The Order of the Eternal Sun

by Jessica Leake

  Nostalgia and an ill feeling of disgust war within me as I continue down the path. Memories of the first time we arrived in London flit through my mind—the awe and wonder I felt at being in such a bustling city, the envy of the beautiful hats and frocks the fashionable ladies wore, the hope I couldn’t suppress that Grandmama would prove to be a loving grandmother. My hopes were horribly dashed, of course, but it’s with a wry smile that I continue on my way. I now look the part of one of those fashionable ladies I so envied, but it’s small consolation for the loss of a grandmother.

  When we finally arrive at Sir Thornby’s townhome, I pause at the iron gate for a moment, my attention secured across the street and down two houses. The red door of Grandmama’s house taunts me—so close, and yet, it may as well be in China. I will never set foot in that house again.

  I turn my back on her house and continue up the few steps to Sir Thornby’s front door. A kindly older footman answers, and Emily and I follow him inside. It has the smell of an old house, the parquet floors worn, and yet by the burst of heat and bright lights that greets us, it’s not without modern conveniences.

  We’re led to a bright, sunny room at the front of the house, a contrast to the somber masculine tones of the foyer. The room is small but comfortable, with two sofas done in a pale chintz and two armchairs in complementary colors. The walls are a pale blue, nearly white, but it’s the paintings adorning them that draw my attention right away: vibrant landscapes from all around the world. A fiery Tuscan countryside, purple lavender fields of Provence, pale pink cherry trees from Japan, an English garden portrayed with a riot of color. My gaze darts to each one, and if it weren’t for the young lady coming slowly to her feet to greet me, I would stand before each one to drink in the sights.

  “The Honorable Lucy Sinclair to see you, Lady Rose,” the footman says with the gentle tone of someone speaking to the very ill.

  Though her skin has the pale sheen of illness, Rose is dressed impeccably in a pink silk afternoon dress, her dark hair in long curls down her back. She’s so thin her collarbones are prominent above the neckline of her dress, but her smile is as bright as the room. “How good it is to meet you, Lucy. You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands—the doctor forbade me from any unnecessary contact.” Her smile turns apologetic. “He’d keep me in a great glass bubble if he could.”

  “No need to apologize,” I say with a shake of my head. “It’s lovely to meet you, too.”

  “Won’t you sit? This is a fresh pot of tea.” She indicates a china tea service on the table. “The staff will just be sitting down for tea of their own in the kitchen if you’d like to join them,” she says to Emily kindly.

  Emily shoots her a grateful smile. “I’ll do that, miss, thank you.”

  Rose sinks weakly onto the sofa behind her, and I take the plush armchair directly across from her. Rose’s footman steps forward and pours us both a cup of tea, the porcelain appropriately featuring a bouquet of roses. He takes his leave after assuring himself that neither of us requires anything else. As I take a sip of the flowery tea, my gaze is drawn back to the paintings on the walls.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” Rose says, her tea cup clasped tightly between two hands, “but what do you think of my paintings?”

  “Yours? Oh, but I should have known. Your father told me you were quite good, and I see he didn’t exaggerate in the least. They are beautiful—truly. I can hardly keep my eyes off them. And such exotic locales!”

  She beams at me. “I’m thrilled you think so. I’m absolutely terrible at portraits, but rather skilled at landscapes. I cannot travel, so I paint.”

  This last statement resonates with me so strongly I take a sip of tea to keep myself from spilling every thought in my head. For her words make me think: just what would happen if I painted an exotic locale and added runes from my mother’s realm? Would I be able to transport myself to Japan?

  India?

  I can feel the flush making its way up my neck, so I hurriedly draw her attention to the nearest painting. “This one is especially beautiful, though it’s not such an exotic place.”

  She laughs. “Thank you, and I should say not. It’s my grandmother’s garden.”

  “I love the vibrancy of the colors, and the way the whole painting seems to center around those hedgeroses there.”

