A Dare to Defy Novel

by Syrie James

  The girls’ account perturbed her. In this faraway county where there seemed to be few people of their own class, it was strange that the daughters of a marquess wouldn’t be allowed to associate with the Carlyle girls, daughters of an earl. What had happened to cause such a deep discord between the two families?

  Chapter Fourteen

  That afternoon, a box was brought up to the nursery by the footman, addressed to Alexandra. To her delight, it contained her new light-blue gown and the underclothes she’d ordered from the dressmaker’s in London.

  “What a pretty color!” Lillie cried as Alexandra withdrew the new dress from its tissue-paper wrapping.

  “It has no frills, pin tucks, or pleats,” Julia countered with a frown, “and not a single inch of embroidery or lace.”

  “No more should it,” pointed out Mrs. Mitchell, who was watching the proceedings with interest, “for it’s the frock of a governess.”

  “Why do governesses always have to dress so plainly?” Julia complained.

  “Because they spend their days in the schoolroom, young miss, not at a party.”

  Alexandra didn’t care that the dress was plain. It was exactly what she’d ordered, the workmanship looked to be very fine, and she was thrilled to have a new gown to wear. “I think it’s lovely. I just wish I had a hat to go with it. The only one I have is on loan, and trimmed in black.”

  “We might be able to do something about that,” Mrs. Mitchell remarked. “As I recall, Her Ladyship, God rest her soul, had a hat in that very shade of blue, in a style which is still in fashion. If you’d like, Miss Watson, we can take a look in the attic this evening.”

  After dinner, while the girls studied and practiced piano, Mrs. Mitchell led Alexandra up the servants’ stairs to the top floor of the house, which she’d never seen.

  En route, Alexandra took advantage of the moment to tackle an issue that had been bothering her. “Mrs. Mitchell, I’ve been wanting to ask you about the children’s food.”

  “Food? What do you mean, food?”

  “I mean the meals that we’re served are very dull indeed.”

  “Well-cooked vegetables, plain bread, meal, and mutton, are the only foods necessary for growing children, Miss Watson. And milk, in Isabella Beeton’s words, is ‘the most complete of all articles of food.’”

  Alexandra knew that Mrs. Beeton, an English journalist, had written an extensive guide to running the Victorian household with an emphasis on food and cooking, a tome which had become gospel in Britain. “I believe a more varied diet is necessary to the health of a child,” Alexandra replied, as they passed through a door and continued up another dark, narrow stretch of stairs. “Couldn’t you at least serve fresh fruit at breakfast?”

  “Fresh fruit is an indulgence. It causes many unpleasant digestive ailments. If you like, I can arrange to send up a small dish of stewed rhubarb on occasion. But food in general is a means to teach children moderation and discipline.”

  Alexandra repressed a sigh; she was getting nowhere on this subject, so she said no more.

  They reached a narrow landing at the top of the stairs and she followed Mrs. Mitchell through an old wooden door. The vast attic space seemed to stretch on forever. Beneath the low sloping ceiling and exposed beams, long rows of dormer windows shed muted light on endless collections of dust-covered things.

  Boxes of every shape and size were stacked everywhere. Antiquated household items took up residence beside musty furniture that was either outdated or in need of repair. Several racks held clothing, both male and female, that seemed to date back for centuries. Alexandra even spotted a row of military uniforms. There were old chests, worn traveling cases, a rocking horse, holiday decorations, fencing equipment, and other sporting goods—far too much to take in at one glance.

  Mrs. Mitchell rummaged through an enormous pile of hatboxes, then opened one. “Oh, how lovely.” She took out a dramatic ladies’ hat made of forest green velvet, trimmed with ostrich plumes and peacock feathers.

  Alexandra studied the hat in fascination. “It looks like something Marie Antoinette would have worn.”

  “That it does, Miss Watson.”

  How thrilling it was, Alexandra thought, to know that some Longford ancestor had worn this very hat, and that other relations had worn all the sumptuous, faded gowns on the rack. How wonderful to live in a house with so much history!

