A Figure of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  Her painting was coming along quite nicely, not that she would show it to anyone until it was completed. And even then. . .

  “Right now my daughter spends half her day studying to be a young lady and the other half honing her art. Once she is eighteen she will be free to paint at will,” Daniel Keyes said as the younger man stepped behind the large screen in the corner of the room. To change his clothing.

  Honey reminded herself to breathe and forced her gaze away from his head, which was visible above the screen. Her own face heated and she tried to control her breathing, which was sawing in and out just like their ancient butler Dowdle after he had climbed two sets of stairs.

  “And will I get to see the portrait you are painting, Miss Keyes?”

  Her head jerked up just in time to see him toss his waistcoat over the top of the screen. Which meant he was only wearing his shirt. His thin, fine, soft, muslin shirt. His eyes met hers as he did something behind the screen. Put on a coat? His other waistcoat?

  Honey swallowed, but her father and Lord Simon were waiting with raised brows.

  “I don’t know yet,” she mumbled.

  “An artist’s prerogative,” Daniel Keyes said with a laugh. “She might not even let me see it, my lord.”

  Her father was right. There were plenty of sketches and paintings that were only for her eyes and she rather suspected this painting might be another.

  ***

  On Lord Simon’s fifth visit he asked her father if he could take Honey for a ride in his high-perch phaeton. Hyde Park was thin with people, but Honey still felt as if she were on the top of the world in his tall carriage with him beside her. It was the most magical afternoon of her life.

  Until his next visit, when he took her to Gunters.

  Miss Keebler, her governess, came along for that treat, but even the presence of her dour chaperone couldn’t dampen the day.

  All that month Lord Simon took her places or dined at her father’s house and spent evenings mixing with the many artists and actors who comprised Daniel Keyes’s social circle, which included Honoria, who’d been allowed to eat dinner with her father’s guests since turning fifteen.

  Part of her knew he was only spending so much time with her because London in the summer was devoid of most of his usual friends and entertainments. But she didn’t care.

  He took her on strolls after his sittings and they sat in the park together. Always with Miss Keebler nearby, of course. He told her about Everley, his home in the country, and what his plans were for new stables, improvements to the house which was Tudor and always in need of repair. He spoke of growing up with his brother on the great estate of Whitcomb and told her tales of ghosts in the castle and how he’d once dressed up in a sheet and terrified his nurse, earning the worst paddling of his youth.

  Honoria told him about growing up surrounded by artists and how she’d pled with her father not to send her away to school. How she planned on taking over the management of the household when she was sixteen next year, and taking care of him. She shared her dreams that she might go to the Continent someday—when it was once again safe to travel—and see all the great art she’d only been able to read about.

  Honey knew it was unheard of for her father to require so many sittings—in fact, he usually finished his portraits after no more than ten or twelve meetings. But, for whatever reason—maybe because he knew how greatly she enjoyed it—he had the young nobleman visit the house over a period of thirty-two blissful days and sixteen sittings.

  Honey wished it would never end.

  ***

  “Will you accompany me for one last ice, Miss Honoria?”

  Honey looked at her father as she laid aside her brush and he nodded, the somewhat distracted look in his eyes told her he was still deep inside his work.

  He turned to Lord Simon, who’d emerged from behind the screen, once again dressed in his street clothing. “Did you bring that yellow bounder today?”

  Simon—Honoria thought of him by his Christian name, now, although only in the privacy of her own mind, of course—smiled and shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid it will have to be my brother’s clunky old boat.”

  Daniel Keyes chuckled at this characterization of the ducal barouche, which Honey had ridden in once before. “Why don’t we have a glass of something reviving while my daughter does whatever it is that women need to do before going out to eat ices?”

  Honoria loved her Papa for many reasons, but especially for giving her this chance to change into the new dress she’d just had made—hoping for a day like today to wear it.

  She rang for the parlor maid to help her change—she didn’t have her own lady’s maid—and was down in her father’s study just as the men finished the amber liquid in their glasses.

