The Portrait
Cassandra Austen
Copyright © 2018 by Cassandra Austen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First paperback edition December 2018
Published by Apollo Grannus Books LLC, www.apollogrannus.com
Cover design by Streetlight Graphics, www.streetlightgraphics.com
ISBN 978-1-7325158-0-2 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-7325158-1-9 (ebook)
www.cassandraausten.com
To my family:
Phillip
Sophia
Isaac
Grace
Allegra
‘It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.’
Sense and Sensibility
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Special offer
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Cassandra Austen
Prologue
Gibraltar, November 1799
“There are those who feel that your neck isn’t worth saving.”
“Yes, sir.”
The admiral waited politely, but no explanations or excuses followed the terse reply. He nodded approvingly. Hated excuses. It wasn’t gentleman-like, as it were. “But I have taken responsibility. And I want you to go home.”
He squinted as the dark shadow in front of him raised its head. The light reflected from the turquoise Mediterranean beyond was so powerful that the admiral could not make out the expression on the shadow’s face.
“Home, sir?”
The admiral paused. An odd response, he thought. “Home, young man, home. Back to your people. Take some time. Do some shooting, break in a new horse – whatever it is that you do. In any case, the whole mess will blow over if you are not around to remind everyone of what happened. Perhaps a year, or a little longer.”
There was a silence. Somewhat nettled, the admiral said, “Given the circumstances, it could have been a great deal worse.”
He toyed with the miniature ship on his desk – carved out of wood, it was a replica of his own first command, the HMS Worthy. God love her, she was still afloat, somewhere in the West Indies.
He jerked his mind out of its wandering reverie to deal with the subject at hand. Avebury. Damn it all, he’d stuck his neck out for the man. But he liked him. He had that certain something: a grittiness that bespoke a man who had risen through the ranks with an edge of gentlemanly refinement. He didn’t know too much about the lad’s people, save that his entry into the navy had been helped along by a well-placed distant cousin. But he was an impressive commander, well-liked, and ran a ruthlessly ordered fighting ship. Not to mention all that prize money—
He cleared his throat to try again. “Avebury, you’re a fantastic sailor. A real leader of men. One of my best. I wouldn’t go this far for just anyone, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want to lose you. But my influence will only go so far. Go home. You’re a rich man. Enjoy the society. Take a bride. Do the things that normal men do.”
“Normal men, sir?” He said it in such a quiet voice that the admiral had to lean forward to hear him.
“I say! It’s not meant as an insult, boy,” the admiral said impatiently. “Merely a figure of speech.” He leant back in his chair and nodded dismissal.
For a moment, Avebury didn’t move. But then he slowly backed away from the huge desk and took his leave.
The admiral sighed deeply and shook his head. The sooner Avebury was out of the Mediterranean and out of active duty, the better. Bright lad, a born sailor, but this latest fracas had almost been too much – and it still might return to haunt him. Better he went back to England, where his standing would surely protect him from … well, from whatever might happen.
Chapter 1
Bath, May 1800
“Let us move you closer.”
“Thank you, I am quite all right.”
“Stop being so accommodating, Catherine. It is easily done. Perhaps if we call for a footman and your chair—”
“I am perfectly fine, Melinda.”
“Well, you never say a thing, when I am sure you would rather—”
Catherine put a gloved hand on her friend’s arm. “I am rather thirsty, I suppose.”
“Let me procure a glass of lemonade!” Melinda exclaimed. Having found a way to be of use, she hurried away. Two fat matrons and a young man with a keen glint in his eye bore down upon her as soon as she reached the refreshment table.
Catherine leant back on the pillows of the window seat and adjusted her shawl. Thank goodness Melinda was so easily distractible: her constant flutter and anxiety were enough to give anyone the headache. It was true that their spot was some distance away from the stage where the musicians were now tuning their instruments, but Catherine enjoyed the view of the milling crowd, the swish and swirl of silken gowns, the young men in pursuit of blushing girls guarded by dour chaperones. She had long been accustomed to the notion that she would never be one of those pretty hopefuls, and the covert glances cast in her direction did not bother her. She was a fixture on the Bath scene – the occasional pitying look invariably came from a newcomer. Her acquaintances certainly knew better than to direct any such sympathy her way.
