by Diane Farr
He could not suppress a grin. “Celia, I promise you, you have lowered my expectations sufficiently. I will now be astonished if your sketches resemble any identifiable object. In fact, I am shaking in my shoes, afraid that I will wound you by failing to recognize the subject of your work.”
She blushed. “I am being silly, aren’t I? I beg your pardon.” Although the color still bloomed in her cheeks, a mischievous smile played with the corners of her mouth. “But you needn’t be afraid of injuring my feelings. After all, I shall be here to explain the sketches to you one by one, so even if you are completely bewildered by them you can easily pretend that you are not.”
“Yes, that’s a relief,” remarked Jack. “What is this one, for instance?”
He reached past her to the box and lifted out the piece he knew she had been working on when he came into the room. Contrary to his professed expectation, he had no difficulty in recognizing its subject. He was none too pleased when he saw who it was, however: Blenhurst.
“Oh! That is not finished,” said Celia hastily.
Jack wished he knew whether her embarrassment stemmed from the unfinished nature of the sketch, or from his having discovered who was on her mind this morning. Since she had left it in the box, he now realized she had not meant to show this one to him.
Odd that one never thinks of oneself as the jealous type, Jack reflected. It comes as an unwelcome surprise to find that one is, after all, capable of jealousy. A most unpleasant emotion, he discovered. Uncomfortable to experience.
After a brief struggle with himself, Jack managed to say, “It’s very good.”
It was, actually. There was only the outline of Blenhurst’s head and a suggestion of the thinning hair—she was clearly drawing from memory, and had left the details out. Either that, or she was deliberately flattering the duke by not dwelling on his receding hairline. Jack felt another stab of jealousy rearing its ugly head at the thought, and again fought to hammer it down.
What she had dwelled on was the face, and especially the eyes. The mouth wasn’t quite right, nor the shape of the chin, but the eyes were Blenhurst to the life. The expression did not strike Jack as typical of him, however. He pointed to the eyes. “You’ve made him look sad.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could recall them. His stupid jealousy had made him criticize the portrait, criticizing her, the last thing in the world he meant to do. He immediately turned to her, an apology rushing to his lips, but the words died when he saw how pleased she looked.
“Yes, that is what I was trying to capture,” said Celia softly. “It’s only in his eyes, the loneliness—here, and here.” She touched the paper, pointing to what she had done. “And perhaps a little in the muscles of the face. A certain strain when he smiles. But I haven’t had time to draw that properly.”
Jack was amazed. He looked back at the half-finished portrait, studying it anew. By George, she was right. That was how Blenhurst had looked yesterday. She had seen and comprehended something Jack had not seen at all, something Blenhurst himself had probably been at great pains to hide. Of course, Celia had only met him yesterday. She had no prior image of the man to superimpose upon what she actually saw and blind her to his sorrow. Still, she had seen the man clearly, in a way that those acquainted with him had not.
He looked at Celia with new respect. This slip of a girl had the ability to look in a stranger’s eyes and see directly into his heart. “You have a remarkable gift,” said Jack, admiration in his voice.
Color immediately flooded Celia’s face. He saw that she was about to stammer out some disclaimer, and forestalled her by firmly placing his hand over hers. “I’m not flattering you, and I’m not speaking of your sketches, so there’s no need to color up. I’ve only seen one so far, and half-finished at that. I don’t really know if you are a gifted artist, although I suspect you are. I am talking of something else.”
Her eyes were huge with doubt. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said uncertainly.
Jack’s eyes twinkled, but his face remained grave. “I think you would stand out in any set of persons, but among our family you are more than remarkable, you are unique. The milk of human kindness does not flow through our veins. I never met a Delacourt with a particle of empathy. Yet you seem to have that quality in abundance.”
“What nonsense!” said Celia with spirit. “So have you.”
Clearly meaning to change the subject, she took the study of Blenhurst from his hand and replaced it in the box. As she did so, she pulled out another piece of paper. “Pray do not tell me that this fellow looks sad, for I drew it while he was purring.”
