by Diane Farr
Jack had to leave the room to regain control. As he staggered into the cold passage he heard Celia nervously ask the assembly, “Is it wise, do you think, to let him go off all alone in such a state?” which sent him back into whoops. He leaned against the wall and howled.
Finally his laughter subsided into hiccups. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes, still chuckling. “By heaven, that’s rich!” he gasped, shaking his head. “Serves me right. Best joke I’ve heard in years.”
He straightened up, tucked his handkerchief back in his pocket, and walked to where a candle flickered on a small table in the hall. A mirror hung above it, and he straightened his cravat, still grinning.
When he re-entered the drawing room, however, he appeared sober as a judge. Celia looked anxiously up at him and he gave her a mournful little bow. His father was entertaining the company with some far-fetched theory about the root causes of the corn riots, and everyone was pretending to listen, so there was no need for Jack to say anything. He made his way back to the sofa and sat gravely beside Celia, trying to look ashamed. She actually reached over and patted his hand consolingly. This almost made him laugh again, but he managed to keep his countenance. When the conversation became general once more she turned to him at once and apologized, her forehead puckered with concern.
He waved her apology aside and heaved a despondent sigh. “It is hardly your fault, cousin,” he assured her, shaking his head. “I owe you the apology, I believe. It must be frightening to see me go off like that. My family has grown accustomed to it over the years, but I suppose it is terrible to witness it for the first time.”
“Do you—do you frequently fall into laughing fits?”
His lips twitched. “Yes, I do. Fairly frequently.”
Celia looked appalled. “I must tell you frankly, cousin, that I fault your family to some degree,” she said in a low tone. “It appears to me that they offer you little sympathy and less help. And I cannot but notice that you are worse whenever you are around them.”
“They’re not an empathetic lot,” admitted Jack. “But mine is an unusually sober and upright family. I daresay having a lunatic in their midst is a severe cross to bear.”
“Oh, pooh!” said Celia indignantly. “I have not known you long, but even with your—your uneven temperament, I had rather spend time with you than any of the rest.”
What a darling she is, thought Jack. “Thank you,” he said, touched. “The feeling is mutual.” She was so sweet about it, he could not, in good conscience, prolong the joke. “But I’m afraid I have a confession to make, cousin. There really is no excuse for my outrageous behavior, because I am not, in fact, mad.”
“Certainly not,” said Celia brightly. Her smile was tinged with pity. “You are subject, perhaps, to odd humors. But I daresay you might feel quite well, or at least feel well more of the time, with proper care.”
Jack choked. “No, you misunderstand me. I mean that I owe you an apology, because I am not mad at all.”
Celia bit her lip. He saw the anxiety in her eyes before she looked away, struggling to find something safe to say. “Well, I shan’t tease you about it,” she said at last.
Good God. She didn’t believe him. Jack rubbed his chin and stared, flummoxed, at his kind little cousin. If he protested too loudly that he was sane, she would try all the harder to soothe him. What the devil should he do?
The duchess then claimed their attention, requesting that “the children” entertain Blenhurst with a rubber of whist. Jack readily acquiesced, although he would fain have stayed at Celia’s side—at least until he convinced her that he was of sound mind. Unfortunately, Celia did not know how to play and must be excused from participating. It was Jack, Augusta and Elizabeth who joined Blenhurst in the game.
Jack soon incurred Augusta’s wrath by failing to concentrate on his play. His eyes too frequently strayed to where Celia sat, the lamplight causing her rich brown hair to glow with golden highlights, her soft cheek leaned against her palm, and her eyes, wide and dreamy, fixed on…Hubbard.
Hubbard?
He actually slewed round in his chair at one point to confirm what he was seeing. It was definitely Hubbard, standing stolidly behind his mother’s chair, who was holding Celia rapt and apparently spellbound.
The instant the game broke up and he could gracefully do so, Jack returned to Celia’s side and offered her a penny for her thoughts. Celia looked up at him in surprise.