  As Mrs. Mitchell continued searching through the hats, Alexandra’s attention was caught by a group of unframed paintings leaning against a nearby wall.

  “What are these?” There looked to be at least two dozen canvases.

  “That’s His Lordship’s artwork. What he did as a child and when he came home from school on holiday, plus all that he brought home from Italy.”

  Alexandra was intrigued. “At what age did Lord Longford begin studying art?”

  “Oh, very young. Six or seven, as I recall. Such a good boy he was. Never gave a moment’s trouble.”

  Alexandra crouched down to look through the artwork. It was easy to see which ones Longford had done in his early years. They were mainly watercolors, pastels, and sketchbooks of pencil drawings. They revealed a good sense of color and form, but were nowhere near as detailed as his later works. Those—numerous landscapes and portraits in oil, which she supposed to be from his Italian period—had been executed with a skill similar to the paintings she’d observed in his London studio.

  Flipping through them, Alexandra came to an oil painting of an Italian garden and paused. A stunning work of art, it showcased tall cypresses guarding a maze of geometric hedges and topiaries, interspersed with beds of red poppies, purple lavender, rosemary, and other colorful flowers and herbs. A vigorous flowering vine created an arched bower over an inviting stone bench beside a sparkling, triple-tiered marble fountain. Beyond it, a path curved into the distance, disappearing over a rise that overlooked distant hills beneath an azure sky.

  “This is wonderful.” Alexandra had the uncanny sense that she could step right into the painting, and inhale the fragrance of all those blooms. “His Lordship is so talented.”

  “So I’ve always said. His mother was so proud, she hung his work all over the house for everyone to see. But he doesn’t like to look at them anymore. He gave up art, moved all his pictures up here, not long after . . .” Mrs. Mitchell broke off.

  “When did that happen? Was it right after he came home from Italy?”

  Mrs. Mitchell glanced away. “It is not my business to say, Miss Watson.”

  Alexandra stood, too curious to let the matter drop. She recalled Julia mentioning that Longford, after his return from Italy, had stopped speaking to his friend from Trevelyan Manor. She wondered if the two events were connected. “I heard that Lord Longford was once good friends with the Earl of Saunders, but they fell out about that same time.”

  “Loose tongues are worse than wicked hands, Miss Watson. I will say nothing about that.”

  Alexandra repressed a frustrated sigh. It was such a shame that Longford’s beautiful paintings were sitting in the attic, unseen and gathering dust. Something had caused him to relegate a pursuit he’d once openly loved to a reluctant enterprise he practiced only in secret and without enjoyment. But what?

  Turning back to the stacks of hatboxes, Mrs. Mitchell lifted a lid and said, “Ah, here it is. The very hat I was looking for.” She brought out a lovely confection trimmed in light blue satin and adorned with ribbons, lace, flowers, and leaves. “I remember when Her Ladyship wore this to a garden party.” Her eyes misted over as she handed the hat to Alexandra. “This will go very well with your new gown.”

  “Yes, it will. Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  Later, in the privacy of her own room, Alexandra tried on the new dress. It fit perfectly, and the hat was a good match. Her pleasure in having a new ensemble, however, was overshadowed by her concern for Lord Longford, to whom her thoughts kept returning. He’d made it clear that he only painted portraits while in town for t
he money. Once, however, he’d loved art for the sake of art. He had painted wondrous landscapes and glowing portraits that deserved to be seen. Why had he given it up?

  Her mind went back to the last moments she’d spent with him. In the library. The kiss. Six day had passed since he’d left Polperran House. Every day, she’d keenly felt his absence. When she’d strolled on the grounds, her footsteps always seemed to take her back to the secret garden behind the blue door, and the path they’d walked together. Every day, she’d hoped he might appear there, as if by magic. But of course he hadn’t.

  The nights had been even worse. For then, he entered her dreams. This night was no different. Alexandra woke several times with a start, trying to hold on to an ephemeral image, always of herself in his arms, his mouth on hers.