  They stood when she entered, and she wanted to weep with joy when Simon’s eyes widened appreciatively at her new costume.

  It was a crème silk with a dozen rows of tiny primrose ruffles around the bottom, a spencer in the same yellow. Matching silk lined her bonnet, the wide ribbon tied in a floppy bow beneath her right ear.

  “You look lovely, Honoria,” her father said, his eyes uncharacteristically serious, as if he knew how important this last outing was to her.

  Not until they were seated in the big carriage, Miss Keeble beside her, did Simon speak.

  “That is a smashing outfit, Miss Keyes. I’m glad it’s such a clear, sunny day so we can show off both you and that very pretty bonnet.”

  Honoria tried not to preen at his words, but it was difficult to keep her smile from growing into a grin.

  They spoke about her father’s portrait, which he would deliver sometime next month.

  “I daresay my brother will plan some party for the unveiling. You will come with him to Whitcomb, of course?”

  Had she heard him correctly? Was he inviting her to his family’s home? “I—I shall have to ask my father,” she said in a breathy voice that was likely inaudible above the street sounds.

  “When you visit we can ride out to Everley, which is not far from the duke’s home.”

  “That would be lovely.” It was all she could force out, her mind being too busy imagining herself mounted on a magnificent horse beside him, galloping across a stark, dramatic moor—which she knew very well did not exist in East Shropshire.

  He spoke of his home and family on the brief ride and his words were like a siren’s song that held her entranced.

  When they arrived outside the confectioner’s carriages lined the street both ways. Clearly they weren’t the only ones to have such an idea on a beautiful day.

  “It will be stuffy inside and the tables outside are taken,” Simon said. “Shall we enjoy our treat in velvet-lined comfort?”

  Honey and Miss Keeble agreed and Simon gestured to one of the waiters. Once they’d placed their orders they sat back and watched the fluctuating crowd, many of whom seemed to know Simon. Honoria was deep inside a fantasy where she and Simon were married and leaving for their country home tomorrow, only stopping to take leave of their many, many friends when Simon uttered a word—just one single word, but one that pulsed with more emotion than she’d heard from him in an entire month.

  “Bella!”

  Simon’s enraptured expression sent her plummeting back down to earth. He was gazing at three women who’d stopped beside the carriage. To be precise, he was only looking at one of the women, and with his heart in his eyes. She—Bella—was the most beautiful woman Honoria had ever seen.

  “Hello, Simon.” Bella smiled up at him as he scrambled down from the carriage. Her cherry red lips parted slightly to reveal dazzling, white teeth. She had skin like proverbial porcelain and navy blue eyes. Her hair was brown, dark enough to look black, the ringlets glossy and luxurious beneath her tiny straw hat.

  Simon’s face was hot and eager and he wore an expression she’d never seen before—an expression he’d never worn for her.

  Ho
ney felt something crack inside her chest: Simon loved this beautiful creature.

  “Bella, Agnes, Mrs. Frampton what are you doing in Town at this time of year?”

  His words seemed to come from the bottom of a very deep well, and it was all she could do to remain upright inn her seat.

  The older woman—Mrs. Frampton—Honey supposed, answered him, “Agnes is getting married next month and we needed a few last minute pieces of this and that.” She was speaking of one daughter, but her eyes were on the other—the one who looked like an angel come to life—right before her faded blue gaze flickered to Honoria. The gesture was minute, but Lord Simon had impeccable manners. Usually. A flush covered his beautiful, high cheekbones when he realized he’d neglected his hosting duties.

  “Mrs. Frampton, Miss Arabella Frampton, and Miss Agnes Frampton, I have the honor of introducing you to Miss Honoria Keyes and her companion, Miss Keeble. Miss Keyes is Daniel Keyes’s daughter.”

  Nods and smiles all around, but Honoria could hardly take her eyes off Bella Frampton long enough to even remember what the other two women looked like. Either could Simon.

