My Fair Guardian

by Suzanne G. Rogers

  He chuckled. “It is terribly romantic, until your funds are almost gone. At that point, your dream becomes a nightmare, your soul is crushed into bits, and you cast about for any work you can get to feed yourself.”

  Jane stared at him in wide-eyed dismay. “Oh, my! Perhaps I don’t want to rent a loft after all.”

  Miss Christensen frowned. “What happened to discourage you, Mr. Winter?”

  “When I took my pieces around to galleries and shops, I was dismissed out of hand.” He shrugged. “Nobody was interested in selling work by an unknown artist. One fellow even told me that my paintings lacked emotion or some such thing.”

  “I can well imagine how that must have felt.” Miss Christensen reached for her glass of water.

  Will doubted she knew what it felt like to fail, but he had no intention of belaboring the point. “At any rate, when my money ran out, I left London and came here to look for employment.”

  “What became of your portfolio, Mr. Winter?” Jane’s expression was earnest. “I would love to see it.”

  He forced a smile to his lips. “I had no way to carry it with me when I left, so I sold it for pennies to a trash man. I imagine he resold my sketches for kindling and the wooden frames for firewood.”

  When Miss Christensen made a sound of dismay, Will noticed he was resting his elbows on the table and promptly removed them.

  “The very idea of disposing of your hard work in that way makes me ill.” Miss Christensen shuddered. “I could just as well envision tossing my manuscripts into the fire.”

  Will peered at her. “Your manuscripts?”

  “My sister is an author, didn’t you know?” Jane blurted out. “She writes Gothic romances and they’re so much fun to read.”

  Miss Christensen gave her sister a fond smile. “I’m afraid Jane is my only admirer so far.” She glanced at Will. “You are not the only one to depart London in defeat, you see. I’ve been unable to find anyone interested in publishing my novels.”

  “Surely you’ve not exhausted every publisher in England?”

  “I exhausted six of them. They were friends with Mr. Leopold, you see, and I used his connections to arrange meetings.”

  “If I may say so, that may have been a mistake. It’s likely that none of those gentlemen will ever be able to see you as anything more than Frederick Leopold’s ward. You should cast a wider net, I think.” He shrugged. “Of course, I shouldn’t be offering you advice.”

  “Do you know, I really hadn’t thought of things in that way.” Miss Christensen frowned. “Perhaps once I finish my next manuscript, I will seek out publishers who don’t know me at all.”

  Jane giggled. “And make sure you submit your novel as Harold Pumpleshook.”

  “Why?” Will peered at her. “Bethany Christensen is a far more suitable name for an author, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but publishers won’t consider manuscripts written by ladies.”

  Miss Christensen sprinkled her chop with salt. “I believe Mr. Winter may have made an excellent point just now. Perhaps Mr. Leopold’s publisher friends dismissed me out of hand because they couldn’t see past the end of their prejudices.”

  Jane pouted. “I still like the name Harold Pumpleshook.”

  Her sister smiled. “It’s an excellent name, but I think I’ll stay with my own for now.”

  “Just remember, Miss Jane, ‘That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet,’” Will said.

  “You’re familiar with Romeo and Juliet?” Miss Christensen peered at him. “How do you…” she trailed off.

  “Oh, Bethany, everybody knows Shakespeare!” Jane scowled. “Just because Will is an artist doesn’t mean he can’t read.”

  “Of course not.” Miss Christensen bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to suggest anything of the sort.”

  Will chuckled. “During my time in London, I painted backdrops and scenery for various productions. As a consequence, I was able to watch dress rehearsals at no charge. I saw Shakespearean plays, melodramas, operettas, and comedies, to name a few, and even appeared in some smaller roles.”

  Jane sat up straight. “Did you happen to see The Philosophical Postmistress? Bethany took me to a performance when we were in town.”

  “Hmm…let me think.” Will cleared his throat and broke into a falsetto. “‘I always sell stamps accompanied by a bit of advice.’”

  He and Jane finished the sentence at the same time. “‘You, sir, should never have squab on a Sunday!’”

  Jane leaned forward. “I can’t believe you remembered that line!”

