“I trust you will comfort Miss Hastings, for you know she is rather sensitive in nature and will not take this news well. Reassure her. Please. And be reassured. Everything will be fine. I will not allow…
Suddenly, she clutched her chest and gasped for air, her body shaking in a violent manner. Her face lost all its remaining color and her eyes grew wide, almost bulging out.
“Ma’am? Mrs. Doringcourt!” Lucretia rushed across the room and knelt before her.
The woman clutched Lucretia’s hand in sheer panic, digging her nails into her skin. Her face turned an awful color and she gasped for breath.
“I will fetch the physician. I shall return at once. Please, I promise.” She removed her hand from the woman’s grasp and ran out of the drawing room and downstairs. She ripped open the door that led to Mrs. Doringcourt’s quarters and screamed at the top of her lungs.
“Help! The headmistress needs help!”
Mary burst from the other room and ran towards Lucretia who turned around and rushed back upstairs. She burst through the drawing room door and then froze in place.
Before her, on the settee, the headmistress had grown still and Lucretia knew. It wasn’t the open eyes that stared at the ceiling without focus, or the ashen skin. No. It was the smile. The frozen smile upon the woman’s face, one that spoke of relief, of release from pain that made Lucretia realize that her mentor, her teacher, the headmistress of Mrs. Doringcourt’s School for Young Ladies, had died.
Chapter 2
Benedict stood and studied the portrait before him. At first glance, the lady in the painting was indeed beautiful. Her long, golden hair flowed in luscious waves down her back, her eyes were of a piercing blue as clear as a cloudless summer sky. Her gown was of the finest silk and shimmered under the painter’s gifted hand. And yet …
“No. Take it away,” Benedict waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the painting. An audible gasp escaped the painter.
“But, Your Grace, is it not as you had requested? I painted it with your specifications in mind.”
The painter, Sir Rodolfo Biasi, sounded utterly deflated at the Duke’s reaction. With a heavy sigh, Benedict turned around and walked toward the large painting in big steps.
“The eyes, they are too close together. She appears almost cross-eyed. And the manner in which they stare… It makes me feel utterly uncomfortable. No. I do not care for it. Take it away.”
He heard the painter inhale a gulp of air. When Benedict turned to face him, the painter’s visage was full of dejection. His shoulders were slumped forward as he glanced at the painting that Benedict knew had taken him months to complete.
“Do not take it so hard, Biasi. I shall pay you for the work, of course. And you will certainly find a buyer. The work is detailed and beautiful, as always. Alas, it is not to my liking. She is too…” He glanced at the woman in the painting again. “She is cold. She is not her.”
Cold. The opposite of his beloved Helena. She had been warm, giving, and loving. Looking into her eyes had been like bathing in a warm lake. Light and warmth had followed Helena everywhere she went. She lit any space she occupied, most of all Benedict’s heart. The woman in the painting did none of it. Nor did she resemble his late wife, as he had requested. And that, truly, was the problem.
He had asked Biasi to paint a portrait that resembled Helena. He’d let him study the three portraits Benedict possessed of his late wife, and had described her in great detail to the man. He’d been quite clear. He had not wanted another painting of a beautiful woman who resembled Helena. He had many of those. No. He’d wanted Helena. Given that Rodolfo Biasi was one of the most respected painters in the country, a man who had painted the Regent himself, Benedict had been full of hope. Until today. Until he saw the final result. It was not Helena. Not in the least. No. The painting could not remain.
“Take it away, Biasi,” he ordered. At once, the painter called his two burly assistants into the room and together, they carried the heavy frame away.
“Your Grace, I could perhaps modify…”
“No!” Benedict shouted. “I do not wish to have it modified. I simply do not wish to see it again.”
“I apologize that my work proved a disappointment to you. I…”
Benedict shook his head and leaned against the windowsill. “Do not let this vex you so, Biasi. It will be simpler to start over. It is my fault. I should have told you more about her. You do not know her as I did. Thus, it would be impossible for you to paint her accurately. It is all about her warmth, Biasi. Her passion. Her compassion. You shall start over, and I will ensure you know all you need to in order to capture her true essence next time. That is not a problem, I am certain.”
Benedict nodded, confident he would be able to assist the painter in creating the perfect painting of his wife the next time around.
Biasi’s lips trembled as he shrugged. “No, Your Grace, no problem at all. We shall get started right away. In the meantime, I have a lead on a lovely painting I have located in Edinburgh. Lovely. Exquisite work and it would match perfectly in Your Grace’s collection. I am traveling to Scotland next week, and I will be able to bring it back with me, should Your Grace agree.”
Benedict smiled, his mood somewhat lifted after the disappointing reveal of his commissioned portrait. “I trust your judgement, Biasi, and I look forward to your return.”
The painter departed and Benedict left his study, walking with large, thundering steps toward the drawing room.
There, he stopped before the fireplace, and gazed up at the painting that hung there. It was one of only three paintings that showed her true face.
