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Authors: Pam Rosenthal
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remembered, had once written that
the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom
. But Mr. Blake wasn't a woman trying to preserve a perilous deception.
And I'm in deeper danger of dropping my mask entirely, she told herself sternly, every moment I stand here conversing with him.
It was bad enough that she couldn't cease gazing at his fine face and powerful physique. Or how much pleasure she took in his evident appreciation of Mr. Marston's elegant looks.
What was worse was that she was evidently coming to
like
him. Of course, she would probably feel a similar affinity with anyone who admired Mr. Blake's work as she did. But there was also his brave stand in Parliament: she couldn't help but respect him and his beliefs. And she wanted his respect as well.
She wanted to continue this conversation, to tell him more about the astonishing illustrated
Book of Job
she'd just purchased. And to hear more of his thoughts and observations—on anything he might wish to tell her. She wanted to know him.
Perhaps, she thought, he might like to have a drink with her in the tavern. After all, a gentleman
could
invite another gentleman for half an hour of intellectual conversation, even in such raffish surroundings. And this might be her last opportunity before he escaped back to Lincolnshire…
"I've heard," Lord Linseley was saying, "that there are new printings of
Songs of Innocence and of Experience
to be had. Did you get a look at those, Mr. Marston?"
Oh dear
. She felt her stomach clench. Her eager smile faded immediately.
David watched in amazement as a wave of icy cynicism swept over Marston's features like a cold gale from the north. It froze his face into a haughty mask and almost hid the sudden pain darkening his eyes.
But what did I say
? The young man had seemed so pleasant and forthcoming. But here was his sensuous mouth, twisting into a nasty sneer before David's astonished eyes.
"
Songs of Innocence and of Experience
, Lord Linseley? You mean those inferior ditties about
children
?"
"Well, they're about childhood, in any case. And I don't find them inferior at all. I find them haunting."
Marston shrugged. "Each to his own. I try not to look at the nasty little beasts myself. Can't stand children, either in the flesh or on the page. Good day, my lord. I wish you a fine winter in the country."
He performed his graceful little bow and turned sharply away, leaving a confused and vaguely troubled Lord Linseley staring after him.
Phoebe turned the corner onto the Strand, hailed a cab and climbed hurriedly into it, and scolded herself for her rudeness all the way home.
But I couldn't help it, she thought. Truly I couldn't.
For she
wasn't
able to look at children. She couldn't even think of them without trembling. Not since Bryan and her failure to protect him.
This fear was part of the reason she'd chosen to become Marston and to lead his sort of life. No one would expect a dandy to have anything to do with children. And since Marston never woke until afternoon and rarely went out during the day, she was able to minimize her contact with children in the streets. One did see tiny beggars curled up asleep in doorways, or little street sweepers working late to earn a few extra pennies. But Marston and his cronies would simply walk a bit faster, shuddering genteelly and looking the other way.
Of course, once in a while her gaze would stray to a little procession of shabby charity children being herded to a late church service. There seemed to be more and more of them these days, probably because their parents had been forced out of the countryside. But these humble little wards of the parish were trained to keep their eyes lowered in the streets, as though they didn't deserve a child's natural curiosity about the world around them.
I can bear it so long as I don't have to see their eyes
, she thought. But even so, last week a filthy chimney sweep had stared innocently at her as she and FitzWallace had shared
the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom
. But Mr. Blake wasn't a woman trying to preserve a perilous deception.
And I'm in deeper danger of dropping my mask entirely, she told herself sternly, every moment I stand here conversing with him.
It was bad enough that she couldn't cease gazing at his fine face and powerful physique. Or how much pleasure she took in his evident appreciation of Mr. Marston's elegant looks.
What was worse was that she was evidently coming to
like
him. Of course, she would probably feel a similar affinity with anyone who admired Mr. Blake's work as she did. But there was also his brave stand in Parliament: she couldn't help but respect him and his beliefs. And she wanted his respect as well.
She wanted to continue this conversation, to tell him more about the astonishing illustrated
Book of Job
she'd just purchased. And to hear more of his thoughts and observations—on anything he might wish to tell her. She wanted to know him.
Perhaps, she thought, he might like to have a drink with her in the tavern. After all, a gentleman
could
invite another gentleman for half an hour of intellectual conversation, even in such raffish surroundings. And this might be her last opportunity before he escaped back to Lincolnshire…
"I've heard," Lord Linseley was saying, "that there are new printings of
Songs of Innocence and of Experience
to be had. Did you get a look at those, Mr. Marston?"
Oh dear
. She felt her stomach clench. Her eager smile faded immediately.
David watched in amazement as a wave of icy cynicism swept over Marston's features like a cold gale from the north. It froze his face into a haughty mask and almost hid the sudden pain darkening his eyes.
But what did I say
? The young man had seemed so pleasant and forthcoming. But here was his sensuous mouth, twisting into a nasty sneer before David's astonished eyes.
"
Songs of Innocence and of Experience
, Lord Linseley? You mean those inferior ditties about
children
?"
"Well, they're about childhood, in any case. And I don't find them inferior at all. I find them haunting."
Marston shrugged. "Each to his own. I try not to look at the nasty little beasts myself. Can't stand children, either in the flesh or on the page. Good day, my lord. I wish you a fine winter in the country."
He performed his graceful little bow and turned sharply away, leaving a confused and vaguely troubled Lord Linseley staring after him.
Phoebe turned the corner onto the Strand, hailed a cab and climbed hurriedly into it, and scolded herself for her rudeness all the way home.
But I couldn't help it, she thought. Truly I couldn't.
For she
wasn't
able to look at children. She couldn't even think of them without trembling. Not since Bryan and her failure to protect him.
This fear was part of the reason she'd chosen to become Marston and to lead his sort of life. No one would expect a dandy to have anything to do with children. And since Marston never woke until afternoon and rarely went out during the day, she was able to minimize her contact with children in the streets. One did see tiny beggars curled up asleep in doorways, or little street sweepers working late to earn a few extra pennies. But Marston and his cronies would simply walk a bit faster, shuddering genteelly and looking the other way.
Of course, once in a while her gaze would stray to a little procession of shabby charity children being herded to a late church service. There seemed to be more and more of them these days, probably because their parents had been forced out of the countryside. But these humble little wards of the parish were trained to keep their eyes lowered in the streets, as though they didn't deserve a child's natural curiosity about the world around them.
I can bear it so long as I don't have to see their eyes
, she thought. But even so, last week a filthy chimney sweep had stared innocently at her as she and FitzWallace had shared
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