The Painter

by Mary Kingswood

  My dear. It was not quite the affectionate endearment she might have hoped for, but it reassured her that her future husband was not indifferent to her, and saw her as something more than an inspiration for his art.

  ~~~~~

  It was astonishing what could be accomplished in a short time by an earl who was entirely certain that the world revolved around his wishes. He stormed around the Dolphin Hotel issuing orders and he did not even need to raise his voice. His size, the windmilling arms and the peremptory tone were enough to have minions scuttling hither and thither as if he were the King himself. Within an hour, they were on the road, complete with the bemused sister of the head ostler, a stout matron hustled into her Sunday best to provide respectable chaperonage for Felicia.

  With some difficulty, for she was still unfamiliar with the roads, Felicia directed the carriage to Boscobel Cottage, where she scooped a few clothes and other essentials into a portmanteau. Agnes followed her from room to room, wringing her hands.

  “But why the haste? Why not wait until Monday, at least? Let us give you a proper farewell.”

  “Lord Finlassan insists.”

  “Is it about these men you have seen? Jimmy can protect you. This is too sudden a start, Felicia. What does he want of you, this Lord Finlassan, whisking you away so suddenly?”

  Felicia smiled. “He wants to marry me, Agnes, and I have accepted him.”

  Agnes squealed with excitement, and there were no further objections. A man violently in love, as she supposed him to be, may be permitted whatever sudden starts his ardour demanded. With only a few tears and hugs, and many wishes for their future happiness, her friends waved Felicia away to her new life and she left Boscobel Cottage behind.

  “I had barely grown accustomed to living there,” Felicia said. “Who knows when I shall return?”

  “Never, I trust,” Fin said, but he made it a simple statement of fact, not an affectionate hope.

  Was this marriage no more than a pragmatic acceptance? He was still in love with Juliana, and so he did not care whom he married. Felicia could be obtained without effort on his part, and he would have his muse and satisfy his need for an heir at one and the same time. It was a dispiriting thought.

  Felicia leaned back against the squabs and watched the countryside go by. The harvest was in and the fields were bare, and even the trees were tinged with brown. Autumn was not far away. She tried very hard not to cry. It would be all right. She would make him happy and they would be content together. She had never expected love from him, after all, so she was not disappointed. She would not be disappointed.

  ~~~~~

  Fin in haste was not a man to be deterred by trivial obstacles. At every stop, the clink of coins ensured that a fresh team was put to at once, or a hot meal presented, or rooms found, even in the busiest coaching inn. On Saturday he insisted that they push on even after it grew dark, and there was to be no delay even for the Sabbath. Only when Felicia protested did he reluctantly concede to an early stop so that she might read her Prayer Book for a while before dinner. While her chaperon, Mrs Cleat, took her temporary rôle as lady’s maid to heart and unpacked a change of clothes for the evening, Felicia took the Prayer Book down to their private parlour.

  When she opened it, a paper fluttered to the floor.

  “A letter from one of your horde of admirers?” Fin said with a smile, handing it back to her.

  “Sadly, not so. If I have ever had such a horde, they remained remarkably reticent. No, this is a copy I took of a strange letter someone sent to you. I thought it might be in code but—”

  “You have a copy of it! Uncle Giles took the original and I had supposed that to be the end of the matter. Let me see,” Fin said eagerly. “Good God, so it is. Look, look at this one that arrived more recently, and here is my translation of it.” He pulled two papers from his waistcoat pocket.

  “You can read the code!” she cried. “Oh, but… what does it mean? Who has gone away? Who is not safe? ‘We are ready.’ This is all terribly ominous. Can you read this one, too?”

  “I can try,” he said grimly.

  He fetched paper and writing equipment, and settled down at the table with the letter while Felicia read her Prayer Book. Even when Mrs Cleat crept in he did not stir, his concentration absolute. Felicia slipped out to bathe and change into a clean gown. When she returned to the parlour, he looked up at her with a grin and pushed a paper across the table to her.

