Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait (23 page)

She nodded against his throat. “The poorhouses are breeding grounds for all manner of disease. When Victor fell ill, he forbade me to go back lest I suffer the same fate, and I was”—the lump in her throat was going to choke her—“I was relieved. I was relieved never to go back.”

“You still give your pin money to charity.”

Another nod, because she was weeping now and burrowed so closely against Elijah, they might have been making love.

He said nothing more, and for long moments, Jenny cried like she hadn’t cried since Victor’s death. Cried without worrying that she sounded unladylike, cried without worrying that she’d never stop.

And throughout all of this tumult, Elijah held her close. She had the sense that if Their Graces had burst through the door, Elijah would not have moved unless and until Jenny had regained her composure.

“I m-miss him.”

“Victor.” Not a question.

“He could make me laugh. Even when he was
dying
, he could make me laugh, and he never protested when I sketched him.” She’d filled pages of the same sketchbook with images of her brother, chronicled his long, miserable battle with an enemy nobody ever defeated. Another entire notebook held Bart, always laughing and smiling.

“Victor understood you.”

Three words holding a world of insight. “He understood everybody. Victor was a charming man, but by the time he died, he was a wise man too.”

“When did he die?”

Another quiet comment, but this one reverberated through Jenny bodily. She lifted her face, not caring that she looked a wreck. “Right before… Christmas. He died right before… I did not realize… It never occurred to me…”

When she settled against Elijah again, she felt less at the mercy of grief, and on the strength of the one simple insight. “The anniversary of his death is next week.”

And her family would ignore it. Perhaps in the privacy of the ducal apartment, Their Graces would acknowledge the date somehow. Maybe some of the glances between her brothers would be about old loss, but in public, the past was not part of the upcoming holiday.

Elijah brushed her hair back from her face and said nothing, though his silence was comfortable, like Timothy purring right beside her.

“I want to look at those sketches,” Jenny said. This was not entirely truthful. She dreaded looking at those sketches, but she also wanted to know what Elijah saw in them that was brilliant.

“Next week, when we’ve made more progress on Their Grace’s portraits. For now, you need sustenance.” He produced a handkerchief, which Jenny put to use and did not return to him.

“I need to compose myself.”

He withdrew his arm but remained right beside her. “No, you needed to lose your composure. I think you also need to go to Paris.”

An after-shudder hit her, though she was done with her tears. “You’re concluding that only
now
?”

Timothy rose and stalked across Jenny’s lap—why did such soft little paws land like jackboots?—to get to Elijah.

“I knew you
wanted
to go to Paris, that you
longed
to be there. Now I understand that you
need
to go. It will be hard, Genevieve. When you’re starting out, there’s competition from every quarter, and it won’t help at all that your papa’s an English duke.”

She reached over and stroked Timothy’s sleek, dark fur. He was not purring, which struck her as odd. “I know that. Will you write me some introductions?”

He hesitated a single instant. “You won’t need them. Your talent will be your introduction, and the French have discernment, Genevieve. They can spot ability, regardless of how unconventionally it’s presented, or how unusual the artist.”

His refusal hurt, but his compliment was genuine. He had faith in her. The notion comforted wonderfully. She set aside the temptation to wheedle anyway. “I am famished. Shall we have our luncheon?”

“We shall.” He picked Timothy up and rose to set him on the mantel. The cat looked about itself, clearly not pleased with the change of location.

“He’s contrary,” Jenny said. “That’s exactly where he wanted to be earlier, but now he must find fault with it.” Would she be equally fickle about Paris once she’d arrived there?

Elijah helped her to her feet then surprised her by pulling her into his arms. “We will look at those sketches, Genevieve. They are magnificent.”

She did not question the embrace, but rather, closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. “Next week, then. I will hold you to it.”

He surprised her yet again by kissing her. His lips on hers were warm, firm, and lovely—nothing fleeting or demanding. When he raised his head and did not step back, she tried to figure out what his kiss had been about. Respect, of course. Elijah was never disrespectful of her person.

But even more than respect, his kiss had tasted of awe, as if he were kissing a goddess come to earth. Jenny leaned against him, abruptly feeling fatigue to go along with her hunger.

“Come, my lady.” Elijah shifted to link their arms, ballroom promenade-fashion. “We will fortify ourselves. Your brothers will likely be stirring, the mistletoe is still threatening from every corner, and if I understand aright, yet more family will be arriving today.”