Melinda was blushing at the overtures of the young man. He offered his arm. She smiled and barely dipped her head in Catherine’s direction. The young man turned slightly and caught Catherine’s eye. The usual expression of polite sympathy crossed his face and Catherine smiled automatically. It was a frozen smile, but it was the most she felt inclined to offer the curious. The man turned around again. When Catherine managed to catch Melinda’s eye, she frowned to indicate that Melinda should stay where she was. Melinda gave her a grateful wave of acknowledgement.
Catherine leant back again in her seat. It gave her some small pleasure to consider how annoyed Melinda’s stepmama would be if she knew that the very proper Lady Catherine Claverton was encouraging the attentions of some young man of unknown background. Melinda’s stepmama was a notoriously difficult
person, prone to palpitations, who made it virtually impossible for Melinda to show herself in society – she would not accompany her stepdaughter herself and considered almost no one else appropriate. But she was willing to very grudgingly acknowledge that Lady Claverton’s company was unexceptionable.
Catherine accepted the role with good grace. At twenty-four, she was really far too young to be anyone’s chaperone, but no one had ever regarded her as a girl. And she did not mind being passed over by the gentlemen. Melinda needed her. It was a pleasure to be needed.
She adjusted the skirts of her gown. One could at least wear pretty clothes, she reflected, even if one could not be a beauty. She turned slightly in her seat, running a critical eye over the crowd. The room was filling. Most of the faces were familiar. Stuffy old Bath, with its outmoded social rules – it was bound to be a dull evening.
Loud laughter beckoned, and she glanced in the direction of the door. Ah, unfamiliar faces. She peered at them from behind the lacy shade of the window-seat curtains. Two pretty girls, not likely to be much past their coming out. Two men in naval uniform. One leant over, whispered conspiratorially to the girls. They tittered loudly. The other officer hung back, looking somewhat uncomfortable. He scanned the room, as if he expected to find someone he knew there.
“Look, John. Seats.” One of the girls tapped the arm of the officer at her side with her fan and headed off into the crowd, pulling her friend behind her.
“Fanny, wait!” the officer called in alarm. He looked back at his colleague, who was still surveying the gathering.
“You go ahead,” the other officer said.
“Silly chit,” his friend muttered, taking off after the two girls at a rapid clip.
Catherine, safely ensconced in her lacy refuge, watched as the man pushed his way through the crowd, murmuring his excuses, to where the girls had spied a group of empty chairs. However, there were only three. The man turned around and lifted his hands apologetically.
“Quite all right,” muttered their abandoned companion. “Quite all right.” He didn’t seem the least bit put out. In fact, he seemed relieved. He heaved a sigh and edged along the perimeter of the room until he was so close to Catherine’s seat that she thought he would smack into her knees. She held her breath, but he stopped just inches away from the curtains and stood fiddling with his hat. He had thick, curly brown hair that was almost unkempt in appearance and refused to stay put at the back and around his face. His features seemed almost to have been carved in rock: they were stern, and his nose was strong, chiselled. Surprisingly for a sailor, his skin was smooth – barely weather-beaten at all, only tanned to gold.
Catherine stole a look at his boots. They were scuffed at the toes. She could see that they were well-maintained: lovingly cared for but heavily used. A man of action, she concluded. The compulsive neatness of his uniform seemed to reinforce the character suggested by the boots. It was not a new suit of clothes by any means, but it had an air of shiny readiness. Was this what was expected of a naval officer, she wondered. Had he ever flogged a man, or used the cat-o’-nine-tails? Catherine shivered, and cast another look at his face.
No, she decided. He was grave, but not cruel. His eyes were lovely – changeable, grey and green and blue at the same time, like storm clouds on a spring day. His mouth was soft. He could smile, she thought, if he wanted to. It was a finely cut mouth, in fact …
She flushed and looked away. Her voyeurism was getting the better of her. One of the reasons she liked to sit on the fringes of society was that it gave her licence to eavesdrop, to stare, to imagine. Thinking her private thoughts, thoughts that no one in the world would imagine someone such as she might have, made her happy. She always had the better of everyone in society: they could not conceal what they really were and they did not know that Lady Catherine Claverton was watching. But yet she should be careful, lest she give herself away.
Her father, she reflected, had intended her to spend her entire life sitting in her room. He would be so furious if he could see her now. She suppressed a smirk.
The officer muttered an oath. Three very large, very loud matrons sporting garishly dyed plumes had taken up positions squarely in front of him. They chatted loudly and fluttered their fans; not supposing anyone to be watching, one of them surreptitiously pulled at the seat of her gown, which was cut much too tight to flatter.