  Her eyebrows wing up. “I’m surprised you noticed. Yes, I made the hedgeroses the focus since my grandmother has always called me her Hedge Rose.”

  “How clever of you.” A little pang runs through me as it always does at the mention of a loving grandmother.

  Rose sets her tea cup down on the table and picks up a little brass bell. “Lucy, I know I invited you here for tea, and this is probably quite irregular, but would you like to draw together? I’d suggest painting, but neither of us is dressed for it.”

  “I would love it,” I say even as my mind whispers warnings. I still haven’t discovered just how I entered my last painting, and I certainly wouldn’t want to do such a thing in front of Rose. Even still, I cannot resist the eagerness on her face, for it matches my own.

  She wrings the bell and the same footman enters immediately. “Brownlow, will you bring us my drawing papers and pencils?”

  “Right away, Miss Rose,” he says.

  “I so rarely get the chance to draw with others,” Rose says with a small cough. “And I’ve heard so much about—” Before she can finish her thought, her cough escalates, deep and hacking, until she is bent over and gasping for breath.

  I jump to my feet and press a cup of tea into her hand, patting her back as she takes a shaky sip. After a moment, the coughing spasm leaves her, her breath still a bit strained but not nearly as bad as before. A fine sheen of sweat covers her face.

  “I am so sorry,” she says. “How terribly embarrassing.”

  “You mustn’t apologize,” I say gently, my hand still on her thin shoulder. “It’s not as though you can help it.”

  “I hate it—this weakness in my lungs, this uncontrollable cough. Now you see why I’m not fit to be seen in public.”

  “I can see how miserable it makes you. What do the doctors say?”

  She glances down at her tea cup grimly. “Bronchial asthma, they call it. The cold and damp can aggravate it, and since it’s been growing progressively worse, Father has been searching for a house for me in a warmer clime.”

  I think suddenly of Wren’s healing powers whenever my debilitating headaches come on, and though I never have wished for the same burden of such an ability, I wish for it now. Rose’s eyes and personality are bright with life, but I can see the effect her illness has on her body—the shadow that hangs over her head.

  But I’m not completely useless in my capacity to help her. “I wouldn’t mind a trip to Bath. Colin—my brother-in-law—even has a townhouse there.”

  Rose perks up for a moment before shaking her head. “Oh, but you couldn’t leave in the middle of the Season—this is your coming out, after all.”

  “You underestimate how much I love to travel,” I say, nodding toward one of her more exotic paintings. “We could go for only a few days—I’m sure my sister would agree. She loathes being in town.”

  Rose laughs. “Yes, I had heard that, actually. And you’d invite me, truly? We’ve only just met after all—what if you decide I’m an intolerable bore?”

  “I don’t think there’s an intolerable bore alive who can paint such lovely exotic locales. Honestly, though, we have so much in common, I can already tell we’d get on famously.”

  She smiles brightly at that. “You’re even kinder than my father described you. I thank you for the invitation. I shall speak to Papa, but I’m sure I’ll be able to accept.”

  The footman enters then with the drawing materials, giving them to Rose. He pauses, taking in her face with a critical eye. “Shall I fetch your tincture, miss?” he asks, his voice quietly concerned.

  “Yes, thank you, Brownlow.” A blush colors her cheeks as s
he busies herself with her drawing supplies. My heart twists for her.

  “You’re welcome to anything in this box,” she says, offering it to me.

  It’s clear from her hurried tone that she wishes to distract from any unwanted attention to her illness, and I jump to put her at ease. But the moment I get a good look at the red lacquered box containing rows and rows of pencils, charcoals, pastels, paint brushes, and little pots of paint, I needn’t feign my enthusiasm.

  “Where did you find this color?” I ask in a near squeal, snatching up an oil pastel in a warm mustard yellow. “And all of your supplies are in such pristine condition! By all your canvases adorning the walls, I can see that you are prolific.” I think of my own pastels, worn down to near nubs. “You must have a steady supply of new ones.”

