Passionate (12 page)

Lily set her hands on her hips. “And who is Mrs. Hatcher?”

“Your mother’s new interior planner, Miss. She is a fearsomely opinionated woman—if I may be so bold.”

“This woman—she told you to get rid of my paintings?”

“Yes, Miss. Most decisively. Said they spoiled the effect of the new colors.”

Spoiled her colors, did they? Lily intended to do a lot more than spoil her colors, but first she wanted her paintings.

“I do not agree with Mrs. Hatcher’s opinion. I want my pictures found and rehung—tonight! Fetch Edwin immediately and get everyone searching. So help me, if any harm has come to them Mrs. Hatcher will pay dearly.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and scurried away, but Lily scarcely noticed. She was already tearing the offending paintings down and tossing them into a pile in the hallway. She would have burned them, if she had a match and a hope of not setting the house afire.

Another maid appeared at her door, carrying a tray. “Cook sent this up for you, Miss Lily. They’re still looking for your pictures. Jeffrey is searching the attics now.”

“Thank you, Dora. Tell him that if he comes across my old curtains, he should bring them as well.”

“Too late, miss. He’s here.”

Jeffrey, a bone-thin footman, sidled through the door, arms full of framed artwork. Lily hurried forward. “Gently, now. Lay them on the bed.”

“But miss,” Dora sounded appalled, “The coverlet will be ruined. The wrappers are horribly dusty.”

“I will not shed any tears if Mrs. Hatcher’s coverlet is ruined. Let’s have a look at what Jeffrey has found.” Lily watched as the paper on the first picture was pulled gently back to reveal one of her early paintings—the formal gardens at the old house. She shifted it and glanced at the others.

“These are not the ones I’m looking for.” It was work she had done years ago. Her Turner was not here, nor the others.

Jeffery gathered up the pile she had pushed aside, revealing the bottom-most painting. Lily froze. She had not seen this one for years—had tried to forget about it. It was a portrait of a young man holding a paintbrush. His features were even and pleasing, his expression earnest. Robert, her art tutor, the one who had…Lily hastily replaced the other pictures on top, hiding the sweet-faced young man.

“Take these away—they are not the right ones at all.”

“Perhaps these will do, Miss.” It was Edwin, standing at the door with a stack of paintings.

Lily jumped up. She recognized the frames. “Oh, Edwin, I could hug you.”

“Please refrain, Miss.”

“Then help me hang them.”

“I would be most honored. Where would you like this misty one?”

“Right here, beside the bed.” Lily felt her spirits rise as each familiar piece went back up. It already felt more like home

“Much better.” She turned to the servants. “Thank you, all. You have been so kind.”

After they had left—taking the discarded paintings piled in the hallway with them—her dinner suddenly seemed much more appealing. Lily ate some soup and pudding then went to her writing desk.

Dear Uncle Edward,

I have arrived safely in London to find the house completely re-done. It is beyond garish, but at least I have been able to restore my rooms.

It pains me to think of missing the expedition, and of disappointing you and the rest of the family, but it is simply not possible for me to accompany you. Think of me when you are in Tunisia, and write often.

Lily stopped and tapped the end of the pen against her lips. It was not fair. She should not have to abandon the expedition, and her uncle should not be left without an illustrator—and she most definitely should never have kissed James Huntington. Seeing the painting of Robert had reminded her exactly where her feelings for a man could lead. It was a warning, an omen.

“Take your time,” her uncle had urged. “Think it through.” But there was no time. If she waited another day to decide she wouldn’t have the heart to remain behind.

Lily finished the letter and folded it into an envelope, ready for the morning post. It was out of her hands now.

“Good morning, darling,” Lady Fernhaven said as Lily entered the breakfast room. “I trust you slept well. We should speak about our visit to Countess Buckley this afternoon. It is in everyone’s best interest that it go smoothly.”

Lily took a scone from the sideboard and joined her mother at the table. “Tea first, Mother—please.”

“Here you are.” Lady Fernhaven poured her a cup. “We have so much to discuss.”

