Grace Burrowes - [Windham Sisters 05]

by Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

  Jenny glanced at the door, foreboding expanding in her middle to the proportions of dread. When she accepted a drink from her mother, the duchess’s fingers were cold.

  “What can they be discussing?” Jenny asked nobody in particular.

  “A marriage proposal?” the duchess suggested.

  “I doubt it.”

  Her mother gave her a considering look from the sideboard. “If Bernward offered, Genevieve, would you choose Paris over him?”

  Her Grace was a pragmatic woman, also a mother who would cheerfully kill for her children or for her dear Percival. Her instincts were not to be discounted, ever.

  “I did.”

  “Oh, my dear, whatever could be more important than love?”

  And now the dread moved up, north of Jenny’s belly, into her throat, because that one question befuddled and hurt and made a hash of Jenny’s ability to think.

  The door opened, and His Grace rejoined them, though of Elijah there was no evidence. To Jenny’s eye, the duke’s paternal fire had been snuffed out, and where his blue eyes had held the promise of retribution for anyone fool enough to cross him, now he looked… sad.

  “Ah, you’re drinking. My love, might I have a tot as well?”

  Something was wrong. When His Grace’s temper was so completely replaced with what looked for all the world like regret, something was dreadfully wrong.

  The duchess held her drink out to him. He brought it to his lips but kept his gaze on his wife, as if imbibing courage with the very sight of her.

  “Bernward is a canny young man,” the duke said. “Shall we sit?”

  Jenny did not want to sit. She wanted to find Elijah and wring from him a recounting of what had aged the Duke of Moreland ten years in less than two minutes. She wanted to take the worry from the duchess’s eyes, and she wanted to go to Paris right that very instant.

  Her Grace took one end of a small sofa and Jenny the other. The duke peered around the room as if he’d not spent many and many an hour reading to his wife in the very same location.

  “Bernward claims you are not determined on Paris so much because you want to paint,” the duke said. He set his little glass down on the sideboard and turned his back on Jenny and her mother.

  That was rude, and His Grace was never intentionally rude to his duchess. Jenny’s heart began to thump a slow, ominous tattoo in her chest. Please rant and bellow, Papa. Please be in a magnificent temper and hurl a few thunderbolts, then tell me I can go with your blessing.

  The duchess’s hand stroked over Jenny’s shoulder, an it-will-be-all-right caress Jenny knew like she knew her own reflection, though it brought no comfort.

  “Genevieve, Bernward claims…” The duke’s shoulders heaved up and down, slowly, as if he were sorely fatigued. “Bernward is of the opinion that you seek the Continent not because your talent compels it, or not solely because of your talent, but because you blame yourself”—behind his back, the duke’s hands were laced so tightly his knuckles showed white—“you blame yourself for the death of not one, but of both your brothers, Bartholomew and Victor.”

  The duchess’s soft gasp sounded over a roaring in Jenny’s ears.

  “Bernward claims,” the duke went on softly, “you must exile yourself out of guilt, because you are of the daft notion that only your happiness will atone for the loss of your brothers’ lives, though he suspects you disguise these sentiments even from yourself, or you try to. I cannot credit this. I simply cannot, and yet… you are our daughter. We know you, and Bernward, God damn the man, is not wrong.”

  An ache grew and grew inside Jenny. An awful, choking, suffocating ache, an ache she thought she’d learned long ago how to manage. She wanted Elijah. She wanted to sprout wings and fly from the little parlor where she’d sat on her mother’s lap and learned to embroider with her sisters. She wanted, in some way, to die rather than contain the pain pressing at her very organs.

  When His Grace turned from the cold, dark window, Jenny did not look away quickly enough. Even through the sheen blurring her own eyes, she could see that tears had also gathered in the eyes of His Grace, the Duke of Moreland. She looked down, seeing nothing, while her misery increased without end.

  “Oh, my child.” The duchess enveloped Jenny in a ferocious embrace. “Oh, my dear, dear child. How could you think this of yourself? How could you possibly— Percival, more drinks and your handkerchief. This instant.”

