Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait tdd-5

by Grace Burrowes

  Louisa paused in the entertainment of the chubby little fellow on her lap. “Unpack your whatnot. Tell Her Grace that, of the seventy-three private rooms at Morelands, you need one for your art. That’s not too much to ask, Sister mine.”

  Louisa would have asked. She would have done so at a family meal, debated with her own mother until she’d gotten the room of her choice, and then had it set up exactly to her liking before sunset on the same day.

  “I did ask. She said she’d think about which room she could spare for my little hobby, and, Sister, I wanted to perishing shriek at her.” Bloody, perishing, damned shriek, at her own mother.

  “Don’t we all, occasionally?”

  Jenny had paced half the length of the parlor before Louisa’s words registered. “You want to shriek at Her Grace?”

  “This is the selfsame Her Grace who gave me Fordyce’s Sermons for my sixteenth birthday and sent my Greek tutor packing in the name of establishing economies.”

  “I’m sorry.” And this was exactly the kind of sibling support Jenny was going to miss terribly when she moved to Paris. “I hadn’t realized she’d done that. What was she trying to accomplish?”

  “Take this baby, please. One cannot drink tea and hold Kesmore’s heir, lest one’s clothing comes to grief.”

  Jenny obediently took custody of her nephew, a stout, cheerful infant who would be crawling ere long—which she would not be on English soil to see.

  “Her Grace sent the tutor packing because I had exceeded his abilities, I’m guessing, but he was still somebody with whom I could discuss my translations, and that was…”

  “Important to you. This child has gotten heavier since I was here barely a week ago.”

  “They do that, rather like men get handsomer when you fall in love with them. I received a note from Her Grace this morning, Jenny.”

  Louisa’s voice had lost its typical brisk, pragmatic inflection. Jenny cuddled the child closer and braced herself accordingly. “And?”

  “Your parole is at an end. She must have you back before next week’s guests arrive, but don’t worry.” Louisa patted Jenny’s hand. “When I take you home, I’ll make sure your studio is reestablished, and not in some priest’s hole or butler’s pantry, either.”

  You have talent, Genevieve. Never doubt that.

  “A butler’s pantry might do, Louisa, if it were entirely mine and had at least one decent window.”

  Louisa set down her teacup and scooped her firstborn away from Jenny. “That’s the problem with you, Genevieve. You are too nice. You ought to have a fit of the sulks, grumble to Papa, and pick at your food until Her Grace realizes she’s blundered—Papa is very obliging about these things when he thinks he’s being clever. Mama is proud, but she does love us.”

  Louisa understood cause and effect the way Jenny understood images and light, and yet the idea of sulking, grumbling, and dissembling in this fashion was… exhausting. “If you’re to return me to my dungeon, I’d best gather my things.”

  Louisa rose with the child on her hip. “Yes, you had. Joseph had a note from Mr. Harrison.”

  Jenny rose too, hoping the weakness in her knees was momentary. “I trust he fares well?”

  “He’s considering some commissions in Northumbria. Said he’s taken an interest in juvenile portraits, of all things, and that the Academy’s nominating committee was very encouraging when they saw his sketches of Sophie’s boys. What do you suppose Papa has gotten Her Grace for Christmas this year?”

  “I haven’t the least notion what His Grace has gotten for Mama. Northumbria is lovely this time of year, and Mr. Harrison’s composition was quite good.”

  Louisa paused in her march toward the door and gave Jenny a look that suggested Bedlam might be lovely this time of year as well—if one enjoyed subarctic climates in winter. “We’ll restore your studio, Genevieve, and when the grandchildren arrive, Her Grace will be too busy managing His Grace to trouble you over it much.”

  * * *

  Elijah used the entire journey from London to consider his latest of several dinners with the nominating committee.

  He’d had Buchannon’s butler announce him as Lord Bernward; he’d dressed to the very teeth in sober evening attire; for the first time in years, he’d shown the Harrison family crest on his town coach.

  Even old Fotheringale had been impressed with the sketches of Sindal’s sons. The composition was good art, as evidenced by the fact that it became more interesting the longer one studied it. West had muttered that the portrait harked back to Sir Joshua’s skill with juvenile subjects, and no one had contradicted him.

  Elijah’s gelding slipped on a deceptive patch of ground, more ice than road. He let the beast right itself, scanned the horizon, and wrapped his scarf more snugly around his chin.

  The evening had had two sour points.

  The first was when Fotheringale had harrumphed into his port that one unfinished portrait hardly demonstrated depth of skill or range of ability. Anybody could pull off one pleasing portrait of children, for pity’s sake.

  The second was when Fotheringale had gone off on a tangent about the Academy finally being free of the pernicious influence of dabbling females. He’d squinted at Elijah, as if his tirade ought to have particular meaning, and Elijah had remained quiet.