His smile said that amid all that mayhem and holiday nonsense, she would have an ally. She would have a quiet place to come and paint; she would have a handkerchief when she needed one.

She’d have a friend who would not risk any more folly with her, regardless of how badly she’d miss him once they parted.

The realization hurt with a whole new pain, particularly when she thought back to when he’d noticed her the previous afternoon as she’d sat quietly in her dim corner. She’d studied her brothers, with their wrists, chins, and glances, and she’d studied Elijah too.

He missed his family, missed them more deeply than he likely knew. She would go to Paris, but if there was any benevolence to the holiday season at all, Elijah would give in to a towering case of homesickness and take himself off to Flint Hall.

Marriages developed a language as sophisticated and subtle as any code devised by the War Office—more so, for being flexible. The better a man understood that code, the more peacefully his marriage would proceed.

Charlotte glanced up from her embroidery hoop in a manner that told Lord Flint she’d been patient long enough. “What does your son have to say for himself, Flint?”

He did not pass her the letter, not with Prudholm lurking by the window, gilding the shine on some adolescent sulk. “Elijah? Just the usual. His commission is coming along. He’s in good health. Lady Jenny Windham has more than a bit of talent. He encloses Her Grace’s recipe for wassail, along with a warning to imbibe it in moderation. He’s having to keep his studio locked when not in use to keep all the Moreland progeny from coming to harm with the paints and such.”

“Your son is a trial to a mother’s heart, but he understands the little ones.”

From a reading chair in the corner, Pru let loose a snort that might have resembled a cough.

“Moreland’s letter is more interesting.”

Her hand paused in midair, the needle drawn as far from the fabric as it would go without snapping the thread. “
His
Grace
wrote to you?”

“Moreland has ever been a reliable correspondent. He says Her Grace has insisted that the artists be left to their work and disturbed as little as possible, lest her present not be completed by the Christmas Eve open house.”

“I have eleven other children to look after, Flint. I am not spending my Christmas Eve in some bouncing sleigh, freezing my—” She fell silent, her French grasp of subtleties stealing the rest of her outburst. “Artist
s
?”

“Elijah has asked for Lady Jenny’s aid in the studio, but His Grace says it has turned into some sort of art lesson for his daughter. She’s handy with a paintbrush, according to her father.”

Flint leaned closer to the candelabrum, as if to see the words more clearly. He was in fact thwarting his wife’s impulse to snatch the letter from his hands.

Charlotte stabbed her fabric as if it were the villain in a bad farce. “Handy with a paintbrush? That is ridiculous. That is a man who does not comprehend portraiture. That is a papa who is not paying attention. If Elijah says the girl is talented, then she’s likely a genius.”

“Perhaps.”

She looked over at him, arching a Gallic eyebrow that had captivated him across many a ballroom and every one of their bedrooms. “Flint, you try my patience worse than all your sons put together. What else does His Grace say?”

He chose his words carefully, because Prudholm had stopped shifting and sighing and using every other aggravating means to remind his parents of his presence. If Oxford was to continue benefiting from Flint’s largesse, they’d give in to his pleading and start Hilary term on Boxing Day.

“He implies that his sons and daughters have a tacitly agreed-to schedule, upon which they routinely intrude on the studio—to look for missing children, to extend an invitation to tea, to inquire about the whereabouts of a particular cat.”

His marchioness made an impatient wave with a graceful hand.

He got to the point, to the troubling, puzzling point. “They none of them report anything of a questionable nature when they drop in unannounced, though neither Elijah nor Lady Jenny is willing to let anyone inspect their works in progress.”

For a moment, Lady Flint was silent, and this was exactly why Flint hadn’t waited to bring matters to her attention. What could it mean that Elijah was closeted with an artistically talented, pretty, available young lady for hours at a time, and not one hint of impropriety could be discovered in his dealings with her? What did it mean that for the first time in nine years—nearly ten—their firstborn had mentioned a young, lovely, unmarried, well-dowered woman of suitable station in his correspondence?

“Elijah is probably preoccupied with whether to join us here this year for the holidays,” her ladyship observed. She held her hoop at arm’s length, studying a scene of snowflakes and pine trees so real, Flint expected it to reek of pine boughs.

