by Sue London
“My apologies, Mr. Rokiczana,” Mr. Lockhart said. “When I invited them to join us I had misguidedly expected that your company would put them on their best manners.”
The two siblings stopped their harangue mid-word and had the good grace to look guilty. “Apologies, papa,” they both murmured.
“No apologies for our guest that you have so terribly wronged?” A gentle rebuke, but Sarah blushed rosily as James spoke their apologies. If this was how he disciplined his children it was no wonder that Mr. Lockhart suspected his strong-willed and adventurous eldest daughter didn’t listen to him.
Sarah seemed to recover her voice and asked, “Mr. Rokiczana, do you have any idea why Georgie hasn’t written?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m sure I can’t say.”
“I’ve written to her every week but haven’t received even one reply.”
James rolled his eyes and said, “That’s George.”
Mr. Lockhart guided the conversation away from that topic. “So Mr. Rokiczana, tell us some more about yourself.”
“Of course. I attended Universität zu Berlin for the study of law and recently served as a clerk for the Prussian delegation at the Congress of Vienna.” Yes, I am both educated and connected. Surely I can care for your daughter. “My mother and sister still live in Silesia and you remind me that I am overdue in writing them this month.” Family is important to me. I might even be a good influence on your daughter in that regard. “I haven’t decided what to do with myself since my duties at the Congress ended, but have enjoyed developing contacts in London.” I’m not averse to staying in England if you want to keep your daughter close to you. “Of course, seeing the countryside here has led me to wonder whether any land in the area might be available.” In case you still wondered after reviewing my manner and dress, yes I would be able to support your daughter in the style she grew up knowing.
Now it was Mr. Lockhart who sat back in his chair. “Perhaps it was just that one dance that you shared with Georgiana? Because certainly you know she has no interest in living in Derbyshire.”
Casimir had to chuckle as he recognized the same acerbic tone that Gini often used. “On the contrary, the stories from her childhood seemed filled with nostalgia.”
James snorted.
Casimir tilted his glass in acknowledgment to the younger man. “Admittedly, you were usually only mentioned by the phrase ‘of course my brother tried to follow me’.”
“Did she mention me?” Sarah asked.
“Usually with the phrase ‘of course I wouldn’t let my sister do that’.”
James shook his head at his sister. “George only cares about the Haberdashers.”
Sarah frowned at her brother. “That’s not true.”
“No, it’s not true,” Casimir confirmed. The younger man’s expression indicated his cynicism about Casimir’s opinion.
Mr. Lockhart held his hands up to his children. “We’re not here to pester Mr. Rokiczana about what he might or might not have heard Georgiana say about us.”
“Of course not,” James said. “We’re here to express our sympathy that he ever thought he wanted to marry her.”
Casimir managed to maintain his smile as he warned, “Although I enjoy familial teasing, do know that there will be a limit to my patience if you continue to denigrate her in my presence.”
While James was pulled up short by Casimir’s statement, Mr. Lockhart appraised him with new eyes. Shortly he sent the children away after dinner and invited Casimir to enjoy port with him. Casimir took that as a good sign. He might gain Mr. Lockhart’s blessing yet.
CHAPTER FORTY
After her bath, George found that her room had been filled with art supplies. Not just a few things, but as though someone had purchased almost an entire stock. Even she couldn’t imagine how much it all has cost, but knew that the sum was probably staggering. She found a note from Jack on top of one of the piles.
We weren’t sure what you would want but hope this helps.
~ J
She ran her fingers over the tubes of oils, the pencils, the pastels, the canvas, the papers in different weights. Although she didn’t have the subject she truly wanted to sketch, it was appealing to lose herself in the act of bringing a form to life. Certainly she could find a subject. Perhaps that black cat that kept jumping in the earl’s lap whenever he sat for any length of time. Or the charming stable boy who had been sneaking carrots to the carriage horse this morning. She wished that she were better at sketching from memory, but she typically needed her subject in front of her. Or perhaps she should do a still life. Yes, here in the room she could certainly find something that would inspire her. Digging into the wardrobe she found the repaired and cleaned waistcoat that Casimir had worn in their travels to London. She wasn’t particularly surprised that he had eschewed it when packing for Derbyshire, as it undoubtedly held unpleasant memories of his time at Robert’s hands. But for her, it was what her husband had worn at their wedding. The pattern she had stared at during the pell-mell carriage ride she now recognized as one of the happiest times of her life. Something she most likely needed to grieve the loss of.
She arranged the waistcoat on her harebell colored bed and settled in for the preliminary sketches. As her enthusiasm grew, she rapidly moved on to her oils.
Fortunately, Jack remembered what she was like when she was painting, no, when she needed to paint, and trays of food were delivered at regular intervals. She became obsessed with perfecting a trompe l’oeil of the waistcoat, nearly overtaken by the shadow from the draped fabric of the bed hangings in the early morning light. The colors, almost startlingly vibrant, were her heart. The light, her hope. The shadows… the truth that was coming. She didn’t note the passage of time, only when the light was right for revising her work. She kept the servants away from straightening the bed with dire warnings. She slept on the small settee in the room rather than disturb the setting for her painting.