  “How could I forget it?” Will shrugged. “The postmistress repeated it three times in the first act alone.”

  Jane’s face glowed with excitement. “What did you paint on that production?”

  “There were two canvas backdrops—one of a stormy sky and the other an idyllic sunset. I painted both.”

  Jane gasped and glanced at her sister. “I remember them, don’t you?”

  “Indeed, I do. The colors were very beautiful.” Miss Christensen gave Will an approving glance. “There is more to you than meets the eye, Mr. Winter.”

  His smile was tight. “Thank you, Miss Christensen. I might continue to surprise you.”

  “Perhaps so. Will you join us in the drawing room after dinner, sir? Jane usually reads and I usually write, but maybe we can devise an activity for three.”

  “I wouldn’t like to upset the family routine quite so soon after my arrival. If I had some drawing materials, I would work on a few sketches.”

  Jane sat up straight. “Why don’t you use Mr. Leopold’s drawing materials? They are stored in a cupboard behind the piano.”

  Miss Christensen’s eyebrows rose. “I’d forgotten about that. Indeed, you are welcome to anything you find, Mr. Winter.”

  “I’ll have a look.” Will turned a beaming smile in Jane’s direction. “If I find what I need, you shall be my first subject.”

  Jane bounced up and down in her chair. “I’ve never sat still for a sketch before!”

  Her sister gave her a teasing glance. “You rarely ever sit still, dearest.”

  Will chuckled. “Let this be the first time, then.”

  ∞∞∞

  Will followed Jane over to a low cupboard in the back of the drawing room, opened the doors, and stepped back so he could see inside. “There!”

  The shelves were stocked with drawing paper, charcoal and colored pencils, chalks, tubes of oil paints, watercolors, a myriad of brushes and various other tools useful for painting, including a portable drawing board. Although many tubes of pigment showed evidence of having been opened, and the chalks were broken and worn, he had plenty of sketching materials at his disposal.

  “This is excellent.” He glanced at her. “Miss Jane, have you a book to read while I sketch you?”

  “I’ll pick out a book from the library.” She scampered off.

  Will reached for a sketchbook on top of a stack, only to discover it was already filled with drawings. He laid the sketchbook on top of the piano lid to flip through the pages more easily, nodding at the skill represented therein. His father had been a fairly talented artist.

  Miss Christensen entered the room. “You found one of Mr. Leopold’s sketchbooks.”

  “Yes.”

  As she crossed over to glance at the drawings, the color of her fair tresses, the gracefulness of her movements, and the uniformity of her features captured his attention. Why was she wasting her time in the country, when there were scores of eligible swains populating London? At his first opportunity, he would suggest they travel to London. She could not meet a husband if she was not circulating in society.

  Miss Christensen caught him staring and he averted his gaze. “Um…are any of Frederick’s paintings or sketches on display?”

  “His work is all over the house.” She gestured toward a series of framed sketches next to the double doors. “All of those are his, and there are even more of his painting
s hung at the London townhouse.”

  “I didn’t realize Frederick owned a townhouse in London.”

  “He didn’t. I inherited it when my parents passed away.”

  “Perhaps we should arrange a visit.”

  “What a good idea. While we’re in town, I shall introduce you to Miss Magenta Urban, who lives in London year round. She’s an excellent pianist, her watercolor paintings are quite accomplished and she’s a famous beauty.”

  Will could not resist a slight dig. “We cannot go any time soon. I won’t be fit to meet your friends for a long time, apparently.”

  Her color rose. “I’m sorry I said that, but I suppose you might have expected such sentiments from someone who’s bossy.”

  His face suddenly felt warm. “I should not have said that either, Miss Christensen. I apologize.”

  Miss Christensen took a deep breath. “After knowing you a little better, Mr. Winter, I believe I spoke in error.”

  “Let’s not quarrel.” Will seized his opportunity. “Let’s go to London just as soon as possible, shall we?”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “What an excellent suggestion. The tailor arrives tomorrow to work on your wardrobe, but we will plan on going shortly after your clothes are ready. It shouldn’t take more than a fortnight.”

