Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait tdd-5

by Grace Burrowes

  Elijah. Not Bernward, not his lordship, and certainly not Mr. Harrison. Perhaps Eve’s pretty, empty box hadn’t been entirely in vain.

  Louisa pronounced sentence as gently as she could. “You love him. You’re in love with him.”

  A young girl, a girl who’d never known real heartache, would have beamed hugely at this pronouncement and fluffed her hair or twitched her skirts. Jenny’s smile as she regarded her nearly full trunk was that of a woman, a woman who’d endured both life’s joys and its sorrows. “I love him.”

  Being a Windham, this was a life sentence without hope of parole or pardon. “Does he love you?”

  The smile dimmed, went from soft to uncertain. “Elijah is very kind. He cares for me, but he gave up everything to pursue his painting professionally—home, family, social connections—and now he has a chance to have it all back and more. The regent has taken notice of him. His family is clamoring for him to return to Flint Hall. As a Royal Academician, Elijah can accept their invitation without causing injury to his pride.”

  Jenny’s recitation made no sense, though it resembled the convoluted maunderings of people overcome by sentiment regarding a member of the opposite sex. Louisa attempted to apply logic to the situation anyway.

  If Bernward returned Jenny’s sentiments, he’d pop in at the ancestral pile, appease the family, then turn his horse right around and stop Jenny’s mad flight. His chances of doing so were enhanced if somebody—say, the Earl of Kesmore—made certain the exact details of Jenny’s departure and itinerary were put into Bernward’s talented hands.

  “I think you should read these,” Louisa said, passing the bag of letters over to Jenny. “Bernward has lovely penmanship, and you should know which doors he’s so graciously opened for you.”

  Also, how far away those doors were. Louisa led her sister to the escritoire then sent the footman in the hallway for tea and cakes. As much praise as Bernward had heaped on the talents of the woman whose aspirations he ought not support, it was going to take Jenny quite a while to read his letters.

  The door banged open, but it was not one of the small Windham grandchildren charging into Jenny’s sitting room, but rather, Their Graces—His Grace at a brisk pace, Her Grace following more decorously behind.

  “Your father has come up with a wonderful addition to your itinerary.” Her Grace sounded particularly pleased with His Grace. “You really must consider it, Jenny. Why, at this rate, we’ll be sending you to darkest Peru and the Sandwich Islands!”

  Eighteen

  Louisa’s expressions were not often hard to read, but Jenny’s sister looked torn between humor and exasperation.

  “Perhaps you’re sending Jenny to Sicily now? She says there are wonderful ruins there. Greek, Roman, and what was that other?”

  Such a helpful sister. “Norman,” Jenny said. “Though we have Norman ruins aplenty here in England.”

  Her Grace beamed at the duke. “We can convince Arabella to nip down to Sicily, can’t we, Percival?”

  As if traveling half the length of Italy was on a par with tooling out to Richmond. Jenny felt something building inside, something she’d felt since Elijah had been nowhere to be found after the Christmas open house. Whatever it was, it was not ladylike or pretty, but rather, loud and maybe even profane.

  “Of course,” His Grace replied, looking equally pleased. “And then they can sail around to Venice. You cannot miss Venice, Jenny. They make glass there, and the place has canals. You like a pretty canal now and then, don’t you? You could sketch—”

  “Venice would make a nice stop off on the way to Vienna,” Her Grace added. “And a respite from Florence. Florence will overwhelm you, I’m sure, with its basilicas and palaces. Florence ought to be pronounced the madonna capital of the world, according to your father.”

  “And the bridges, my love. Don’t forget the bridges. Jenny can sketch those too.”

  Except Jenny hadn’t sketched a single thing—not even Timothy—since Elijah had gone away. Timothy had been obliging, but Jenny’s hands had lost the ability to render an image on a page.

  “Bridges are pretty,” Louisa noted. “I should think canals might tend to stink, particularly in summer.”