  She lets out a little laugh as she reaches back and pulls out two trays from behind her sofa. “You’d be amazed at what you’re gifted with when you have a debilitating illness. And I’m afraid I shamelessly take advantage of their generosity.”

  “I can’t say I blame you,” I say as I take the proffered tray. “Just look at the results.”

  My comment brings a wry smile to her face. “These pastels were brought back from France by a kind gentleman who wanted very much for my father to like him, and these,” she says, reaching for two ornately tooled leather sketchbooks hidden under the box, “were a gift from a gentleman who very much wanted me to like him.”

  I raise my eyebrows as I run my hand over the soft leather. “A lovely gesture, but was it successful?”

  “In a way,” she says, her tone overly light now. “Until I made it plain that I was destined to be an old maid—though of course, the ‘old’ is a mere token in my case.” She must have seen the sympathy reflected on my face, for she quickly added, “But come, let us draw. I won’t have you pitying me, Lucy Sinclair. I’m a realist, is all. I’ve found reality is always preferable to false hope.”

  “I don’t pity you,” I say quietly but firmly. “In fact, quite the opposite. I admire your strength.”

  She smiles at me then, a true smile, one that lights up her features. “You really are too kind.” She rummages through the box and produces two pencils. “Now, shall we draw?”

  “Yes, let’s.” In truth, I’m dying to see her technique. I can’t remember a time I’ve had the opportunity to sit beside another artist and watch her draw—not since the half-hearted drawing lessons I was required to take in finishing school. I worry for a moment that I will feel self-conscious about my own technique, but soon enough, the familiar scratch of pencils on paper fill the small room and I relax.

  I sneak glances at Rose’s drawing as I sketch as innocent a scene as I can think of—the pond at my father’s estate at Bransfield—something that has no connection to the Sylvan realm. She uses bolder strokes than I do, and she is on the whole speedier than I, but the results are incredible: a mountain scene that immediately reminds me of the Pyrenees. Her pencil strokes rapidly create contrasting shadows, capping the mountains in snow, adding wispy clouds in the sky.

  “Drawing is the only thing that makes me feel whole,” she says. “I can almost forget about the outside world when I draw—I just create my own.”

  Excitement bubbles up within me at the similarity of our thoughts. “I do believe we’re kindred spirits.”

  She grins. “But that’s not to say I’m not terribly fascinated by London society. Papa told me of your coming-out ball, but he is never detailed enough to satisfy me.”

  I put a few finishing touches to the trees surrounding the pond and put my pencil down. “I shall try to paint the scene for you, though I’m nowhere near as good at describing with words as I am with a brush. It was lovely, the type of night you remember with a hazy glow.”

  I describe everything I can think of—from my dress and the decorations of the ballroom, to the receiving line and dancing. She laughs at my description of Colin until she is breathless. Brownlow returns just then with the tincture, watching Rose like a clucking nanny as she drains the small vial.

  I honestly didn’t mean to continue—to tell her of my sudden meeting with Alexander, of our dance—but her rapt attention and obvious interest prove irresistible.

  “So you’ve met your Prince Charming, then,” she says with a wheezy laugh and a twinkle in her eyes.

  I shake my head. “If I have, I’m afraid it won’t result in a happily ever after for me—not with the way Colin doggedly interrogated him.” I sigh. “Though Colin means well, of course.”

  Rose looks pensive for a moment. “What did you say Alexander’s full name was again?”

  “Alexander Radcliffe, Earl of Devonshire.”

  “Yes, I have heard of him—gossip though it may be. The Dowager Countess of Devonshire is not his mother at all, but his stepmother. She’s said to be even paler and blonder than you and positively foul. Lord Devonshire’s father married while in India, and his wife lived long enough to bear him a son. Lord Devonshire is the true heir, but his stepmother delights in suggesting otherwise.”

  “How terrible,” I say, indignation rising just beneath the surface of my skin. I cannot imagine the pain of having to deal with not only the derision of Society, but of one’s own family.

