‘France.’ The Countess’s pained expression made the nausea worse. ‘Paris, I think, or at least that is what I believe I overheard the messenger say.’
‘Isn’t Paris Napoleon’s main stronghold?’ Filled with enemy soldiers and guns and flying bullets. Which really didn’t bear thinking about.
‘It is.’ The Countess made no attempt to hide her own concerns this time. ‘Right in the terrifying thick of things. Though as usual, Piers refused to admit that before he left, even when I asked him outright if he was headed towards a battle! But the wretch plays his cards very close to his chest, as you know, especially when it comes to his government work. Which, of course, does not help me one jot from worrying myself sick every single time he goes away.’ She poured her own tea badly, sloshing half into the saucer, before she put the pot down and used the task of vigorously stirring in the sugar to compose herself.
‘The only thing I console myself with this time is that he is accompanying the Foreign Secretary, so it cannot be that dangerous. The war must be close to an end as Castlereagh wouldn’t be headed towards the front otherwise, and he certainly wouldn’t be dragging my son again so soon unless the end of the war is finally in sight and there was a treaty with the French in the offing.’ A task which sounded dangerous. ‘Piers is his right arm in all treaty negotiations and has been since Reichenbach when he convinced the Prussians and the Austrians to change sides.’
This was all staggering news to Faith. If he was negotiating treaties for the government, his work really was of significant importance. Significant national importance. ‘But I thought he was involved in just getting supplies to our troops?’ A nice, safe occupation he could do in an armchair. One she had been so dismissive about when they had first met.
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘He also mentioned, in passing, he was arranging a state banquet at the palace next month and wasn’t particularly happy to be doing it.’
‘All true, dear, as he does spread himself too thin and work too hard but…’ The Countess rolled her eyes. ‘How typical of Piers to gloss over the fact he is also currently the only man in the government who speaks all of the languages of every nation around the dratted negotiating table.’
‘All the languages? You mean he speaks more than just German fluently?’ Although that was impressive enough.
Isobel poked her head from behind her easel. ‘Uncle Piers also speaks French, as well as Portuguese, Russian and Italian. And he speaks Arabic too, but he doesn’t get to use that very much nowadays because he has to spend so much time translating the intercepted enemy documents.’
‘I didn’t know he translated intercepted documents too!’ Even the Countess was surprised by that nugget of information. ‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Of course not. It’s a big government secret.’ Isobel rubbed her brush over the cake of ultramarine Faith had taught her to use sparingly when painting a sky. ‘But when he is busy, he forgets I am under the desk and he does tend to mutter when he’s irritated about something, and the Russians, especially, have been very taxing of late.’
‘It is rude to eavesdrop, Isobel! You know that.’ The Countess wagged an admonishing finger while Faith stared at her tea stunned as she tried to digest it all.
‘I had absolutely no idea he was involved in such things.’
‘Nobody does, dear. Because he never confides a single thing in anyone.’ Not strictly true, when he had confided a great deal of intensely personal information to Faith on the night that he saved her and then kissed her breathless. ‘Getting anything out of Piers is like drawing blood from a stone and in his case that stone is granite! I only know all that I do because I have become very adept at listening through keyholes.’
‘But you just said it was rude to eavesdrop!’ Isobel was incensed by this double standard. ‘Why are you allowed to do it and I am not?’
‘Because I am his mother, dear, and that affords me certain rights which mere nieces do not have.’
‘Sometimes I think adults make up the rules as they go along.’
‘And when you are an adult, Isobel, you will be afforded the luxury of doing the same but not before.’ She turned back to Faith. ‘When you have children, dear, never teach them to speak.’ Then she smiled. ‘But enough of all my woes, Faith. I didn’t invite you to take tea with me so I could bemoan my vexing son’s frustrating choice of career or make you listen to my arguments with my precocious granddaughter. I invited you here because I really wanted to discuss that huge canvas still hanging in my ballroom.’
The abrupt change of topic momentarily threw her. ‘I have already arranged for some men to remove it tomorrow, my lady.’ Not that she wanted to think of something so trivial when she had just been bombarded with a staggering amount of new, and potentially devastating information about a man who was already so much more than a friend. A conundrum of a man who was currently bobbing across the Channel in a packet, towards goodness knew what danger and how many stray bullets. ‘It was too short notice to have them come and remove it today. But if it is bothering you then, I could dismantle it this afternoon so we can clear the room and get it out of your way.’ It would at least give her something practical to do while she worried about Piers, which had now banished all trace of her earlier anxieties about her Royal Academy submission.
‘Oh, I don’t want it removed, dear!’ The Countess seemed amused by the suggestion. ‘I want it finished. Preferably before my May ball as was originally agreed.’
‘That is impossible, I am afraid.’ And slightly ridiculous that it even needed explaining again, but as the Countess was worried about her son, she smiled kindly as she did. ‘Not only is my father completely immobile and likely to be so for the foreseeable future, but Dr Freiberg examined my father’s wrist again this morning and in the cold light of day has confirmed that not only is it fractured as he suspected, but he has broken some fingers too. He will not be able to hold a brush properly for at least two months.’
‘But you can.’
