She crossed her arms. “What question?”
“Have you sketched by candlelight?” And what would she look like, sketching by candlelight?
“I’ve sketched my dear sisters, though they aren’t particularly obliging about holding a pose. I’ve painted enough still lifes to cover every surface in Carlton House.” She aimed a glare at the hearth. “I’ve sketched Timothy in every position imaginable from every possible angle.”
Dislike for this Timothy fellow rose up, ranking nearly equal with dislike for holiday folderol—most holiday folderol. “Who is Timothy?”
Her glower shifted, taking on a hint of despair. “My blasted cat.”
He might have laughed, out of relief, but the image of her relegated to depending on the patience of a mute beast was not amusing. “Try something for me, Genevieve.”
“We need to find some toys,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him. “The boys will be here directly, and if we don’t entertain them, they’ll entertain themselves.”
Dreadful thought. “This won’t take but a moment. I want you to curse.”
Not only were her arms crossed, but she’d drawn herself up, aligned herself with some invisible, invincible posture board such as Helen of Troy might have relied upon to get all those ships launched in a single day. “I beg your pardon?”
“Curse. Call him your blasted, damned cat.”
Her brows knitted, making her look like one of Kesmore’s daughters. “I love Timothy.”
“Of course you do.” Lucky cat. “But you do not love having to rely on his good offices for your candlelit sketches.” He prowled closer. “You do not love being shuffled about from family member to family member.” Another step, so he was almost nose to nose with her. “I daresay you do not love baking.”
“I rather don’t.”
He unwrapped her arms and kept her hands in his. “Genevieve.”
“I do not enjoy baking in the least.”
He waited, certain if he were patient, she’d rise to the challenge.
The corners of her mouth quivered. “I perishing hate all the mess and heat.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s a dashed nuisance, and one gets sticky.” A smile started, turning up her lips, lighting her eyes.
“How sticky?
“Blasted, damned sticky.”
“Say it again.”
She beamed at him. “Perishing, blasted, damned, damned sticky.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Well done. You must curse for me more often, Genevieve. It makes your eyes dance.”
And her cursing made him happy too. As she hugged him back, it occurred to Elijah that Christmas was touted as the season for giving, though in recent years, the occasion hadn’t arisen for him to do much of that.
He’d give to her. He’d give her a safe place to curse, a place to draw as she pleased, and some kisses. If he counted his approval of the mistletoe tradition, that was two holiday sentiments in one morning.
Elijah dropped his arms and stepped back. Two sentiments signified nothing.
“You said something about toys?”
She blinked, though the smile did not entirely leave her countenance. “Toys. Yes, for the children.”
“So I might pose them with their familiar objects?”
“Why, no, Elijah. We need toys because we’re going to spend the next hour playing.”
Myriad prurient connotations danced in his head in the instant he stared down at her. He mentally nudged them aside when he should have taken a cricket bat to them. “Playing?”
“I assumed you’d take Sir Joshua’s approach to children as subjects.”
She had gold flecks in those green eyes, and Elijah didn’t know any Sir Josh— “Sir Joshua Reynolds. He played with the children he painted.”
“Of course.” She took a step back, looking self-conscious. “Not everybody ascribes to the same method, but these are very young children. I assumed you’d—”
“Of course. The children will have to be comfortable with me if I’m to spend hours taking their likeness. Toys are a given.”
He’d dreaded this aspect of the commission. Dreaded the notion of getting down on the floor and playing at jacks or Patience or some inane, juvenile pastime. The dread had faded to a mild distaste. “What do you recommend?”
She prattled on about playing cards and spinning tops, toy soldiers, and jumping ropes, while Elijah thought back through their short, unusual conversation. He did not want to spend the morning playing with children, but he’d manage that.
Something she’d said had pleased him, pleased him even more than her hesitant, polite cursing. Something she’d said rivaled even that kiss, which he took as a perfunctory nod to holiday protocol on her part, one that had turned pleasurable and sweet despite its origins in seasonal nonsense.
