He watched in dismay as her little face screwed up and a wail of fury erupted from her tiny body. As her small fists clenched and her legs kicked, a familiar and unpleasant smell assaulted his nose.
“Oh.” He turned and ran for the door, swinging it open and running for the bannister. “Isabella!” he yelled, anxiety growing in his chest as Marie wailed with greater enthusiasm. “Isabella!”
He took the stairs two at a time, running towards the kitchen and bursting through the door. The table was laid, a pot of tea brewing on the side, but no one was around.
“Isabella? Jack?” Henry ran back into the hall where Marie’s cries were still audible. The poor little thing was getting furious now. He could hardly blame her either, but … but he couldn’t do anything about it.
Henry ran, searching the few rooms they used now, and a few of those they didn't. He even ran outside and bellowed across the gardens. Where the devil had they gone?
The terrifying idea that Isabella had up and left him struck him hard, only to be dismissed a moment later. He wasn’t so mad as to believe she’d do that to him, not and leave Marie. Then perhaps something had happened to them? That idea stopped him in his tracks until he forced himself to think how unlikely this was. No.
This was a test.
The idea made his heart leap to his throat.
Henry ran back up the stairs to where Marie was now red-faced with fury.
“Don’t cry,” he pleaded, grasping the back of his neck as sweat prickled down his spine. He picked up the little silver rattle that Jack had given her for her christening and shook it, but the sound of the tinkling bells only seemed to infuriate her more.
Isabella had done this on purpose! For a moment, anger and frustration swept over him at being forced into such a position, but as little Marie wailed, he realised the truth. Isabella trusted him. She trusted him to look after his daughter as a father ought to do. If he couldn’t do that, he might just have well as handed her over to Viscount Treedle. The idea made him feel sick to his stomach.
“All right, Marie,” he said, sucking in a deep breath. “I … I will change you.” The words were for himself as much as her as he rushed about the room. He laid a towel upon the bed and gathered up a clean clout and pilcher. After watching Isabella change her countless times, he ought to manage. It looked simple enough when she did it. How hard could it be?
Once he had everything ready and a bowl of lukewarm water to hand, he returned to the cradle. Marie was beside herself, kicking and screaming, and Henry hesitated, terror flooding him at the idea he might hurt her or drop her with his clumsy hands.
“Come along, then, my little love,” he said, his heart beating so hard he felt nausea roil in his guts. He lifted her, astonished by how light she was, and yet so solid at the same time. Her skin was sweaty after screaming in the heat, and he hurried to lay her down on the bed.
Removing her clothes wasn’t too tricky, though what lay within the clout made him wretch and cover his nose with the back of his hand. He turned his head away and sucked in a deep breath, not breathing at all as he wiped up the worst of the mess. With hasty hands, he wrapped the revolting clout up in a square of muslin and cast it across the room.
Thank heavens.
As he washed the baby, with such care and attention to detail he suspected Isabella would laugh at him for taking so long, Marie calmed and ceased her crying. Once she was dry and clean, he took a moment to watch her. Happy now, she gurgled and cooed, kicking her little legs in the air. He huffed out a breath of relief and reached out a finger, tickling her round belly. She squealed, and Henry grinned.
“Ticklish like your mama,” he said, amused as she blinked at him. Those eyes would stay that colour, like Isabella’s, he was certain. “Beautiful little Marine,” he said, his voice low. “You’ll break hearts with those sea-blue eyes.”
His hand rested beside the child, her little arms and legs kicking as she enjoyed the freedom of being without her clothes on such a warm day. Henry started as her tiny fingers curved around one of his. He stared, an all-consuming sensation filling his heart to the brim as he watched her clutch his finger. Trusting him.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, stroking the soft fluff of blonde hair with wonder as he had wanted to do since the moment she’d been born.
“Right then, beautiful girl,” he said, determined now. “Let’s put you back together.”
He took exactly seven tries to get the clout on and tied up. He thought it didn’t look too bad, if not as neat as when Isabella did it. The pilcher, however, after all the practise on the clout, was a piece of cake.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, beaming at Marie as she gurgled at him, as impressed by his triumph as she was. “We did it, Marie.” He sighed, pleased with himself, and then forced himself to reach for her again, taking the tiny baby in his arms. He lowered his face, allowing her to pinch his nose and making a muffled sound of protest as her sharp little nails dug in.
“Ow.”
He looked up, laughing as she released her hold, and found Isabella staring at him, blinking hard.
“Hello,” he said, feeling a flustered all at once. “She … she was crying so …”
“So I see,” Isabella replied, beaming at him, her voice sounding unsteady.
“I didn’t do too badly, I think?” he said, lifting her a little to show the clout and pilcher, which promptly fell off her tiny form and hit the floor. Henry scowled. “I think I need more practise,” he said with frustration.
Isabella smothered a laugh. “I don’t think that will be a problem,” she said.
He snorted and looked down at their daughter with a smile. “No, I don’t suppose it will.”
***
Henry paced outside the door to his studio, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked around to find Isabella watching him. She didn’t speak, didn’t hurry him or tell him he was being ridiculous. She waited until he was ready.
