Why hadn’t the blasted driver departed yet?
He reached for the door, ready to step out and investigate what kept them, when he caught sight of a young woman on the Baudelaires’ raised portico, peering into the night as if in search of someone. She wore a red ball gown with a sloping neckline, which exposed her creamy skin and accentuated her voluptuous cleavage. Jack leaned closer to the window. Flaxen ringlets hung in tendrils around her face, and although he could not see the color of her eyes, he knew them to be a brilliant blue. She was the girl he’d seen and enjoyed looking over in the ballroom earlier.
The carriage lurched, and the young lady stepped forward as though she intended to approach the vessel, but it rolled onto the street. Jack pressed his face close to the window, not wanting to lose sight of the beauty. She, too, appeared to be straining so as not to lose sight of him. The horses found their stride, broke into a trot, and pulled the carriage farther away. Jack itched to jump out of the carriage and run back to the square but feared the young lady would disappear if he took his eyes off her. He twisted his body and strained to see out of the rear window, keeping the beauty in sight until she transformed into a hazy red speck in the distance.
“Stop!” he shouted suddenly, but the coach rolled on.
He banged his cane on the rooftop. “Stop!”
The horses came to a sudden halt, and Jack flung open the carriage door.
“Is something the matter, sir?” The driver called as Jack raced down the street on foot.
He didn’t stop running until he reached the Baudelaires’ townhome. But he arrived too late. No sign of the young lady remained. Perhaps she’d gone inside. Or perhaps she’d never been there at all. Maybe he’d drunk too much port, and she’d been no more than a mirage—a vision of one of Artemis’s virgins—a temptation of the mind after he’d sworn off women.
Chapter Three
Her glossy hair was cluster’d o’er abrow
Bright with intelligence, and fair, andsmooth.
Her eyebrow’s shape was like the aerialbow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam ofyouth,
Mounting at times to a transparentglow…
—Byron,“Don Juan”, Canto1
Abriny smellfilled Jack’s nostrils and seeped into his lungs. He opened his eyes and blinked to clear his sight, still hazy with sleep, then widened his gaze to greet an inky river that journeyed across the writing desk on which his head rested.
“Dash it!” He sat up in one swift motion and followed the trail of ink, which ended in a slow, dripping waterfall at his desk’s edge. “Dammit!” He jumped out of his seat. Ink soaked the sleeve of his white shirt and stained his forearm and fingers. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, and threw it over the spill on the floor. Then he remembered what he’d been doing the night before. He surveyed his desk in one frantic swoop and fell on a row of neatly scripted papers set out to dry. They were unscathed by the ink. He allowed himself a single sigh of relief before cursing his stupidity.
Bloody fool! You could have ruined your best work yet.
He wiped his hands with a stained rag kept next to his inkwell and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Swallowing the liquid in one long gulp, he took a moment to embrace its warmth before pouring himself a second drink. Then he gathered his freshly written pages, made himself comfortable on one of the buttoned-leather armchairs in his study, and began to read. Several minutes later, Jack finished reading and smiled. It seemed the daughters of Zeus had favored him again, and now he held the beginnings of a masterpiece in his hands.
Jack sipped his whiskey thoughtfully. It was all thanks to the young lady who’d appeared on the Baudelaires’ portico like one of Artemis’s virgins. Something about her had awakened his lost urge to put quill to paper and brought forth the words he’d been unable to grasp. After seeing her, they’d pounded on his skull like forgotten inmates of the Bastille. It was no surprise she’d become the subject of his poem—a doomed romance between a goddess protected by Artemis and a mortal poet. Jack clutched the pages, brought them to his mouth, and kissed them.
Not a temptation, but a muse. Whoever she is, she’s my muse, and I need to find her. But where to start?
He pushed himself halfway out of his chair and then sat down again. No, he would not go in search of her. He’d sworn off women, and for the first time in months, he felt alive, clear-headed, and energized. He picked at the dried ink on his arm. He smelled like a distillery and itched from the stains on his skin. What he needed was a long soak in a hot tub. Jack sprang out of his chair and trotted down two flights of stairs to the basement. He strode into the kitchen and narrowly missed colliding with Mrs. Wilson, the widowed housekeeper he’d inherited when he’d purchased the townhome.
“Heavens!” she exclaimed, coming to a dead stop in front of Jack’s bare chest.
Before he had a chance to explain, the housekeeper scuttled to a far corner of the kitchen, turning every which way and bumping into things as if she’d suddenly lost her sight.
“Slow down, Mrs. Wilson. It is only me,” Jack spoke in a gentle voice. “I am sorry if I gave you a fright.”
“Yes.” She put her hand on her chest and breathed. “I did not expect you to be—” She blinked and busied herself with moving objects around the kitchen. “Is it breakfast you’re wanting?” she asked, still not looking at him. “Cook went to the market, but I can fix something for you if you like.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I spilled some ink in my study, and I wondered if you would take care of cleaning it for me. I also need a jug of warm water and a bar of strong soap brought upstairs,” Jack said, deciding to spare the woman and forgo the bath.
“Certainly, sir. But you need only ring for me. No need to come all the way down to the kitchen.”
“I don’t like to send you up and down the stairs unnecessarily.”
“Much obliged, sir.” The housekeeper gave a little curtsey and scurried to fetch the copper water jug, seemingly grateful to have something to keep her occupied and out the way of Jack’s nakedness.