  “Fortunately for Alexander, his stepmother was never able to conceive, so there really is no contest.” We both resume our drawings for a moment, and then Rose casually asks, “But did he ask to call on you?”

  “He did, but that was before Colin treated him as though he might be a criminal.”

  “Well,” Rose says with a final flourish to her drawing, “let us hope he’s either very brave or very foolish.” She holds up the sketch for me to see: a peacock struts among swaying palm trees, and a jungle of plants and flowers takes up nearly every inch of the white space.

  I look at it in surprise. “Is that India?”

  “It could be! I have a rare talent, you see, of drawing people their heart’s desire.”

  “You were right,” I say, grinning at my new friend, “I’ve always longed for a peacock of my very own.”

  We laugh, both delighted by our own cleverness. I end up staying long past proper visiting hours, both of us laughing and talking of everything from drawing to dancing. How lovely it is to find a kindred spirit, and lovelier still to find someone who knows nothing of my history—with James or Grandmama or anyone else. Someone with whom I can actually choose what I confide.

  If only she weren’t so ill.

  SEVEN

  MOST debutantes would have social events every evening, but of course with Colin and Wren in charge, I’m lucky to have something to go to once a week. After my visit with Rose, however, my social needs have been well met, and now I long to experiment further with my runes.

  Rose’s drawing inspired me. Before continuing to my room, I pay a visit to the Thornewood library. A miniature version of the one at his country estate, Colin’s townhome library is still one of the biggest rooms in the house. All four walls are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves—including the wall with the door. The doorway is cut into the bookcase, surrounded on all sides by books. The slightly musty smell of old books, gleaming wood, and rich leather greets me the moment I step into the room.

  I go straight to the thick, leather-bound volumes of distant locales. Just as I’m pulling out the book on the Himalayas, a voice calls out from one of the wing-backed chairs.

  “How mysterious you are.” James grins when I jump in surprise. I didn’t notice him sitting there when I entered the room. “First, you’re gone nearly all day, and then you go straight to the travel books. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were planning some sort of secret getaway. Have you met some wild-eyed gentleman who plans to sweep you away, Lucy?” he asks, his smile teasing, but something about the seriousness in his eyes takes me aback.

  I give him a withering look. “Of course not. Don’t tell me you’re turning into your brother.”

  He holds up his hands. “Heaven forb
id!”

  “If you must know, I’ve just been drawing with Sir Thornby’s daughter, and I was fascinated by her paintings of far-off locales.” I hold the book on the Himalayas aloft. “I wanted to try my hand at it.”

  “I didn’t realize Sir Thornby even had a daughter. Is she terribly disfigured?”

  “What a horrible thing to say!” I scold as his teasing grin widens. “Of course not. But she does have a rather debilitating illness—bronchial asthma. It’s such a shame because she’s absolutely delightful. We had so much fun drawing together.”

  “Well, now I’m jealous,” James says. “Did you ever gush about me like that, Lucy?”

  He may be teasing, but it doesn’t stop the blush from spreading up my face like wildfire. He must take pity on me because he points to my book. “Do you intend to paint a mountain scene then? I should like to see that.”

  I smile, relieved by the subject change. “I’d be happy to show you later.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  I turn to walk away, but his voice stops me. “We’re all to attend a ball tomorrow—did they tell you?”

  I shake my head. “No, but they needn’t. My sister knows perfectly well I’m always up for dancing.”

  “And would you allow me to escort you?”

  I gaze into his, for once, serious green eyes. What I wouldn’t have given for such an offer only a year ago. “I would like that, yes,” I say with a wide smile.

  He rocks back on his heels as though relieved. “Excellent.”

  “Though you may need your brother’s permission. Who knows if even you will meet his list of approved contacts for me.”

  James laughs. “I’ll get it in writing then.”

  We share another smile, which has the unfortunate side effect of making my knees feel rather unsteady, and then I hurry away to conduct my dangerous experiments with drawing and runes.