Helena, his beloved, late wife. Painted while she was still living. He remembered her sitting for this painting, shortly after the birth of their son, Henry. He’d been in the nurse’s arms, just to the right of Helena. It was why her gaze was slightly focused in that direction in the painting. A bystander would not have noticed the glance at all. Alas, Benedict had been there and he knew what she’d been looking at while the painter was working.
Oh, my love. If only we had more time. If only you did not have to leave me.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” the deep voice of Swindon, his butler, sounded from behind him. Benedict turned to face him.
“What is it, Swindon?”
“Your Grace, Lord Winterton has…”
“Tradegrove!” A familiar voice boomed from behind the butler, cutting Swindon off mid-sentence. Benedict smirked as his good friend, Jordan Foley, the Marquess of Winterton, rushed past the butler, and made his way into the drawing room, a grin on his rugged face.
“Winterton! Old chum, how are you? What brings you here?”
He marched toward his friend, a wide grin on his face. The two men had been friends since their childhood days, and he much enjoyed spending time with him. It was unfortunate that, given their busy lives, they often found themselves apart for long stretches of time. In fact, Benedict had not seen his friend since the beginning of the month.
“I am well, Tradegrove. Devastated that you have evidently forgotten that I am scheduled to beat you at a game of billiards today.”
Benedict gasped. He had indeed forgotten.
“Forgive me, Winterton. I was preoccupied. I am ready now. And it shall be I who beats you, not the other way around, I declare.”
“Zooks, if you so declare.” Winterton laughed but then grew serious once more. “Was your preoccupation related to Biasi? The painter? I saw him leave, looking rather sullen with what appeared to be a canvas made of five hundred oak trees.”
He chuckled at his own joke, although Benedict did not see the humor.
“It was a painting I commissioned, of Helena. It was—unsatisfactory.” He rumpled his nose at the memory of the unfortunate result.
The two men walked through the hall, followed by Swindon. Benedict, in preparation for the billiards match, was presently relieving himself of his cufflinks and cravat, which he handed to Swindon.
A sunset? A still life? Preposterous!
Benedict felt his irritation grow at a rapid pace but contained himself. He’d always had a bit of a temper, before meeting Helena. She had soothed his moods and brought out the gentle, more mild-mannered side of him. Following her untimely death, he’d tried hard to hold onto that, to hold on to the good she’d brought into his life. It was one of the many ways he chose to honor her memory. And most days, he succeeded. Unless anyone called into question the manner in which he chose to remember his wife.
Of all people, Winterton knows the meaning behind my portrait collection. He was there the day I first laid eyes upon a painting that so resembled my beloved I simply had to purchase it. He knows how much finding that very first portrait soothed me after many months of suffering. I still recall the way my blood froze upon seeing it, as if confronted with Helena once more. Winterton even helped me negotiate a fair price for the artwork. For him to question it now—I cannot comprehend it.
Benedict sighed, remembering the day he’d returned home with the painting. He found that it comforted him. Even though it was not Helena, it looked enough like her to where it helped him conjure up her image in his mind. Soon, a second painting had joined it and now, at last count, he owned twenty-five paintings. And yet, it was not enough. No. It was never enough.
As they walked along the hallway, he glanced up at the paintings. The women looked down upon him from high up as he felt his heart grow heavy.
“No, old chum. I have no interest in a still life or sunsets.” He turned to his friend. “It is one of my greatest regrets to not have commissioned more paintings of Helena. Thus, I must attempt to make up for it by finding those that resemble her. It is my only way to keep her memory alive.”
His friend sighed and shook his head. “By Jove, her memory lives within you. Indeed, I worry that being surrounded by these paintings will keep you from finding happiness once more because they hold you captive. Captive to a memory, captive to the past. Benedict, it has been four years since you lost Helena, do you not feel that one day there might be another who…”
Benedict stopped in his tracks and turned to his friend, one finger rapidly moving back and forth.
“Do not say it, Winterton. There are no other women out there. Not for me. Helena was perfection. She was all I ever wanted and ever dreamt of. No. I shall be content spending my life surrounded by her likeness. And one day Biasi will succeed in capturing her beauty in another painting. Then I will commission more from him. That shall be my goal. That will sustain me until I am reunited with her.”
He turned and marched on, not waiting for a response from his friend. He heard the Marquess sigh as he rushed to catch up with him.
They had reached the billiards room and Benedict picked up two sticks, handing one to his friend, who looked at him with a deep crease upon his forehead.
“Tradegrove…”
“Are we going to play, or have you decided to concede before we even start?”
He shrugged. “Let us play.”
“Very well.” Benedict set up the table and indicated for his friend to take the first shot. He did, sending the billiard balls flying wildly across the table, sinking one.
“A good start!” Lord Winterton said and indicated where he intended to sink the next ball.
He was about to take his shot when the sounds of laughter sounded from outside. Benedict watched as his friend lifted his head and looked outside. On the grass, just outside the window, Benedict saw that his son Henry was running in circles around his nurse, Miss Babette. The woman appeared utterly frazzled and, despite her young age, had trouble keeping up with the boy.