Lily would have liked to linger over her tea, but her mother was hovering. She set the cup down half-full. “Very well.” So much for easing into the day.

“Countess Buckley and I shared a season, you know. We both had the good fortune to make excellent matches that year—though she did manage to catch an earl. Not that your father is in any way inferior, what with his advance in Parliament.”

“Of course not.” Lily nibbled her scone.

“The point is, I know the Countess well. She has strong opinions about what sort of activities are proper for young ladies. When she asks about you, make sure you keep your responses demure and to the point. And no need to go into any great detail about your painting—no need at all.”

“What, exactly, are you saying? That Countess Buckley does not approve of women painting?”

“Oh no, no. Just that we need not mention the scientific part. I’m sure she has no objection to lovely pictures of flowers—very feminine.”

“A large part of my art is botanical illustration, Mother.” Lily pushed her plate aside.

“Well, it likely will not matter. I shall keep the conversation moving in a favorable direction. Now, about your hair.”

Lily lifted one hand to the unruly knot at the back of her head. The hair, of course. It was always the hair. She hated that her mother could make her feel so inadequate. “I can have Bess—”

“I will send my own maid to help you get ready. One can’t be too prepared for a visit like this.”

Four hours later Lily was suitably combed and coiffed, laced more tightly than she was accustomed, and buttoned into the new dress her mother had ordered for the occasion. It reminded her of preparing for her presentation to the Queen. There was the same nervous fluttering in her stomach. She wouldn’t be making her bow to the Queen this time, but there was more at stake—her entire future.

She and her mother arrived at the Buckley mansion at half-past three. The butler led them through the grand entrance and down a long corridor—the sound of their heels echoed on the polished marble floor. He halted before an imposing pair of gilt-edged white doors. Lily drew in a breath—not as deep as usual due to the tight corset—and glanced at her mother, noting the subtle signs of tension in the set of her shoulders.

“Marchioness Fernhaven and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Lily Strathmore.” The butler held the door open for them.

“Come along, darling,” murmured Lady Fernhaven, stepping forward.

The room was dominated by a pair of tall glass cases containing dozens of porcelain figurines: artfully arranged shepherdesses, ballerinas in mid-twirl, fat men in waistcoats, and fairy-tale princesses. Mirrors set at the back of the cases allowed the figures to be admired from all angles.

Countess Buckley rose gracefully to greet her guests—a figure from her own collection come to life with impeccably styled hair and fashionable gown. Older, of course, but as carefully sculpted. Her eyes in particular were a pale blue, like the faintest wash of watercolor. Those eyes—yes. Lord Buckley had those same eyes. Lily suddenly recalled them staring mildly past her as they danced a schottische at the Chadwick’s ball last season.

The Countess’s eyes were far from mild as she turned an appraising look on Lily. She did not smile—perhaps she was afraid that such a slip would mar the well-preserved perfection of her face.

“Miss Strathmore. Your mother has told me so much about you. Please, sit, and we can become better acquainted.” Countess Buckley gestured with one slender white hand to a grouping of velvet-upholstered chairs.

Lily sat and laced her fingers together in her lap. Her green skirts, edged with creamy lace, settled about her. The afternoon gown was truly lovely. The subtly patterned taffeta was gathered into hundreds of tiny pleats at the waist, which dropped to a point. Overall, it gave the impression of waves—discreet, ladylike waves that knew their place and would never rise and crash onto some desolate, rocky shoreline.

As the countess rang for tea, Lily’s mother leaned forward, speaking softly. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take charge should you get in over your head.”

“Really, Mother. I’m capable of holding a polite conversation.”

Their hostess rejoined them in a rustle of silk. “I am so pleased you could come calling today. We can have a cozy chat, just us women.”

Cozy? That seemed unlikely—there was nothing remotely cozy about Countess Buckley.

“Miss Strathmore, your mother tells me you are something of a lady artist.”

“Yes, I paint. Botanical illustrations, mostly. Are you interested in horticulture, Countess Buckley?”

“Heavens no. I leave that to the gardeners. But botanical illustration—rather a man’s business, don’t you think?”

“There have been any number of women whose illustrations have been well-received. Clara Pope, for one.”