Pru shifted on his chair and turned the page of a book. The first page he’d turned in more than fifteen minutes.

“Elijah will join us,” Flint muttered. “I have every confidence he’ll heed his mother’s summons.”

“I do not summon anybody, Flint.”

Prudholm’s book snapped closed, and he exited the room without a word to either parent. A subtle and wearying tension left with him.

“Your youngest son makes a poor spy for his siblings,” her ladyship said. She glanced at the door through which their baby boy had just stalked. “Flint, you must not worry. That Elijah does not trouble the young lady means he respects her, and better still, he respects her art. The lady’s siblings collude with her to keep any mention of longing glances and little touches from Their Graces’ notice. All will be well.”

Ah. When she explained it that way, it made perfect sense. As a younger man, Flint had been heedless with many a merry widow, willing chambermaid, and courtesan, but never again once he’d met his Charlotte.

“What is that you’re embroidering, my dear?”

“A shroud for the fools at Oxford who think young men ought to be sent home for the holidays to stomp about the house, nip their papa’s brandy, and tease their sisters.”

“You love that scamp,” Flint said.

She sent him a look, part parental commiseration, part exasperated wife.

“Pru reminds me of you, Flint. He makes the grand gestures and is full of posturing, and it’s all a diversion. The boy is plotting something. Elijah likely is too. The Harrison male is a crafty creature and determined on his goals, something I love about every one of them.”

She counseled, she flattered, she pretended to inspect her embroidery. He would adore this woman until his dying day.

Flint passed her the letters and a pair of his reading glasses.

***

“I am going to heave this cat at the next Windham sibling who just happens to come through that door without knocking.” Jenny kissed the top of Timothy’s head, so the cat at least would know she was blustering.

Though only just.

Elijah glanced at the clock then resumed studying the side-by-side portraits of the duchess. “We have at least another twenty minutes before the next sneak inspection. Your portrait of Her Grace is superior to mine.”

She put the cat up on the mantel, having realized the room’s higher spaces were warmer than any place closer to the floor. When she turned back to the easels, Elijah was still before them, arms crossed, lips pursed.

What had he been—?

“I beg your pardon. What did you say, Elijah?”

He held out a hand. “I said, your portrait of Her Grace is superior to my own.”

She did not take his hand. “You spend better than a week carping, criticizing, and sniping at my work then pronounce it better than yours?”

He dropped his hand. “I do not snipe.”

“The Duke of Moreland is not a pair of old riding boots, Genevieve,” she quoted, folding her arms.

“He’s not. I’m trying to figure out
how
your portrait is better,” he said. “I’m trying to find the technical terms, the details of execution, the subtle compositional differences, and I can’t. It’s simply…
better
.”

She wanted those details too, wanted him to enumerate them, write them down in triplicate. She wanted him to send a copy to
The
Times
, give the second copy to her, and post the third copy on the door to the breakfast parlor. “Both portraits are fine likenesses, and I’m having more trouble with His Grace.”

“I think most people have more trouble with your father.” He stepped back. “Color is part of your secret. Your palette is more varied. You have different colors of shadow.”

She was not going to let him start on her shadows. Not when he’d paid her such a fine, rare compliment. “It’s time we took a walk.”

“Yes. Because in”—another look at the clock—“seventeen minutes, one of your sisters will burst in here, all smiles, and ask if you’d like to take the children down to pet the horses’ noses, or get up a game of hoodman-blind.”

She gave Timothy a farewell caress. “I’ve always hated that game. Nothing about being without sight has ever struck me as enjoyable.”

The door swung open, and a shaggy canine behemoth padded in, followed by a dark-haired little girl. “Hullo, Aunt Jen!”

“Bronwyn, hello. Please tell Scout not to knock anything over.”

On the mantel, Timothy had come to attention, though he remained sitting. He hissed at the dog and added a low, menacing growl for good measure.

“Scout, come.”

The dog ignored his owner, another Windham grandchild, this one down from the North with St. Just and his countess. The scent of Elijah’s boots was apparently more compelling than the punishment for indifferent hearing.

“Scout, come here this instant.” Bronwyn sounded like her papa, the former cavalry officer, but the dog had apparently never bought his colors.

Elijah nudged the beast in the direction of the door with his knee. “Miss Winnie, was there something you were looking for? Something you wanted to tell us?”