*
As Mr. Lockhart poured the port, Casimir took in the man’s study. As an observer of people, Casimir knew that you couldn’t underestimate what someone’s surroundings said about them. The impression of wealth wasn’t as strong here. It was a space made for working and relaxing. Other than some art on the walls, little had been done to make the room attractive. The furniture looked comfortable, as though one could sink down into the chairs for a long duration. The arrangement was for convenience, not for show. Sporting equipment was piled near the door, testament that a family lived here. Casimir couldn’t help thinking again that Lockhart was simply likeable. Although there was some of the biting wit here that he had expected of Gini’s family, he had also found a warmth and conviviality that neither her personality nor her description of her family had led him to expect.
When Lockhart handed him the glass of port he noticed that Casimir had been examining a painting of a tow-headed boy dangling from a tree while a pup cavorted beneath him.
“It’s one of her best, I think.”
“Her?” Casimir asked mildly.
Lockhart blinked and then cocked his head to the side. “Here you had me convinced that you knew my daughter.”
Casimir examined the painting again with renewed interest. It was quite good, at least so far as he knew of art. He began to look around the room. “How many of them are hers?”
“All of them. Well, except for that one,” Lockhart said, pointing at a small portrait that had been framed to pair with the one next to it. “She and her friend Tom swear this set must be kept together. Tom painted her and she, of course, painted Tom.”
Casimir leaned in to look at the matched set. A much younger version of his Gina was looking towards the other portrait with her eyes crossed. He recognized that silly expression as the one she used when teasing him. Her friend Tom looked to be about her age, and while looking towards her portrait was rolling his eyes and looking long suffering. “Where is Tom now?”
“Studying art in Munich, I believe.”
“Curious.”
“Yes, it is. Many of these paintings seem different.”
“You would need Georgiana to explain it to you, but she enjoys studying a variety of styles. I only know which ones I liked.”
“There are more?”
Lockhart swirled the wine in his glass. The man didn’t seem to be much of a drinker. “You haven’t lived with an artist, have you?”
Only your daughter, he wanted to say, but held his tongue. “I take that to mean there are many more.”
Lockhart inclined his head to indicate an affirmative. Casimir spent some more time studying the art, while Lockhart settled into one of the comfortable chairs. It was odd, really, that the silence between them didn’t feel awkward, but Casimir was grateful to have the time to look at her work. His Gini was quite the dilettante. Spy, knife fighter, and artist. Lockhart’s collection of favorites included a watercolor study of a beetle, a pastel of dancing fairies, a charcoal sketch of what Casimir assumed was a much younger Sarah, and, most prominently displayed, an oil portrait of a middle-aged woman.
“Your wife?” Casimir asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“Yes.”
Something in the older man’s tone made Casimir glance back at him, but Lockhart still seemed relaxed and friendly. Casimir took a bit longer to study the portrait of Gini’s mother. Yes, some of the sharpness of features came from that side, but in overall impression Gini was more like her father than mother. Her mother looked more glamorous than humorous. Not the sort to cross her eyes to tease her husband.
Casimir finally settled into the chair across from Lockhart. “I submit, you seem to know your daughter much better than I do. How do you recommend that I proceed?”
Lockhart stared into his wine, an amused smile curling his lips. “Why do you want to?”
“Am I going to have to issue the same warning to you that I did to James?”
Lockhart raised his gaze, his affable expression gone. “I’m not disparaging my daughter. I’m inquiring after your intentions.”
At last, fatherly protectiveness. “I love her,” Casimir said simply.
Lockhart narrowed his eyes. “In my experience that isn’t the best reason for marriage.”
“I won’t argue with you about that, but it is where I find myself.”
The older man shifted his gaze to the portrait of his wife. “I’ve loved Cassandra since I met her. It was inexplicable, immediate. Her beauty, her mind, her laugh. But if I hadn’t married her, it’s possible that I might have eventually accepted that she didn’t love me.”
There wasn’t any bitterness in Lockhart’s voice, just sadness. Casimir’s fear told him that this could be his own future in twenty years. Gini had still never said she loved him. Perhaps she didn’t? Perhaps he was as foolish as her father seemed now, staring at a portrait of Gini’s mother? Casimir realized that this room was Lockhart’s solace. An image of the wife he loved, tokens of the daughter from whom he felt estranged. It suddenly all felt stiflingly personal, but it also gave Cas the insight he needed to connect with the man.
“One of my greatest fears is loneliness. Are you saying you think that even if I can convince Georgiana to marry me, that I will never have her love?”
That brought the man’s attention back to him, as he knew it would. Now that Casimir was looking for it, Lockhart’s loneliness was almost palpable. “Not necessarily. She certainly isn’t her mother made over.” Lockhart drummed his fingers on the stem of his glass. “She has some very close friends. If you haven’t met them-”
“I did. In London.”