“I think one should make a distinction between what is well-received and what is proper.”

“Lily makes charming flower pictures,” Lady Fernhaven said before Lily could reply. “I even have one of them in my drawing room. Roses. Beautiful roses.”

“I see. Well, roses are a refined flower, and a worthy subject for a lady artist.” Their hostess swept Lily with her pale gaze. “You are actually rather pretty. You have met my son, Gerald? A very handsome man, I’m sure you agree.”

“I’m sure.” Lily turned her lips up at the corners and hoped it would do for an answer. What could she say?
I’m sorry, but I have only the vaguest recollection of your son?

The Countess gazed deeply at her for a moment before turning her attention to pouring out the newly-arrived tea.

Lily let the smile drop from her face. So, her painting was barely acceptable? Would Lord Buckley share his mother’s opinion? The thought made her stomach tighten.

“And how is your son?” Lady Fernhaven asked. “Lily has been wanting to know. Is he enjoying his travels?”

“Very much.” The countess handed each of her guests a cup of tea, her back remaining perfectly straight. “His most recent letter described a great fall of water somewhere in the state of New York—the name escapes me. He intends to take in more natural wonders, I believe, as well as visiting the Eastern cities—what he sees in them I cannot say. Why, I have hedges in the garden older than most of those cities. I much prefer the European capitals, myself.” She gave a polite little laugh. Lily’s mother joined her.

“Then he is not planning to return soon?” Lily asked.

Countess Buckley’s expression warmed slightly. “Not immediately, but there is no cause to worry. He will return in good time to pay you court—though I can see you are anxious over it.”

Anxious. Yes, that quite described her feelings. “I would like to know that we will have time to become properly re-acquainted before, well, before any final decisions are made.”

“Lily, there is nothing to fear,” her mother said. “The two of you are perfectly matched.” She turned to the countess. “I recall my own anxiety before the Marquis of Fernhaven proposed. That is the way with women when a man of high station pays court.”

“I quite agree. My, but that was a season. You with your marquis, and I with my earl. We were the talk of the
ton
.”

“We had to coordinate the wedding dates carefully. It wouldn’t have done to have the two grandest weddings of the season tripping over one another.”

“Fortunately, we won’t have that problem this time, but we will have to choose the date wisely…”

Lily began to tap one foot, the movement hidden by her skirts. If Countess Buckley favored the match, it had far more to do with her father’s position and political connections than any virtue or talent Lily might possess.

She was really quite irrelevant to the whole scheme. They expected her to be one of those porcelain dolls—poised, beautifully dressed, and lifeless. Someone who stayed exactly where they were placed until the time came to show them off.

Was this what she had chosen?

So it seemed, if it could be called a choice at all. It was either this or finding herself a dutiful spinster daughter, spending the rest of her life accompanying her mother to interminable teas.

Like this one.

“So you see, Lily, there is nothing to be anxious about,” her mother said. “Lord Buckley is a fine gentleman, and he will make you a fine husband.”

The countess rose. “I have something for you that will be a comfort while my son is abroad.” She lifted a locket on a slim gold chain and held it out to Lily.

“Really, Countess, it is not necessary…”

“But I insist.” She took Lily’s hand and pressed the locket into her palm, closing her fingers over it. The countess smelled of talc, and her hands were as cool and smooth as alabaster.

“This is very precious to me, but I thought you should have it—especially with our expectations for the future.”

Lily felt trapped by the woman’s pale eyes. She dropped her hand back into her lap, the locket clenched in her fist.

“Really, darling,” her mother said, “Your restraint is charming. Go ahead and open it—you needn’t be modest with us.”

Lily fumbled with the catch. A miniature portrait of a man that must be Lord Buckley gazed out at her, his face the face of a stranger. He had light blond hair receding from a wide forehead, his mother’s pale blue eyes, thin lips, and a soft chin that was lifted with a superior air.

She swallowed and slowly raised her eyes to the countess. “Thank you.”

“Oh, do put it on, Miss Strathmore. Don’t be shy. I am sure Gerald would approve.”