“I know him. I have known countless men who feared to be as great as they should. And women too. I have invited you to join us so you will not succumb to those fears. Britain will need you and every ounce of bravery you can muster.” Barnes stared at her with hunger. “Would you please resume your pose?”
Kate considered storming out. The door was only a few steps away. No one would blame her for leaving, certainly not Simon. Still, she hadn’t learned anything useful yet except that Barnes was a coffeehouse Jacobin who despised the rich while becoming one. She owed it to those two poor women slaughtered and left exposed on church floors to swallow her disdain and stay until she found what she needed. Proof he murdered them.
She placed her hand lightly on the column and turned her head back to face the window.
Chapter 15
It had been over an hour since Malcolm watched Kate venture upstairs in search of Rowan Barnes. Everything remained quiet. Malcolm heard fascinating snippets of readings and mentions of Shakespeare, Milton, Shelley, and most often, Blake. He had spent time with writers and poets in Edinburgh as a university student, and these people had that same hungry contemplation of the world. In fact, the only picture in the house, so far as Malcolm could tell, that was not a Barnes was a small watercolor by Blake. It was a naked young man with arms spread wide and blossoming colors behind him.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” came a voice.
Malcolm noticed a young woman standing next to him peering at the painting, and then at him. She was blond and voluptuous, amply shown by the simple dress and full blouse scandalously unbuttoned to display her cleavage. She seemed oddly unaware of her state of dress. Even odder, she was barefoot.
Malcolm felt his strict upbringing welling up and fought the urge to scowl in Presbyterian judgment. He shrugged wordlessly at her art appraisal, preferring that to contradicting her.
She stared at him incredulously. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s dramatic,” he said begrudgingly. “And there’s color.”
“It’s glorious. Don’t you perceive that?”
He found her tone annoying with its implication that he was incapable of deep thought if he didn’t appreciate the picture. He dug in his artistic heels. “It’s mediocre.”
Her mouth fell open as if he had just denied that the Earth was round or fire was hot. Then she grew suspicious and challenging. “Clearly you have no artistic training.”
“As much as he.” Malcolm tried not to smile proudly at his off-the-cuff jab. He would remember to tell it to Simon later.
The blonde ran a ferocious hand through her hair and practically growled. “Perhaps you found your way here by accident, sir. Did you mean to stop into a country house so you could admire the oils of heifers and farm maids?”
Malcolm snorted in amusement. “Perhaps you’re correct, miss. I am no artist. I am more moved to poetry.”
She brightened with excitement. “As am I! Surely then you appreciated Master Blake’s brilliance in verse.” As he turned his sour expression to her, she gasped in shocked disbelief. “No! You cannot possibly call yourself a poet and find disfavor with the Master. Have you truly read him?”
“I truly have. And then I truly reread him because I couldn’t credit the rubbish I was reading the first time.”
The woman couldn’t find words to reply. Her eyes wavered between pity, horror, and fury.
“You realize,” Malcolm pointed at her as if lecturing, “there is room in the vast universe for different views.”
“Perhaps over minor issues such as the existence of God, but Master Blake’s words are the music of the spheres made solid. He is the soul of mankind.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes. She seized his arm and for a second, he feared she was going to attempt to throw him out. Instead, she tugged him down the corridor to a room that had likely been servants’ quarters. It was small, but with a serviceable grate where glowing coals threw off a fine heat. Four women sat on the floor, with a brass tray between them and long-stemmed opium pipes resting there. They all looked up blearily at the frantic blonde and confused man. They were older than the young woman towing Malcolm, and they regarded her with the comforting welcome of older sisters.
“Eleanor?” one of the reclining women, a grim-eyed redhead, exclaimed. “What have you there?”
“A Scotsman,” Eleanor replied. “He claims to be a poet yet he disdains the Master.”
Malcolm prepared to bolt for freedom from the clutch of frenzied cultists, but the blonde shoved down on his shoulders. “Sit.” One of the others reached back and dragged a heavy folio into the circle.
Malcolm lowered himself awkwardly because the pistols under his coat were digging into his waist and thighs. Once he was settled with young true-believer Eleanor at his side, the redhead opened the book and pronounced, “From Jerusalem.”
Malcolm exhaled with annoyance. “Please, we’re all Christians here, have mercy.”
“Quiet!” Eleanor barked. “Proceed, Lilith.”
The redheaded Lilith cleared her throat and intoned:
“ ‘And the Four Zoa’s clouded rage East & West & North & South