Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  “I don’t like people,” Gabriel clarified, his tone dry as he gave Henry that glittering, intense look once again. “I feel I am about to make one more exception, however, come along.”

  Henry took that for the compliment he recognised it to be, hurrying after Gabriel as he strode out of the studio and towards the front door.

  “Henry?” Isabella called after him, as she came down the stairs. “Henry, what’s wrong? Where are you going?”

  Henry turned, though he kept moving, walking backwards, anxious now to see such works of art that Gabriel had. “He’s got a Reynolds, Isabella!” he shouted, grinning now. “A Reynolds! And two Gainsborough’s and a Lawrence and a Turner. He’s going to show me.”

  “Oh!” Isabella replied, astonished as she watched him leave the house in the company of Gabriel DeMorte.

  ***

  “Oh, Belle, what shall I do if he’s angry?” Isabella demanded, worrying at her lower lip.

  Belle laughed, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, placid as ever. “Besides, you’ve done it now,” she added, patting the sealed envelope on the seat beside her. She grinned at Isabella as she put her teacup down.

  “I can still take it back again,” Isabella muttered, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Going behind Henry’s back seemed a terrible thing to do, but … but the world deserved to see his genius, and he deserved recognition for his talent. She had put submitting his work to the Royal Academy to him some time before, only to throw him into such a panic at the idea she hadn’t dared broach the subject again. He didn’t like the thought of his work being judged, his painting scrutinised by those names in the art world he revered so. His painting was him, it was personal and left him feeling exposed. Yet allowing him to live his life without ever knowing the great talent he possessed, without sharing it with the world, that seemed a worse crime than doing something he might reproach her for.

  When Belle had said Mary Moser, one of the founding members of the Academy, had seen Henry’s portrait of Belle and demanded to know everything about the artist, Isabella had known she must act.

  “What did Mary Moser say again?” Isabella demanded, hoping to reassure herself.

  Belle shot her a sympathetic smile. “She was all for visiting Henry that moment,” she said, reaching out and patting Isabella’s knee. “Although she is no longer a young woman and had just walked in the door after a fatiguing journey. I talked her out of it, thank goodness, but she was astonished that no one had ever heard of him or seen his work. The woman practically ordered me to get him to submit a painting for the summer exhibition.”

  “Do you think we chose the right painting?” she asked, still fretting. It would be next year before they heard if they had accepted him. She’d be a nervous wreck by then. Making excuses about the whereabouts of the piece had almost given her a break down.

  “Well, Gabriel was adamant,” Belle reminded her. “And he’s the most discerning of all of us where art is concerned.

  Isabella let out a breath of relief. “Surely Henry will be pleased if he’s accepted? Don’t you think?” she asked Belle, anxiety forming a knot in her stomach. “And they will accept him, won’t they?”

  Isabella knew Belle couldn’t answer the questions with any real certainty, but she allowed her friend’s reassuring smile to sooth her fears.

  “I certainly think he’ll be accepted if Mary Moser has anything to do with it, and as for Henry, you know your husband better than I, Isabella. I think the approval of the great names as he holds in such regard should make up for any reproaches he may have towards you for acting without asking his permission.”

  Isabella nodded, but continued to chew on her lip. She prayed that Belle was right.

  Chapter 23

  “Wherein a lie is revealed.”

  Isabella stared at the envelope on the table in front of her as Jack bounced Marie on his knee. The little girl squealed and giggled.

  “’Gain, ‘gain!” she demanded, her little golden curls bouncing as beamed at Jack. Jack, of course, obliged her at once. At a year old, she could wrap the burly man around her tiny finger. Jack could no more deny his little princess than Henry could. The child would be horribly spoilt if Isabella didn’t watch them both. Right at this moment, however, the contents of the envelope before her was of greater concern.

  “Just open the damn thing,” Jack said, shaking his head with frustration. “You’ve been staring at it for the best part of forty minutes.”

  “Damn,” Marie echoed, grinning at Jack, who blanched.

  Isabella rolled her eyes at Jack, glowering a little. “I told you that you needed to mind your tongue in front of her.”