  ‘K has been delivered of another fine son praise God. O is in good heart. We propose to return to S next year regardless. Be of good cheer. This will soon be over. P’

  The inn servants came in just then to prepare the table for dinner, and Mrs Cleat arrived too, so there was no further opportunity to discuss the letter, although Felicia was bursting with curiosity. Only when they had eaten and Mrs Cleat had fallen into a doze beside the fire, did she whisper, “What does it mean? Who is K or O or P? Where is S?”

  He put his finger to his lips, then crossed the room. “Mrs Cleat? You are exhausted. We will not object if you go to bed.”

  She yawned copiously. “Oh, indeed, no, my lord. I’m not at all tired, and it’s still early. It can’t be much after six.”

  “Almost seven, and we shall be leaving at first light tomorrow. I would not have you deprived of your rest. Shall I ask for a supper tray to be sent up to your room? Some ham, perhaps, and a glass of something to settle you before bed. Will that not be agreeable?”

  “Oh… well… if Miss Oakes will forgive me. I am rather tired. Not used to travelling at such speed.”

  “Of course you are not. We have imposed upon your good nature shockingly. There now, up you come. Waiter! Waiter! A supper tray for Mrs Cleat, if you please, with ham and a glass of wine. Yes, now, of course now. Go to it, man. Good night, Mrs Cleat.”

  Gleefully, he shut the door. “At last! I cannot imagine why she lingers when she must know she is not wanted.”

  “She is protecting my reputation,” Felicia said, bubbling with laughter. “I daresay you are paying her a great deal of money to do so.”

  “I am not paying her to protect you from me,” he said. “Besides, it was only a hundred pounds.”

  “Only—! I daresay she has never had so much money in her life. No wonder she is zealous. But tell me at once about this letter.”

  He poured himself another glass of claret and sat down beside her at the table, pulling his chair very close to hers. His nearness made her a little dizzy.

  “I do not know what most of these letters mean, but P is Percival.”

  “Percival! Your uncle? The one who disappeared with all that money? But… why does he write to you in code?”

  “That is a very good question,” he said, smiling at her in a way that made her stomach flip-flop alarmingly. But she no longer needed to fear his smiles. He was her betrothed, and he could smile at her all he wished, and she at him.

  But her smiles did not have the same devastating effect on him, for he continued calmly, “It is my belief that these coded letters are intended for Uncle Giles. Perhaps there is some reason why they could not be sent to the rectory — oh, Sayers, of course, my uncle’s man. He haunts the tap room at the Shotter Arms, and is a regular blabbermouth, so that would account for it. Uncle Percival writes to me, therefore, since Uncle Giles would have told him that I never open my mail. In fact, now that I think about it, it was Uncle Giles who encouraged me to leave all that to him. But Uncle Percival wrote in code just in case I should decide to open the letters myself, or should ask a helpful governess to do so…” He smiled at Felicia so warmly that she grew hot with confusion. “How charming you are when you blush,” he said conversationally. “However, my uncles are not aware that my father taught me a little of the skills required to interpret such codes. I am quite sure these letters are from Uncle Percival.”

  “Then he has been writing for some time,” Felicia said. “He writes of people and places well known to your uncle. ‘K has been delivered
of another fine son…’ These letters have been coming for years, Fin.”

  His face hardened. “The conclusion is inescapable, is it not? Uncle Giles has known all this time where Uncle Percival is and everything he is doing. He is a traitor. But now that I know of his betrayal, I shall be sure to get it all out of him. It is unconscionable that he should be keeping such information secret.”

  They fell silent, and Felicia pondered the oddity of a situation where Fin’s own uncle knew where Percival Warborough had gone to, and everything he had done. Had he married? Was the mysterious K, delivered of a son, his wife? Nineteen years since he left, with twenty thousand pounds in his pocket. He could have a whole new life somewhere.

  Fin was staring at her with unnerving intensity.

  “What is it?” she said apprehensively.

  He licked his lips. “I…” A little cough. His hands were twitching repeatedly. “I should like to kiss you. If that would not be disagreeable to you.”

  Was he embarrassed? She laid one hand on his. “I should like that very much.”

