by Lenora Bell
Lulu’s soft hazel eyes filling with joy would be her reward.
She took a deep breath. Inside, all was quiet. Charlene saw the house as if for the first time. The overstuffed pink chairs gossiping in the front parlor. The gaudy gold paint peeling from the staircase banisters. The way the stairs groaned and wheezed as she climbed. Everyone except Lulu was still abed at this early hour, even Kyuzo.
Lulu sat in her sitting room, thin shoulders bent over the wooden artist’s box that doubled as an easel. As Charlene watched, Lulu dipped a slender brush into a porcelain palette, choosing a vivid blue to paint sky onto the back of the playing cards she used for backings, since they couldn’t afford ivory for her miniature paintings.
Charlene didn’t want to startle her and make her brush slip. She quietly set her bonnet and cloak on a chair, struck by the way the morning sun caressed Lulu’s russet hair, stoking it to the crimson of autumn leaves.
A rush of love and pride flooded her chest with hope. After her apprenticeship, Lulu would be able to make an independent income from her painting.
Lulu set her brush down and turned her head. “Charlene!” She leapt from her seat and flung herself into Charlene’s arms. “You’ve been gone so long.”
“Only a few days,” Charlene laughed, stroking Lulu’s soft head. “How are you, my love? What are you working on?”
“The Wellington portrait, only I can’t make his eyes come out right. They’re not nearly noble enough. At least not as noble as I imagine them to be.”
“I’m so glad you are safe.” Charlene breathed in the familiar sharp smell of paints and the heavy scent of the linseed oil her sister used to clean her brushes. She never would have forgiven herself if Grant had harmed Lulu while Charlene had been at the duke’s estate.
Lulu’s eyes clouded. “Why wouldn’t I be safe?”
“No reason, sweetheart.” Charlene kissed the top of her head and set her at arm’s length. “Now cover up those paints and let’s have some tea.”
Lulu tilted her head, for all the world like one of the bobbing finches. “You look different somehow.” She contemplated Charlene’s face. “There’s something about your eyes. I’d have to use new colors to paint them. They have mysterious shadows. As if you know a secret.”
Charlene tried to laugh, but the sound stuck halfway. She’d always marveled at how Lulu was so intuitive and sensitive to emotions and so completely oblivious to the reality of their lives, preferring to live in the worlds she conjured in her paintings. “Same old Charlene,” she said. “Nothing mysterious about me.”
“But where did you go? Mother wouldn’t tell me. You must have a secret.”
Charlene smiled. “You caught me.”
“I knew it.” Lulu’s eyes danced with curiosity. “You finally found a handsome suitor, and that was his mother I saw you with the night you left. He took one look at your heavenly blue eyes and golden curls and was hopelessly smitten.”
Charlene shook her head. “Guess again.”
“No handsome suitor?”
“Not a one.”
“Hmm.” Lulu tapped a finger to her lips. “A benefactor, then? A distant relation who bequeathed you a vast fortune and a crumbling old castle haunted by hundreds of ghosts. Oh how I should love to live in a castle.” She sighed, her eyes shining. “Tell me I’ve got it right.”
Charlene laughed. “You’ve been reading too many novels, sweetheart.”
Lulu wrinkled her nose. “I give up.”
Charlene took her sister’s hand. “Remember when I said I wanted to find you a painting apprenticeship?”
Lulu’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she breathed.
Charlene squeezed her hand. “I found a perfect one.”
Lulu stared at Charlene, a million questions shining in her eyes.
“You’re to be apprenticed to Mrs. Anna Hendricks,” Charlene said. “An elderly painter with failing eyesight who needs you to help her complete her paintings. You’ll be able to learn from her tutelage, and she may be able to help launch your career.”
“Is it really true?” Lulu breathed.
“Absolutely. I’m to take you to her in Essex. She has a lovely stone cottage and a pretty garden.” Charlene had received more details from the countess about her situation. “You’ll have ivory and fine French pigments, and you can take rambles in the countryside. It will do you a world of good. I’ll stay with you for the first weeks.”