  Jack cleared his throat, looking sheepish. “I forgot, sorry.” He gave Marie a stern look. “That’s a bad word, princess. Jack ought not to have said it. Try doggy. Remember, we saw a doggy. Woof, woof.” Isabella hid a grin as Marie watched, entranced. “What did the doggy say then, princess?”

  “Damn!” Marie replied, squealing with delight.

  Jack pulled at his neck cloth, giving Isabella a rueful glance. “I’ll work on it,” he muttered.

  Isabella sighed and reached for the envelope. She slid her finger under the seal and held her breath.

  “He did it!” she exclaimed, jumping from her seat. “Henry did it! They accepted him for the summer exhibition. Oh, and Jack,” she said, her excitement bubbling over now. “His painting will hang on the centreline! That’s a place of honour.”

  “Well, I should think so, too,” Jack replied, though she could see he was brimming with pride just as she was.

  “Oh!” Isabella squealed with delight as her daughter stared at her, bemused. She ran to Jack, kissing his cheek and then kissing Marie. “See what a clever papa you have, Marie. I must tell him.”

  “Here, Isabella,” Jack said, hefting Marie onto his hip as he stood. “Hold your horses. Just go easy, eh? Remember, we don’t know how he’ll feel about it.”

  Isabella sucked in a breath, forcing her excitement down, as she knew Jack was right. “Yes. Yes, of course,” she said as she remembered why she’d been so worried. “I’ll tread carefully.”

  ***

  “Oh, Eli, do stop squirming, dear,” Belle said as her little boy wriggled to the floor and ran off across the studio. “I’m so sorry, Henry. It’s like trying to hold on to an eel.”

  Henry gave an absent nod, too absorbed in his work to worry. Henry’s oil paints were bought in walnut-sized pig’s bladder to keep them fresh, and Eli had tried to eat one during his last sitting and had been promptly sick. Everywhere. Henry felt he could cope with anything else the little devil could do after that revolting episode.

  He looked up as Isabella came in, wondering if it was time to take a break already. The slippery Eli had barely sat still for two minutes together and painting him was akin to grabbing for snowflakes. Just when he thought you had one, it melted away. The last thing he needed was interruptions.

  “H-Henry,” Isabella stammered, looking nervous and ill at ease. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  “Marie?” he asked, his heart plummeting at the serious look in her eyes.

  “Oh! Oh, no, Henry, it’s nothing bad,” she said, hurrying towards him. “Actually it’s … it’s rather wonderful, at least I think so.”

  Henry’s heart leapt this time and he sucked in a breath.

  “I’ll leave you in peace for a moment,” Belle said, casting Isabella a significant look and running to grab hold of Eli before he took a bite from a bladder of burnt umber. “Come along, my paint-devouring monster,” she called to Eli, sweeping him up and hauling him from the room. “Let’s visit Marie.”

  Henry turned back to Isabella, his hopes soaring.

  “Henry,” Isabella said, her breathing rather rapid. Why was she so nervous? “I … I have something to t-tell you.”

  Henry set down his brush and moved closer to her. “Yes?”

  “Y-you�
�ve been accepted by the Royal Academy for the summer exhibition. They want to hang your painting on the centreline, Henry,” she said, sounding breathless now. “That’s the best position, love. They will show the world your talent, Henry. Everyone will see what a genius you are.”

  Henry frowned. That had not what he’d been expecting or hoping for her to say. He stared at his feet, perplexed.

  “You sent a painting?” he said, as his emotions lurched. He hadn’t known that.

  Isabella nodded, apprehension in her eyes as she twisted her hands together.

  “I know you told me not to, Henry, but Mary Moser, she’s one of the founders of the Academy …”

  “I know who she is,” Henry muttered, folding him arms and glowering a little now.

  “W-well, she saw your painting of Belle and she practically ordered her to get you to submit a work, and so I spoke to Gabriel and … and …” She swallowed, looking like she might cry now. “And so, we sent a painting.” Her words trailed off, rather faint.