Catherine choked back a loud snort. The officer looked around. His questioning gaze landed on her, half-hidden in the window seat. A little embarrassed, Catherine smiled at him. He bowed slightly.
“They really aren’t very good,” she said in a whisper.
He raised an eyebrow, then nodded toward the musicians. “They aren’t?” He seemed rather nonplussed by the statement.
Catherine shook her head. “Not very. You aren’t missing much. By not being able to see, I mean.” The concert suddenly began with the violinist leaping energetically into a divertimento that required far more skill than he possessed. Gamely, he staggered on.
A rueful grin crossed the officer’s lips as he inched a little closer to Catherine’s seat. “Are you musical?”
“A little,” Catherine confessed. “But it would make no difference. I heard them play last Thursday.”
“Ah.” The officer looked back in the direction of the musicians, but his view was still thoroughly obscured by the three fat matrons with their bobbing feathers.
“Is this sort of crush usual?” Irritation edged his voice.
Catherine blinked. “Crush? Do you regard this as a crush?” It had never occurred to her that a boring Bath musicale might be a crush. In London, assemblies and parties in the best homes were often crushes but not this.
A flush stained the officer’s cheeks. “I beg your pardon. I seem to be demonstrating my ignorance of society,” he said stiffly.
“Not at all,” Catherine said hastily. “I imagine that you have been at sea for a considerable time. Have you a long shore leave?”
The officer did not reply at once. When he turned, those stormy eyes caught her gaze. He was a beautiful man, if such a word could be applied to one in naval uniform. The clouds in his eyes stood in sharp contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. A spring shower, Catherine thought with bewilderment. A spring shower, passing through the meadow at Albrook Hall. Green and blue and swirling grey mist. Words, whatever they might have been, died at her lips, and she felt the warmth ebb away from her extremities.
For an icy moment, they looked at each other while the musicians sawed away energetically in the background. Most people did not dare look her full in the face.
“I have indeed been away from these shores for a very long time,” the officer said finally. “I am not aware of the … the niceties of social discourse.”
“Do not let it trouble you, sir,” Catherine said quickly. Her mouth was dry; she searched for a way to ease the tension. “I do not know your name.”
“My name is Avebury. Captain, Royal Navy.”
Catherine saw something flicker in his eyes. She searched her memory, but came up blank. She didn’t know any Aveburys. She held out her hand. “Catherine Claverton.”
He bowed slightly, barely touching her gloved hand. “And you live in Bath? Miss – is it Miss? – Claverton?”
“Er … yes.” Catherine hesitated. She was not being quite accurate, but she felt uneasy about correcting him. “And you?”
“How did you know?” He said the words in a low voice, so softly that for a brief second Catherine wasn’t sure she had heard him at all.
“Know?”
“That I’ve just returned – that I’ve been gone from England for so long.”
She wanted to look away, but the intensity of those changeable eyes held hers pitilessly. Here was a man who expected to have his questions answered. “I-I … your boots,” she concluded feebly. “And your uniform. You look like someone who is … accustomed to a demanding life.”
His gaze softened. He looked at her, his eyes swe
eping over the pink gown, the silk shawl, the fine blonde hair dressed in a modest style that put her on the edge of matronhood.
She looked back at him, her heart ceasing its fitful pitter-patter. Why, he was neither stern nor severe, after all – he was merely ill at ease, shy.
“I give myself away, it seems.” A hesitant smile seemed to touch his lips, then fade away.
“Do not be concerned by it,” Catherine said apologetically. “It is I who am at fault – I sit here behind the curtains, spying. It is inexcusable, and I beg your pardon.”
“Are you alone at this concert, Miss Claverton?”
The piece had ended. Well-bred applause echoed politely through the room and, from a distance, a voice called for Avebury to hurry over and occupy an available seat.
He glanced in his friend’s direction. “Forgive me,” he said. “My friend calls me.”
“Of course.” Catherine held out her hand. “You must join your companions.”
“He has brought his sister to the concert as a treat, you see. He would not forgive me if I left him for the evening with only her and her friend for company.” He smiled ruefully.
Boldly, she leant forward to grasp his hand. “I hope we meet again, Captain Avebury. Bath is a quiet town, but we do our best. Perhaps you will honour us with your presence at the assemblies?”
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