  “Not these canals,” His Grace pronounced. “The sea tides keep them sparkling, or so the guidebooks say. So it’s decided. Rome, Sicily, Florence, and Venice. Marvelous.”

  Louisa sent Jenny a look that had a hint of daring about it, and the loud, profane urge beating against Jenny’s insides took on an edge of dread. Elijah had written those letters, and Louisa would open her big mouth and see every single letter put to use.

  “You forgot Pompeii,” Louisa said, as if mentioning a misplaced handkerchief. “Any trip to the Italian states surely ought to include Pompeii and Herculaneum. Is Jenny going to see the pyramids while she’s larking about the Mediterranean?”

  I will kill my sister, even though her husband is a flawless marksman.

  Her Grace slowed in the act of clapping her hands, so what resulted was instead a prayerful pose. “Percival? Might Arabella—?”

  In the years—the decades—of travel Jenny’s family was planning for her, Elijah would find some other lady to become his marchioness. He’d find a woman without troublesome artistic inclinations, one who’d never ask him to pose for her or argue with him over the proper use of the color green.

  Never need him to tell her she was brilliant, never smile at her as she built a house of cards any child might topple in an instant.

  Jenny shot up from her seat at the escritoire. “No.”

  Three heads turned toward her, as if noticing she was present for the first time. The duchess’s hands fluttered to her sides. “No? You don’t want to see Pompeii? I suppose it is a sad place, full of ruins and death—but very artistic too.”

  The place was full of naughty frescoes and objets d’art a lady wouldn’t even be allowed to see—without a husband along to insist she be permitted.

  “No Pompeii, no Rome, no Italy.”

  His Grace frowned. “Straight to Vienna, then? I suppose that makes sense, particularly if you’re interested in seeing Moscow and—”

  “No Vienna, no Moscow, No Buda, no Pest. No anywhere.”

  A slow grin broke across Louisa’s face, and Jenny’s parents both, doubtless by coincidence, found it necessary to study the carpet.

  “What about Paris?” Louisa asked. “Surely you don’t intend to give up Paris?”

  The duchess admired a wedding ring she’d likely worn every day for thirty-some years. His Grace said nothing.

  But they were listening. Jenny had told them no, and they were listening to her every word.

  “What I might have with Elijah is worth more than all the art in the entire world. Maybe Paris is in my future. I don’t know. All I know is that I must take myself to Surrey before I go anywhere else.”

  Her Grace studied her for a moment, and Jenny braced herself for a lecture about being steadfast in pursuit of one’s goals and travel arrangements having been made. Papa would chime in with comments about young ladies not knowing their own minds. He would profess to be confused, while dripping disapproval from every syllable, Her Grace having taught him a thing or two about raising daughters.

  No matter. “Where I need to go isn’t Italy or Russia or Paris. I need to go to Surrey. I’ll walk there if I have to, but I must leave within the hour.”

  His Grace laced his hands behind his back, which signaled not a lecture but an entire speech in the offing. The duchess, however, slowly raised her arms and opened them wide.

  Jenny was preparing to deliver a speech of her own when she noticed her mother was smiling. “I thought we were going to have to send you abroad for you to find your senses, Genevieve.”

  Jenny went into her mother’s embrace, while the duke muttered something that sounded like “About damned time.”

  “Joseph says Bernward is headed off to York for another commission,” Louisa said. “If you don’t want t
o travel two hundred miles north in the dead of winter, you’d best make haste to Flint Hall.”

  * * *

  “You, sir, are a fraud.”

  In the privacy of the Marquess of Flint’s study, Elijah toasted his father as he made that accusation. His lordship looked pleased, though Elijah had spoken in complete earnest.

  “Your mother accuses me of being a rumgumptious scalawag, which in a French accent sounds dire indeed, and now you promote me to the status of felon. It is wonderful to have you home, Elijah.”

  “And it is wonderful to be home.” An understatement among understatements, also beside the point. “Explain these, if you please.”

  Elijah passed over the leather case Buchanan had given him and watched while the marquess unrolled the lot.