This time, Jack was delighted. “Manegold!” he exclaimed.
“Yes.” Celia pulled a comical face, wrinkling her nose. “I shall be careful to give you a hint, you know, as I hand you each sketch. So if I say I drew it while the subject was purring, you won’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a bowl of flowers or a church spire.”
“Thank you,” said Jack appreciatively. “But I’d have known this chappie anywhere.”
The chappie in question, having heard his name called out, good-naturedly rose and ambled over, with the air of one who confers a great favor out of pure affection. He jumped heavily onto Jack’s knee. Jack scratched his ears with one hand and nudged Celia with the opposite elbow. “You see?” he pointed out. “Obeys my every command. Even when I don’t intend to give one.”
“Especially when you don’t intend to give one,” agreed Celia. “I am somewhat acquainted with this animal, remember.”
Jack shrugged, grinning. “He’s a cat,” he said, as if that explained everything. Which, of course, it did.
Manegold, evidently expressing his opinion of those who interrupted his nap and then gave him something less than their full attention, gently sank his teeth into the corner of the paper Jack held. The technique worked well; it instantly reclaimed the full attention of both Jack and Celia. Jack gave a startled exclamation and pushed his pet unceremoniously off his knee.
“Manegold, you ingrate,” scolded Jack. “I’m sorry, Celia.”
But Celia was laughing. “Oh, dear!” she gasped. “It’s true what they say—no one likes his own portrait.”
Jack grinned ruefully and smoothed the corner, which was now stamped with tiny holes where the cat’s incisors had pierced it. “That can’t be what he meant to imply. This is a beautiful portrait. And a flattering one—why, he doesn’t even look fat. I daresay he didn’t understand that the artist is supposed to sign the work, not the subject. Shall I put him out in the passage?”
“No, poor thing! He’s done no real harm.”
The ‘poor thing’ jumped back up and, with a long-suffering sigh, wedged himself between Jack and the arm of the sofa to continue his snooze. Celia dropped the sketch of Manegold back in the box. As she set down the stack of sketches she had been holding, Jack caught his first good look at the one on top. The page contained several quick studies of the same girl. Celia saw the direction of his eyes and silently handed the sheet to him.
He was not so quick to recognize the subject this time. The sweet face, the laughing eyes, and the curls were Celia’s, but there was an indefinable something about the expression that told him these were not self-portraits. “Your sister?” he guessed.
She nodded, her entire face softening. “Marianne,” she said. Her fingers absently, lovingly, traced the edges of the portrait. “Last spring.”
Her eyes were dry, but there was a world of sorrow in her voice. Jack ached for her. He looked again at the sketch of the sunny, smiling girl. She looked mischievous and carefree. Even the slant of her eyebrows was saucy. “You loved her very much,” he said. It was not a question.
“She was my dearest friend.”
Without thinking, Jack reached across the small space between them and put his arm around Celia, drawing her close. She came to him as naturally and easily as if she belonged there, and rested her head against his shoulder. He
placed his cheek against her hair. They sat for a few moments in silence, looking at the images Celia had captured on the page. Then Jack lifted his head from her soft curls and, still keeping his arm around her, turned to the next page in the stack. It was a sketch of a woman in a cap, holding a fat baby.
“Mama and Benjy,” murmured Celia. A little smile played round her mouth. “This was done about two years ago, before he grew to be the household terror.”
Behind it were studies of her sister Jane, an incomplete sketch of her father, which seemed to bother her—”I do wish I had finished that one”—several more of Marianne, her brother George on horseback, a more formal sitting of her mother, and a lively drawing of Jane struggling to brush the hair of a slightly older, and obviously squirming, Benjy. Each sketch brought words bubbling out of Celia. She told him some little story about each member of her beloved family, making him wish he could have known them. Her home life sounded so different from his own, it was difficult to grasp that she was speaking of just another branch of the same family.