  He stood, and she stood too. How should they position themselves? How awkward it was!

  “I have never done this before,” she said.

  “Neither have I.”

  “Oh. Not even with—?”

  “No. Should I…?”

  He moved a little closer, and slid his arms around her. His nervousness was so sweet. She reached up one hand to stroke his face, and he closed his eyes and let out a gentle sigh. His cheeks were rough, in need of a shave.

  “Fin. Look at me.”

  He opened his eyes, and smiled at her. Such warmth in his smile! Impulsively, she stood on her toes and turned her face up to him, and he leaned down and touched his lips to hers. Almost immediately he pulled away, with a little laugh. Was she doing it wrong? What was the matter? But then he pulled her tighter, and with one hand behind her head pulled her towards him and—

  She was lost. He was kissing her! Or she was kissing him… or both, it was hard to tell. There was kissing on both sides, and a certain urgency that thrilled her to her very toes. He wanted her! Desired her, and she was more than a muse to him. Please God, let her be more than a muse to him.

  When they broke apart, laughing, he said, “That was very pleasant.”

  “It was indeed, but you are such a great tall fellow that I have a dreadful crick in my neck.”

  “Ah. That can be mended, I believe.”

  Abruptly, he lifted her bodily off her feet, scooping her into his arms and then turning to survey the room. He chose the settle beside the fire, recently vacated by Mrs Cleat. Sitting down, he settled Felicia across his knees. “There! Is that more comfortable?”

  It was, and his face was most conveniently placed for more kissing, which proximity they took advantage of for quite some time. It was the most restful thing in the world, she found, to sit so close, his strong arm around her back and his other hand resting on her waist. Whenever they paused and she opened her eyes, he was gazing at her with an intensity which turned her to jelly.

  “I shall get a licence from the Bishop,” he said softly. “Then we need not wait for the banns.”

  “No.”

  A little frown. “Why not?”

  “I should like to take a little more time, so that… so that we both have a chance to think better of it.”

  He gave a sudden jerk, squeezing her tight. “No! I shall not… and I could not honourably withdraw, even if I wished to, which I do not.”

  “But I could, and would do so, if you ever change your mind. Fin, you must be aware that no one will consider me a suitable wife for you. An earl marrying a bastard? It is unconscionable. Lady Drusilla will certainly think so and—”

  “I do not care what she thinks!”

  “— society at large will think so too. You will be ostracised, and I should hate to be the cause of it. I want you to take your place in the world again, not to be permanently cast out.”

  “I care nothing for the opinion of the world,” he said fiercely. “Anyone who objects to you because of your birth is no one I wish to know. All that matters to me is whether you truly want to marry me.”

  “I do, I do! More than anything in the world, but—”

  “Then let me hear no more nonsense about withdrawal. You may set the date, but there will be a wedding, on that I am adamant.”

  Felicia could not argue against such determination. “I only hope you will not regret it.”

  He kissed her forehead gently. “I shall not,” he said softly. “However, it would settle your mind, I believe, if we could uncover the story of your parentage. I shall write to Hadrian Dulnain, and see if we cannot get to the bottom of why you and Lady Olivia look so alike, and whether you might not be Sir Royston Lister’s daughter. If you know exactly who you are, you may feel more comfortable about who you will become, my little countess.”

  26: An Unexpected Visit (September)

  The rest of the journey north passed without any incident, but also without much rest. Mrs Cleat was not the only one exhausted by Fin’s relentless pace. Felicia spent the days half dozing in the carriage, jolted into aching wakefulness at frequent intervals by rutted roads, delays at turnpikes or the yelling of ostlers. At night, her bed seemed to be still in motion, giving her strange, vivid dreams of men chasing after her and arms dragging her away from Fin.

  Only one moment brought her some pleasure beyond the mere fact of being with Fin. They stopped to change horses at a nameless inn in a nameless town. Opposite the inn was a jeweller’s shop and Fin strode across the road, returning not ten minutes later with two small packages for her.

  “I could not decide which to buy, so I bought both,” he said, frowning. “Do you like them?”