  “Oh, my. I’d never thought to see these again. I suppose Buchanan passed them along?”

  “He did. They’ve been collecting dust in some cupboard or other for the past few decades.” And yet, the drawings were brilliant, each and every one a masterpiece in pen and ink. “I was told you were a skilled caricaturist, nothing more, and yet you can draw like this.”

  His lordship remained silent, gazing at a drawing of a much younger George III. His Royal Majesty had two small princesses on his lap, everybody attired for court, but the image was redolent of love and affection nonetheless.

  “They say old George still asks for his dear little Amelia.”

  Such regret, such commiseration.

  Such talent. “Papa, I do not understand. Your ability easily eclipses my own, and yet you put your art aside. What could have possessed you to stop creating when you have an eye like this?”

  Every detail was superbly rendered, every nuance of expression carefully drawn. Elijah had spent half his trip down from London and a long night wondering why such skill had disappeared into a dusty cupboard. Through a joyous reunion with siblings, mother, and father, he’d kept that question to himself, but in the cold, bright light of day, he needed an answer.

  He got another silence, though this time, his lordship directed his attention over the fireplace, where a lovely Reynolds portrait of her ladyship held pride of place. “They call it Daltonism now. Seems to afflict us fellows more than the ladies.”

  “I do not know what Daltonism is. You draw brilliantly.”

  “Your mother said as much, but you paint brilliantly, and hence your ambitions deserved support.”

  Support. Elijah tried to wrap his mind around the notion that years of living from commission to commission, of enduring a status that hovered between tradesman and guest, of missing his family was a form of support.

  “What is this Daltonism?”

  His lordship continued to study the portrait. “I cannot see colors, apparently, or at least some colors. Your mother says I lack a proper appreciation for red, and I must believe her. My attempts at portraits and even landscapes were disasters.” Flint’s gaze flicked over Elijah’s face. “Hard to do a rendering of a lady’s smile or her blushes, when a fellow doesn’t understand the color red.”

  The words made no sense.

  “How can you not understand a color, for God’s sake?” And what a curse would that be, to perceive line, composition, and emotional content, but not color?

  “Your mother asked me to paint a small study of flowers, using the colors I saw, and she explained to me that I’m using greens, browns, and oranges in places where I ought to use red. Red, she claims, is a color like the taste of a pomegranate, the scent of roses, or the feel of the flame between your fingers when you pinch out a candle. She says it’s like orange without yellow, though I cannot imagine such a thing.”

  Elijah dipped them both out a glass of wassail, despite the early hour. “So you do not perceive even the blood in your veins as red?”

  His lordship smiled. “What matters the color of my blood? It beats through my veins effectively enough, particularly when I regard your mother.”

  That smile was sweet and pleased. The smile of a man who’d made hard, correct choices. “This puts Mama’s preference for you over Fotheringale in a somewhat different light.”

  His lordship’s brows came down. “Fotheringale is blind to much more significant matters than whether a tree is red or green. He could not see your mother’s talent, and he bitterly resented my little scribblings.”

  “He still does.” Which also mattered not at all. “You all but dared me to try for the Academy, knowing he stood against me?”

  His lordship let the top image roll up—sketches not stored flat would do that—and regarded a picture of the royal couple with a few of their older children in adolescence. Again, attire was proper for an informal evening at court, but the queen was gazing at her king, husband, and the father of her children. A notably reserved woman, Her Majesty’s eyes yet held admiration for her spouse as well as warmth and worry.

  “Ten years ago, Fotheringale was only getting started as a patron, but you were… You were restless, Elijah, as all young men must be, and your mother could not watch your talent be smothered by the weight of a title and family obligations.”

  “A wanderjahr, then. You wanted me to have a year to wander, a time to fly free as an artist and to learn more of my craft.”

  His lordship let the remaining sketches roll up all at once. “I wanted you to stop trying to herd eleven younger siblings into order, to stop trying to outshine the very stewards with your knowledge of the land, to spend less time with your nose in a ledger book and more time where you were happy. All too soon, you will find Flint and its obligations around your neck like a millstone. Your mother and I agreed that your art deserved support.”

