The Missing Page (Page & Sommers #2)

by Cat Sebastian

This book wouldn’t exist without the enthusiasm of those readers who asked for another book in the Page & Sommers universe and then patiently waited for nearly three years while this project was repeatedly derailed by illness, pandemic, moving, misbehaving computers, sick pets, and a parade of inconveniences both large and small. This book owes a tremendous debt to Rose Lerner’s book doctoring. After approximately seven billion revisions there was still something seriously amiss, and Rose was able to zero in on what wasn’t working. It was like sending a book to therapy.

Sevres and Aubussons

Sèvres and Aubusson represent two prominent French artistic traditions. Sèvres is known for its exquisite porcelain, particularly its soft-paste porcelain, which was favored for its beauty and intricate designs. Aubusson, on the other hand, is renowned for its fine, flat-weave carpets and tapestries. Here's a more detailed look at each: Sèvres Porcelain: History: Sèvres porcelain, a type of soft-paste frit-porcelain, was produced at the Chateau de Vincennes, later at the Sèvres factory, under royal patronage. Characteristics: Sèvres porcelain is known for its delicate beauty, elegant designs, and high quality, often featuring floral motifs, landscapes, or portraits. Importance: It was a favored choice for royal and diplomatic gifts, and its designs influenced other manufacturers. Markings: Sèvres porcelain is typically marked with a blue interlaced double-L enclosing a date letter, although these marks have also been forged, according to Dawsons Auctioneers. Other examples: Vase garnitures, dinner services, and plaques are examples of Sèvres' creations. Aubusson Tapestries and Carpets: History: Aubusson, located in central France, has been a renowned center for tapestry and carpet weaving since the 16th century, with weavers from Flanders taking refuge there around 1580. Characteristics: Aubusson tapestries are known for their flat-weave construction, often featuring intricate designs, and are sought after for their timeless elegance and soft coloration. Importance: They were commissioned by royalty, including Louis XV, Louis XVI, and Napoleon, and are still widely sought after by interior designers and collectors. Designs: Aubusson tapestries often depict romantic pastoral scenes, historical scenes, or architectural vistas, and are known for their finely balanced compositions. Other examples: Aubusson Chinoiserie tapestries and sets of tapestries for chairs are examples of Aubusson's creations.

From a professional standpoint, James was adamant that Leo needed sleep. After forty-eight hours awake—and likely longer, because knowing Leo, he had underestimated—it was remarkable that Leo was still standing, let alone coherent. He needed a dark room, uninterrupted quiet, and some nourishing food upon waking. But Leo wasn’t his patient. He was his—lover? Friend? Both designations seemed inadequate, almost coy, when used to describe a person who was becoming the fixed point about which James’s world orbited. And right now Leo needed him. Not to fret over him, not to put him to bed, but to—well, to take him to bed. This was how Leo got when he was done with a mission. James was familiar with this reaction from the war. Some people responded to brushes with death with an urgent need for sex. James did not. James responded to brushes with death with an urgent need for barbiturates or, failing that, a place to quietly panic. This train of thought was interrupted by Leo’s mouth reaching a particularly sensitive part of James’s neck. “I missed you,” James said, and Leo’s only answer was to slide James’s braces down his shoulders and start in on his shirt buttons. “Just so you know,” James said a little breathlessly, “I’m viewing this as first aid.” Leo shoved James’s undershirt up and started mouthing at his collarbone. “Oh Christ—no, don’t stop, that feels nice. Anyway, I’m viewing all these encounters as first aid. Because otherwise I couldn’t make myself fuck a man who real...

“In several of the photographs there was a man I think I recognized. Blond, rather handsome.” It was like pulling teeth, James thought, making these people talk about the one topic they were meant to be thinking of this weekend. He hoped Leo, at the other end of the table, was having better luck, but when James looked over he saw Leo examining that blasted Gainsborough with a peculiar expression. “He must have been around here an awful lot if he was in so many pictures,” James said cheerfully. “Here, I brought along a photograph to jog your memory.” He passed it to Camilla, who put on her spectacles to examine it. “Stephen Foster,” Martha said, something tired and wistful crossing her face. “He was the vicar’s son.” James remembered what Leo had told him of reading Stephen Foster’s obituary, but hearing his name spoken by Martha jogged James’s memory. “He was your convenient gentleman!” James said, the realization striking him. All eyes at the table turned to him, and he supposed he ought to explain. “Earlier this evening, Martha said something about eight being a better number for a dinner table than seven, and I remembered that most hostesses have a list of gentlemen they call upon to make up numbers. Mr. Foster, the vicar’s son, was somebody that Martha used to call upon.” Nobody said anything, which was extremely disconcerting. Instead they all just looked at him. James did his best to pretend he was unaware of having caused any awkwardness. “Not just for supper,” Mr. ...

what about the oil paintings?” he asked, nodding at a different series of canvases. “I don’t usually sell those.” Leo could see why. These paintings weren’t pretty in the least. Some were beautiful—there was a painting of what looked like Dartmoor, and another of an empty airfield. But they weren’t the sort of thing you’d hang over the sofa in the front parlor. There was also a painting of Blackthorn, its absurd Victorian dollhouse aesthetic twisted around so that it seemed to erupt from the ground like a mushroom. It was not a flattering view of the house, there was no question. But it was also somehow…friendly, perhaps? It was not painted by a person who hated the place. It was painted by a person who saw Blackthorn for what it was—tacky and overwrought but on a domestic scale. It was a home. This was the first time Leo had really thought of the place in that way. People had lived and died there; children had grown up there. Cold and barren as it now was, it might once have been something else. For a moment, he thought that maybe it was also painted by a person who knew Blackthorn’s secrets. “That’s Miriam’s haunted house,” said Carrow. Leo raised an eyebrow. “Does Blackthorn have a ghost?” “No, it’s not nearly old enough for that. But Miriam made it look flat spooky.” “You have an overactive imagination,” Mrs. Carrow said fondly. Tacked up on the wall above the painting of Blackthorn was a charcoal sketch, the only portrait Leo had seen in the studio. It was of Carrow i...

It was cold but not frigid as he made his way along the perimeter of the house. The sun was now high enough in the sky for him to get a good look at Blackthorn. It was, he supposed, not actively hideous, if one went in for twee faux-gothic nooks and crannies and pretty little embellishments. Leo did not go in for any of those things. If pressed to choose a style of architecture he did go in for, he’d choose something spare and modern without any of these embarrassing excesses. But then he’d remember James’s house—their house? James thought so, but he was not a reliable source of information on this topic—and its quaint window seat and pointless little gable. And he’d have to concede that his definition of what a home ought to look like was out of alignment with all his aesthetic principles. Blackthorn, in any event, could be dismissed as a failure both aesthetically and also according to whatever muddled feelings Leo was inclined to apply to James-related things.

James followed him into the gray winter day. “You don’t need—” “Bollocks on need. One of us is fine with this sort of thing and the other isn’t and that’s that.” James strongly doubted that Leo, or anyone, was fine with the prospect of possibly digging up a body, or a skeleton, or whatever they were afraid of finding. But he probably wouldn’t faint or break down while doing it, so that put him one up on James. And there was something about the way he had looked at James while speaking, as if