  Unwrapped, the parcels contained velvet-lined boxes with a necklace in each, one of amber stones, the other blue. They were delicately beautiful, and she had never in her life held anything so fine.

  “They are quite lovely,” she said, fingering them in awe. “Thank you so much!”

  He relaxed a little. “Mere trumpery, of course, but you must have something to wear besides that little cross. Is that your only piece of jewellery? Well, I shall buy you some real jewels when we go to London, and you may also look through Mama’s things, although I daresay Drusilla has taken the best pieces. Mind you, her taste is terrible so she has probably taken all the hideous heirlooms and left the best behind.”

  He laughed, and Felicia laughed too, pleased to see him smile, for travelling seemed to throw him very much into a glowering mood. She had never been unduly unsettled by his moods, since they were never directed at her personally. It was the travel that wore him down, just as it did all of them, and it was his way to deal with the strains of the journey.

  The advantage to travelling at Fin’s breakneck speed was that it was soon over. They arrived at Hawkewood Hall at noon on the fourth day, and were immediately flung into another whirlwind of Fin’s devising. Nothing would do but for Felicia to be assigned to the best rooms in the house, a bedroom, dressing room and a vast sitting room filled with elegantly feminine furniture with windows on three sides.

  “These were your mother’s apartments,” Felicia said, looking out through the bay window. “This must be where she sat as she grew ill, and your father cut down the trees so that she could see the temple. But I should not be here.”

  “You have the same right to it as she did,” Fin said, tucking her arm into his. “Come, let me show you around.” The horde of servants rushing about with linens, ewers, holland covers and buckets of coal jumped aside as he passed through the rooms. From the bedroom, he opened another door and drew her through it. As he closed the door on the bustle of servants, silence fell. This room had heavier, more masculine fittings, and the furniture remained swathed in holland covers. “My father’s bedroom. I shall move in here after we are married.” He chuckled. “Now I have made you blush again.” A hesitation. “Does the idea… distress you?”

>   “Oh no! Not at all, but… it is all so sudden.”

  “You are not… having second thoughts?” His voice was low and anxious.

  “No.”

  “Ah.” He drew her into his arms. “We will be happy, will we not, my little countess?”

  But he sounded uncertain — so unlike himself! She lifted her face to his and he bent down to kiss her, but it was a hesitant kiss, little more than a quick touch of the lips. She wanted more, so much more!

  Before she could hint as much, he pulled away from her with a frown. “I should send word to Arnwell. Let me leave you now to rest.”

  She had not the words to tell him how bitterly disappointed she was.

  ~~~~~

  Fin’s mind was in turmoil as the hours passed. Felicia had accepted him, but now his elation was giving way to a swirl of doubts. Did she truly want to be his wife, or was she simply dazzled by the prospect of being a countess? When she smiled at him, or kissed him — oh Lord, when she kissed him! — he had no doubt of her feelings, and she had told him that she loved him, after all. ‘I want to marry you so badly… I ought to refuse, but I love you too well to contemplate it.’ He shivered as he recalled her words. ‘I love you too well…’ Did she mean it? How could he bear it if she thought better of the whole thing?

  But soon all opportunity for rational thought was lost, for Drusilla arrived. She had observed the carriage passing by and had come at once to welcome him home, only to discover from the servants that her worst fears had materialised. Fin was to marry the governess.

  “Are you insane?” she said coldly, pacing back and forth across the sitting room carpet. “Have you completely lost all semblance of sanity? You will ruin this family, Fin, and it will be the death of me, I swear it.”

  He unstoppered the brandy decanter, then paused, the decanter hovering over the glass. Would Felicia say that he should not? But she was not there and he could not face Drusilla without recruiting his strength for the battle ahead. He poured himself a large measure, and then, recklessly, as much again.

  He let Drusilla rant for a while, as he sipped his brandy and stared out of the window at the garden in its autumn decay. There were moments of glorious beauty in autumn, the trees a riot of extravagant golds and oranges and flame reds, but much of it was a dispiriting brown, the colour of mud. And then came winter, with no redeeming colours at all. Winter was all stark black and white.