‘Of course I can. And while I would be more than happy to continue painting the background if that is what you would like me to do, it is only fair for me to state that it could be months before my father is well enough to attempt to add the figures to the composition, especially if his leg takes longer to heal as Dr Freiberg warned broken legs inevitably always do…’
‘I know all that.’ A tea plate, now loaded with a fat scone bursting with jam and cream, was thrust unceremoniously into her hands as the Countess grinned. ‘But Piers told me you draw a damn good portrait yourself, Faith. He was positively gushing about your painting prowess when he arrived home last night, so much so he brought it up again this morning before he left. In fact, he said he had a visceral reaction to your work, which is astounding when one considers he isn’t normally prone to such effusive praise and rarely has any obvious reaction to anything—let alone a visceral one.’
‘He said that?’ Another battlement in her defences against him crumbled. ‘That was kind of him.’
‘And if he says you are as good if not a better artist than your father, then I am inclined to believe it as he is not one for faint praise either. He also said I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.’
‘I am not really sure that I follow…’
‘Then I shall come straight to the point and say it plain.’ The Countess smiled, slathering another scone with enough cream to fill six. ‘It would be such a shame not to have it finished now that it has been started, wouldn’t it? I have already waited a year and am far too impatient to wait another six months on top, so I was wondering if you would take on the commission instead, Faith?’
All the air left her lungs in a whoosh. ‘Me?’
‘I am sure your father will not mind, and if he does then I will happily commission another family portrait for the drawing room once he is better.’ The older woman suddenly notic
ed the state of her scone and frowned as she discarded it. ‘Or perhaps, on second thoughts, he should paint just me and my husband to avoid any duplication? Even in a house as big as this.’ She flicked her wrist towards the wall as she leaned forward to pick up her cup instead. ‘Two enormous family tableaus are probably a tad too much, even for me, and I sincerely doubt I will be able to pin Piers down for two sets of sittings when getting him to sit for this one has been nigh on impossible.’ She took a sip of her tea and scrutinised Faith for several moments over the rim of the cup. ‘Although something tells me he’ll be considerably more agreeable to them now…’
Faith’s head was spinning as she tried to take it all in. Excitement at the challenge warred with outrage at the implications. It did not take long for outrage to win.
‘While I can mimic my father’s style very well as far as the scenery is concerned, I cannot mimic his portraits and, all that aside, you should know I am not the slightest bit comfortable about painting a picture and then passing it off as his.’ That was fundamentally wrong and dishonest no matter how she looked at it. ‘Nor will I ask my father to condone it or sign it.’
‘Good gracious!’ The Countess threw her head back and laughed. ‘I am not asking you to commit a fraud, Faith, nor am I suggesting you paint a forged Augustus Brookes tableau for my ballroom.’
‘Then what are you asking me to do?’ Because Faith was staggered if she knew.
‘I am commissioning you, Faith—to paint a uniquely Faith Brookes tableau for my ballroom.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, dear. You.’ The Countess calmly sipped her tea again with amusement as she watched her absorb it all.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘It was my son’s idea, so you have him to thank. Or perhaps murder. As there is no denying I would not blame any reasonable person for doing the latter. He is beyond exasperating.’
‘I don’t know what to say, my lady.’ Or what to think.
About Piers, or Paris or the Writtle family portrait. It was all so surreal and unexpected. All so overwhelming and terrifying.
‘Well, I for one hope you say yes.’
‘So do I,’ said Isobel with an angelic smile. ‘Then you can finally teach me how to paint clouds today like you promised.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lady Bulphan has assured us that all fevered speculation concerning the youngest Miss B. from Bloomsbury, and a handsome cavalry officer in her orangery last night, is completely unfounded…
Whispers from Behind the Fan
April 1814
When his carriage finally turned into Grosvenor Square at a little after nine at night, Piers purposely made it stop well shy of the house and entered via the servants’ door at the back instead. He needed a few minutes of blissful quiet staring at the familiar walls of his study before he faced the inevitable inquisition from his family. After what felt like months of incessant negotiation and arduous travel instead of the three and a half weeks he had actually been away, he was exhausted, demoralised and utterly done. Even dragging his dilapidated carcase up one flight of stairs and falling face down on his mattress currently felt like too much work.
Milton spotted him, so he asked him not to say anything to his mother for ten minutes while he unloaded the unwieldy documents in his bag into his desk for safekeeping, and quietly trudged down the dim hallway alone intending to do just that after refusing the offer of a brandy. Because the lamps were burning low, he noticed the bright slice of light streaming beneath the ballroom’s double doors and slowed, his heart quickening at the mere thought of Faith.
Had she accepted his mother’s offer? Had his mother even made it? He had no idea. Just because he had made sure to sing her praises before he left, did not mean his mother had taken heed. Her heart was set on an Augustus Brookes masterpiece and his…well, after three and a half weeks of constant pondering, yearning and arguing with himself about the perils of rushing headlong into things when he knew better, he was prepared to concede that while he did believe Faith was a better artist than her talented father, his recommendation that she replace him on the commission had been entirely selfish.
