by Jane Ashford
But he merely threw a speaking glance in her direction, then turned and held up a hand for silence. After a few moments, the noise died down and the guests began to gather round him. When everyone was as near as possible, he said, “You all know, of course, the purpose of this entertainment. I am about to unveil a portrait of me painted by Miss Katharine Daltry. There has been some controversy associated with this undertaking, and for that reason I now assure you all that Miss Daltry did indeed paint the picture. I watched her do it, as did her cousin Miss Mary Daltry.” He turned to where Mary was standing and added, “Is that not right, ma’am?”
“It is indeed,” answered Mary in a clear voice.
Stonenden nodded. “Where is Mr. Winstead?”
There was a disturbance in the crowd, and then that gentleman emerged. Katharine nearly giggled when she saw him, for he was dressed in the most extreme fashion of the dandies, with padded shoulders, wasp waist, a collar so high and stiff he could not move his head, and a profusion of fobs and ornaments on his florid waistcoat. “Here I am, your lordship,” he called, preening himself before the crowd. Katharine saw more than one member of the ton exchange an amused glance with a friend.
Stonenden nodded to him. “I assume, Mr. Winstead, that you will accept the assurances of Miss Daltry and myself about the origins of this painting?”
“Oh, certainly, my lord. Of course.” The little man was obviously so overcome with pleasure at being present that he would have accepted anything at all.
Lord Stonenden suppressed a smile. “Good. Then I think we are ready.” He signaled, and one of the footmen pulled on a rope that would raise the cloth covering the painting. It was hung on the wall above Katharine’s head, well outside her field of vision, but she could see the faces of the guests very clearly, and she watched them as they gazed upward.
Most looked curious, then impressed, then approving. She heard murmurs of “It looks like him, all right,” and “One can see at once who it is meant to be.” These made her smile. She also overheard several compliments to herself. An old gentleman exclaimed, “The girl’s done a demmed fine job of it.” And a woman replied, “Yes, Katharine Daltry is certainly accomplished, though a bit odd, you know.”
Winstead himself scarcely glanced at the canvas. He looked up briefly, said, “Yes indeed, very competent,” and turned back to scan the crowd for notables. Katharine shook her head. Clearly, the opinions he had expressed in his offensive article had really meant nothing to him, beyond a venting of momentary spite. He didn’t care whether she painted or not, or whether any woman did; he wanted only acceptance from society and would do anything to gain its attention. Having done so, he promptly forgot everything else. For a moment, this depressed her spirits. She had proved a point, only to have her opponent shrug off the whole question. But then she realized that she had actually proved it to herself, and no one else, and she felt happy again.
Just then, she saw Stonenden bringing Sir Thomas Lawrence closer to the wall where the painting hung. In fact, he escorted him right up to the place where Katharine sat, obviously so that she could better hear his opinion. “It is well done, is it not?” he asked the painter.
“I could see better from farther back,” objected Lawrence, “but, yes, I think it is. She has caught something vital, as any good portraitist must. In fact, Lord Stonenden, I hope you will pardon me for saying that she has been very kind to you. You seldom look quite so genial as you do in that painting.”
His host laughed. “I must try to model myself on my likeness, then.”
Sir Thomas smiled in return. “You might do worse. The girl has seen something of the charm you seldom reveal. Either she is an acute, and kindly, observer, or…” Lawrence’s smile broadened, and he shrugged.
Stonenden gestured noncommittally. “Some champagne, Sir Thomas?”
“Indeed.”
As they walked away, Katharine sat frowning behind the tapestry. So she had made Stonenden look charming, had she? She couldn’t imagine how or why. She certainly had not done it on purpose. As she was fuming, Eliza Burnham came forward, arm in arm with Mary. “It is good, isn’t it,” she heard the former say. “Katharine is talented.”
“Very,” agreed her cousin.
“And one can see what she feels very plainly. I hadn’t realized before what a portrait could show. Though this is an unusual case, I suppose.”