  Which had been a mistake. A prudent man seeking a well-supported nomination would have chimed in with ringing endorsements of Fotheringale’s sentiments, except in his mind, Elijah kept seeing Genevieve Windham sitting at the breakfast table and eating strawberries she could not taste while her dear, doting Papa casually tromped all over his daughter’s dreams.

  Mindful of the lowering clouds and the increasing wind, Elijah pushed those thoughts aside and asked his horse for a faster pace.

  * * *

  “There, you see?” Louisa pulled on her gloves with the same confidence she did everything. “Ten minutes of asking Mama’s opinion, thirty minutes of overseeing the footmen as they moved your easels and whatnot, and twenty minutes of setting things to rights, and you have your studio back, better than ever. Now I had best leave you, or my daughters will have fed the cloved oranges to Lady Ophelia.”

  Jenny fastened the frogs of Louisa’s cape, wishing her sister could stay longer. “I thought Joseph’s pig preferred lurid novels.”

  Louisa’s smile was wicked and gleeful. “Lady Opie doesn’t get a crack at those until Joseph has read them to me first. I threatened to name our firstborn Radcliffe, and oh, the lengths Kesmore traveled to bribe me from that notion.”

  “You are so happy.”

  Jenny hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, much less sound forlorn when she did. Louisa paused with a red merino scarf half-wrapped around her neck, her smile fading. “I am. You will be too, Jenny. Christmas is the season of miracles, and surely, with all the holiday socializing, the mistletoe, the wassail… Did you know Eve and Deene exchanged their first kiss under the mistletoe?”

  “I am not Eve.” And Elijah Harrison was not Deene. Elijah Harrison was on his way to Northumbria, where winter was very cold, and mistletoe likely hung from every rafter.

  “Joseph and I kissed under the mistletoe too, before we were engaged. I daresay mistletoe had something to do with Sophie and Sindal’s initial dealings.”

  Jenny glanced around at the soaring entrance hall to the Morelands mansion. Mistletoe was in evidence, of course. She wanted to burn every sprig and branch of it.

  “I’m going to Paris, Lou. After the holidays.” The packet schedules were up in her room, and four days ago, Jenny had sneaked into the attics and set a pair of cedar-lined trunks to airing.

  Louisa stopped fussing with her bonnet strings. “To Paris? Are you going to shop? With Their Graces?”

  “No, I’m going to Paris to study art. They do that there—allow women to study art, not simply dabble with watercolor still lifes. I’ve had seven Seasons, and I cannot… I have no interest… Victor once said…” Louisa was studying her with wh
at looked like understanding—or pity. “Will you write to me, Lou?”

  “For God’s sake, of course I’ll write to you, but Paris? St. Just would cheerfully take you North with him, or Valentine would welcome you to Oxford—”

  “No more damned racketing about as the doting maiden aunt. An artistic calling requires sacrifices, and it’s time I started making a few in the right direction.”

  There. Jenny had put the situation into words any sibling could comprehend. Victor and Bart would both have approved.

  Louisa left her bonnet strings trailing. “You just cursed, and now that I think on it, you haven’t called me dearest… I can’t recall the last time you called me dearest. Are you sickening for something, Genevieve?”

  You have talent, Genevieve. Yes, she was sickening, and that was Elijah Harrison’s fault too. “I beg your pardon for my language, and I am not sickening for anything. I do not relish telling Their Graces that I am eloping. If I tell them, the holidays will be most difficult.”

  Louisa studied her for an uncomfortably long moment. “If you don’t tell them, you’ll break their hearts. They need time to grow accustomed to this, Jenny. You’ll regret ambushing them and leaving them no time to adjust.”

  Yes, she would. She’d also regret giving them time to change her mind about it.

  “I reached my majority years ago, Louisa, and I have a competence from Grandmother Himmelfarb. Their Graces cannot deny my heart’s desire indef—”

  The row of coat hooks along the wall by the porter’s nook caught Jenny’s eye.

  “Think about this, Jenny. A step like this cannot be untaken, and you’ve never even visited Paris. You might hate it. Joseph says the stench on rainy days is horrendous.” Louisa treated Jenny to a fierce hug, kissed her cheek, and took her leave.

  While Jenny ran her hand over a purple scarf of very soft wool with a subtle tartan print woven into it. She lifted it off its hook and brought it to her nose.

  “Elijah.”

  * * *

  “I have a dozen grandchildren, counting various stepgrandchildren and works in progress. If you want subjects for juvenile portraits, we’ve a full supply. More brandy?”

  Elijah passed his host an empty glass. “My thanks, Your Grace. Perhaps we could focus first on the painting for Her Grace that you mentioned in your note?”

  In his summons, more accurately. The epistle had been three sentences long, and every word had savored of imperatives.