“Quickly, cousin,” he admonished her. “They shall call me back to the whist table at any moment, and I will expire of curiosity.”
Celia laughed, but looked puzzled. “Why, I don’t know that I was thinking anything at all. Certainly nothing worth sharing.”
He glanced over at homely Gertrude Hubbard, who was at the other end of the room, engaged in moving the screen to shield the duchess from some of the fire’s heat. He could see nothing unusual, and certainly nothing attractive, about her appearance; nothing that might engage Celia’s interest. Still, he pasted an admiring look upon his face and exclaimed soulfully, if sotto voce, “What a lovely woman she is, to be sure!”
Celia looked startled. “Who is?”
“Hubbard, of course. I don’t blame you for staring; I can scarcely take my eyes off her myself.”
Celia’s expression became worried and pitying. Blast his wretched tendency to turn everything into a joke! Poor Hubbard’s plainness was so extreme, Celia obviously thought his professed admiration was due to madness. “Hubbard is not a beautiful woman,” she said carefully. “I would say, rather, that her appearance is uncommon.”
“Why, you must be funning. I just watched you stare at her for ten minutes with hardly a blink. Transfixed.”
Celia blushed. “Oh! Oh, dear. I was only thinking of sketching her.”
“Aha! I see. Well, that’s reassuring. I was beginning to worry about you.” Jack dropped onto the sofa beside her. “I remember now. You did tell me you had a talent for sketching.”
“Did I?” Celia wrinkled her nose. “Gracious, what a silly thing to say. Talent, indeed! It’s nothing of the kind, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Jack. “Before you abase yourself completely, let me assure you that there is no need. You have already told me that sketching is your only talent, so if I fall into the error of admiring you it will be quite my own fault.”
“Well, that’s a mercy, at any rate.” Celia was still pink, and could not seem to meet his eyes. “I’m very fond of sketching, but that does not mean that the sketches themselves are good.”
“Have you a sketchbook? I’d very much like to see it.”
Celia shook her head with a little gasp. “Oh, no! No—oh, it was wrong of me to even mention it! You will think me such a baby—” She tried to laugh, but her bashfulness was obviously genuine. “So absurd! I am extremely vexed with myself.”
“Yes, you ought to have kept it to yourself. What a pity. Now that the cat is out of the bag, I will think myself very hardly used if you refuse to show me your sketchbook.”
“Well, I haven’t one,” said Celia, with spirit. “So there is no use in teasing me to show it to you.”
“How can you sketch without a sketchbook?” Jack’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Easily, I suppose. Cousin Celia,” he said severely, “I think you are splitting hairs.”
She lifted her chin at him. “And what if I am? If I do not wish to show anyone my sketches, that’s my prerogative.”
“Are you afraid?” asked Jack provocatively.
“Certainly not!”
“I believe you are. What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing! This is ridiculous.” She looked down her small nose at him. “I have indicated that I do not wish to show anyone my sketches. It’s not at all the thing for you to badger me about it.”
“Very well. If you don’t mind appearing cowardly—”
“Cowardly! How dare you?”
“—it’s really none of my affair.”
Celia’s eyes flashed. Jack waited, trying to look injured. She tapped her foot as she hesitated, considering.
“I would be happy to send a servant to your chamber,” suggested Jack helpfully. He assumed the aspect of a pleading child. “Pleeease?” he wheedled.
That made her laugh. “No,” she said at last. “No, really, Jack. I—I simply can’t.” She dropped her eyes shyly and tried to explain. “I know it must sound disobliging, and probably very silly, but my sketches are just—personal. They wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me.”
This admission naturally made Jack even more curious to see them, but he bowed his head in a graceful acknowledgment of defeat. “In that case, I beg your pardon for teasing you. I shall say no more.”
She lifted eyes brimming with gratitude just in time to catch his mischievous grin. He winked, and completed his sentence: “For now.”