“I scarcely ever drew Fanny,” said Celia at last. “She is the one whom Lady Augusta reminds me of, you know.” She sighed. “I am afraid that Fanny and I were never close, but I suppose we would have outgrown that, if…” Her voice trailed off.
“Are all your sketches portraits, then?”
“Most, but not all.” She rummaged through the sheaf of papers and pulled one out, handing it to him. “This is our village church. Papa was the vicar, you remember.”
“Yes.” Jack studied it. It might have been any one of a hundred English village churches. There was nothing especially distinctive about it, but it looked homely and familiar, and was lovingly drawn. He smiled a little. She was definitely a portrait artist. She had managed to bestow a personality even upon this stack of lifeless stone. “Very pretty.”
“It was like a blessing from heaven to hear the bells yesterday,” she said softly. “In the wood. It reminded me so strongly of home that, for a moment, I was there.”
“I’m glad.”
There was a faraway look in her eyes, and she smiled as she gazed at the drawing of the little church. “Papa would ring the bells himself on Christmas Eve. He said it was a kindness to the sexton, so that poor Mr. Christian would not have to come out in the cold in the middle of the night. But since he would never let any of the rest of us do it, I think he just enjoyed ringing in Christmas. Papa was extremely fond of Christmas. We all were.”
“Did he ring them at midnight, then?”
She nodded, her smile growing. “He would hold a special worship service at eleven o’clock, and end it promptly at midnight so he could ring the bells. It was a lovely service—my favorite of the year. And the church was always packed as full as it could hold.”
“It’s a wonder that people would turn out for it in the middle of the night.”
Mischief danced in her eyes. “Well, if they did not, the bells would wake them at midnight anyway. Papa made sure of that! But no one ever seemed to mind. It was a much-loved tradition in our village.”
She smiled at the drawing a moment more, then the laughter died in her eyes and her features grew grave again. She tucked the picture away, and it was easy enough to read her thoughts. Tonight was Christmas Eve. But Papa was gone, the village church was far away, and she would never be the vicar’s daughter again. This year, for the first time, there would be no joyous chorus of midnight bells to ring in Christmas for Celia.
The stillness of her face hurt Jack’s heart.
“Thank you for showing me your sketches,” he said quietly. “They are beautiful.”
Shyness immediately seized her, making her duck her head, but at least she smiled again. “You are the first person I have shown them to since…in quite a long time.”
The tiny hesitation before she corrected her sentence tugged at Jack’s heartstrings anew, but she turned her smiling face up to his and he forgot everything except her nearness and his arm around her. He even forgot to breathe.
She seemed unaware of the effect she was having on him. Her smile was completely trusting. “It is so pleasant to have a friend, Jack. I am glad you came home for Christmas.”
“So am I,” he said hoarsely, wondering what was the matter with him.
Celia still seemed oblivious to the inexplicable rush of feelings swamping Jack. She took the sketches from his nerveless grasp and prosaically stacked them, prattling about the boxes of completed sketches she had stored beneath her bed. That finally caught his attention.
“Beneath your bed, did you say? I’ve heard of hiding one’s light under a bushel, but under a bed?” He shook his head, mystified.
“Well, they are private,” she explained. “What you said earlier is perfectly true: my sketches always reveal my own thoughts and feelings. I daresay they depict Celia Delacourt more clearly than they ever depict my subjects! I formed the habit years ago of hiding my work. Because, as I have already told you, it’s fatal to let anyone know that you sketch. Only look what happened with you! The instant I mentioned it, you pestered me until I bared my soul to you.”
She busily stuffed the sketches in the wooden box. Jack noticed one sheet sticking out, where the lid would surely crush it, and deftly pulled it out from among the sheaf. He had thought to merely hand it back so that Celia could place it on top of the stack—but then he saw what it was.
