The Painter

by Mary Kingswood

  “That would be an ingenious solution, except that the key was kept on a chain around his neck. No, you cannot make Percival an honest man, Miss Oakes. Even if the fire was accidental, he took advantage of it to steal. And then he must have run away to live like a lord somewhere he is not known. Abroad, most likely. It is a shameful episode in our history. But then—”

  A voice hailed them and he jumped. He had been so engrossed in his story that he had forgotten everything else. The present had receded, and only the past, the dark and miserable past, remained. Buckley’s voice jolted him back to where he was, sitting on a low stool in the St Oswald’s churchyard.

  “Ahoy there, Finlassan! Miss Oakes! Are you coming back to the inn? They have laid out a good spread for us.”

  “Not yet!” Miss Oakes hissed in an undertone. “I must know how it ends.”

  “We will be there directly, Buckley,” Fin called. “Go back and we will join you in a few minutes.”

  Buckley’s eyes shifted from him to Miss Oakes’ upturned face, then back again, but he said nothing, merely turning with a wave and disappearing again.

  “Do go on,” she breathed.

  Her absorption in his family’s troubles made him smile at her. Oddly, she blushed, but he chose not to comment on it and embarrass her further. No doubt she felt her interest was improper, but he found her wide-eyed attention enjoyable. How many years was it since he had basked in the riveted attention of a beautiful young woman? Not since Juliana…

  He cleared his throat, and continued, “Several years after the fire, the Fifth Earl of Cottersmere died and Hadrian Dulnain assumed the title. Hadrian is a good man, and he wanted very much to bring about a reconciliation. Even though his own sister had died in the fire, he never blamed anyone, not even Percival. So, a marriage was arranged between Hadrian’s younger sister, Juliana, and me.”

  It surprised him how calm he was. The single most devastating time of his life, and yet he could recount the events of those days lucidly, dispassionately. But now he had come to Juliana, and that would be the greatest test of his fortitude. Could he speak of her without an upwelling of grief? Could he speak of her at all? Yet he must try.

  “We were just nineteen years of age, Miss Oakes. Too young, perhaps, but my marriage was considered a matter of urgency, for after me, Percival was the next in line, if he still lived, or Giles if he did not, but there was no way to be sure. Uncertainty in the succession is the very devil, so I was to marry and produce an heir. I resigned myself to a marriage of duty, but then…”

  “Then you met her!” she said breathlessly.

  “I did! Oh, it was not just her beauty, although she was extraordinary in that regard, but her nature was the purest, most open and generous I have ever known. So open… I had no resistance to her, none at all. Within days, I was deep in love, beyond the reach of reason or sense. She was an angel, who carried me aloft to the clouds with her, and I was lost to the commonplace world. And when she betrayed me—”

  He stopped, aware that his hands were clenched painfully tight. Consciously, he loosed them, breathed, calmed himself. The governess watched him in avid silence, her lips parted, her eyes huge in her pale face.

  “When she left me,” he said, his voice ragged, “I retreated within myself. I could see no one, go nowhere, do nothing. I painted, Miss Oakes. That was the only solace I could find. When I painted, the hurt receded and I could forget for a while. So I painted. My mother died, and then my father, and I did all that was needful. Uncle Giles and Drusilla told me what I must do, and I did it. And afterwards, I went back into my studio and I painted. And I waited, frozen in time, unable to move forwards. I waited for her, because surely she would think better of it. Surely the power of my love could reach her wherever she was, and she would understand and regret what she had lost and return to me. But she never did. She chose absolute ruin above me.”

  “She chose a man she adored rather than a loveless marriage,” Miss Oakes said softly. “Can you imagine how she felt? Suppose, loving Juliana, you had been faced with marriage to another, a woman for whom you felt nothing — could you have borne it?”

  The idea was so shocking that for an instant his mind was empty of all but outrage. Marry another, feeling as he did? Impossible! And in that moment, he understood for the first time the agonising choice facing Juliana.