Chapter 13
Manegold lay in a puddle of sunlight on the hall carpet, toasting his belly. He lifted his head and blinked in greeting when he heard Jack’s footsteps approaching, but did not budge from the precious patch of sunshine. Jack chuckled, bending to tousle the warm golden fur.
“Good morning, fuzzball,” said Jack. “What a lazy chap you are.”
Manegold stretched and smiled his secret cat smile.
“If you can tear yourself away from your sunbath, I’ll sneak you a bit of my breakfast. Come on,” said Jack invitingly.
Manegold looked at him expectantly, but did not move. Jack snapped his fingers and repeated, “Come on, old thing. You know where the breakfast room is. Come on, then.” He took a few steps to indicate the direction, still snapping his fingers encouragingly.
Manegold appeared mildly surprised. Instead of following Jack, he rolled limply over and glanced at the door behind him. He then looked at Jack as if to say, “Don’t you mean the library?”
Jack, well-acquainted with his pet, answered the unspoken question. “No, I don’t mean the library, you great furry moonling. Breakfast.”
But Manegold seemed determined to correct his master’s misguided steps. He staggered sleepily to his feet and faced the library, his amber gaze riveted to the doorknob as if confident it would turn at any moment.
“You want to go in the library?” guessed Jack. “What’s in the library? More sun, I suppose.” He fulfilled Manegold’s silent prophecy by turning the handle for him and swinging the door open. Manegold strolled through the aperture, tail straight up in the universal gesture of kitty gladness.
The library at Delacourt was no stuffy little chamber full of dark furniture, musty books and pipe smoke. It was a glorious gallery, high ceilinged as a cathedral and full of light. Tall windows ran along its length, each with a deeply cushioned window seat, and on the opposite side of the room the shelves crammed with books were broken up by two pretty fireplaces. Comfortable chairs and sofas were grouped charmingly before each of the fireplaces, and at either end of the room were large tables for viewing maps and such. It was an elegant and impressive room, and a favorite of both Jack and Manegold. Manegold was not an avid reader, but he approved of any room that contained two fireplaces. The library added to these attractions by featuring pools of sunlight so huge that even a very large cat could fall blissfully asleep, unafraid of waking to find that the sunbeams had moved on and left him shivering in a shadow.
On this particular morning, one spot combined the charms of a crackling fire and a sunlit hearthrug. Jack expected Manegold to head for this spot as if shot from an arrow. He did not, however. There was an even stronger claim to his attention present.
Celia was curled in one of the window seats, her gaze unfocused, tapping a pencil thoughtfully against her lower lip. The winter sunshine poured across her, making a nimbus of her brown curls and outlining the curves of her face with a ribbon of light. She made a very pretty picture. Even the black frock she was wearing looked striking against the colors surrounding her. Jack had only a moment for the sight of her to register before she looked up and saw him. Then, with a startled little cry, she scrambled to gather up the papers and pencils scattered all about her. Manegold bounded to her side and hindered her efforts by clambering affectionately up onto her lap.
“Oh, Manegold, no! Not now,” said the harassed Celia, struggling to dislodge her persistent admirer.
While she was thus occupied, Jack nipped in and snatched up her papers. He nobly refrained from peeking, but could not help seeing that they were, as he had hoped, sketches. He held one up, looking quizzical.
“No sketchbook? I see. You work on individual sheets of paper.”
Celia looked up at him, her rosy face expressing both laughter and exasperation. “Pray call off your cat, Lord Lynden! It is unconscionable for you to employ an innocent beast in—oh, Manegold, really!” This, as the cat collapsed his considerable weight atop the papers still resting on her thigh.
“Manegold, down!” said Jack, with mock severity. He pointed a stern finger at the happy animal. “Down, sirrah! Get down at once! Sit!”
But Manegold, in the way of his species, was oblivious to commands. He purred heedlessly on, gazing joyously at Celia. She gave a little spurt of laughter. “He’s not a suggestible creature, is he?”