  ***

  Fortunate indeed was the man whose wife had the presence of mind to keep him busy when sentiment threatened to render him… heartbroken. His Grace poured himself a shot of whisky, downed it, and poured another. This one he considered, while across the room Her Grace held a quietly lachrymose daughter, a young lady exhausted by her emotional burdens and by a failure of trust in her parents’ love.

  And dear Esther… Percival fished out his second handkerchief—Windham menfolk were prepared for the occasional domestic affray, particularly around the holidays—and passed it to his duchess. She pressed it to her eyes while keeping an arm around the girl plastered to her mother’s shoulder, then gestured toward the sideboard.

  “Of course, my dear.”

  Brandy for the ladies. More brandy. Percival dallied by pouring just so, arranging the glasses just so on a tray, and opening and closing the drawers to the sideboard until he’d found two clean serviettes. When the weeping sounded as if it was subsiding, he brought the tray over to his womenfolk.

  “Drink up, young lady, and prepare to explain yourself.”

  Over Jenny’s head, Esther’s slight smile indicated he’d gotten it right: brusque and unsentimental, but more papa than commanding officer or duke.

  Jenny accepted a drink from her mother, but the poor girl’s hand shook, and the duke had to make a significant inroad on his second whisky. At this rate, he would be drunk before the guests arrived, which was a fine idea all around.

  “I think I can guess some of it,” Her Grace said. She hadn’t touched her drink. The woman had fortitude beyond description. “You blame yourself for Bart’s joining up, because you had such a very great row with him before I finally relented.”

  Jenny stopped folding and unfolding her damp handkerchief to peer at her mother. “Relented?”

  Oh, this was difficult. Percival pulled up a rocking chair and sat at his wife’s elbow. “Lest you forget, missy, Windham men have a long and distinguished tradition of serving King and Country. Bart needed to work out the fidgets, so to speak. He was setting a terrible example for the younger boys, wreaking havoc with the domestics, and upsetting your mother. I’d started negotiating for a commission, but your mother could not…”

  Could not put her son at risk of death. Percival met his duchess’s gaze, thanking her silently yet again for never once blaming him for Bart’s death.

  “I could not let him go,” Her Grace said quietly. “He was my firstborn, the child conceived as your father and I fell in love and married, a bright, shining symbol of so much that was good, but your father had the right of it: Bart was becoming spoiled, and if he was ever to make any sort of duke, he needed to grow up.”

  Grow up. Such a simple term for a complicated, fraught, difficult process that could challenge dukes well into their prime. His Grace marshaled his fortitude and said a few more simple words. “You were not responsible for Bartholomew’s death. He died in a Portuguese tavern because the damned fool boy propositioned a decent woman with protective family. I’ve blamed myself, I’ve blamed Wellington, I’ve blamed the entire Portuguese nation for being so deucedly full of pretty girls, but in my wildest imaginings I never once blamed you.”

  His feeble attempt at levity went right past Jenny, but Her Grace gave him another small smile.

  So he soldiered on.

  “You are not responsible for Victor’s death either.”

  Jenny’s face disappeared into
her blasted handkerchief. Her Grace tucked the girl closer, and the pain in the duchess’s eyes…

  Two sons buried, and this daughter nearly lost to an abundance of responsibility and a want of parental attention. It was enough to make a man plan the demolition of Paris. Percival served his wife a steadying look, because the woman would soon be blaming herself for the whole of it.

  Truly, Genevieve was their daughter.

  “V-Victor went with me to the worst p-places. To any poorhouse, any slum, and he stood by me while I drew and drew… And then he was sick, and I promised him I’d keep painting.”

  All no doubt true, also quite beside the point. “That, young lady, is complete twaddle. Everywhere your brother escorted you, two stout footmen followed. Her Grace insisted. You did not fall ill, the footmen did not fall ill, and yet Victor did.”

  Luckily for a papa’s composure, this pronouncement got Jenny’s attention “You knew?”

