There were so many paintings lying about Alexander's rooms that he didn't even want to look at a blank canvas. He had never felt like this before, and it scared him. There had never been a time in his life when he didn't want to paint. There had been times when his hands hurt too much or he couldn't keep his eyes open, but even then he had been able to look at something and see how he would set it down permanently. He had always been able to call upon his Muse and have her give him inspiration. Now that he couldn't, he didn't know what to do.
It wasn't that he lacked inspiration. Every time he looked at Catherine, he wanted to create. It was something about the way she looked and the way she moved, as though an attempt at propriety and an attempt at grit had combined to make something that sat perfectly in between. She was beautiful without being delicate and strong without losing her gentleness. Sometimes he saw something pained in her eyes, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to capture it on paper or hold her until it was gone. Every time he thought about holding her, he had to force himself to stop. She didn't even want him touching her hand, and he wanted her company too much to drive her away.
Perhaps he had painted too much over the past few days. Never before had he had such an explosion of work come out of him, and there had been so many that he feared his buyers would grow tired of seeing nothing but a red-haired woman in various poses. Someone had teased him about having finally found his niche, and he wondered if that was true. Landscapes weren't as interesting to him, and Catherine had become nearly his only model. Even when he painted someone else, some detail of Catherine always managed to slip in.
He wondered if he was falling in love. Then he realized he had been in love from the day she came back for another cup of tea.
Catherine had gone out with Napoleon to pick up some food, and she had told him that she wouldn't be back for a while. He suspected she was going to pick something up for his birthday, too, since that was drawing near, and he decided he ought to go for a walk to give her a chance to hide it properly. They had an unspoken agreement to be home in time for dinner, so he knew the latest he could expect her return. He grabbed his cap and headed out, not sure where he would go, only that he was looking for inspiration.
His walk took him down near the docks, and he walked slowly past the ships, wondering if he might paint a naval scene. It wouldn't be his usual, but there was something intriguing about the ever-changing color of the sea and the way it stretched out to meet the sky, both of them blending into one. He paused beside one of the ships, wondering how best to capture that horizon.
"Hey, you there."
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a sailor standing a few feet behind him. "Yes? Did you want something of me?"
"Who are you?"
"My name's Alexander. I'm a painter."
"A painter?" The sailor looked him up and down. "Apprenticed to anyone?"
"No."
"Rich son of a landowner?" The sailor sneered, but it was a knowing sort of sneer, the kind that implied he knew Alexander wasn't one of those spoiled sorts who used their parents money so they could afford to paint. He had been that, for a while, but it had ended when he ran to Wales.
Alexander shook his head. "I'm about as penniless as you can be."
"How would you like to earn a bit extra? I'm sure it'd be nice to afford a bit more food."
More food. That was a thought he hadn't considered for a long time. It was difficult to realize in the moment, but now that he thought about it, he realized he was nearly always hungry. If there was a bit of extra food, it went to Napoleon or Catherine, and he suspected she was slipping scraps to Napoleon, since she looked thin and drawn. "How?"
"It wouldn't take much. Come on." The sailor clapped a hand on Alexander's shoulder. "Let's head onto my ship, and we'll discuss terms."
Alexander followed the sailor up the gangplank of one of the ships and into a dark, musty cabin. An older man sat at a table, writing up something that looked disturbingly like a contract. Something about this felt dangerous, but there was the promise of some extra food for Catherine, and surely members of the Royal Navy couldn't be too unscrupulous. A quiet voice in the back of his mind reminded him that he had heard stories of people vanishing, but those had seemed to be only stories, and it was too late to escape now. There was the sailor just behind him, along with two others in the room, and all of them armed. He wouldn't do any good shot, so he approached the desk and said, in the clearest voice he could, "What do you want from me?"
