They would call her a hysteric.
Jeremy did not want that. His eyes flicked toward the girl again. She was sitting on a stool, staring as her father worked, looking fascinated. He had seen her frown when he was speaking with his mother and was surprised to feel somewhat ashamed, he did not understand it. He barely knew her name, and yet here he was, wanting her good opinion.
He had heard the legend of sirens at sea, who lured sailors to their deaths with their song. He imagined that if they were indeed real, this is how it might feel to be bewitched by one.
He chalked it up to an extended time at sea. She was the first young woman of his acquaintance since he had been back on shore. Perhaps he was just missing the company of someone soft and warm and sweet. Tonight he would visit the tavern and find someone to slake his desire, and then he would get over this foolish thing that had overtaken him in a matter of minutes.
Of their own volition, his eyes sought her out. She was cleaning a brush her father had used while he continued with another. Her hands worked quickly, moved with surety. He watched them work fascinated by the grace of their movement. They were most definitely not the hands of a lady and yet, they were beautiful nonetheless.
She turned her face and caught him watching her. Their gazes caught and they stared, seemingly unable to look away.
“Are you almost done?”
His mother’s voice broke the spell they were under; startled them both. The girl’s father laughed.
“Not yet, Your Grace. It will take much longer than a few minutes to do this painting. Days.”
The Dowager huffed impatiently. “But I want the picture in the gallery soon. Can you not try to go faster?”
“I will try my best, Your Grace,” Americus said with a courteous bow. He showed no sign of irritation or anger at her unreasonable request which piqued Jeremy’s interest. Of course, he was perhaps simply showing respect for her station; or seeing as his brother had been the late Duke’s steward, he was already used to his mother’s temperament.
Whatever it was, he was pleased that the painter showed her the respect she deserved. Something inside him relaxed and he was not so anxious to have this painting over and done with.
“We shall utilize the late mornings until nuncheon for painting, but after that, I have other duties to attend to,” Jeremy said.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“However, if you are able to continue the painting without me, you may stay and work for as long as you want.”
Americus nodded. “There are some things I can do without your presence, Your Grace but that comes later. In the early days, I am afraid I shall ask you to sit for as long as you can.”
“I understand.” Jeremy nodded.
“He will sit for you, don’t you worry Mr. Notley,” his mother chimed in, giving him a reproving glance. It was so reminiscent of each time she’d done so as a child that his heart leaped in his chest with the hope that she might be over her nerves. The next instant, however, she looked out of the window and disappeared back into her thoughts, her expression blank and empty.
Chapter 3
Notley Crew
Americus was done with the initial outline by noon and as he put his brush down he turned to the Duke with a nod. “All done for today, Your Grace.”
The Duke barely acknowledged him; he simply stood up from his seat and walked out of the room with a nod in Americus’ direction and the slightest of glances at Louisa. The Dowager Duchess had long wandered off.
He had noticed the looks the Duke had flashed at his daughter and did not know what to make of them. Was he affronted that a woman would deign to assist in making his portrait or did he have some other interest in Louisa?
He turned as he heard the door open to behold his brother standing just inside the conservatory. “I am to escort you out,” he said to Americus, his face impassive.
“Greetings, Uncle Gilbert,” Louisa’s soft voice interrupted his musings and he turned to his daughter with a proud smile before giving Gilbert a narrowed glance.
The latter bowed and smiled. “It is good to see you, Louisa. And how do you fare?”
“I am well, Uncle,” she replied with a small curtsy, “I cannot complain. Father keeps me busy.” She smiled wide so that her twinkling sky blue eyes slitted so narrowly that they disappeared into her cheekbones.
“I am sure he does.”
Gilbert turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Would you like some refreshment before you depart? We can have tea in my chambers.”
Americus lifted a surprised eyebrow. Gilbert was not one to offer such a thing without an ulterior motive. Americus was curious as to what it might be. “I suppose we have some time.”
“Excellent. Follow me.” His brother led the way down a darkened hallway and then turned right into a chamber furnished with a large wooden desk and chair. In the corner of the room was a chesterfield large enough to seat three and next to it was a shelf filled with books. Americus had never been to Gilbert’s office in all the years that he had worked for the late Duke. He wondered why he was here now.
“Have a seat.” The steward said before picking up a small bell and ringing it. Not long after, a footman appeared and Gilbert ordered some tea. He took a seat on the armchair and regarded them as they sat side by side on the sofa.
“This is a great opportunity that has presented itself to you – I expect that you shall have many other doors open once this painting is done.”
Americus snorted. “Need I remind you that I have painted actual royalty?”
Gilbert waved a hand. “Yes yes, I am aware you are well-known among London circles, but there is an opportunity here for long-term employment so that you need not live from commission to commission. You could become the Duke’s official portrait painter.”
“How many does he need?” Louisa asked with a frown and Americus felt affection swell in his breast. She had always been precocious, his Louisa, but also naïve. She could not see past the intrigues of others and expected everyone to be as straightforward as she was. It was an endearing yet worrying trait.