“Yes. Shall we get a glass of ratafia?” Mary spoke quickly and started to turn away.
“Oh, no, I want to look a bit longer. You know, if Stonenden looks like that to Katharine, I cannot see that there is any obstacle—”
“Elinor!” interrupted Mary. “Hello, dear. Over here.” Katharine, still frowning in her recess, was surprised at the vehemence of Mary’s tone.
Elinor joined the other two ladies, bringing Tony Tillston with her. She greeted them despondently.
“Do you like Katharine’s painting?” asked Mary.
“Oh, yes,” murmured the younger girl. “It is…very nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s first-rate,” added Tony. “And the rest of us may as well go out and shoot ourselves now, I suppose.”
“Shall we get some refreshment?” blurted Mary Daltry in a high, uncharacteristic squeak. “I am quite thirsty.”
Tony shrugged, and Elinor nodded listlessly. Mary took Eliza Burnham’s arm and urged her away. Katharine watched them leave with a scowl. Whatever had they been talking about? And why was Mary acting so unlike herself? Did she not like the painting after all? But no, she had liked it.
Before she could reach any conclusion, another group approached, Lady Jersey and two of her cronies escorted by several of the dandy set. “But, my dears,” Lady Jersey was saying in a penetrating voice, “it’s perfectly obvious to me. She has to be in love with him. No one could see Stonenden so otherwise. I mean, only look.” She gestured grandly toward the painting.
“Well, but, Sally,” replied one of the men, “I don’t see what you’re getting at. The thing looks like him.”
“Does it? When have you seen that expression on Oliver Stonenden’s face?”
“Expression?” The dandy held up his quizzing glass and peered at the picture. “Ha. See what you mean. He looks uncommon pleasant, don’t he? Not sneering or bored.”
“Precisely. And look at the eyes, that smile. I tell you, Katharine Daltry is in love with him. I would wager my last guinea on it. Isn’t it too funny! And he bedding Elise Standen. I always said Katharine Daltry was overproud. Now we shall see.”
“Pity,” replied the dandy. “She’s a taking little thing.”
Lady Jersey gave a silvery laugh. “Well, if you truly think so, Edward, you may have your chance quite soon. I daresay she will be ripe for anything when Oliver drops her, now that he has got his painting.”
The dandy looked frightened. “No, no, just a figure of speech, you know. Nothing to do with me.”
Lady Jersey laughed again. “Come, let us go and ask Stonenden about his posing. He must see how it is, of course. It will be amusing to rally him about it.”
The group moved away again, leaving Katharine sitting bolt upright in her chair, her eyes wide with horror. She could not even think at first, such was the turmoil into which Lady Jersey’s careless words had thrown her. She only heard, over and over again, “She has to be in love with him.” It seemed to ring in her ears, and she felt dizzy and almost sick. Every member of the ton would hear those words before this evening ended, and they would talk of nothing else. Her painting, which she had worked on with such dedication and hope, would come to mean only this in the heedless eyes of society.
Katharine realized that she had been holding her breath, and she released it in one great sigh. She folded her shaking hands tightly and tried to regain control of herself. Lady Jersey was a venomous, hateful creature; she longed to slap her. Everyone knew how she loved to gossip. Surely her silly imaginings would not be taken seriously. Then, abruptly, Katharine remembered Eliza Burnham’s cry
ptic remarks earlier in the evening, and her cheeks flushed crimson. It was clear now that Eliza had seen something of the same thing in the portrait. How could this be?
Putting her icy hands to her hot face, Katharine tried to examine her feelings. She had always disliked Oliver Stonenden. She had! Ever since she first met him. He was a selfish, unfeeling man, completely wrapped up in himself. When he had offered for her, she had known that he did so with no thought of her. He had been attracted, perhaps, by the superficials of her appearance and manner, but he neither knew nor cared what she was really like. She had not hesitated for a moment over her refusal. She couldn’t love such a man! They were mistaken about the painting; it showed her love of the work, not the man.