"Just your service," said the man behind the desk. Alexander assumed he was the captain of the ship. "His Majesty needs strong men to serve in the wars, and I assume you're full of patriotic fervor to help." The captain sounded bored, and Alexander knew that they both knew he was being pressganged. "In return for your service on the ship, you will be paid and given three meals a day. Simply sign your name on the line, and you'll be returned when your term of service is over."
A great hero would have managed to fight his way out of the cabin and run straight back to Catherine. Alexander wasn't a hero. He was just an artist, so he took the offered pen and signed Alexander Scarlett on the line the captain pointed out.
Catherine returned home with enough food to last them a week and a wrapped package tucked under her arm. She hoped she could count on Napoleon to distract Alexander enough for her to hide the package, but even if he saw it, she had been working out a few small lies. She wasn't sure how well she could actually say them, but at least she would have something to say instead of just fumbling for an excuse and hearing him laugh.
The rooms were empty when she arrived, which was a relief. She took her time hiding the package – which was a box of fresh paintbrushes – and started laying out the food. The meat was already cured, so she knew it would keep as long as they needed. She planned on stewing the vegetables with some of the meat so they would last, and though the bread was already old, if Alexander was half as hungry as she had gotten used to being it would taste good. Only willpower kept her from starting into the food at once, and she tucked the bread under a cloth so she wouldn't have to look at it.
Napoleon settled down to rest while she set up the stew, and as it cooked she nibbled on some of the smaller vegetables and the ones that had already started to wilt. She'd had enough money left to buy two apples. One she had eaten on the way back, but the other she meant to save for Alexander.
Once the stew was done, she started to wonder where he had gone. Alexander wasn't usually away from home for very long, and when he was, it was always because he had needed something that took a long time to get and he left an explanation. Today it was as though he had disappeared, and she paced through the rooms, biting her lips until they were raw. It was getting too dark for her to go out and search for him, and she had no idea where he might have gone. She didn't want to admit even to herself that she missed him as much as she did, but worry nibbled at the back of her mind like a rat, and she wanted nothing more than for him to come in and say that he had gotten lost on the way home.
Dinnertime came and went. Catherine was too anxious to eat, but once night fell and she had to light a candle to see, she found that she was hungry. She didn't want to worry about herself while Alexander was missing, but she knew she ought to eat something. Wasting away wasn't an option. She ate a bowl of stew and moved her chair closer to the door. The candle rested on the floor, and its light cast strange shadows everywhere.
Sometime in the night, she fell asleep. When she woke, her candle had gone out and it was dark. Napoleon lay across her feet. Alexander was still gone.
There hadn't been a chance for Alexander to escape. He wasn't left alone for an instant, and even when none of the sailors were around, he was with other recruits, and the looks in their eyes told him that if he tried anything they would tell the captain. If he knew he could get an hour to himself, he was sure he could get enough of a head start to reach Catherine and Napoleon so they could all leave London, but even then they would be hunted. He didn't want to drag Catherine into that sort of life, but he didn't want to leave her.
He was assigned a hammock, and the sounds of dozens of other men breathing kept him awake. He was used to hearing sounds in the middle of the night, but those sounds were always blocked off by walls. These sounds felt closer, and he tossed and turned, trying not to think about his rooms and all the paintings left there.
Catherine would have to sell them. She didn't know how much to ask for them, and he wasn't there to talk her through haggling.
Someone might still be searching for her. He hadn't heard anything about whoever she was running from, but they could have just been lying in wait for when she was helpless. Now that he wasn't there to protect her, they could swoop in and take her.
She would have to take to the streets again. He wouldn't be back in time to protect her from winter, and even if he was, she might be able to lose herself. If she could escape someone who wanted to kill her, she could certainly hide from him.
She might not be able to take care of Napoleon. The little mutt would have to fend for himself. He might starve or be killed in a fight.
Alexander tossed and turned, but it was impossible to find a comfortable position on a hammock, just as it was uncomfortable for him to find a way to face where he wouldn't be in danger of showing his tears to someone. His eyes stung, and he couldn't stop thinking about Catherine.