  His eyes narrowed. Why had Miss Christensen capitulated so soon?

  She pointed at a watercolor painting of a peacock. “Lansing Lodge used to have peacocks, I was told.”

  Will nodded. “Yes, I remember the estate had several peacocks when I visited. They were beautiful, if a trifle noisy.”

  “Unfortunately, the fowl were gone by the time I arrived. Nevertheless, you’ll find a huge quantity of tail feathers in the gallery. My guardian kept them in magnificent bouquets, in umbrella stands.”

  “I’ve always been fond of royal blue and emerald green.”

  She regarded him with curiosity. “Had Mr. Winter any talents in particular?”

  Will chuckled. “One.” He paused. “Well, two, actually, but it wouldn’t be fitting for me to mention either of them in mixed company.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Oh?” She frowned. “What of Mrs. Winter?”

  “I, um…” He paused. “I…I think her greatest talent was…patience.” Some, of course, might characterize Agnes Winter as tolerant of vice and almost equally as fond of gin, but he saw no reason to say so.

  Miss Christensen sighed. “If my parents had faults, time has erased them from my memory. I wish Jane had known them better.”

  “What happened to them, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “They were traveling in Scotland and perished in the Tay Rail Bridge collapse three days after Christmas of 1879.” She shuddered. “Their bodies were never recovered from the Firth.”

  Will gasped. “How horrible for you!”

  “Yes. It was quite a shock.” The lightness of her tone seemed to disguise her deeper emotions. “I was about the same age as Jane is now, and she was just a babe in arms.”

  “How did you come to stay with Frederick?”

  “Mr. Leopold and my grandpapa were members of the same club and had a warm friendship. Mr. Leopold was Papa’s godfather.”

  Jane bounded into the room with a book in hand. “I chose Treasure Island. Have you ever read it, Mr. Winter?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t say that I have. Why don’t you read a chapter aloud while I draw your likeness?”

  “How exciting!” Jane hugged the book to her chest. “My friends will be so envious.”

  ∞∞∞

  As the squall raged outside, Angela raced through the kitchen, gathering basins and putting them in a bucket. As she worked, dribbles of water began to seep through the ceiling overhead. She moaned in dismay and hauled the bucket toward the narrow staircase leading upward.

  The attic windows were too dirty even in good weather to admit much light, and at present, the space was nearly black. Before she could return to the kitchen to fetch some candles, Mr. Wylde arrived with a lantern. He hung it from a hook and took the bucket from her hand.

  “Bring something to wipe up this water or I’ll be patching the kitchen ceiling all summer.”

  She hastened to comply. For the next half-hour, they worked side by side to make sure the disaster was contained.

  “It looks as if we’ve finally stanched the leaks.” Angela peered at Mr. Wylde, who was gathering up wet rags and tossing them in a pile. “Thank you for your help.”

  He raked his hair back from his handsome face, revealing his usual scowl. “You should have asked sooner.”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “Nonsense.” His eyes narrowed. “You are afraid of me.”

  Her spine straightened. “You’re talking nonsense. I’m no more afraid of you than…”

  Angela’s voice trailed off as Mr. Wylde moved so close that her body began to tingle and the breath caught in her throat.

  He leaned forward to whisper, “You should be afraid of me, Miss Ware.” In the next moment, he took the lantern down from its hook and gestured toward the stairs. “After you.”

  Bethany sat back and smiled as a delicious shiver traveled down her spine. Unless she was very much mistaken, the dark undercurrent between her characters was absolutely imbued with passion. She could not guess the source of her inspiration, but she was glad of it nevertheless. By contrast, her previous manuscript had been positively arid.

  She wiped the ink from her pen and glanced over at her sister, who was nearly finished reading the first chapter of Treasure Island aloud. Will, who had a pad and sketch pencil in hand, had paused his efforts and was listening intently to Jane’s narration.

  Jane finished the chapter and gave Will an expectant glance. “May I see what you’ve drawn?”

  He flinched, as if tugged back to reality by an unseen rope. “Oh, I was so carried away by the story, I left off.” Will chuckled. “Look down at the book again and give me a moment to finish what I started.”