Katharine found this explanation very satisfying, for nearly two minutes. But then a vision of Stonenden’s laughing face on their last day of work arose, and she realized that it was only partly true. She did love the work. But the man seemed to have changed a great deal since that long-ago proposal. She could not say now that he cared nothing for her true self. Indeed, he seemed to have turned right about. He no longer wanted to marry her, but he treated her as a respected friend. He had inconvenienced himself to help her over the portrait, and he had arranged this whole evening, with evident enjoyment, for her sake. These were not the acts of a selfish man.
Katharine slumped in her chair. She had changed, too. Her feelings toward Lord Stonenden were quite altered by his recent behavior. She did not love him, of course, but she did respect and esteem him more than most gentlemen of her acquaintance.
She flushed again. She had revealed these feelings to the world in the most shameless way. And it was no good saying she hadn’t meant to, because the effect was the same. Everyone would interpret it as Lady Jersey had, and they would laugh at her behind their hands for succumbing to a man who had rejected scores of women and was even now known to be involved with someone else. And this mockery would be more bearable than the pity of her friends.
Utterly undone, Katharine stumbled to her feet and groped for her bonnet and shawl. She must get away from this place. She pushed open the door and stepped into the blessedly quiet corridor. Jamming her hat on her head, she hurried along it, but before she had reached the turn to the kitchens, a figure appeared in the archway there. Katharine stopped with a gasp and put a hand to her mouth.
“Did I startle you?” said Oliver Stonenden. “I am sorry. I had to slip out for a moment to see how you were liking the exhibition. Did you hear Sir Thomas?” He smiled at her eagerly.
Katharine tried to speak, but no words would come out. She could not tear her eyes from his. Desperately she nodded.
“Good. I brought him up expressly for that purpose. Your painting is a distinct success. I congratulate you with all my heart.” He came forward, still smiling, as if to take her hands.
With a strangled sound, she pulled her shawl more closely around her. How could she escape?
Stonenden’s smile faded abruptly. “What is it? Is something wrong? Are you ill? It is stuffy in that doorway, I know. I hope you left the door a little open. Do you feel faint?”
Making a herculean effort, Katharine managed to croak, “I must go.”
“You are ill! Let me call someone.”
“No!” In her turmoil, she nearly shouted. “No, let me alone. I must go home.” Shaking off the paralysis that had kept her rooted to one spot, she moved toward him.
Stonenden again put out a hand. “Of course you shall go if you desire it, but let me get someone to accompany you.”
“No. Please.” She was nearly upon him now; she edged along the wall past him.
He turned with her, his eyes full of concern. “Katharine…”
“Let me alone!” And she broke into a run—past the kitchens and out into the welcome emptiness of the street.
Sixteen
Oliver Stonenden called at the Daltry house not long after breakfast the following morning, but when he was ushered into the drawing room, he found only Mary Daltry sitting there. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “Have you recovered from the excitements of last night?”
Mary raised her eyebrows a little at this, then nodded.
“And Miss Katharine Daltry? I hope she is better.”
“Better?”
“When I saw her last night, she seemed…” He paused, looked at Mary, then added, “Look here, is she ill?”
“Katharine? Why, no, she isn’t ill.” Mary gazed at him in her turn. “What makes you think so?”
“She was not herself last night. Is she in this morning?”
“Well…well, no, not precisely.”
Lord Stonenden smiled. “She is imprecisely in?”
Mary met his eyes, and her lips twitched involuntarily. “She is here, but she will not see anyone. She has shut herself in her studio.”
“Ah. Well, of course I mustn’t disturb her, then. But is she all right?”
Mary eyed him uncertainly.
“I am concerned; she was upset last night. Did she overhear something at the party which annoyed her? Did someone criticize her painting?”
“Oh, no. I…I really don’t think there was anything.”
“No?” replied Stonenden gently. “I believe, on the contrary, that you do.”
She raised her eyes, startled, to his.
“I can be trusted, you know,” he added.