  A waiter appeared with their ices.

  “Would you care to join us?” Simon offered, blissfully unaware that his six words were like an ax to her heart.

  “Yes, please do,” she said mechanically when four pairs of blue eyes turned her way.

  The women did a very unconvincing job of demurring and Simon opened the barouche door and gestured inside. “Please. You shall be a bit cozy but I’m sure Miss Keyes will not mind?”

  Nobody noticed that her smile was more suited to a death mask and Honoria soon found herself staring across at two of the newcomers, Mrs. Frampton wedged beside her.

  The strawberry ice she’d ordered tasted like ashes and Honoria wanted to be back at home, in her room, in her bed with the blankets pulled over her head. And never come out.

  Later, she couldn’t recall a single word that was spoken, her only memory Simon’s expression and the way his eyes had lingered on the dark-haired beauty every chance he got.

  She slept very little that night, her once vibrant world suddenly gray and colorless.

  The next day was his final sitting and Honey had planned to remain in her room and avoid seeing him—hopefully ever again. But her father put an end to that hope at breakfast.

  “You look as though you didn’t sleep well, Honey. What is the matter?” he asked when she joined him in the sunny breakfast room that overlooked the back garden.

  Honey usually had a very healthy appetite and her father would have been suspicious if she’d refrained altogether so she served herself the smallest possible portion of everything from the sideboard.

  “Just a bit of a headache, Papa.”

  “Hmm.” He laid aside the newspaper he had been reading and gave her a piercing look, his eyes so similar to hers it was like looking into a mirror. “I know you’ve grown to like young Fairchild, my dear, but—although you do not act it—you are a girl of fifteen and he is a man of almost one-and-twenty. He is a good and kind young man so I’ve given you more latitude than a wise father probably would have.” He frowned. “I often regret not sending you to school and giving you an opportunity to mix with young girls your age. Perhaps—”

  “Please, don’t Papa.” She laid down her fork and knife and met his worried gaze. “Don’t. I would have been miserable if you’d sent me away. I would have missed you and you know that painting is everything—”

  “No, my dear, not everything. Don’t forget about life. About love. About experiencing joy—what you have been doing recently. Without experience in love, loss, pain, joy, and life one cannot make great art.”

  Honey didn’t tell her father that after yesterday she now had far more familiarity with pain than she would have wished for.

  ***

  Honoria jerked her gaze from The Most Perfect Man in Britain to the clock: it was almost two-thirty. Soon it would all be over. Soon her father would lay down his brush for the last time and say—

  “Well, my lord, it appears I have captured enough of you to satisfy even my exacting mistress.” Daniel Keyes laid down his brush.

  Simon, who’d been telling them about his plans for the remainder of the summer, smiled at Honoria. “You mean your daughter, sir?”

  Daniel laughed. “I meant my muse, Lord Simon, but you might have something there.” He looked over at Honey and raised his eyebrows. “Well, are you going to put poor Lord Simon out of his misery and show him his portrait?”

  Before Honey could answer there was a sharp knock and the door opened to reveal their ancient butler, his face red with exertion.

  “Good Lord,” her father paused in the act of wiping his hands on a turpsy rag to frown at his servant. “Have you been running, Dowdle?”

  The old man was too occupied gasping for breath to answer. Instead, he held up a rectangle of cream-colored paper.

  “For me?” Daniel Keyes took a step toward him.

  “A chaise waiting outside,” Dowdle gasped before lurching across to the younger man and handing him the letter. “For Lord Saybrook,”

  Honey was surprised at their butler’s slip with Simon’s title; Dowdle was usually such a stickler for propriety.

  Simon tore open the letter and Honey watched as every bit of color drained from his face. He swallowed hard enough to be heard all the way across the room and then looked up.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, sir. It’s. . . well, It seems my . . .my nephew developed a chill and a cough and—” He waved his hand in a churning motion, as if he were stirring the very air around him in the hope it would stimulate the correct words. His face was stiff and his eyes wide with horror. “My nephew, the young Marquess of Saybrook, has died. I must leave immediately for Whitcomb.”