He was being ridiculous though knowing it didn’t change a thing. Henry took a deep breath and forced himself to a halt before reaching for the door handle. He walked in, not stopping or looking up until he got to his easel, busying himself with selecting a pencil to sketch out his painting.
Belle waited, silent and patient, and he knew Isabella had told her what to expect. She wanted a portrait done of herself as a present for her husband for Christmas. It had taken Isabella weeks of persuasion before he’d agreed. Belle came to the house often now, sometime alone, sometimes with Edward, and often with their son, Eli. Henry was trying his best to get used to having them around. Some days he managed better than others, but they never reproached him for getting up and leaving them without a word if things got too much.
Henry liked Eli. He was seven months old now, a strong and sturdy little lad who looked like he’d be a mischievous little devil as soon as he found his feet, though even crawling, he caused chaos. He’d bitten Henry’s finger the week previous, which had made them both laugh, even as Belle exclaimed with remorse.
Just concentrate on the painting, Isabella’s voice sounded in his ear, even though she sat quiet and still in the far corner, a book in hand. She’d promised to stay with him, but she would not interrupt while he worked. With a sigh, he stared at Belle, avoiding her eye for now but taking in the proportions of the pose and sketching in the rough image. He approved the vibrant blue of her gown, the colour of which would be striking, the silk sleek and gleaming in the sunlight that lit the scene. Little by little, Henry relaxed, consumed by the work and forgetting it was someone he did not know well who sat for him, as the desire to paint took him over.
Chapter 22
“Wherein an unlikely friendship is struck.”
“Henry, just speak to him, please. You’ve spoken to him before. If you don’t wish to do as he asks, then you have every right to say no. It’s your decision.”
Henry huffed out a breath, irritated. He’d painted Belle and now it seemed everyone and their blasted
mother was clamouring to be next. Isabella turned people away almost daily and the post stacked up in the library. Henry refused to look at it. He painted for himself, not for others.
Never had Isabella insisted he speak to someone himself, but this time she was adamant.
“Why can’t you tell him no?” he demanded, knowing he sounded sulky as a child and hating himself for it.
“Because I think you should, and …” Isabella hesitated. “And he unnerves me a little,” she said, looking sheepish. “Besides, after what he did for us, I think it only polite you try to talk to him. Just try, please. For me?”
Henry muttered under his breath and stalked out of the studio. It was childish and ungracious of him, but he hated being forced to do things, even when he knew she did it for his own good. He flung the door of the parlour open, to find Lord DeMorte engaged in rearranging the items on the sideboard. The man froze, looking as uncomfortable as Henry was about having to speak to him.
“It’s all right,” Henry said, his voice gruff as he gestured to the ornaments. “Put them how you want them.”
He waited until DeMorte had arranged everything to his satisfaction, and the man turned to look at him. Henry avoided his eyes, hoping he’d hurry and get it over with.
“My wife saw the painting you did for Belle,” DeMorte said, the words stilted, sounding as though they’d been pulled from him with a deal of reluctance. “My wife has … requested I get one done of myself.”
Henry looked up, a little intrigued to discover the intimidating figure of Lord DeMorte sounding as though his wife’s request had been as good as putting a gun to his head. He regarded his guest with amusement.
“You don’t want to sit for me,” Henry said as DeMorte grimaced.
“I’d rather have my teeth pulled,” the man muttered, glowering a little.
Henry’s eyebrows shot up. “Why are you here then?”
DeMorte returned a withering look. “Good God, man, you’re married, aren’t you? I assume the only reason you’re talking to me is because it was requested of you?”
Henry nodded, seeing no reason to deny it. DeMorte gave a snort of amusement.
“Well, then,” he demanded, his voice brusque and impatient. “Will you do it or not?”
The question made Henry pause. It had been on the tip of his tongue to refuse, but … He looked again at DeMorte. He was fierce, his features harsh, cruel, even, yet there was something else, a vulnerability that glinted from time to time. If you didn’t look hard, you’d miss it, too unsettled by the glowering stare that could pierce you to the core. Capturing that uncompromising character, and that sense of something more … something hidden - that would be a challenge.
“Yes,” Henry said, and walked out of the room.
***
“Where’s Henry?” Isabella asked as she walked into the kitchen.
“In his studio,” Jack replied, looking up from the piece of bread he was loading with jam. “Preparing for Lord DeMorte.”
Isabella frowned. “He didn’t come to bed last night. He rarely does that unless he’s painting.” She worried at her lip, reaching for a slice of plum cake and juggling Marie to a position where she could eat it without dropping crumbs on her. “Perhaps this portrait wasn’t a good idea. If he’s worrying about it …”
Jack shook his head and Isabella waited until he stopped chewing. “Not worrying,” Jack said, reaching for his mug of tea. “He’s preparing.”
“Oh?” Isabella replied, surprised by his answer. “Preparing what?”
Jack chuckled and shook his head. “Go and see. Then you’ll understand why he’s been up all night.”
Isabella got to her feet and gave Marie to Jack, who beamed at the little girl.