“What Uncle Gilbert means, my dear is that the Duke could retain me as a member of his household and thus whatever kind of paintings he would want, I would be on hand to create.”
She leaned toward him. “Do you want that?”
That brought Americus up short. It was not a question he would have asked himself left to his own devices. He was an artist; he loved to paint but he was also a father with a responsibility to his daughter and what Gilbert was getting at was security.
So what did it matter if he wanted it or not?
“Tell us more about your new master. He seems much more aloof than the old Duke.” Americus said in an effort to change the subject.
Gilbert shrugged. “Not much is known about him since he ran off to sea. He and his father had some kind of falling out. It is believed that his father wanted him to wed. He was said to have contracted a marriage with a suitable young lady but when the young marquess heard about it, he refused point-blank to entertain the match. Words were spoken and the old Duke apparently ordered the marquess to accede to his demands or he would be renounced. The marquess packed his belongings and left.”
“What was wrong with the lady he was to marry?” Louisa asked with wide eyes.
“Oh, nothing was wrong with her, he simply did not want to do as he was asked. He wanted his freedom he said. His father wanted him to be responsible.”
“And so he went to sea. I noticed the scarring on his hands, his neck, the slash across his face – are they all a result of his seafaring adventures?” Americus asked.
Gilbert nodded. “Yes. We were all quite flummoxed when he appeared at the funeral. Reports had it that he was lost at sea a few years ago.”
“Clearly that wasn’t true,” Louisa said.
Gilbert regarded her with an indulgent smile. “No, it was not. Things have been tense since his return nevertheless. Nobody knows what to make
of him and his mother–” he abruptly stopped speaking.
Americus leaned forward. “What about her? I notice she is somewhat…” he fumbled for a word.
“Out of sorts?” Gilbert said, “Yes. She has not been the same since her husband’s death. I think the young Duke’s sudden appearance also discombobulated her quite a bit. It’s not every day one’s kin rises from the dead.”
“But she must be glad of it.” Louisa protested.
“I am sure she is. But her nerves have never been strong. It is a tremendous strain.”
“Huh…” Americus said thoughtfully, “It is all passing strange. What are the new Duke’s plans? Does he mean to stay and take over his father’s duties or turn them over to you to oversee?”
Gilbert shook his head. “We do not know what his plans are. He has not shared them.”
Americus sighed deeply. “In any case, he will be here for the duration while his portrait is painted.”
“Indeed. I should not put it past the Dowager to have thought of that when she suggested it.” Gilbert smiled.
“Well…” Americus slapped his thigh, “I am glad to be of assistance.”
At that moment, the footman came in with a tray of tea and honey cakes and the conversation became more general.
* * *
Jeremy looked up from his desk to see his friend Daniel lounging in the doorway. “Shearcaster! Do they not announce visitors anymore? Have I been at sea that long?”
Daniel laughed, strolling languidly into the room and folding himself into the armchair across from Jeremy. “Miles looked run off his feet. I told him I could find my way perfectly well on my own.”
Jeremy lifted an eyebrow. “Run off his feet? Are you accusing me of overworking my staff?”
Daniel scoffed. “I expect your staff could run rings around you, Munboro. But no, your mother needed him for something, however.”
Jeremy’s stomach dropped at the thought of his mother. He could not help it. Her increasingly erratic behavior was worrying. Daniel’s face sobered as he looked at Jeremy. “Anything I can do?”
Jeremy sighed, shaking his head. “I expect we shall just have to get through this difficult time. She should be all right…eventually.”
“Do you want me to ask–” Daniel began to say.
“No!” Jeremy replied, even before he heard who Daniel meant to ask, “Nobody can know about her. Let her be.”
“Very well then.” Daniel’s voice was quietly worried. Jeremy heard the apprehension in his friend’s voice, but there was little he could do to assuage it. His mother was ill, he knew this. If they asked anyone for help, the entire ton would know it by week’s end. He was not willing to subject his mother to the vicious gossip that would ensue. He knew what the ton said about him, he could take it. But not his mother.
* * *
Her father was very quiet as they rode home and Louisa kept shooting glances at him, wondering what was on his mind. She followed silently as he led the way home, planning the rest of her day. She could not help but mull over everything her Uncle Gilbert had told them about the new Duke. She didn’t know if she pitied him or envied him. He had the courage to break away from his family’s expectations and go his own way – at least for a time. In the end, he had been forced to come back and fulfill his destiny as the new duke. However, nobody could take his experience of the sea away from him.
Her thoughts went to his scars. They were not immediately obvious when one looked at him. Indeed, one would have to stare quite rudely in order to notice the mottled skin of his neck, mostly covered by his cravat. The slash across his face was dashing rather than disfiguring although she had noticed that he turned his head so that only the unblemished side was visible to her father as he painted. Perhaps he was self-conscious about his scars.