Lulu clasped Charlene’s hand even tighter. “I can’t believe it. It’s more than I ever dreamt of . . . but . . .” Her face fell. “Mama is worse, Charlene. She coughs all night long. I can’t leave her.”
Charlene kissed her sister’s knuckles. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of Mother. She wants you to have this chance. She’ll be so very proud of you.”
Lulu wavered between concern for their mother and joy at the chance. “Are you sure?” she asked tentatively. “Oh, Charlene. Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. There’s nothing to be decided. Everything is settled.”
Lulu smiled, unable to contain her elation any longer. She danced over to her paint box and grabbed a brush, flourishing it at her painting. “Do you hear that, Your Grace?” she asked the half-finished portrait of Wellington. “I’m to live in Essex, and I can finish you on real ivory, as befits a war hero.”
She turned back to Charlene. “Will there be meadows full of flowers in Essex?” She set her paintbrush back in the box. “Will there be crumbling castles?”
Charlene smiled. “I’m sure there will be billions of flowers and heaps of ruined castles. Now come downstairs, sweetheart. I’m famished.”
As the sisters descended to the kitchens, Charlene’s heart was lighter than it had been in a long time. Lulu would have a safe, uneventful girlhood, away from the sulphur and coal smoke of London. She’d never climb the stairs to the Aviary and learn the sordid truth.
“You’ll need a smart traveling dress,” Charlene said as she poured their tea. The ladies Lulu painted always wore silk and jewels, but she donned the same gray dress and smudged shapeless painter’s smock every day.
“Will Mrs. Hendricks be very fine? She won’t think me hopelessly plain, will she?”
“No one could ever find you plain.” And that was another reason Charlene had to send her sister off to the countryside. With all that red-tinged hair and those wide hazel eyes, her sister’s budding beauty would attract too much attention from London gentlemen very soon.
Dangerous men like Grant.
The good, strong black tea was bracing. No more rich chocolate or impossible dreams for Charlene. No more tempting green eyes.
No more kisses.
“You have a faraway air,” Lulu said. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Something mysterious. Are you certain a handsome suitor isn’t going to appear and spirit you away on a magnificent stallion?”
Charlene steadied her hand as she poured more tea. “Don’t be silly. That only happens in fairy tales.”
In real life, the prince married within his rank, and the serving girl swept ash the rest of her lonely life.
James had been eager for the officious mamas, fawning daughters, and trunks full of feathers to leave. He’d wanted his solitude back. So why did the house feel too empty now?
He went down to the stables and saddled a horse, then mixed himself a mug of cocoa, but it tasted burned and bitter.
He paced up and down the echoing hallways, startling unsuspecting chambermaids. Catching sight of his reflection in a hall mirror, he realized why they shrank from him. He’d refused to shave, and there was dark stubble shadowing his jaw. His hair was unkempt, his eyes wild, and he was still wearing the same rumpled clothing from the night before.
He must be losing his mind.
As he strode through the oppressive passageways of his ancestra
l home, he circumnavigated the same mental circle. If Dorothea had plotted to be compromised, it followed that all the rest of her actions and words could merely have been a skillful act. If it had all been an act, maybe she didn’t care for him, or Flor, as she had seemed to. And if she didn’t care for him . . . why did that rankle? Had he been so arrogant as to expect his bride to fall in love with him, when he wanted to keep his own heart remote?
He paused outside of the Jonquil Suite. Maids had stripped Dorothea’s bed of its linens. He resisted the urge to enter the room to see if the scent of tea roses lingered. Instead, he walked quickly away, not caring where his feet carried him.
Last evening, waltzing with Flor and Dorothea, something had eased inside his chest. A wall had begun to crumble. He’d envisioned the three of them together . . . as a family.