  He sucked in a breath. “Juno,” he guessed, anger sparking now. She’d told him she’d packed it away, as they were having work done. Another thing he’d forced himself to allow, strangers in the house again. Not only that, everyone else had known. Jack, Belle, and Edward, Gabriel! That Gabriel hadn’t told him …

  The two men had become close since Henry had painted his portrait. Gabriel found Henry’s acceptance of his need for order soothing, and Gabriel was one of the few people Henry didn’t feel ill at ease with, as he was every bit as odd as he was. It appeared the people Henry trusted most in the world had gone behind his back. They’d lied to him.

  Henry left the room, slamming the door on his way out.

  ***

  “Thank you for coming, Gabriel,” Isabella said, ushering the man inside. She was at her wit’s end, and the idea of facing a silent and angry Henry for many more days was wearing her down. Asking Gabriel to come was her last resort. She had no idea if he could help or not, but she had to do something.

  Gabriel nodded, placing his hat and gloves down with precision. “Where is he?”

  “In his studio,” she said, remorse a weight in her chest. “Oh, Gabriel, I wish I’d never done it. He’s not spoken for three days, and …” She blinked back tears, struggling to compose herself. Gabriel hated visible displays of emotion and as she’d begged the man to come and speak to Henry, the least she could do was keep a hold of herself. “He thinks we lied to him. Well, we did,” she said, throwing up her hands in despair. “I did! He’ll never trust me again.”

  “Nonsense,” Gabriel retorted, his tone brusque. “He’s just sulking. Leave him to me.”

  Isabella nodded, wringing her hands together, glad to let someone else try where she had failed.

  ***

  Henry glanced up from his painting as Gabriel opened the door and sighed. He’d wondered how long it would take.

  “Henry,” the man said, staring at him with those piercing eyes.

  Henry glowered and put down the paintbrush he was holding so it laid at an awkward angle across the paints on his table. Gabriel twitched.

  “I see. Like that, is it?” Gabriel said, reaching out and putting the paintbrush straight.

  Henry reached for another brush and returned to his work.

  “Now, listen here, you pig-headed fool,” Gabriel said, folding his arms and turning his back on the tables of paints and brushes which were nowhere near as tidy as when he’d sat for his portrait. “All of us know and see your talent, Henry. We know you’re a blasted genius, even if you are an awkward devil.”

  Henry ignored him.

  Gabriel huffed out a breath and Henry saw him twitch as his eyes drifted to the table again. “A wise and generous man once told me that all great art ought to be shared, not shut away in the dark where no one could appreciate it.”

  Henry froze, his paintbrush suspended over the canvas. He frowned, turning back to Gabriel, who looked a deal too smug.

  “I don’t want to go,” he said, the words angry, still irritated for no good reason he could think of.

  “Fine,” Gabriel replied, shrugging as he gave into the desire to rearrange the paints which were making him anxious. “We shall listen to everyone praise you to the skies and come back and tell you all about it.”

  Henry glowered harder. It wasn’t true that he didn’t want to go. Not even a little. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to see his work hung upon those lofty walls, surrounded by the great names of the art world. He’d even begun to feel glad that Isabella had done what she had, though damned if he’d admit as much, but he couldn’t face all the people.

  “I’ve heard your painting of Isabella is between a portrait by Thomas Lawrence on one side and a work by Turner on the other.”

  The words were casual, careless, but it was enough to make Henry start, staring at Gabriel in shock. He swallowed as those famous names made his heart pick up, the longing to see them for himself tangible.

  “Truly?” he said, his voice hesitant.

  “Of course, truly!” Gabriel snapped, looking up from the table. “What do you take me for? Certainly not a sulky school boy who is punishing his wife for doing something wonderful for him.”

  Henry rubbed the back of his neck, guilt warring with indignation. “She lied to me,” he muttered, feeling every bit the sulky child Gabriel accused him of being.

  “Because you were being an idiot!” Gabriel rolled his eyes at him and Henry stamped down the desire to run from the room with difficulty. “You refused because you were afraid, despite all our assurances of your talent. For heaven’s sake, man, on the one hand, you accuse us of being untrustworthy, but you wouldn’t trust our judgement you should enter the competition.”