  Images of Jenny holding yarn for her sisters, playing hoodman-blind, dancing dutifully with her brothers flashed through Elijah’s mind while he tried to absorb his father’s words.

  “You made the right choice,” Elijah said slowly. “I know more of the greater world, more of human nature, and more of myself for having pursued my art. I thank you for that.”

  His father studied his drink for a moment then treated Elijah to a doting smile. “You will make a fine Marquess of Flint, and the Academy will be lucky to count you among their members.”

  His lordship’s words held apology, but something more too: a paternal blessing Elijah would happily have wandered another ten years to earn.

  “I rather doubt I’ll ever see membership in that august body, nor will I seek it further. Fotheringale has deep pockets, but he’s been allowed to elevate his sycophants regardless of lack of ability. He has been less than gentlemanly regarding Mama, and his antipathy toward women artists generally sets art back, rather than propels it forward.”

  His lordship picked up Elijah’s glass and handed it to him. “I had not counted on your stubbornness when you took off to paint the world, but it sits well on you now. You will be called principled and a man of integrity. We are agreed Fotheringale is an ass, but your mother says he is to be pitied.”

  And Mama’s opinion would always matter greatly to Flint. Elijah touched his glass to his father’s. “To Mama and her stubbornness. Do you ever regret the choices you made?”

  He asked because a man could love his wife and still be honest. Flint’s answer was to leaf through the sketches and pull out one of a young couple from a bygone era, his evening attire nearly as resplendent as her ball gown—for all the image was in black and white.

  “The fashion at one point was to have mirrors in ballrooms, the better to serve both light and vanity. At our betrothal ball, I caught a particular glimpse of your mother’s face as we danced, and it has been all the answer any husband should ever need.”

  The young marchioness gazed at her husband much as the queen had gazed at her king—with love and admiration, but without the worry. Clearly she had found her way into the arms of the one man in all the world who was right for her.

  Flint picked up the sketch. “I would give up the ability to see any color, the ability to sketch, and several appendages
as well to spend my life with your mother. She says Fotheringale is to be pitied, and she’s right. The Academy needs fellows like yourself, who stand above old Foggy in both talent and consequence, but your mother would ask you to show some tolerance to a man who ended up without talent, title, or lady.”

  Without lady.

  “About the lady.”

  The lady who was setting off on her own wanderjahr, which might easily turn into years, not of exploration but of exile, while Elijah… what?

  While he missed her. While he looked at his drawing of her the same way his father gazed at the portrait of her ladyship. While he never got his greens quite right and had nobody to tell him so.

  Elijah had been stubborn, but Genevieve Windham could hold onto things—guilt, goals, those sorts of things—more tightly than Elijah ever had. He’d given her all the letters of support he could, but he had not given her the one thing any artist needed to endure the privations of her trade, the one thing that might turn her steps in the direction of home and people who loved her.

  “The lady? Are you inquiring about your mother?” Flint asked, taking a sip of his drink.

  Elijah drank as well—somebody had made some sort of toast—and swallowed a bit of brew that kicked like a happy donkey.

  “Not that lady. I must cut my visit short, your lordship. I must see about a lady who will wander for ten years, alone and far away, unless somebody offers her a different path. You cannot see a few paltry colors, but I cannot see my way home when it’s staring me in the face.”

  Elijah turned to go, pulling Kesmore’s letter from his pocket as he headed for the door. Today was Wednesday, which meant Jenny might leave as early as—

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Flint caught Elijah’s eye. “Enter.”

  “Callers, your lordships. The Duchess of Moreland and Lady Genevieve Windham. The young lady said I was to interrupt you, and the marchioness agreed.”

  “See them in,” Flint said, which was fortunate, because Elijah could not organize a single thought beyond a fleeting recollection of His Grace’s reference to the espionage of women.