Something…
He lit upon it with the glee of a boy opening a holiday present, absolutely certain his heart’s desire lay under the pretty paper.
He’d called her Genevieve, and she hadn’t objected. Again, she hadn’t objected, and better still, she had called him Elijah.
* * *
Jenny had a list of questions for her mother, questions she’d never ask. One of those questions was about grief: Does one keep having babies because the little ones grow up and get too big to cuddle in one’s arms or sit in one’s lap? Does one keep having babies—a dangerous, messy, uncomfortable proposition—because it’s the only way to keep one’s heart from breaking?
And then a question Jenny had barely let herself acknowledge: How did one cope when two beloved children had died as young men and no baby, no grandchild, no anything would ever bring them back?
Her thoughts were interrupted when William came barreling toward her on his chubby legs, Kit right behind and a harried nursemaid bringing up the rear. Jenny scooped up the smaller child and held out her hand to his older brother.
“My very best boys! How glad I am to see you!”
“You saw us last night,” Kit said. “Is that the painter man?”
Mr. Harrison’s brows rose at this rudeness. “I am Elijah Harrison, and I am here to make a painting of you and your brother.”
“Can I paint too?”
“May I,” Jenny murmured.
Little William chose that moment to swat her nose. “Paint!”
Mr. Harrison marched up to her and took William from her arms. “Draw first, with pastels, which have no sharp points. And you, sir, are not to be raising your hand to the ladies.”
William made a grab for Mr. Harrison’s chin. “Down! Paint!”
“He wants to get down and paint,” Kit volunteered. “I want a scone.”
“Later. You just had your porridge,” Jenny said.
Mr. Harrison brushed a finger down William’s little nose. “You’re going to turn your nose blue, like some warrior of old with his woad, and try the same thing on your brother. I have five little brothers at home just like you. Then you’ll eat my pastels, and I’ll have to limit my landscapes to cloudy days with no pretty skies.”
William was a fickle child. He was very shy of his uncles Benjamin and Valentine, and had a shrieking, unrelenting loathing for two of the footmen. He loved his uncles Gayle and Devlin, and the cat Timothy as well—most days. He was also, the little wretch, instantly enthralled with Mr. Harrison.
“Down!”
Mr. Harrison did not turn loose of his captive. “My lady, I think it best to put that tea service up where it will not tempt small boys.”
“Of course.” Jenny put the tray with its steaming blue teapot on the corner table, among the pigments, tablets, pens, and pencils. “Did you intend to get out the pastels?”
Mr. Harrison’s expression was resigned, while on his hip, William beamed cherubically. “He really will try to eat them.”
“We are not outnumbered, Mr. Harrison, and you outweigh him by a good twelve stone. We will dissuade him.”
Kit tugged on her skir
ts. “Can I have a scone now?”
“May I, and no, you may not. Mr. Harrison has some wonderful things to show you, but you must hold very still for a time too.”
“I can hold still.” The little boy stiffened up, like some pagan figure carved in stone, breath held, arms at his sides, teeth clenched.
“Very impressive,” Mr. Harrison said. He crossed to the table with William, and retrieved a sketch pad and box of colored chalks. “If I render your image thus, your parents will hound me from the shores of England. I will be lucky to earn my ale sketching caricatures at posting inns on the Continent.”
Kit looked up at Jenny. “What did he say?”
“He said he’ll do a better job taking your likeness if you’re comfortable and having fun.”
Mr. Harrison sent Jenny a look over William’s head. His mouth conveyed humor, while his eyes conveyed… trepidation? He jostled William higher on his hip. “I suppose it’s time we boarded our magic carpet?”
Never had a handsome prince sounded less enthusiastic about starting his enchanted voyage, and never had William been so content to remain in one place for so long.