“He is looking more and more like his mother, Lord Henry is,” his friend commented.
Benedict swallowed hard. It was true. Henry had inherited his mother’s blue eyes and fair complexion. Even his laugh reminded him of her. It was one of the reasons he found it so hard to be around the boy. While the paintings that resembled his wife comforted him, being near his son who had so much of the woman he loved in him, was unbearable.
He watched the little boy run and stumble. He shook it off and began to run once more. The nurse lifted her blue uniform gown and rushed after him, her hair wild in the wind. Then, suddenly, she stopped and placed her hands on her thighs, bent at the waist and gasping for air.
“Indeed, he does. He inherited her endurance and love of the outdoors, too.”
Winterton straighten up and faced his friend.
“Perhaps he needs to expel some of his energy. We could take him for a hike or a ride. We could take him for a tour of the estate.”
Benedict shook his head. “Perhaps when he is older. For now, he needs to be taught manners and proper decorum. And he needs an education.”
His friend looked at him from the corner of his eyes.
“Indeed, he does. Perhaps it is time for the boy to have a governess, rather than a nurse. Horace and Frances have had a governess for some time now and it has been wonderful for them.”
Benedict shrugged. He had not been in charge of his son’s education nor care since the death of Helena. His sister, Clementine, the Dowager Marchioness of Blinddale, had taken the responsibility after Helena’s death. She had arranged for the nurses and overseen Henry’s care. Alas, she’d been called away, back to her late husband’s estate, in order to settle affairs with her husband’s heirs. She would not return for quite some time.
“Perhaps when Clementine returns, I shall discuss the matter with her.”
Winterton shrugged. “I shall ask Mrs. Lester for a recommendation in the meantime.”
“Ah, Mrs. Lester. You would not be interested in parting with her, would you? Given how you like to sing her praises.”
Winterton gasped in mock horror. “Zooks! My darling governess? How dare you, Tradegrove. She is worth her weight in gold. Now, before you talk me into giving up my most treasured employee, how about we resume our game?”
“We shall, my friend. We shall. Now, I was about to beat you, was I not?”
“In your dreams perhaps, Tradegrove,” his friend laughed and sunk the next solid colored ball into the left-most pocket.
After three rounds of billiards, Benedict found himself the unlikely victor in his game with his friend, which lifted his spirits. It had been refreshing to spend some time with his good friend. Unfortunately, both he and Lord Winterton had business to attend to and so their afternoon was cut short.
Benedict was taking his friend back through the Great Hall toward the front door, where his carriage would be awaiting him, when something caught Winterton’s attention.
“That is some interesting tiling, Tradegrove,” he said and pointed up ahead where splashes of brown were splattered among the black and white tiling.
Benedict glanced down as they got closer and indeed, the entire floor was covered in splatters of mud and two different sets of shoe prints were visible. One adult, one child-sized.
A moment later, his housekeeper, Mrs. Harrison, appeared with a bucket of water in hand. When she saw him, she stopped so abruptly that water splashed out over the sides.
“Your Grace. I am sorry about the mess. I’m afraid there has been a little incident.”
“I can see that, Mrs. Harrison. Now, pray tell, why is my head housekeeper about to wash the tiles? Where is Maggie? And Molly?”
Mrs. Harrison swallowed.
“Maggie has taken ill again due to the pregnancy and Molly is attending to her. I’ve dispatched one of the footmen to fetch Maggie’s mother from the
farm, thus…”
Benedict raised his hand to stop her. “Very well. Have one of the scullery maids clean the floor. That is not one of your duties. A few more moments of mud on the floor shan’t make a difference. It is not as though we are hosting a house party. But first, tell me, what has happened here?”
Mrs. Harrison sighed.
“It appears as though young Lord Henry has discovered a mud hole in the garden, due to the rains we’ve had. According to Miss Babette, he has grown rather fond of it, much to her chagrin. She’s been able to draw him away from it the last couple of days, but today Lord Henry got away from her and found his way to the mud hole.”
“I can see that.” Benedict took in the mess on the floor while beside him, his friend chuckled.
“I’m afraid the chase led through the house and back outside where Miss Babette is presently running after Lord Henry.”
“I am telling you, old chum. Henry is in need of a governess. Structure. None of this child’s play. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Harrison?” Winterton crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Mrs. Harrison’s eyes grew wide. She had been in his employ for so long that Benedict could not remember a time when she had not been part of the household. She’d been a house maid when he was a boy, working her way up to serve as his mother’s lady’s maid and then eventually, she’d been promoted to be the housekeeper, in charge of the entire household. She was capable and ruled the household staff with a kind, but stern and guiding hand.
Benedict was well aware that Mrs. Harrison was not used to being asked her opinion and she was clearly uncomfortable at Winterton’s question. To his surprise, however, she cleared her throat.
“Well, since Lord Winterton has brought it up. I was wondering if Your Grace may have a moment to speak with me regarding a…. That is to say I, I have a cousin who is…”
A Court of Thorns for Lady Ambergrave: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 28