  “What would our marriage have been like?” he mused. “If we had married, when she was in love with her architect… she would have been desperately unhappy. Nothing I could have done would have made her otherwise. Was she happy with him?”

  “Blissfully,” Miss Oakes said. “I never knew her, but the servants told me so and her paintings… you will see when they arrive. There was so much joy in them. Mr Kearney was devastated by her death. He never set aside his black coats.”

  He let out a long breath. “Then she made the right choice,” he said, and smiled.

  12: The Muse

  Fin was quietly pleased with himself after this conversation with Miss Oakes. Not only had she induced him to talk more about himself than he had done for years, but she had also brought him to the realisation that he could not have made Juliana happy. No degree of adoration on his side could ever have compensated her for the loss of the object of her own affection. She had loved her architect so well that she had given up the world for him, borne him two children and lived with him in great joy for a number of years. He could not wish her life to be otherwise, except that she had been able to marry Kearney, and fate had denied her that comfort.

  That night he was inspired to paint again, the same view as before but this time with a gentler aspect, the trees immobile, the temple lit from behind by a fiery sun. When dawn came creeping through the shutters, he began to look for Miss Oakes, for usually she would be in the studio for an hour or two before breakfast, but today she did not come. That was a disappointment. She was his muse, his inspiration, and he had hoped the new work would receive her approbation.

  He sent for a tray of food and ate standing up, gazing at the painting, trying to find room for improvement but somehow unable to see what needed to be done next. Where was Miss Oakes?

  The door opened and he turned in pleasure, but it was only Drusilla and Giles. He sighed in disappointment.

  “What are you doing eating in here?” Drusilla said, bustling in and tiptoeing around the rough sheet he spread to protect the floor from splashes of paint. “How uncivilised you are getting, Fin. No one would take you for a peer of the realm.”

  “He is an earl,” Giles said. “He may do as he pleases, and it pleases him to eat cold meat standing up.”

  “Well, he should not. It is undignified.”

  “In his own house, a man may be as undignified as he chooses. One cannot be always on parade for the world.”

  “But Fin is never on parade for the world. He hides away in here like some kind of hermit. If he would…”

  He ignored them, his thoughts already turning back to his painting. A little more gold around that tree… and the grass was not quite right. Something lighter, perhaps, and—

  “Fin! You are not even listening to me!”

  If she would only say something worth listening to, perhaps he would. “What do you want, Drusilla?”

  “Godfrey wants to take the governess on an outing to Derby. I have told him I will not be a party to his little schemes to bed the girl, but he will not listen to me. He says it is for you to approve or otherwise, so you will just have to refuse your permission.”

  “I see no reason why the girl should not go if she wishes,” Giles said. “Let her enjoy herself.”

  “A governess enjoying herself?” Drusilla said in outraged tones.

  Giles laughed. “Two governesses, since Miss Claypole is also invited along as chaperon. Why ever not? It must be a miserable life, being at the beck and call of two children all day.”

  “She is hardly ever with them now, so Fin pays her two hundred pounds a year to paint and walk the dog.”


  “Is that what he wants?” Fin said, frowning.

  “What who wants?” Drusilla said.

  “Buckley. You said he wants to bed Miss Oakes. Is that true?”

  “Well, he is not going to marry her, is he?” she screeched. “Really, Fin, what else does a man want when he pays attention to someone of her station?”

  “It seems to me that a man who is trying to seduce a young woman does not arrange for her to dine with the nobility, introduce her to his aunt or ensure she is fully chaperoned at all times. If that is his objective, it is a devilish queer way to go about it.”

  Drusilla opened her mouth, then closed it again with a snap.

  “He has a point,” Giles said. “Dashed odd thing to do. He would be making secret assignations if his intentions were less than honourable.”

  “I refuse to believe he has marriage in mind,” she said, but with less conviction.