  Gabriel’s expression softened a little and he stepped forward, grasping Henry’s arm. “Isabella is upset, you damn fool.”

  Henry held his gaze and let out a breath. “I know, and …” He shook his head, feeling wretched. “I know.” Henry shrugged, rubbing a hand over his face. “To be honest, it wasn’t just that.”

  “Oh?” Gabriel said, releasing his arm and waiting for Henry to continue.

  “She came in, all excited, saying she had something to tell me and … and I thought …” Henry shook his head, staring at his feet, embarrassed now. He didn’t know why he’d admitted as much, but a weight lifted from his chest with the admission.

  “Ah,” Gabriel replied, his tone sympathetic. “You hoped she was with child?” Henry nodded and then frowned as Gabriel gave a dark chuckle. “So rather than try to ensure she could tell you that news soon enough, you blame her and sleep in your studio? Bravo.” His tone was mocking, though not unkind, but Henry flushed anyway.

  Gabriel patted Henry on the back in a brotherly fashion. “My work here is done,” he said, grinning. “It’s good to know I’m not the only damn fool where my wife is concerned.” He strode away, relief in his expression at being able to leave Henry’s studio, having done his duty.

  Henry waited, knowing Isabella would seek him out soon enough. He ought to find her, apologise, but he felt stupid and indignant and childish enough to want to avoid her a little longer.

  He was painting when she appeared at his side, and the desire for her to hold him and tell him he was forgiven warred against his stubborn nature.

  “Do you forgive me, Henry?”

  Her voice was quiet and uncertain, and Henry cursed himself for being a wretched creature. He didn’t deserve her. It was him that needed forgiveness.

  She waited as he set down his brush and turned, head bowed, staring at his feet. “Not your fault,” he muttered, the words a little ungracious. “My fault. Sorry.”

  The breath left him in a rush as she flung her arms about his waist. “Oh, but I’m so sorry. I should never have done it without your permission. I never will again, I swear. Please don’t think you can’t trust me.”

  Henry sighed, wrapping his arms about her waist. “I was foolish not t
o listen to you,” he said, lowering his head to rest upon hers. “You were right.”

  She sighed, and he stood straight, looking down at her as wonder swept him up with excitement. “The painting is beside one by Thomas Lawrence, and Turner on the other side.”

  Isabella nodded, her eyes bright, her expression fierce with pride. “I know, Henry, on the centreline where everyone will recognise you for the talent you are. It’s where you deserve to be.”

  Henry smiled, his heart swelling with the pleasure she took in his success. “Is Belle still here?” he asked, his tone cautious.

  “No, I’m sorry, Henry. We thought perhaps she ought to leave, as …”

  “As I was sulking?” Henry cut in, rubbing the back of his neck with a grimace.

  “As you might not feel like painting anymore today,” Isabella corrected, making excuses for him as always.

  “I don’t,” he said, and worry lit her eyes at the determination behind the words. He grinned at her as he grasped her hand, tugging her towards the door.

  “Where are we going, Henry?” she exclaimed, almost running into him as he stopped and tugged her into his arms for a kiss.

  “To the orchard,” he said, desire leaping beneath his skin. Gabriel had been right. He was a bloody fool not to have spent the last three nights ensuring that Isabella bore another child instead of regretting that she did not. Fool no more, however. There was no time to lose.

  Chapter 24

  “Wherein a new master is discovered by the ton.”

  Isabella clung to Belle’s arm.

  “Just look!” she exclaimed, bubbling over with pride and joy.

  “I am looking,” she laughed, patting Isabella’s arm, her pleasure in Isabella’s happiness making her eyes shine. “It’s breath taking.”

  Isabella stared at the painting, wondering how Henry captured her but made her look so much lovelier than she was. The orange dress sang out, catching the eye and tearing everyone’s attention from what she saw as dull landscapes and muddy-coloured portraits. To her mind, Henry’s work outshone everyone’s here, though she admitted she might be just a little biased. Not that she cared.