This house preyed on his mind, made him feel trapped and helpless. What did it matter if she cared for him or not? He needed an heir. Flor needed a mother. Nothing more was required.
Even if Dorothea had orchestrated the sordid moment of discovery, he’d been about to offer for her, so it didn’t change the inevitable outcome. Shouldn’t this simplify matters? He’d wanted a bloodless business arrangement. He should be applauding her cold-blooded ambition. The way she and the countess had left so hastily after achieving their goal, with no good-bye, besting him at his own game.
Or had Lady Desmond plotted to trap him and Dorothea had been an innocent accomplice to her mother’s deviousness—as innocent as a woman could be with that much wicked wit lighting her eyes.
He had no one to talk to about his suspicions. Dalton was ensconced back at the club in London. James had tried speaking with Josefa, but she hadn’t understood why there was a problem.
She will bear you many strong and healthy sons and her important father will lower the taxes, she’d said to James, as if that settled the entire matter. She approved of his choice.
Would his mother have approved of Dorothea?
The question caught him unawares, halting his forward motion. He gripped a brass door pull, bracing himself as the memories descended, too fast and vivid to stop.
The day he’d left for Eton, his mother, Margaret, had hugged him so tightly he’d nearly choked. How big you’ve grown, he heard her say in his memory. How strong. Oh, James, I love you so much.
Fourteen-year-old James had been embarrassed by all that emotion. He’d pulled away, clearing his throat manfully and folding his arms across his chest to ward away a further embrace.
It had been the last time he’d seen her. He’d never let another woman hold him in her arms.
“Your Grace, are you well?”
James hadn’t even noticed Bickford approach. “I’m fine.” He swiped a hand across his eyes.
Bickford nodded at the door in front of James. “Are you thinking of . . . her?”
James unclenched his fingers from the door pull, staring at the rose pattern imprinted deep into his palm.
With a start, he realized he was standing in front of his mother’s chambers in the east wing.
“We’ve kept the rooms intact, you know,” Bickford said, his narrow face solemn. “May I show you?”
James backed away from the door. He couldn’t go in there. But brisk, efficient Bickford was already opening the door. He bustled about the room, drawing the drapes and running a finger along the mantelpiece. “No dust,” he said with satisfaction.
James took a tentative step inside. Everything was exactly how he remembered. Curving draperies, plump chairs, and small round tables covered with lace. James half expected to see his mother sitting in her favorite rocking chair by the fireplace, a baby stocking forming below her whirring knitting needles.
As a young boy, James had thought her the prettiest woman in the world, with the Harland family diamonds around her slender throat and in her lustrous blonde hair, and a sweet smile for him on her lips.
When he grew older, she stopped wearing diamonds and dressed in high-necked black gowns. He’d been too young to understand, but now he knew that after him, she’d given birth to six stillborn babes. She’d died birthing the seventh.
“I’m told you made a choice, Your Grace?” Bickford asked.
James pulled himself back to the present with an effort. “Yes, I’ll be marrying Lady Dorothea.”
Bickford gave a rare smile. “A young lady with a great vivacity of spirit, if I may be permitted to say so. She reminds me of the duchess, when she was the same age.”
James stared at Bickford. “She does?”
“Oh yes, the duchess was always racing willy-nilly across the lawn. With no bonnet at all.”
This was news to James. “Really?”
Bickford nodded, his eyes twinkling. James had never seen him so animated. Apparently Dorothea had managed to charm even his staid, dignified steward.
“You wouldn’t have noticed, you were only a child,” Bickford said. “But she was quite spirited, your mother, until . . .”
James clenched his hands. Bickford didn’t need to continue. They both knew why his mother had lost her spirit. His father had placed his wife in danger again and again, even when it had become clear she would never bear another healthy child.
If she wasn’t producing more children, she was of no further use. The deaths of her children had crushed her. After every birth, every funeral, she’d faded more, until she’d been a shadow haunting these chambers. Crooning to the ghosts of her children. Knitting mounds of tiny slippers.