  Her Grace pushed a lock of Jenny’s hair over the girl’s shoulder, not because Jenny was in any disarray, but because a mother never got over the need to cosset her babies—nor a duke the need to cosset his duchess.

  “We knew,” Her Grace said. “Victor made sure we knew, and said we ought to find you a better drawing master, one who’d cultivate your talent, because you couldn’t stop drawing or painting if you wanted to.”

  “But he became so ill… He died, and all because I dragged him around with me, just so I could draw all those children and old people. I told Victor if I drew them, then death wouldn’t entirely win. I was a selfish idiot.” She balled up her handkerchief, and His Grace stifled the urge to duck. “Death won.”

  So young, and so burdened. So damned unnecessarily burdened. “Death ended Victor’s suffering, but you, my girl, did not cause it. You never knew my brother Peter, a great strapping fellow who would have made a marvelous duke had he not been cursed with a weak constitution. By the age of thirty-five, he was no longer riding out.”

  Her Grace picked up the argument for the defense right on cue. “My younger sister, Ruth, succumbed to consumption before she was out of the schoolroom. Consumption is a scourge, and you did not invent it. I daresay Victor was exposed to disease in a number of unsavory locations about which I will not expound upon, lest I disgrace his memory.”

  Oh, excellent. A touch of maternal vinegar turned the moment for Jenny to one of thoughtful consideration rather than self-flagellation.

  His Grace winked at his wife. Well done, indeed. She took a dainty sip of her drink, lifting the glass an inch in His Grace’s direction. A certain duke was going to find some mistletoe when this dreary business was through, see if he didn’t.

  “You are not responsible for your brothers’ deaths, Genevieve. That you could think it breaks my heart, and your dear mother will likely require much comforting as a result of the misperception you’ve labored under. I hope no more need be said on the topic?”

  He prayed no more need be said, but any prisoner liberated from guilt needed time to relearn a world of freedom. While he leveled a glower at his daughter—a loving glower—His Grace had the thought that Genevieve would have made a good duke.

  She understood responsibility and loyalty instinctively, but like her mother, she was not as comfortable with delegation of her assigned tasks. Perhaps Bernward might help her with that.

  “No more need be said right now, Papa.”

  If only that were true.

  “I need to say something.” Her Grace glanced at Percival as she spoke, and he returned the look. Anything she wanted to say, or needed to say, could only add to the discussion and as always, cover the difficult ground her husband—any husband—would sprint across hotfoot.

  “I need to say—Percival, would you hold my drink?—I need to say that I am proud of you, Genevieve. I am proud of the regard you hold for your siblings, proud of your talent, proud of your determination—you get that from your father—and so very proud of your courage.”

  Oh, damn. What was a man to do when confronted with a teary duchess and a weeping daughter? Percival set the bloody drinks aside, grabbed a serviette, and enveloped both crying females in a hug.

  This had the advantage of ensuring he had the privacy to take a surreptitious swipe at his own eyes, but did not relieve him of the obligation—of the need—to reinforce Her Grace’s words.

  And to lay the groundwork for a bit of paternal strategy.

  “Of course we’re proud of you. We have always been proud of you, but I must tell you, Genevieve, Paris will not do. Not when there’s the whole of the Continent full of art and drawing masters. Paris alone simply will not do.”

  ***

  “I cannot imagine what lies in London that requires you to abandon all sense, much less abandon the woman you love, and subject your horse to such a journey. My countess will worry about you, and that is a sore trial for the rest of the household.”

  Kesmore passed Elijah a flask as he scolded, and Elijah took a sip of smooth, fiery brew redolent of hazelnuts.

  “I must pay a call on a member of the Academy’s nominating committee then visit my family at Flint Hall. Your hospitality these past two days has been much appreciated.”

  Particularly when a foot of snow had fallen Christmas Eve into Christmas Day. Kesmore had offered to take Elijah home with him after the open house, and Elijah had left Morelands, bag and baggage, rather than remain where at least one duke and one duchess held him in mortal dislike.

  As well they should, though not for the reasons they did.

  Kesmore capped the flask. “Are you paying the least attention, Bernward?”

