Mr. Winston placed it in my hand as the couple walked past us, whispering closely and laughing together. The gentleman’s eyes flicked to mine and seemed to sparkle, though whatever affection they held was not for me but for the handsome woman on his arm.
I lowered my voice. “We cannot cover someone’s else’s work to display mine. It is unethical.”
“I agree,” Mr. Winston said. He crossed his arms. “But I thought it through all night. A watercolor done by an unnamed artist won’t sell quickly enough—if at all—for your time frame, despite your evident talent. Certainly not to a place where the public might take notice. I see no other option, Miss Newbury, than to create our own path.”
Liza moved between us. “What if someone catches you? What, then?”
“They won’t.”
I blew out a breath. The space between us seemed lit with fire, and any path I took would burn me. Why did everything with Mr. Winston always move so quickly?
“Pardon me,” an attendant said, walking toward us. “The opera is about to begin. May I help you to your seats?”
“Yes, thank you,” Liza said weakly. She grasped hold of my arm.
“Just a moment,” Mr. Winston pressed, staring hard at me. His eyes seemed to beg me to reconsider. But how could I trust him? Liza’s happiness depended on our walking away from the whole plan. But my list depended on seeing it through. We could not do both.
I shook my head and handed him my painting, which he quickly tucked into the cylinder within his coat.
Liza pulled me along behind the attendant, and Mr. Winston reluctantly followed.
Ornamented in elegant floral carvings, the walls of the opera house seemed to dance with light from flickering brass candelabras situated at every turn. The orchestra had started warming up, and our attendant quickened his pace. Up the wide staircase we went, past groups of ladies in beautiful gowns and sharply dressed gentlemen, until we arrived at our seats.
The Ollertons’ leased box was papered in pea-green stripes with rosy-red curtains and matching carpet but was otherwise surprisingly sparse compared to those across the room from us, which were filled with a dozen or more guests and servants. We were up high, dizzyingly so, and I fought the urge to freeze in my spot. I hated heights. Almost as much as I hated depths. I much preferred a perfect balance of the two. Which I supposed could be thought of as ... land.
Liza walked around the space, admiring the carvings and rich colors. “Just as we last left it.”
Mr. Winston looked out around the seats below us.
“Do be careful,” I said on a breath as he teetered against the balcony. “We are quite high.”
He looked over his shoulder, unaffected. “Do not tell me you are afraid of heights.” He turned around and leaned back. “Why is there nothing on your list about it, then?”
“Because I have no interest in the matter, nor shall I have any regrets keeping my feet firmly planted on level ground. And I am notthatafraid. I’ve climbed trees before.” Though with trees, there was always something to hold onto. Something steadying. And the promise of more things to grip should I slip.
Mr. Winston raised a playful brow. “Are you certain we should not add an eleventh item to your list? Peering over a cliff, perhaps? That is a life experience you should not miss.”
A cliff? Was he utterly mad? Who in their sane mind would willingly walk close enough near the edge of a cliff to see beyond it?
He laughed and stood from his perch. “Are you ill, Miss Newbury? You’ve gone rather pale.”
“Any minute now!” Liza chimed, calling us over with frantic waves of her hands, and we took our seats. Liza, me, then Mr. Winston.
Everywhere I looked, I met watchful eyes.Duchess,they all seemed to say. Ladies stared as though they expected me to do something, say something,besomething. But I felt no different than I always had. If anything, I felt nervous and exposed. How did Marlow fare under the constant attention? The same ladies who stared then hurried to smile, and I remembered to smile back.
“I have an idea,” Mr. Winston whispered.
I glanced sideways at him. More cliffs? “Please keep it to yourself,” I said, smiling down again at the sea of faces.
He furrowed his brow. “I am in earnest. I think I’ve bridged our problem.”
Liza pulled out her fan. “Do you know what you should have written in your list, Ros?” She pointed down to the curtains. “Taking a tour behind the stage. I have always wondered what things look like back there.”
“Let your painting hang in public for two weeks,” Mr. Winston said in my other ear. “I’ll come back and retrieve it. No one shall be the wiser. And you can finish your list.”
“An attendant will catch you. We’ll get thrown out. Mypaintingwill get thrown out.” I shook my head, trying not to frown while so many eyes watched from below.
“If you put your faith in a lesser man, perhaps,” he whispered. “You must trust me.”