James could never become the duke his father had been. Obliterating all that was good and pure with impossible demands, stony silence, and an iron fist.
“I hope you won’t mind me saying that your mother loved you very much, Your Grace. Yours was the last name she spoke before she left us.” Bickford wiped away a tear. “But that’s so long ago now. How wonderful that you are marrying. She would have been so proud.”
Bickford stared at him expectantly. James felt paralyzed, as though his lips had forgotten how to form words. “Such a long time has passed,” he finally managed to say.
“Yes.”
They stood in silence.
“I’ve kept her jewels polished for just such a happy occasion, Your Grace. Shall I fetch them?”
James nodded, not trusting himself to speak again.
Bickford bowed and disappeared into the adjoining room.
Had the mournful Duchess of Harland truly been as impulsive and unconventional as Dorothea? It seemed impossible. James searched his memories for moments of impropriety. He did remember her laughter . . . silvery and unrestrained, pealing in his ears like church bells.
Bickford returned and opened the lid of the teak and ivory jewel box.
James waved him away. “You choose something suitable.”
Bickford lifted out a string of pearls with a faint peach tinge. They were worn from contact with his mother’s skin. “These were her favorites. She was rarely without them.”
James remembered the pearls glowing against the austere expanse of his mother’s mourning blacks.
“But they are rather subdued,” said Bickford. “Perhaps this would be more suitable for Lady Dorothea, Your Grace?” He opened a small blue velvet box and held a ring up to the light coming through the windows.
Rose-cut diamonds sparkled in an openwork filigree gold setting.
Sturdy, yet delicate. The same intriguing combination he’d sensed in Dorothea.
James made a sudden decision. He hadn’t thought to travel to London until next week, but he wasn’t going to wait that long. He needed to confront his fiancée, demand answers to all the questions buzzing through his mind.
He rose from the seat and pocketed the velvet box. “Thank you, Bickford. Please send word to the staff in London. I arrive tomorrow.”
Chapter 21
“Y
ou’ve been keeping secrets from me.” Charlene’s mother patted the bed next to her. “Come tell Mother all about it. What took you to Surrey? Your note was so mysterious.”
Charlene’s mother, Susan—or Madame Swan, as she was known in most circles—reclined in bed wearing frothy lace around her throat and wrists. She was still luminously lovely, but there was a feverish tinge to her cheeks.
“Hello, Mother.” Charlene bent to kiss her cheek and sat down beside her.
“Mr. Yamamoto told me what happened with Lord Grant,” Susan said. “I had no idea he was back from Scotland.”
“It doesn’t matter . . . we have the means to pay him now.”
Susan pushed herself up on the pillows. “How did you manage that?”
“I met a duke.”
“A duke?” Susan clasped Charlene’s hands. “How wonderful!”
“It wasn’t wonderful, or the answer to all your prayers. It was only this once. Never again.”
“But it is wonderful, darling. My first was only a lowly baronet. You’ve far eclipsed me. You’ll be the most brilliant demimondaine London has ever known.”
“Stop, Mother.” Charlene took her hands away. “We’re not going through this again. I’ll never be a courtesan. We’re going to repay Grant and close the Pink Feather, just as we agreed. I even found Lulu a painting apprenticeship.”
A coughing fit shook Susan’s slender frame like waves battering a boat hull. Charlene hurried to the bedside table and opened the laudanum bottle. The hacking cough made her chest ache in sympathy and her throat raw.
When her mother was finally able to swallow some medicine, the cough eased, and she fell back against the cushions.
“I’m sorry,” Susan murmured. “I don’t know what comes over me.”
“Hush,” Charlene said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. You need to rest.” She laid a hand on her mother’s brow, tracing the fine lines that etched deeper every day. Her mother’s breath rattled in her chest, threatening to erupt into another coughing fit.
“You need a physician, Mother.”
“I don’t want to hear what he’ll say,” she whispered.