  Thomas drummed his fingertips on the arms of his chair, staring out the window at the traffic on the London streets.

  The past week had been an exercise in frustration. He had delivered the two completed portraits and met with a few customers to discuss new commissions. Normally, he would take any portrait work he could get on the spot, no matter how prosaic or uninspiring the candidate appeared. Work was work, and he needed the income. But although the prospective clients had promised to pay well, Thomas had not given them a definitive commitment.

  If he accepted any new commissions, it would mean spending another month or two in town at the very least, paying for these rented rooms. There would be regular sittings, with time in between in which he would be forced to sit idle, waiting for the paint to dry. Time in which he would have nothing to do other than to think about Miss Watson. As he had been doing, every single day since their fateful meeting in the London street below.

  He should never have kissed her. It had been entirely inappropriate. But more than that—it had been difficult enough, having glimpsed her in the bath, knowing that what lay beneath her modest governess clothing was the body of a goddess. Ever since, she had infiltrated his thoughts and fantasies.

  And that kiss.

  He had kissed many women in his life, but he had never felt anything quite like that kiss. She had been so tentative at first, suggesting an innocence that was both endearing and tantalizing, almost as if she had never been kissed before. And then she had responded to him. Ah, what a response. He had sensed hot embers burning beneath the surface of her skin, just waiting to burst into flame.

  The same heat had burned within his own body. Now that he’d tasted her lips, he could think of nothing else.

  He wondered if this is what it felt like to go insane. To want something so much, something you knew you could not have.

  When he left Cornwall, he had told himself it was because he was obliged to return to work. But now that he had completed his obligations, he could no longer avoid the truth. He had run away, afraid he could no longer trust himself around her. Time and distance should have enabled him to cool down, to forget about her. But he could not forget. Over the past week, his mind had been full of her, every waking moment.

  The nights had been no different. Miss Watson haunted his dreams. When he slept, she came to him, naked, gleaming, and wet, as if she had just stepped out of the bath. Sometimes, he would reach up to cover her breasts with his hands and knead them, then take her nipples in his mouth, suckling their sweetness. Other times, he was naked in bed beside her, making slow, passionate love to her. Every morning, he woke up gasping and so intensely aroused, he was on the brink of release.

  He had considered seeking out a dancer or hiring a model for a few days’ work. They were often very willing partners, and it had brought him relief in the past. But he did not want some nameless stranger in his bed. There was only one woman he wanted: Miss Lexie Watson. Lexie. He wondered if her Christian name was short for something. Alexis? Was that a common American name?

  It was not just the beauty of her face and form that aroused him, that he yearned to touch and explore. He also yearned to simply be with her, to learn more about her.

  Her accent had bothered him at first, that speech pattern full of contractions—don’t instead of do not—so reminiscent of another time and another person. But, he realized, he had become accustomed to it. So accustomed that instead of dreading it, he’d found himself actually looking forward to hearing that voice echo along the halls at Polperran House. A voice that was so uniquely her.

  He knew that kiss could never be repeated. But he could be content, couldn’t he, with just seeing her, being in the same room with her? She challenged him. She kept him on his toes. He liked that. That was as arousing as all of his sexual fantasies of her. He wanted more of it.

  Miss Watson was only going to be at Polperran House a short time—three months at most, she had said. He did not want to miss a single day of it.

  He wanted to go home.

  Alexandra tapped at Julia’s door. “Julia? May I speak to you a moment?”

  It was the rest hour. At Julia’s hesitant, “Come in,” Alexandra entered the girl’s room to find her sitting atop her bed, quickly closing a fashion magazine and thrusting something under her covers.

  “Do you want something?” Julia asked, her cheeks rosy.

  “I wanted to ask about this evening. It’s your turn to choose the selection to read aloud. Have you decided what it should be?”

  “Yes. I was thinking a chapter from Pride and Prejudice. That one when Mr. Collins proposes to Lizzie.”