“You’ve bewitched him,” said Jack accusingly. “He’s always obeyed me before.”
Celia choked. “Clicking his heels and saluting, no doubt.”
She hoisted the limp cat off her lap, with difficulty, and set him on the floor. Since he immediately poised to spring back into her lap, she quickly seized the papers she had rescued from beneath Manegold and rose, shaking out her skirts. Then she held out her hand to Jack. “I’ll trouble you for the rest of them now, thank you,” she said primly.
“Won’t you show me your sketches? At least one or two?”
“I had really rather not.”
He must have looked truly crestfallen, for she hesitated, her eyes softening. But then she frowned and shook her head. “They are nothing special,” she told him firmly, still holding out her hand.
“They must be special to you,” he said quietly, “or you would not guard them so fiercely.” He handed them to her as he spoke, being careful not to invade her privacy by actually looking at them.
She took them, but the uncertainty was back in her eyes. She regarded him gravely for a moment, considering. “You think I am being rude.”
“No.”
“Childish.”
“No.”
“Cowardly?”
“Not exactly.” He smiled. “I do think you are afraid, but I believe you have a right to be afraid. It seems clear to me that you have done all these sketches in private, or shown them only to persons you trust, because you have invested a great deal of your private self in them. You are right to guard them, just as anyone would guard his most secret thoughts and feelings.”
Surprise dawned in her eyes. She nodded, and looked down at the papers in her hands. “I did not expect you to understand,” she said, so softly he had to strain to catch the words. “I don’t generally let people know that I sketch at all, because—well, because when people discover that I sketch, they make a great fuss about it and clamor to see something. People seem to think it is polite to express interest, as if I were doing it in a bid for attention. But I don’t wish to be admired for my sketching. I am not seeking praise or—or approval from strangers. That is not why I do it. I do it because…”
Jack found that he was holding his breath, trying to hear her. He was glad when she looked up and he could let his breath go. When she saw how completely he was concentrating on her words, her eyes lit with amusement and she smiled. “The truth is, I don’t really know why I sketch.”
Jack nodded wisely. “Spoken like a true artist.”
Celia laughed, wrinkling her nose. “But I am no such thing!”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Jack firmly, holding out his hand. He was not really expecting her to hand him any of her papers, although he
hoped she might. He was surprised, and a little touched, when she responded by placing her hand in his.
“Very well,” said Celia shyly. “I will show them to you, if you are really interested.”
It was the first time their hands had touched, ungloved. Jack was wholly unprepared for his own reaction. Such a simple, tiny thing—the unexpected touch of her hand to his. Why did it move him so? It was as if an invisible current sprang from her palm. He could feel it flash through his entire body. For a moment, the shock of it held him rooted to the spot. But Celia, unnoticing, picked up a flat wooden box from the corner of the window seat and then, tugging gently on his hand, led him to one of the sofas where the light would fall from behind them.
This well-lit sofa happened to be the one with the well-lit hearthrug before it, so Manegold was already there. When Jack and Celia sat side-by-side on the sofa, the cat seemed torn: should he stay by the fire, or join his friends? Celia opening the box seemed to make his decision easier. He immediately rose and advanced.
“Manegold is fond of pencils,” explained Celia, hurriedly pulling out a sheaf of papers and shutting the box again. Manegold sat on his haunches and gave her a look filled with reproach. He then returned to his spot on the hearthrug and lay down, heaving an audible sigh.
Jack was amused. “How many of your pencils has he destroyed by now?”
“Only one or two,” Celia assured him. Then she dimpled. “The rest, he simply lost.” She set the box on the floor and cast an apprehensive look at Jack, holding the papers protectively against her chest. “I have warned you not to expect too much,” she reminded him.
“Yes, indeed you have,” he assured her solemnly.
“I have no real training, you know. And I have made these drawings purely for my own amusement. They were not meant for any eyes other than my own.”