He had no earthly clue what exactly it was he wanted, he was too jaded to hope, too wary to rush into anything after so short an amount of time and too damaged to listen to just his heart without the rational counsel of his head, but he knew with every fibre of his being that he wasn’t ready to say goodbye—even for a few months. He had lost count of how many times since he left for France that he had prayed that they hadn’t. He needed her here. Her comforting presence. Needed to be able to talk to her whenever the urge took him, or to look at her, or even just to know she was across the hall rather than across town and completely out of his life.
He paused at the doors and dropped his satchel. The only way he would know for sure if his mother had listened and commissioned Faith was to check. If the canvas was still in place, then perhaps he would see her tomorrow, and if it was gone, he would not and their lacklustre goodbye all those weeks ago on her doorstep in Bloomsbury had been it and their unexpected but lovely interlude was over. It was really that simple, or at least it would be if his head did not caution one thing while his foolish heart cried for another.
The butler reappeared with a balloon of cognac on a small silver tray. ‘I figured I’d bring you the drink anyway, my lord. You look as though you need it.’ As he came level he bent and picked up Piers’s discarded satchel. ‘I shall put everything in your study and leave you in peace to gather your thoughts. You will be pleased to know that your mother is in the middle of a spirited game of whist, so I shan’t disturb her till she’s done. I estimate that gives you at least twenty minutes.’
‘Thank you, Milton.’
‘And then I shall arrange for a hot bath to be drawn so that you can escape in a timely manner.’
‘I see your skills at mind reading are still sharp.’
‘Indeed they are, my lord. As sharp as ever.’ The wily retainer smiled. ‘And because I have a feeling it might interest you, Miss Brookes is also still here tonight, my lord.’
Milton’s unexpected words were like a balm to his soul. ‘With my mother?’ Because all at once he needed to see her, even if that meant forgoing the necessary bit of quiet he needed to centre himself after forty interminable hours of constant travel.
‘No, my lord. She’s in there.’ He gestured to the ballroom with an incline of his head. ‘She seems to always be in there nowadays, but tonight apparently, she is working particularly late because she wanted to finish the tree she has been painting. I was about to tell her that her carriage has arrived to take her home—unless you’d care to tell her?’ He did not wait for an answer, instead, with a knowing grin he sailed past.
Alone again, his mouth suddenly dry and his breathing already erratic, Piers cracked one of the doors open and felt all the remaining residual tension seep from his body in a relieved rush. Faith was stood on a low scaffold clutching a huge palette in one hand and wielding a brush with brisk precision in the other. Swathed in a shapeless smock beneath which the typically bold hem of a turquoise dress poked out of the bottom, complete with brightly patterned slippers which shouldn’t match but did, she was humming softly, her body swaying in time to the unrecognisable tune. Her hairstyle had long collapsed, and strained heavy against the pins which clearly struggled to hold it after so many hours of diligent service, while one endearing stray curl bounced next to her ear. The most beautiful sight for sore eyes and his drank her in.
He could have watched her for ever, but she must have sensed someone was there and turned around, and her lovely face broke into a spontaneous and dazzling grin.
‘You’re back!’
‘I am.’ And he probably looked a complete mess. He hadn’t shaved in days. Hadn’t bathed in more. The dusty coat and crumpled shirt he wore were the same ones he had donned yesterday b
efore he had stepped on the Royal navy ship in Calais. As a gentleman, good manners dictated he probably should have rectified all that before he saw her, but he did not have the strength. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’
‘Why not? It was you who convinced your mother to give me the commission, wasn’t it?’
‘I did but…’ God, he’d missed her. ‘I assumed you’d have gone home hours ago like any sensible person would.’
‘Your mother wants it finished by the May ball and this is my first commission.’ She shrugged, her violet eyes shimmering with something which he wanted to believe was more than her being pleasantly surprised to see him. ‘I am a little obsessed with it, as you can see.’
He forced his gaze to flick to the canvas and take in the colours and the shapes she had created. ‘That is a damn good sky.’ Probably not the correct words to use in front of a lady, but the best he currently had. And it was a damn good sky. Faith’s unique talent drenched every realistic and gossamer cloud. ‘The tree is splendid too.’
‘But not splendid enough, hence it is the vexing source of my current obsession.’ The smile suddenly faltered and another intense emotion whirled in her eyes. ‘I have also been completely obsessed with the news from the front…you’ve been busy too apparently. Was Paris as dreadful as it sounded?’
‘I don’t think I saw the city at its best.’
‘But Napoleon has gone… The war is really over?’
‘For now.’ Piers wanted to believe it would last for ever, but he was a realist. ‘Paris and his own government turned on him. He’s been deposed as Emperor of France and been exiled to Elba.’
‘You don’t seem happy by that.’
‘He still retains the title of Emperor, has complete sovereignty over that island, an army of four hundred loyalists and an annual income of two million francs. Hardly a punishment for all the havoc he has caused, nor much of an incentive for him to behave. They afforded him too much power so I fear it is only a matter of time before he breaks the latest peace treaty and goes on the rampage again exactly as he has done before. We tried to argue that, but everyone is so battle weary they refused to listen.’
Harlequin Historical February 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 18