Mary looked a bit flustered. “Well, of course, Lord Stonenden, but…that is, I haven’t…”
“Tell me,” he said. “Please. I shall treat anything you say as an absolute confidence. My interest in this is not trivial.”
She looked at him again. Her unease seemed to lighten, and when she spoke, all trace of embarrassment was gone. But she still appeared undecided. “Is it not?” she asked.
“No. I cannot think of anything more central to my life at this moment.”
“Ah.” Mary looked at her folded hands. “There was a good deal of talk last evening.”
“At the party? There was indeed. Did someone say something offensive?”
“You did not hear what they said about the painting?”
“I heard it praised.” Stonenden sounded a little impatient now. “I was told it was a good likeness. Sally Jersey began some nonsense about my eyes, but I was called away.”
“I see. You didn’t hear, then. Lady Jersey was the source.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Daltry, but the source of what? I don’t know what you mean.”
Mary took a breath. “A…a number of people at your house last night saw things in the painting that I had not noticed. I thought at first that they were mistaken, but as I looked more closely and listened to them, it…it seemed there might be something in it. Lady Jersey was the most outspoken. Of course, one wouldn’t pay much heed to her; she lives on gossip. But others, more reliable, thought the same. Everyone was discussing it. I’m certain Katharine heard.”
Stonenden was frowning. “And what did these people profess to see in the painting?”
Mary looked perplexed. “You really did not hear?”
“I did not. I never listen to gossip. And I imagine guests in my house would not be overeager to criticize the portrait to me.”
“Oh, it was not the portrait, precisely. It was…” She drew a breath and went on in a rush. “They said that the picture showed great…great feeling. Lady Jersey in particular insisted that it demonstrated that Katharine…” She trailed off in embarrassment.
Stonenden looked at first startled, then intent, then amused. “I see. I believe I can complete that sentence, knowing Sally Jersey only too well.”
Mary nodded. “And so, you see, it was very uncomfortable.”
“Yes.” But her companion’s anxious look had disappeared. He seemed almost pleased by her news. “Yes, I’m sure it was quite unpleasant to hear such things gossiped about publicly. But Katharine, Miss Daltry, will get over that, I should think.”
Mary’s eyebrows drew a little together.
/> “I think it would help if I spoke to her,” he went on.
“Oh, I don’t believe she would see you.”
“But why not?” He leaned forward. “Miss Daltry, tell me, what do you think about Lady Jersey’s conclusions?”
“Why, they are grossly impertinent,” retorted Mary.
“Yes, of course.” He brushed this aside. “But…do you see any truth in them?” Mary started to protest, but he hurried on. “It is very important to me. I would not ask you such a question otherwise. Any woman would be incensed at such a rumor, but is Miss Daltry merely incensed? Surely not. Anger would not cause her to shut herself away.”
“I really cannot discuss this with you, Lord Stonenden.”
“Not even if your cousin’s happiness depends upon it? I say nothing of my own.”
Mary looked extremely uncomfortable. “Are you suggesting…?”
“I think I am doing a bit more than that. Do you know how Katharine feels toward me, Miss Daltry? I do not. I know how she once felt, but I have some hope that she has changed her opinion. If I thought for a moment that Lady Jersey was right, I wouldn’t hesitate to burst into Katharine’s studio and say what I feel.” Mary’s folded hands twisted.
“I have done what I could to win her regard,” the man added. “I need to know if I have succeeded. Will you not give me a hint, at least?”
Slowly and reluctantly, Mary met his eager gaze. She did not at all know what she should do. She would not betray Katharine’s confidence, but in this matter, she did not have it. She had only her own observations and conclusions, and it was so easy to make a mistake. Yet if she refused to say anything, might that not bring even more unhappiness? She sighed. “I…I know nothing of what Katharine feels,” she answered finally. “She has not told me. But I have noticed…”
“Yes?”
“I…I may of course be quite mistaken, but it seems to me that Katharine is often upset when someone mentions that you and the Countess Standen…that is…” She stopped, unable to complete this sentence.