  “Perhaps you should enquire as to his intentions,” Giles said, with a grin.

  “Whatever his intentions, Miss Oakes may have her day in Derby if she wishes,” Fin said.

  “What about her lessons with the girls?” Drusilla said.

  Fin shrugged. “I will teach them that day. She only has them for drawing and painting now, so I should be able to manage that. Or they may have a day off. And she is worth every penny of two hundred pounds a year to me, whether she teaches them or not.”

  Giles laughed, but Drusilla was too shocked to say more than a horrified, “Fin!”

  “She is my muse,” he said, gesturing to the painting. “She inspires me. You cannot conceive how glorious it is to have someone to share my art with, someone who understands, who listens and makes suggestions, someone to teach me and to be taught. She is learning to paint in oils and I have rediscovered the possibilities of pastels. We are both finding new depths of imagination within us. I do not expect you to understand this, Drusilla, but Miss Oakes is invaluable to me.”

  “Then you should put more effort into deterring Godfrey,” she said snappishly. “If she marries him, he will whisk her away to Farndyke and you will not see your muse above twice a year.”

  “He may want to marry her, but I doubt she wants to marry him,” he said with a shrug. “She has more sense. Was there anything else? For I have a painting to finish.”

  “And your breakfast,” said Giles, chuckling, as Drusilla left in high dudgeon and he followed her out.

  After they had gone, Fin chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread, examining the painting. Then he added a few dabs of colour here and there… some jonquil and daffodil here, a little spring green there. Dissatisfied, he set aside his palette and brushes and kicked off his paint-spattered slippers. Too impatient to ring the bell, he padded barefoot down the hall to the Pillared Saloon and through to the entrance hall, where a footman always stood.

  “Where is Miss Oakes today?”

  Before the footman could do more than open his mouth in surprise, Bagnall materialised from the North Anteroom. “You will find Miss Oakes in the billiard room, my lord.”

  “The billiard room? What the devil—?” He remembered the box of letters. Through the North Anteroom and then into the billiard room. He never went to that part of the house, for it was too near the dangerous ground of the ballroom, and he could not remember the last time he had been in there. The furniture was still shrouded in holland covers, but the shutters were open and the wooden cover protecting the billiard table itself was almost invisible beneath the heaps of papers spread out across it. Miss Oakes herself— devil take it, he could not keep thinking of her as Miss Oakes!

  “What is your name? Your Christian name.”

  She looked up at him with a face full of mischief. Setting down the letter she was reading, she turned, dipped him a respectful curtsy and murmured, “Good morning to you too, my lord. I trust you are well this fine day?”

  “What the—? Oh.” Her effrontery made him smile. “You are reproaching me for my abrupt entrance, I suppose?”

  “It is customary to make a civil greeting on first meeting an acquaintance for the day.” An acquaintance? Was that how she saw him? “Then one might enquire into the general wellbeing of the acquaintance before progressing to sundry remarks upon the weather.”

  Laughter bubbled up inside him. Such playfulness, and she was not in the least shy or timid with him. He liked that in her! Without a word he turned, strode out of the room and closed the door behind him. Then he knocked and entered the room once more.

  Bowing, he said, “Good morning, Miss Oakes. How are you today?”

  Her face brimming with merriment, she curtsied. “Good morning, my lord. I am well, I thank you. I trust you are in good health yourself?”

  “Perfectly, I thank you. It is— Hmm, I have no notion what sort of day it is.” Crossing to the window and glancing out, he went on, “It is a fine day, although I fear there may be rain later.”

  The laughter spilt out of her, and she put one hand to her mouth to hide it. Such a charming gesture! He had the urge to draw it… to draw her. Were his skills up to the challenge? People… he had never been able to draw people. But she could. She had painted his two wards, capturing their innocent young faces to perfection. And she had painted him, too, scowling… no, she had said he looked intense.