She hoped that one day she would be able to hear the story of how he got them from the horse’s mouth. In the meantime, she had a lot to do. She knew full well that after her father had been painting uninterrupted for a considerable length of time, his hands tended to shake with pain and exhaustion. It never used to be that way but it seemed to get worse with every painting. They never discussed it between them but Louisa had taken to stocking up on kava kava, St. John’s Wort, and Valerian root for the pain. She obtained them from an old woman who sold her wares in the market.
Many dismissed her in favor of the old sawbones. but Louisa knew that her remedies worked. As soon as they got back home, she dug out the herbs and set them to steep. Her father sat down wearily on his stool, trying to disguise the shaking in his hands but not succeeding. Louisa watched him worriedly. In her estimation, the shaking seemed to be getting worse and she felt the need to point it out but knew that there was no point.
What could they do about it even if they acknowledged it? Not much. She set out a cloth that she would dip in the hot water once the herbs were done steeping as well as an apron. She draped them on a chair as they waited, and then turned her attention to her drawing of the sunrise this morning. Perhaps she could finish it while they waited. It would help her to relax and not dwell on things she could not change such as her father’s advancing infirmity.
From behind her, she heard him sigh and turned to him. “Can I get you anything?”
He smiled sadly at her, “No, my dear. I am perfectly fine. Simply tired and worn down with age I think.”
“You are not that old.” She protested.
Americus laughed. “Tell that to my hands.”
They both looked down at the shaking digits, Louisa biting her lip with worry while Americus’ face was bleak. His hands were tools of his trade. Without them, how would they earn a living?
“I shall ask Mrs. Marni if she knows something that might stop it.” Louisa declared.
Americus nodded. “You can try, my girl. And I am grateful for your care but I fear no herb will make this better.” He stared down at his hands as if they did not belong to him. “They have been getting steadily worse with every day that passes. I cannot deny it any longer. My hands are failing me.”
Louisa sighed, eyes dropping. She did not know what to say. She stood up to check on the herbs and found them gently steaming. “Not long now,” she murmured, just for something to say before stumbling out of the room as she desperately swallowed the lump in her throat.
If it was up to her, she would gladly have taken over for her father, looked for clients and done the paintings. But nobody wanted to be painted by a woman. As much as she loved the craft, and would have wanted to dedicate her life to perfect it; everyone in her life saw her as simply a bride-in-waiting. Even her beloved father wanted nothing for her but that she finds herself a good husband and live happily as his wife.
He dismissed her when she said that all she wanted to do was paint. It made her even more envious of the new Duke of Munboro. As much as he had to return to land and take up the mantle, he had five years at sea; of being nothing but a sailor to look back on. She did not even have that.
All she had was her ever-growing pile of paintings of the sunrise that her father indulged her by hanging up in his studio. He did acknowledge that they were good and that she was talented but only in a placating way that did nothing to encourage her to hone her skills into a craft.
She knew he was just protecting her. It would be an injustice for him to fan her dreams when there was really nowhere that they could go. Still, she wished for him to think of her the same way that he thought of himself – as a painter, an artist. Because that is how she viewed herself.
She wondered if the Duke could tell her of other lands, where, perhaps, a woman might excel at a craft, and be allowed to do so. Dismissing the thought at once, she went back to the kitchen to check on her tisane. She determined that it had steeped enough and dipped the waiting towel into it.
“Hold out your hand, father,” she said and he did as she said so she could carefully wrap his hand in the towel. He hissed with pain but she ignored him, gently massaging the heat and herbs int
o his skin.
“That’s it. Just a little more and we’ll be done,” she murmured soothingly as she pressed forcibly down between his joints. He gritted his teeth but said not a word in protest. After she had thoroughly massaged his flesh with the warm cloth she put it aside and stared at his hand.
His still-shaking hand.
Chapter 4
Crisis Management
Americus had first felt the shaking in his fingers a year ago but he had at first dismissed it. It was only when he could not conceal it from his child anymore that it really began to worry him. He closed his hand around the brush, perturbed at the effort it took, just to hold it.
His commission from this job would be enough to see them fed and clothed through another winter and he hoped that in that time, he could get Louisa married so she was taken care of. She was a stubborn chit, however, and resisted all his attempts to push her at a suitable mate.
It was frustrating.
He did not want to scare her unnecessarily but it was becoming urgent that she find a suitor, or else they would both be in the pauper’s house come spring. He did not want that for her.
For a moment, he considered asking Gilbert for help but then shook his head. The steward was his brother and had more than enough reason to be concerned for Louisa, but he was not to be trusted with her welfare.
He sighed, pressing down tighter on the brush as he willed his hand not to shake on the down stroke. He was lucky that he did not –yet – have to do any of the finer details on this work. It was simply outlines and background. Soon though, he would need to have a solution to his problem. Louisa did not know it but his hand shook all the time now and not just when he was tired. He had managed to hide it so far but soon, he would not be able to.
Guilty Pleasures 0f A Bluestocking (Steamy Historical Regency Romance) Page 30