Celia looked up when she felt Jack go suddenly still, and saw what he had in his hand. She gave a half-smothered little scream and reached for the drawing, but Jack swiftly lifted it out of her reach, still staring.
“By Jove,” he breathed. It was another unfinished piece, but unmistakably it was of Jack. She had captured his grin unerringly, and the way one lock of his hair fell across his forehead.
Celia jumped up and snatched at the drawing, but Jack’s superior height and reach enabled him to keep it from her. Celia apparently decided that her most dignified course was to feign indifference, but she was blushing furiously. “Very well,” she said warningly. “But pray do not you bite the corners when you discover you do not like it! It is quite your own fault for peeking. Remember, no one likes his own portrait.”
“On the contrary!!” said Jack admiringly. “I’d no idea I was such a handsome fellow.”
Since Celia had said, not two minutes earlier, that her sketches revealed her own thoughts and feelings, the significance of his observation struck both of them at once.
An awkward silence fell. Jack looked thoughtfully at Celia. Celia appeared ready to sink through the floor. Suddenly a loud and inelegant rumbling sound startled them both, breaking the moment—and reminding Jack that his original destination had been the breakfast room. Now it was Jack’s turn to blush.
They both broke into helpless laughter. Jack turned with mock outrage to scold Manegold for growling, but Manegold slept peacefully on.
“Cousin Celia,” said Jack politely, “may I escort you to the breakfast room? Without delay?”
“Thank you, cousin,” said Celia demurely. “I will be pleased to accompany you. Immediately.”
Chapter 14
Her Grace actually rose when Celia entered the morning room and extended her hand, smiling. Celia was startled by this sudden cordiality, but the mystery was solved at once when the duchess spoke.
“I have perceived that you are making an effort to entertain John, as I bade you,” she said approvingly. “I am glad to see that my confidence in you was not misplaced.”
Celia felt her hackles rising. The duchess clearly expected meek thanks, and a humble request for further instructions. Her days of subservience to this wretched woman were over, however. “I am making an effort to entertain Jack because I like him,” she said firmly.
“Excellent,” said the duchess absently. “I have decided it is time to show you a little more of what I do here, and how I spend my days. The management of a large household calls for a great deal of skill. Many a young bride has come to her new station in life ill-p
repared, and soon found herself under the thumb of her own upper servants. Believe me, it is fatal to rely upon the housekeeper or the butler to show you how to go on. Once you have placed too much power in their hands, you will never truly be mistress of your own establishment.”
During this well-rehearsed speech, the duchess had moved smoothly to a stack of ledgers and papers sitting ominously on her escritoire. Celia felt she must interrupt now, or run the risk of succumbing anew to Her Grace’s domination.
“But, Aunt Gladys, I shall never be mistress of a large establishment,” she protested. The desperate note in her voice sounded weak and silly, even in her own ears.
The duchess fixed her with a look that would have wilted Celia a few days ago. “Do not be missish, Celia. It puts me out of all patience. Attend, if you please! We shall start with something fairly easy. This is the latest menu sent up by Monsieur Andre. I have already sent him my corrections, but pray look it over and tell me whether you see anything wrong.”
Celia took it, her hand trembling a little—heavens, it was difficult to oppose such a strong will!—and glanced at it. “It is in French,” she said faintly.
“Naturally.”
“I—I speak very little French.”
The duchess appeared taken aback. Her features stiffened with displeasure. “Can it be possible?” she exclaimed. “Every well-bred woman speaks French.”
Celia lifted her chin. Her eyes flashed. “That may be. However, I do not.”
Her Grace’s face immediately contorted with anguish. Her reaction seemed wildly out of proportion to the cause. Celia watched, in frightened surprise, as the duchess silently pounded her fist, again and again, into the padded top of a nearby sofa. She finally sank onto the sofa, her breathing uneven.
There was something wrong, something beneath the surface of Her Grace’s behavior. Every instinct told Celia that Her Grace was struggling to hide something. Illness, or injury, or—