“Ah, there’s my little princess. Give old Jack a smile, then, treacle.” Isabella watched for a moment as her baby daughter dissolved Jack into a puddle of mush before going to discover what her husband was up to.
The change to come over the studio was dramatic, and Jack was right, now she could see what had taken so long. All the canvases had moved, arranged by subject and by size. Henry had arranged the tables which had been stacked and overflowing, piled with paints and brushes and jars and rags around the easel. He’d sorted brushes in jars by type and size, and the paints by colour, each one laid out neat as soldiers on parade.
Henry looked up as Isabella walked towards him.
“What a lovely man you are,” she said, beaming at him as Henry flushed, though his eyes betrayed his pleasure at her words. “You spent all night doing this for Lord DeMorte.”
Henry shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not entirely,” he said, looking awkward. “He’ll never relax in here if it's messy, and I don’t want to paint somewhere else, so …”
Isabella kissed his cheek. “I still say it’s very thoughtful.”
She looked up as the sound of a throat clearing and Henry tensed.
“I’m afraid I’m rather early,” Lord DeMorte said, sounding uncomfortable and rather cross, and then stopped, staring around the room. His jaw grew a little tight and for a moment Isabella wondered what his reaction might be. They watched as he let out a breath, a little of the tension leaving his shoulders.
“Er,” Henry said, staring at the floor and avoiding DeMorte’s assessing gaze. “If there is anything …” He gestured around the room and Gabriel stared at him, astonished by the trouble Henry had taken to put him at ease. “Please move anything that disturbs you, my lord.”
“Gabriel.” Lord DeMorte cleared his throat, stared at Henry, unblinking, as though he would try to figure him out. “My name is Gabriel.” He moved closer, holding out his hand.
“Henry,” Isabella prompted as Gabriel waited.
Henry rubbed the back of his neck and then reached out, shaking the man’s hand before dropping it again.
“Shall we begin?” Gabriel asked. Henry glanced at Isabella and then nodded, moving to his easel as Gabriel sat down at the chair Henry had arranged for him.
Isabella looked between the two men, wondering which of them was the most ill at ease.
“Well, I’ll leave you two gentlemen to it,” she said, hiding a smile as she returned to finish her breakfast.
***
Gabriel was interesting to paint. He sat still without fidgeting, for one, which even Isabella couldn’t do. Once he’d found a pose and Henry approved, he’d barely moved a muscle, his gaze locked on something in the far distance. The problem was that Henry could only see the mask he wore. His expression was fierce, uncompromising and rather unsettling. Henry had seen a glimpse of something intriguing beneath that mask though, and that’s what he wanted to paint.
He looked up from his painting to see that Gabriel was no longer staring straight ahead, but focused on something close at hand. He was sweating.
Henry followed his gaze to see that a paintbrush had fallen on the floor and he hadn’t noticed. He moved forward, picking it up and placing it on the table next to the others he’d laid out ready. It wasn’t quite straight, so Henry took a moment to twitch it parallel with the others. Gabriel exhaled.
“You should have just picked it up,” Henry said, returning to his work.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your work,” Gabriel replied, his voice gruff, though Henry sensed he was embarrassed.
Henry looked around the canvas. “I don’t mind.”
Gabriel frowned at him. “Belle, said it was better not to talk to you, or … or to move.”
Henry cleared his throat as a recollection of storming from the room when Belle had gotten up to stretch her legs returned to him. “Yes, well … I’m … working on it,” he muttered, feeling awkward himself now.
“You and me both,” Gabriel replied, his tone amused.
Henry snorted. He painted in silence for a while longer until Gabriel spoke again.
“I have a portrait by Reynolds.”
Henry looked around the canvas.
“He painted my grandmo
ther,” Gabriel added, a cautious look in his eyes. “I also have several Gainsborough’s and a Lawrence. I’ve just acquired an interesting piece by Turner, too.”
Henry had never been envious of another man’s possessions, but in that moment, he was. He’d see paintings by the great men in catalogues but never in the flesh. Going out and visiting a gallery had always been an impossibility, though the longing to do just that struck him hard.
“Would you like to see them?” Gabriel asked, interpreting the look in Henry’s eyes.
Henry dropped his brush, moving out from behind the canvas as Gabriel raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Now?” he said, as Henry nodded.
“Yes, now.” Nervous excitement jittered down Henry’s spine, leaving his home and going somewhere new made nausea roil in his belly … but a portrait by Joshua Reynolds … “Now,” he repeated, forcing down the fear as the desire to look upon the work of a master overrode all else. He watched, impatient as Gabriel got to his feet.
“Why have you never bought paintings yourself, Henry?” he asked, his expression quizzical. “You’re a wealthy man as I understand it, you could have filled the house with paintings.”
Henry frowned, pausing as he faced Gabriel. “Because art should be seen, shared and enjoyed, not locked away. There was only me here, and Jack, before Isabella came.”
Gabriel nodded, his face troubled. “Yes, I believe Crecy - my wife - would agree with you. However, I don’t like visitors and I am not as altruistic as you. I would not deny myself the pleasure for the good of others.”
“You don’t like visitors?” Henry repeated, watching as Gabriel shook his head.
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