  He bent to the task, glancing at Jane every so often as his hand moved with lightning speed. Bethany craned her neck to watch but she was too far away to see much. She rose and crept over quietly, so as not to disturb him. Although he’d said he was an artist, she hadn’t really taken him seriously. When her gaze fell upon Will’s sketch, however, she was transfixed. She leaned closer, trying not to make a sound, but her body cast a shadow over the paper.

  Will glanced over his shoulder. “Is something wrong, Miss Christensen?”

  She stepped to one side. “No, quite the contrary. I’m merely astonished at the way you’ve captured Jane’s likeness.”

  Her sister squirmed. “I want to see!”

  Will held up a quelling hand. “Just a few more minutes. Please remain still.”

  His sketch pencil flew over the paper, filling in details of Jane’s clothes, her chair, and even the wood paneling in the background. Bethany was mesmerized as she watched the sketch take shape, wondering if the artist wielding the pencil realized just how talented he was. How could he not? Although Will’s formal education had been sadly neglected, the man had obviously poured time and energy into his gift, which anyone could see was profound.

  When Will was done, he held the sketch up for Jane to see. Bethany’s sister bounded from her chair and gazed at her likeness with wide eyes and an open mouth.

  “That’s me?” Jane glanced at Bethany and pointed at the sketch. “That’s me!”

  Bethany beamed. “Indeed, it is. Well done, Mr. Winter.”

  She was more excited than ever to introduce Will to Magenta Urban. Undoubtedly, the woman would find him so fascinating, she would not let him out of her sight until he proposed. After Magenta’s last engagement had ended badly, surely the next would be the charm.

  Jane jumped up and down as she gazed at her sketch. “I want to get this framed and then I can hang it in my room.”

  Will separated the page from the book and presented it to her. “You may do with it what yo
u like.”

  Jane held the paper in her hands as if it were made of glass. “But you haven’t signed it yet. Don’t artists always sign their artwork?”

  Will froze. “I can’t…well, you see—”

  “Mr. Winter’s hands are smudged right now, so let’s have him do that for you tomorrow, shall we?” Bethany took the sketch from her sister and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll put this somewhere safe and it’s off to bed with you.”

  “All right. Good night, Bethany. Good night, Mr. Winter.” Jane gave him an impulsive hug. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  The show of affection seemed to surprise him. “Thank you. So am I.”

  She traipsed out of the drawing room with her long curls bouncing as she went.

  “What a sweet child,” Will said.

  “Yes. Jane has always had a vastly more cheerful temperament than I have.” Bethany glanced at the sketch again. “This is really lovely. Would you be terribly offended if I worked with you tomorrow on your signature? Jane will be in the schoolroom all morning and we will have a measure of privacy in my study.”

  “I suppose it would be silly for me to be embarrassed at this juncture.” He chuckled. “I accept your kind offer.”

  “Good. I’ll put the sketch in my study until then.” She paused. “You needn’t feel another moment’s mortification about your education, Mr. Winter. Not in my presence, at any rate.”

  “All right.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “In that case, you needn’t burn yourself on my account from now on.” He gave her cotton glove a pointed glance.

  Bethany laughed. “I shall happily comply.”

  Chapter Six

  Olive Branch Committee

  The following morning, Bethany invited Will into her study, where she showed him the cursive alphabet at her desk. After she demonstrated the letters in upper and lower case, she wrote out his name.

  “There you are. Now copy Willoughby Winter over and over until you’ve perfected your signature.”

  Will grimaced. “Easy for you to say.”

  Nevertheless, he picked up a pen and set to work without further comment. Although she had her manuscript to review, she was distracted by his presence. His fingers were long and slender, yet strong. His face was tanned and glowing with good health. Her gaze flickered to the broad shoulders of his jacket and the drape of the fabric across his frame. Knowing Magenta’s taste in men, Bethany suspected the woman would be unable to resist Willoughby Winter. The only question was whether or not Magenta would appeal to him in return. Since few men could withstand the woman’s charms, however, Bethany was not particularly concerned.