  “No.” Elijah tested the snugness of the horse’s girth, because he might have tightened it, and he might have not. Such were the mental faculties of a man with a broken heart, a man who’d waited in vain for Genevieve to leave the upper reaches of the house and join the party below on Christmas Eve.

  “She leaves New Year’s Day for the Continent,” Kesmore mused, and abruptly the foggy, boggy morass that was Elijah’s brain regained the ability to focus.

  “Genevieve is going to Paris?”

  His initial reaction was… a sentimental mix of gladness for her, pride in her resolve, and the certain knowledge that no amount of drinking or rumination was going to ferment those feelings into outright joy.

  “Eventually. Seems a widowed aunt wants to visit relations in Vienna, though the itinerary will take them through Rome, Venice, Florence, a few other places known for their art treasures. Paris is on the list, I’m sure. When His Grace says a little travel broadens the mind, one had best start packing.”

  England without Genevieve would be a lonely place. Any studio without Genevieve would be a lonely place.

  The back of Elijah’s horse would be a very lonely place, particularly when that horse was pointed away from the lady. That she was achieving her heart’s desire was much less comfort than Elijah had hoped it would be.

  “Wish me safe journey, Kesmore, and thanks for all of your hospitality.”

  Kesmore shoved the flask at him. “Louisa says you are an idiot, but I must be patient because you are an idiot in love with an imbecile. She says that’s the general case where tender sentiments are involved, and I am ever grateful for my countess’s guidance. Safe journey.”

  Kesmore yanked him into a hug, walloped him once on the back, then let him go.

  As Elijah swung down from his horse, long, weary, frigid miles later, the force of Kesmore’s blow still reverberated in memory, almost as if the man had been trying to knock sense into him.

  “Mr. Buchanan will see you now, my lord.”

  They all my lorded him now, the entire committee. He didn’t like it from them any more than he’d liked it from Genevieve—for different reasons.

  “Bernward, welcome, and what a pleasure!” Buchanan’s face was wreathed with a smile that suggested
he knew things Elijah did not. That smile went onto the growing list of things Elijah did not like.

  “Buchanan. Apologies for the lack of notice, but I was passing through Town on my way to Flint Hall.”

  Those words dimmed the smile, blending it with consternation. “You’re off to the family seat?”

  “For what remains of the holidays, yes. My mother’s wishes trump royal edicts, papal bulls, and likely the whims of the Almighty. I did, however, want to discuss with you—”

  A footman appeared bearing a tray. Buchanan gestured the man into a room, the walls of which were crowded with old masters growing dark with age—and not a smile to be seen among them.

  “You wanted to discuss the committee nominations,” Buchanan said when the footman had withdrawn. “Shall we sit?”

  No, they shall not sit. “Afraid I haven’t the time, sir. You will understand the urgency of keeping the Marchioness of Flint from a display of stubborn temper?” Mama would kill him for that prevarication. Her menfolk were the ones afflicted with stubborn temper.

  Buchanan’s expression became considering, the look of a politician rearranging his chess pieces. “If you’re going to Flint Hall, perhaps you’d take a package for me to Lord Flint?”

  “Of course, though the purpose for my call was to retrieve from you the sketches I’d passed along of a certain portrait.” The best portrait he’d ever done, and the best likeness he’d rendered of a certain young lady.

  Who was on her way to the bloody, sodding Continent in only a few days’ time, there to kick up her heels, admire art, and be admired by not just Frenchmen—those were bad enough—but Germans, Austrians, Dutchmen, and Italians. Possibly Russians as well, and those dear chaps had burned three-quarters of Moscow in the dead of winter rather than allow Napoleon the satisfaction of sacking it. Genevieve would be right at home among them.

  “So you don’t want to discuss the committee’s nominations?”

  Turpentine and paint fumes could addle a man’s wits, particularly when they were all he breathed for decades at a time. Elijah spoke gently. “I do not care that”—he snapped his fingers under Buchanan’s sizable nose—“for the committee’s nominations.”