“I’m coming too!” Kit caroled. He darted to the hearth rug and plopped down, landing by chance in the direct path of an early morning sunbeam. Jenny took a place beside him, though her skirts made boarding the carpet a somewhat undignified business.
“Shall I take William?” she asked.
“My first mate is content where he is,” Mr. Harrison said, lowering himself so his back was braced against the raised hearth. “Though he’s plotting the downfall of our expedition, lest you be fooled by his handsome visage.”
“What’s a visage?” Kit asked, crawling closer.
“I’ll show you what a visage is, if you’ll challenge your aunt at Patience.”
At Kit’s age, Patience was an exercise in flipping cards face up, making quite the fuss over any random matches. Nobody won, nobody lost, and nobody tried to keep track of where any cards might lie.
Jenny, however, kept track of Mr. Harrison. He sat against the hearthstone, legs splayed before him. William contentedly straddled one muscular thigh, while the sketch pad was propped on the other. Mr. Harrison’s left hand absently braced William against his body as the right moved the colored chalk across the page.
Both of them, man and boy, looked at ease. William was examining a red pastel, dashing it against Mr. Harrison’s dark wool trousers and leaving jots of red powder. Mr. Harrison was dashing his colors against the page in more fluid motions, though his expression bore the same concentration as William’s.
“Your turn, Aunt Jen.”
Jenny flipped over two cards, the queen of hearts and the queen of spades. “A match. Where shall we put their highnesses?”
“Give them to me!” Kit propped the queens face out against Mr. Harrison’s outstretched leg and soon had a family of royal spectators aligned there.
Mr. Harrison suggested that the twos might also enjoy the view from the gallery and could serve as footmen to the royal family. He offered this casually, an aside murmured between glances at Kit, glances at the page, and glances at Jenny.
When William started bouncing on Mr. Harrison’s thigh, Mr. Harrison passed the child another color and put the red aside. “Nobody stays with the monochrome studies for long, but five minutes must be a record,” he muttered to the child.
While Kit flipped over one card after another in search of a match, Jenny’s heart turned over in her chest. The sensation was physical, painful and sweet, also entirely the fault of the man casually holding one of her nephews and sketching the other.
She’d resigned herself to never having children, and her art, paltry and amateurish though it was, was some consolation. Watching Elijah Harrison casually tuck William closer and retrieve the blue pastel from its trajectory toward the child’s mouth, her resignation came into sharper focus.
The children she’d never have might have been Elijah Harrison’s, or belonged to somebody like him—a talented, handsome man, capable of whimsy and patience. A man willing to sit on the floor and see his trousers attacked by a ferocious, pastel-wielding infant, even as he kept that infant safe and content.
“I found a match, Aunt Jen!” Kit waved the six of clubs and the nine of clubs around. “They can be coachmen!”
It was on the tip of Jenny’s tongue to point out the child’s error. A six and a nine were not a match, not even if they were of the same suit.
“Let me see those.” Mr. Harrison set aside his sketch to pluck the cards from Kit’s hand. While Jenny watched, the artist launched into another little homily about reflections—symmetry by any other name—and Kit forgot all about playing the matching game with his aunt.
Jenny picked up the discarded sketch pad, slid the box of pastels closer, and began to sketch, while William enthusiastically drew green streaks on Mr. Harrison’s trousers.
Six
The Earl of Westhaven steered his horse around a frozen mud puddle, while the Duke of Moreland’s bay gelding splashed right through, indifferent to the breaking ice or cold, muddy water. Westhaven, like his horse, was more of a Town fellow, while the duke longed for the countryside.
“Her Grace is growing restless, sir. I trust you are aware of this?”
Meddling adult children were a loving father’s cross to bear. The duke glanced over at the handsome fellow who was his son and heir. “How is your wife, Westhaven?”
