back, working the jewel-toned liquid down his fine throat.

There was plenty more wine served. Viridian had to go down to the kitchen twice to fetch more bottles. By the time Lord Patron leaned back in his chair and patted his lips with the napkin, his complexion had lost its smooth coolness, and was blotched with red.

"Right," said Viridian clapping his hands together with a touch too much enthusiasm. "Paintings. Would you care to join me in the studio, Lord Patron?"

Lord Patron slapped his palms down on the table. "Yes. Let's see these masterpieces of yours." The words slurred around his tongue and Hope wondered if perhaps she'd overdone it. She wanted him tipsy, but not so far gone that he wouldn't remember their conversation in the morning.

With much care and just a little swaying, his lordship staggered to his feet. Moving to his side, Hope offered her hand, and he tucked it into his elbow and patted it as if she were an old dear needing helping walking on an icy path. She didn't mind. She knew how men like Lord Patron thought. It would please him to think that she was in need of assistance, that she needed him. She held on to him tight, leaning against him ever she gently so that he would feel the weight, but wouldn't go ricocheting off into the wall.

"Viridian, darling," she called over her shoulder. "Why don't you fetch that lovely port we've be saving?"

"Ever the gracious host," said Lord Patron.

"I think it's best to view new works without the artist hovering in the background," said Hope, lowering her lashes and giving a half-smile.

A slow, drunken chuckle emerged from the earl and Hope had to pinch herself through her thick skirts as a reminder not to get too cocky. His lordship was a natural flirt, but that wouldn't be enough to get him to act on her behalf.

The studio, carefully swept and prepared by Hope that afternoon, looked warm and comfortable when they entered. A rare fire was burning cheerfully in the grate and the pictures and sketches had been positioned at strategic intervals to hide the worst of the wear in the room.

The earl stopped in the doorway, as if entranced by what he saw. "Well, this is very fine," he whispered, after a long moment of silence. "Very fine indeed." Letting Hope's hand drop from his arm, he moved forwards, taking in each work in turn. "Such depth of feeling," he said, reaching out to touch the cheek of a fallen soldier. "Your husband always manages to capture that moment, the exact moment when the balance between the desire to live and the agonising pain, tip their balance. You can see the eyes screaming for release. Such precision."

"Viridian has an affinity with the repressed."

"As only one who has experienced it could ever have."

"Yes."

"But now, he has you. Hope."

Hope didn't reply. From behind a pile of canvases, she brought Viridian's ledger. The edges were ragged and the ribbon holding the pieces of card together were nothing more than frayed string now. "I'm afraid hope is the one thing that is sorely lacking in this household now," she said, pulling the ties free.

Lord Patron frowned. "My dear, if it is financial assistance you require..."

Hope shook her head and his words stilled. "You have always been far too generous, my lord. What I am asking for is advice. And the utmost discretion."