  “What was it you wanted? Oh, my name. Felicia, my lord.”

  Felicia. “From Felix, I suppose. Happy. It suits you, for you are always happy, are you not?”

  “I try always to see the best in any situation,” she said, but he thought there was something darker behind her words. “Was that all, my lord?”

  He tried to remember why he had sought her out but could not. Waving a hand at the heaps of papers on the table, he said, “Are you making progress?”

  “Indeed I am. Everything will be arranged in the most orderly fashion before long, ready for Mr Warborough’s attention. I have found my own letters here, you see, and those from Mr Pierce, to advise you of your great good fortune in acquiring two wards of whom you have never heard and with whom you are entirely unconnected. There is also a more recent letter from Mr Pierce to say that he has received your instructions regarding the paintings. And also…” She hesitated, and picked up one of the letters from the top of a pile. “There is a letter from Lord Cottersmere regarding Juliana and Margarita, offering them a home if you should find the charge too onerous, to be raised alongside his own daughters. He is their uncle, after all. He sounds a kindly man.”

  “Hadrian is the best of fellows. His father excised Juliana from the family when she ran off with Kearney. Her name was struck from the Bible and she was never to be mentioned again. But Hadrian has forgiveness and reconciliation in his soul, so his offer does not surprise me. He was very fond of Juliana, although she was so much younger than he was.”

  “Shall you send the girls to him?”

  “Good God, why should I? The charge is mine, and I do not shirk it.”

  “It would be good for them to know their cousins. They have no other kin, after all, and if Lord Cottersmere acknowledges them—”

  “He may acknowledge them if he pleases, but they stay in this house.” She flushed, and he realised his tone had been harsher than he intended. “I beg your pardon,” he said gruffly. “I did not mean to rebuke you for your thoughts. When the girls are older, they may visit Hadrian sometimes.”

  “Or perhaps he and his family might also visit here?” she said, looking up at him with twinkling eyes. She was teasing him!

  “Perhaps,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps one day I might not mind having my solitude imposed upon by a rabble of guests. One day far in the future.”

  “Or you might impose upon the solitude of others,” she said, with an answering smile. “For here are invitations enough. Lord This, Lady So-and-so, Sir Something-or-other, the occasional plain Mr or Mrs. You might have hunted in any of ten counties last winter if you had been so minded, or attended any number of horse racing events, or displays of firew
orks, or lectures on the use of Argand lamps in the home — gas is much more efficient than candles, apparently, despite sounding alarmingly dangerous — oh and balloon ascensions! You might have observed several of those, and how you could resist such an attraction is beyond my understanding. It would make a grand subject for a painting.”

  “Are you reading everything? That must be tedious indeed.”

  “I must read each missive in order to know which pile to place it upon, and some of them are dull indeed. Lawyers have a very dry style, I find. Nor is there anything of a personal and scandalous nature to liven the chore. However, there is one that must be from a spy, for I feel sure it is in code, so little sense does it make.”

  “My father and his cronies used to communicate in code,” he said. “Government business. It is hard to imagine that anyone would write to me in such a manner, however.”

  “True enough. I daresay it is no more than an eccentric hand. Perhaps Mr Warborough can make it out. But the invitations are amusing. What is a Venetian breakfast? It sounds delicious, but whatever would one wear to such an event? One feels that it must be a rather grand occasion, so an ordinary morning dress would not do. Yet one would not wish to be dressed too fine, and be an object of ridicule.”

  “I deal with such questions by never attending anything,” he said.

  “Oh, but you should!” she cried. “You should mingle with your neighbours and attend Parliament, at the very least.”

  “Do you presume to tell me what I should do?” he said, but he could not be angry with her, not when her eyes gleamed with amusement. Even when she scolded him, she did it in a light-hearted, teasing way. Not like Drusilla’s hectoring!

  “If I can presume to tell a marquess what he should do, I shall not hesitate for a mere earl,” she said.