“Yes!” The dog walked over to the girl while Jenny steadied a jar of brushes his tail had nearly knocked to the floor. “I forget—oh, I remember. Aunt Eve is here. You have to come get kissed. She’s going to have a baby, and Papa says from the size of her he thinks it will be a baby horse.”

Jenny hoped St. Just hadn’t said that within Eve’s hearing—though he probably had. “We’ll be along presently. You can tell everybody we’re coming.” The child whirled and darted from the room, and the dog trotted after her. “Elijah, do you have your key?”

He produced the key from his watch pocket. “Always. Yours is in the lock. If Lady Eve’s arrival merits as much celebration as Rose’s and her parents’ did, then we won’t get a thing done for the rest of the day.”

He was right, and that was fine with Jenny. She wanted to treasure his judgment of her portrait for at least a few hours before she again tackled the challenge that was her dear papa.

Eve was, indeed, well along in her pregnancy. Deene, her husband, hovered like a mother cat, until Westhaven suggested the ladies might want their sister to themselves for a bit, and Deene was all but forcibly dragged off to the billiards room by the menfolk.

While Jenny and Elijah slipped out the door.

***

When Genevieve Windham was allowed to paint for hours, she became luminous, exhausted, and serene—as if she’d been well satisfied in bed. Observations like that were only one reason Elijah found it increasingly difficult to work beside her day after day.

As they crossed the back terrace, he wrapped her hand over his arm. “What do you find difficult about your father’s portrait?”

“I find Papa difficult,” Jenny said. “He’s noisy, arrogant, absorbed with his bills and committees, and yet, he’s devoted to Her Grace, well intended, and would cheerfully—cheerfully—endure endless torture or lay down his life for any member of his family.”

That was all likely true, particularly the protective and devoted parts. “You’re afraid he’ll forbid you to go to France.”

She tucked closer, and Elijah cast around for something comforting to say besides, “
So
why
the
hell
are
you
going?
” Particularly since he’d seen that sketchbook full of dying children and Jenny’s departed brother, he’d understood why she was going, though she likely did not admit all of her motivations to herself. Unless he was very much mistaken, she had equally skilled sketches of her brother Bart secreted somewhere too.

“How do you like my portrait of Sindal’s boys, Genevieve?”

“I adore it. Sophie and Sindal adore it, and Lord and Lady Rothgreb will be crowing to all of their neighbors about it. You made two busy, grubby, noisy little boys charming, and yet, it’s them. It really is them.”

He wanted to kiss her, and not for the usual reasons. He wanted to kiss her because something about having her on hand when he’d done those sittings had given him the courage to come out of some sort of artistic exile and enjoy his work again.

They left the terrace, moving across the snowy wasteland of the Moreland gardens. “That’s what you have to do with His Grace. You have to be honest but compassionate, so your rendering really is him.”

“Because the portrait is for Her Grace, I tell myself I must try to see Papa as she sees him. He is her dear Percival, and whatever there is about him to love, Her Grace focuses on that.”

They were moving farther and farther from the house, far enough that Elijah let himself take Jenny’s hand. “My parents are the same way. Her ladyship might seem like a manipulative, scheming French baggage to some. To Flint, she’s charming, determined, and adept at managing a big family. He isn’t some fellow who likes outlandish waistcoats, he’s her dear Flint. I couldn’t see that when I was younger, but they are a team in ways I could not appreciate then.”

She paused before a gate in a tall wrought iron fence, her expression concerned. “You’re going to go home, aren’t you, Elijah?”

“Everybody goes home, eventually.” He took her hand in his again. The snow was deeper here, more than a pretty dusting. “I miss my family, and they miss me. My mother claims the Academy will never allow me full membership.”

“You think she’s scheming?”

“I think I’m as talented as the next four contenders put together, and there are two vacancies.” Though talent had never been necessary or sufficient to gain entrance. “I think a man, particularly an arrogant young man, should pay the consequences for giving his word.”

And yet, how long were those consequences supposed to last, and upon whom were they to devolve?

“I will miss my family too. I know that.”

Not the way she’d miss them when the winter wind on the Channel hit her in the face like a slap, and nobody and nothing could turn the boat around. “You’ll be fine. You’ll make new friends. You’ll have your art.”