Lockhart’s expression sharpened, betraying some suspicion but he merely asked, “Really? How are Jack and Sabre?”
“Married, as I suppose you know. They certainly make an interesting trio.”
“Is Georgiana in London?”
“Yes.”
Lockhart nodded. “I see.”
“I don’t think Georgiana means to-”
The older man held up his hand. “Don’t. I made my peace long ago that Georgiana will find a way to do as she likes. She didn’t send you, did she?”
“I wanted to come.”
“I suppose that speaks well of you, at least. I still worry that you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“One evening she crossed a city and climbed three stories merely to ask me why I hadn’t attended a party.” When Lockhart paled, Casimir realized he had divulged too much.
“I’m not sure I wanted to know that,” her father said.
“It’s not something I encourage.”
“One would hope not.”
“Would you like me to bring her here? I can fetch her.”
Lockhart was quiet for some time. “It may not be for the best.”
“May I ask why?”
“Georgiana and her mother have always had a difficult relationship. Now that Cassandra is so ill, I don’t want them to argue again. Their goodbyes before Georgiana left for Scotland were as good an interaction as one might hope for them to have.”
“I’m sorry to ask, but is your wife-”
“Dying? Yes. I believe so.”
“I’m so very sorry.”
Lockhart frowned and cleared his throat. “So am I.”
“If there is anything I can do, please just tell me.”
Lockhart stared at him for so long that Casimir finally started to feel awkward with the man. “Just take care of Georgiana.”
“Gladly, sir.”
“It has grown late. Stay with us tonight.”
“If it’s not an imposition.”
“Of course not. If you are truly interested, James can show you some of the properties in the area come morning.”
Perhaps not a blessing, but acceptance. It was a start. “I would be delighted.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Derbyshire had been a sufficient distance, that even keeping his visit there brief, Casimir didn’t return to London until the fifth morning after he left. He missed Gini terribly, although his expanded knowledge of her life also made him anxious. There was more to her than he had realized.
The Harrington butler let him into the townhouse, but then murmured, “The countess would like to speak to you.”
“Of course.” As he and Gini currently lived at the sufferance of the Harringtons, Casimir was willing to do whatever their hosts might ask.
After handing off Casimir’s outwear to a footman, the butler led the way to the countess’s morning room. Casimir expected to see Gini there, but the countess was alone. She rose to greet him.
“Mr. Rokiczana, you’ve returned.”
“Yes. James and Sarah asked that I pass along their greetings to you.”
Her expression cleared for a moment, her worried frown replaced with a lovely smile. “How are they?”
“At their age? Growing since last you saw them, I would assume. Other than that they seem to enjoy squabbling and rolling their eyes at each other.”
She giggled. “I can just imagine.”
“But you wanted to see me, my lady?”
“Jack. You should definitely call me Jack.”
“Then I insist you call me Casimir.”
She nodded, the worried expression returning. “Casimir, I wanted you to know that George has been upset since you left.”
“Where is she?”
“In her bedroom, but Casimir, wait.”
He had already rushed from the room. He didn’t want to be rude to the countess, but had to know what was wrong. He practically burst through the door to their bedroom, but all was quiet and still within. He paused at the doorway, taken aback by the near avalanche of art supplie
s that had taken over the space. An easel was set up near the window, a canvas set upon it. A larger canvas than anything displayed in her father’s study. He walked towards it as though mesmerized. He recognized his own waistcoat and the vibrant blue of the bedding from this chamber. But how she made it look so real, as though one could walk into the painting and pick up the clothing to don, he didn’t understand. Finally pulling himself from the painting, he saw her curled up atop the bed, his waistcoat held against her chest in sleep. Tossing aside his jacket, he crawled onto the bed to join her.
“Gini?” he whispered, stroking the side of her face. She startled a bit as she awakened, but quickly recognized him. Then her face crumpled and she burrowed into his shoulder to cry. He wasn’t sure what to do and simply held her.
*
George recognized the irony of seeking comfort from the same man she feared was going to break her heart, but she couldn’t help herself. His scent, his warmth. He was all she wanted. If only he could be what she wanted him to be, instead of whatever was in that ominous thin file on top of Robert’s desk. Just now she wouldn’t think on it. She would let herself be lulled by his attention and pretend that it meant he loved her. That she was special to him.
“Gini, what’s wrong?”
Even his voice lulled her. He sounded as though he cared. She scooted closer to him on the bed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He pulled her the rest of the way to him, so that they were pressed together shoulder to hip. “All right. Is there anything you would like to talk about?”
“Did you make it to Derbyshire?”
He had an odd hesitation before saying, “Yes.”
Her tone was more alarmed than she intended. “What happened?”
He soothed her with his hand stroking up and down her back. “Not much. I had dinner and then your father invited me to have port with him and showed me the paintings in his study. You’re very talented.”
She shrugged. “Not really.”