  Alexandra smiled. “Wonderful. Do you want to do the honors? Or take turns with Lillie?” Although the girls had been uncomfortable reading aloud at first, Alexandra had gently coached them until they found their courage. Now, after a week of practice, they seemed to enjoy the exercise as much as she did.

  “I do not mind alternating with Lillie. She likes that story as much as I do.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll tell her.” Alexandra was about to leave, when Julia moved slightly, causing a pencil to slip out from beneath her covers and clatter to the floor.

  Alexandra wondered why Julia had kept the pencil hidden. As the girl reached down to retrieve the pencil, the magazine she’d been holding fell open, revealing something else she’d been hiding: a tiny piece of paper on which she’d been sketching. Julia quickly flipped the magazine closed and held it to her chest.

  “Julia. What are you drawing?”

  “Nothing.” Julia blushed fiercely, her eyes downcast.

  “I’m fond of drawing myself, although I haven’t done it in a while.”

  Reluctantly, Julia commented: “I do not really draw. I just copy pictures from the magazines.”

  “Can I see?”

  “It is not very good.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Julia hesitantly withdrew the tiny sketch and offered it to Alexandra. “The fashions are so beautiful. I like to imagine that one day, when I am married, I will have gowns like these.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Alexandra studied the drawing, a small but detailed sketch of a woman in a fashionable ensemble. “Julia: this is excellent.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I do. You are quite the artist. You have that ability in common with your brother.”

  “Thomas gave up art.”

  Before she could think how to reply, Julia went on:

  “Lillie and I used to study drawing. Thomas made our governesses stop teaching it.”

  “Why?”

  “He said it was a waste of time.”

  Alexandra frowned. “Art is never a waste of time.” Did she dare to overrule one of Longford’s edicts? She wondered if that would be going too far. But no: he gave her carte blanche to add anything to the curriculum she considered to be of value. “You needn’t draw in secret, Julia. Let’s add it back to the schedule.”

  Julia reacted as if Alexandra had just proclaimed that Christmas was to be celebrated every day of the year. “Could we really, Miss Watson?”

  “I have a bit of experience with the subject. We can have drawing lessons two or
three times a week, if you like.”

  “Oh! That would be wonderful!” Then Julia’s face clouded over. “But we have no materials. I have only this pencil, and I draw on whatever scraps I can find.”

  “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

  Alexandra found Mrs. Mitchell at her desk in her tiny office near the kitchens.

  “Mrs. Mitchell. How would I get hold of some art supplies?”

  “Art supplies?” Mrs. Mitchell set down her pen and glanced up. “Whatever for?”

  “Julia has a talent and an interest in drawing. I’d like to teach what I know on the subject. But we need sketchbooks and pencils.”

  Mrs. Mitchell looked dubious. “I don’t know if His Lordship would approve.”

  “The earl told me, before he left, that I should feel free to teach anything I liked. Julia said they’ve had lessons in the past. I hoped there might be some old art supplies stashed away somewhere in the house.”

  “Not that I know of, Miss Watson. In any case, this is a subject best taken up directly with His Lordship.”

  “I should write to him in London, then?”

  “No. You may ask him yourself. He is due to return this evening, around seven o’clock.”

  “‘And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection,’” Julia read aloud in a lively voice, filled with amusement.

  Alexandra’s eyes drifted to the clock on the nursery wall. The hour of seven had already come and gone. The minutes ticked by with glacial slowness as she sat with the girls, listening to them read from the pages of Pride and Prejudice.

  Normally, she enjoyed this activity almost more than any other, but tonight she was having difficulty concentrating. Ever since Mrs. Mitchell had given her the news of Longford’s impending arrival, she’d felt restless. She kept wanting to dash to the window and look out for an arriving carriage.

  Longford had said he might be in town for several months. Alexandra knew he had work to do there. If he was coming back after only a week, what had made him change his mind? Her heart began a rapid dance as she contemplated seeing him again. Then she frowned, realizing that she might not see him at all. Polperran was a big house. After the kiss they’d shared, he might avoid her entirely.