Westhaven rode bareheaded, so His Grace could see his son’s expression take on the sweet, distracted air of a man contemplating the woman about whom he was head over ears. “Anna thrives. She is completely over the birth of our second son, and completely in love with the boy. He’s a quiet little fellow, but sturdy and very alert. Anna says he takes after me.”
“She’s in good health then?”
“As good health as a woman can be when she’s the sole sustenance of a growing boy. It helps that this is not our first. We’re no longer raw recruits to the ranks of parenting.”
With two children still in dresses, Westhaven could wax parental, as if he’d invented the occupation himself upon the birth of his firstborn.
“How many siblings do you have, Westhaven?”
“Seven extant, two deceased, an increasing variety of siblings by marriage. What has this to do with my mother’s discontent, Your Grace?”
Westhaven was a plodder, not given to leaps of intuition but incapable of missing a detail or failing to notice a pattern. When he took his seat in Parliament, England would be the better for it.
Though as a son, he could try the patience of a far more saintly papa than His Grace.
“I have raised ten children with Her Grace and been privileged to partner her in holy matrimony for more than three decades. Do you think I wouldn’t know if the woman were growing restless?”
Westhaven’s lips quirked up in a smile his lady likely found irresistible. As a young husband, His Grace had possessed such a smile, though ten children had rather dimmed its efficacy with their mother.
“I suppose not, sir. I could escort her to Morelands, if that would help.”
“You will do no such thing, Westhaven, nor will you intimate to my duchess that you’ll spirit her away from my side. You will caution your brothers and brothers-in-law not to make any such offer either.”
A rabbit nibbling on a patch of brown winter grass looked up as the horses ambled along the path. Nose twitching, the little beast seemed to weigh the pleasures of filling its belly against the danger of remaining in sight of humans. It snatched another few bites then loped away.
“I confess myself puzzled, Your Grace. You are usually Mama’s slave in all things, and the entire family is to gather at Morelands for the holidays. I don’t know why you’d deny her the pleasure of preparing for our arrival, when she’s so anxious to quit Town and return to Morelands.”
His Grace was not above dissembling when it came to his family, though he’d learned that dissembling was a f
raught undertaking where his duchess was concerned. So with his firstborn, he dissembled only a little.
“I haven’t found Her Grace’s Christmas present yet.”
Westhaven’s expression softened. “Your Christmas presents put the rest of us fellows in the shade, you know. Anna won’t even hint what I might give her. If His Grace can come up with such inspired gifts, then surely a small token shouldn’t be beyond me?”
Balderdash. Anna, Countess of Westhaven, was likely already hinting about a little sister for her pair of boys.
“Each year, it becomes more difficult to find something original, something unique. The challenge is to think of a gift your mother hasn’t even admitted to herself she longs for.”
Though she longed to have her family gathered together for the holidays. His Grace could be stone-blind and still see that.
“So you’ll tarry in Town until inspiration strikes?”
“If I must.” And because Westhaven would be Moreland someday, His Grace went on in the most casual of tones. “I don’t think Jenny minds keeping Sophie company while your mother and I are in Town, particularly not when Harrison also bides at Sidling, doing portraits of the little ones.”
Westhaven brought his horse to a halt at a fork in the bridle path. “Harrison? Elijah Harrison? The painter?”
His Grace’s bay came to a halt as well. “Harrison is Flint’s oldest boy, though he’s likely close to your age by now. Fancies himself a portraitist, and when old Rothgreb was grumbling about children growing up too soon, I might have mentioned Harrison to him.”
“Elijah Harrison served as Kesmore’s second at last year’s duel,” Westhaven said. He stroked a hand over his horse’s crest. Westhaven had inherited shrewdness from both sire and dam lines, so His Grace said no more but let his son ponder the puzzle pieces. “Seemed a decent sort. There’s been no gossip about the duel, in any case.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, just as I have no idea what I’ll get your mother for Christmas, though I’m scouring the shops until something comes to mind. I trust you’ll pass along any worthy ideas?”
Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait tdd-5 Page 8