  Chapter Two

  Thirteen Years Later

  London

  Hello? Are you there, Honey?”

  Honoria startled at the sound of her name and turned.

  Her friend and housemate Serena Lombard stood in the open doorway, a puzzled expression on her face. “Is anything amiss, my dear?”

  Honey realized she was standing in the middle of the room staring at the letter. She held up the ivory paper with the black wax seal.

  “What is it?”

  “A letter from the Duke of Plimpton.”

  Serena’s eyebrows rose. “Hmm, Plimpton—didn’t your father once paint him? Or was that his brother, the marquess—Saybrook, isn’t he?”

  A roaring sound pounded in Honey’s ears at the sound of his name: the first time she’d heard it spoken aloud since that day.

  Serena’s forehead creased with concern. “You are feeling ill, aren’t you? You are as pale as a ghost. What is it?”

  Honey turned away and folded the letter with jerky, clumsy hands.

  “Honey?” Serena’s fingers landed on her shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” she squeezed out between clenched jaws. “Just a bit light-headed. I-I’m afraid I missed breakfast this morning,” she lied. It took three swallows to get rid of the lump in her throat and she forced her face into some semblance of self-possession before turning to her friend.

  “Shall I ring for tea?” Serena asked in her slightly accented voice.

  “Tea sounds perfect. And perhaps even some of Mamie’s butter biscuits. After all, one does not receive a piece of mail from a duke every day. I shall meet you in the parlor in ten minutes and tell you all about it,” Honoria promised, giving her friend what she hoped was a calm, encouraging smile.

  “I’ll round up everyone and send for tea.”

  The door shut behind her and Honoria’s brain spun like the colorful little wooden whirligig Serena’s young son had made for their back garden. The Duke of Plimpton—after all these years? She had not thought about the duke for a long time. But his brother Simon was a different matter. He still managed to escape from the Newgate-like prison she’d
constructed in her mind just for him. It didn’t matter how thick she made the walls or how small the gap between the bars, he always found a way to escape and come find her.

  Honey’s feet took her in the direction of her private storage closet, which she kept locked at all times. She stood on her tiptoes and felt for the key on top of the smallish wardrobe. It had been some time since she’d unlocked the door.

  There wasn’t much inside, in fact the armoire wasn’t anywhere close to full. Four canvases leaned against each other, protected by old sheets.

  The first was a painting of her mother. Although Honey had no memory of the woman on the canvas it was her father’s work and his love for the subject was evident in every stroke. It was his finest work, in her opinion. She knew it was wrong to keep it hidden in the dark but it was her only reminder of both her parents and that somehow made it intensely private.

  The second portrait made her smile. It was the first painting she’d ever done. She could not have been older than five. It was, of course, a portrait of the person she loved most in the world: her father. It bore a striking resemblance to Daniel Keyes and it brought to mind his reaction the day she’d painted it. Joy and love and pride had shone brightly from his handsome face, so strong that even now the memory warmed her like a comforting blanket.

  The third was a portrait of her. Her father had done many of her over the years—over a dozen, several of which still hung on walls of their house. But this one? Well, this was special. He’d painted it not long after finishing Lord Simon’s portrait that summer.

  Daniel Keyes had been a self-absorbed man in many ways, but not when it came to Honoria. He’d known it would have been unbearable to expose her unrequited love to questions, but this painting was proof he’d felt every ounce of her suffering in his heart. Just looking at the pain in her eyes was enough to make Honey’s throat tighten

  She was beautiful in the portrait—far prettier than she was in life—her eyes like shards of broken ice, haunted, turned in on an internal landscape that was pure pain.

  The portrait reminded her how her fifteen year-old self hadn’t believed her bleeding heart would keep beating. Yet here she was: hearty and hale all these years later.