  His Grace handed Elijah back a half-full glass, topped up his own drink, and resumed a seat on a blue velvet sofa near the fire. The blue of the velvet brought out the blue of Moreland’s eyes, something Lady Jenny had probably often noted.

  “I still managed to look distinguished,” His Grace said. He wasn’t smiling, and the words bore no humorous inflection, and yet Elijah had the sense the man was poking fun at himself. “I’d like to memorialize myself for Her Grace before old age transmogrifies dignity into stubbornness and ducal consequence into pomposity.”

  A towering need to search the premises for Genevieve Windham receded—but did not disappear—as Elijah considered his host’s words. A portraitist often became a repository for confidences, a consequence of time spent in close proximity to people who could not camouflage their thoughts and emotions with activity.

  “This is not a public portrait, then?” And how did one convey on canvas the essence of a man who could use the word transmogrify convincingly?

  His Grace considered his drink. “This is a gift for my duchess, not a statement of Moreland power and influence. The woman I love deserves such a token, but it’s one I’ve neglected over the years. To sit for a portrait has always seemed… arrogant, to me. Her Grace would have it otherwise, and so you see before you a willing subject, as it were.”

  To Elijah, His Grace’s casual use of the word “love” was more impressive than all the polysyllabic blather Moreland had at his command. “My recent work at Sidling notwithstanding, I do not make a credible holiday guest under your roof, Your Grace. Her Grace will have to know the portrait is being done.”

  “Young man, do you think I’m going to sit still for hours with only your company to occupy me? Of course Her Grace will know. She will supervise the entire undertaking, making sure I behave myself adequately to see the painting completed. You will consult her on every detail of the composition, and thwart her wishes at your mortal peril.”

  This was beyond an imperative; this was Moreland Holy Writ, perhaps Windham family Holy Writ as well.

  “Of course, Your Grace, though to finish the portrait between now and the first of the year will be difficult. I haven’t yet completed Sindal’s commission, and I’m sure you’ll have holiday duties that interfere with your sittings.”

  “You are a bachelor, so allowances must be made.” His Grace rose, took up the poker, and jabbed at the fire. Elijah studied the duke’s movement, the way he hunkered before the hearth, the confidence with which he wielded a substantial length of wrought iron.

  His Grace was not merely spry, as that adjective was applied to old men who yet managed to dodder around unaided. The duke was limber, lithe, and strong, full of energy and… determination.

  “When you wed,” Moreland said as he replaced the poker in its stand, “you will understand that he who fails to make proper gifts at the proper time where his lady is concerned risks disappointing that lady, and living with the shame of his failure well beyond the end of the occasion. Do you know why I maintain a conservatory here, Bernward?”

  “To protect delicate plants over the winter and conserve them for the next year’s spring.”

  “To give my duchess flowers when she’s in need of them. You’re here for the same purpose, to give my duchess a portrait when she’s in need of one.”

  No, Elijah was at Morelands because he could not get out of his mind that sketch Genevieve had done of him when he’d been trying to write to his sister. The rendering had been accurate, but it had been another image of a lonely man—also a man bewildered by a simple bit of correspondence to a younger sibling.

  And in some dim corner of his brain, Elijah perceived that the answer to his loneliness lay in Genevieve Windham’s hands—or at least the temporary relief of it.

  “I’ll need some help if I’m to be done before Christmas, Your Grace. Perhaps Lady Jenny might again assist me?” He took the last sip of his drink in hopes that request might come across as casual.

  “What says you have to be done before Christmas?”

  Lady Jenny’s travel plans said it plainly enough. “The Academy announces its new members along with the honors list, Your Grace. I’d like to be back in London to congratulate the new Academicians.”

  And he did not want to be here when Jenny went on her wrongheaded, misguided, unnecessary pilgrimage to Paris. For it was a pilgrimage, though Elijah had yet to determine what transgression on Jenny’s part necessitated such a penance.

  “You will not disappoint my duchess, Bernward. The portrait will be done in time for our open house on Christmas Eve.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  “Then be off with you. Any footman can see you to your quarters. Jenny’s about somewhere, unless her sisters have impressed her into doting on their offspring again. Ask the footmen. Put off dwelling at the family seat as long as you can, Bernward. One loses track of one’s family in these old mausoleums.”

  Bernward. The title didn’t feel as awkward coming from Moreland as it might from many others. “Thank you, Your Grace. Am I to join the family at meals?”

  One could wait above stairs in evening attire for a summons that never came, or one could plainly ask.

  “For God’s sake, of course you will dine with us. Her Grace would never forgive me if I suffered Charlotte Beauvais Harrison’s darling boy to shiver away his meals in a garret. And you have some correspondence.”

  The duke stalked over to the mantel and swiped up no less than three letters, which he shoved at Elijah. “Your wo
menfolk are after you, and spying on my house, no doubt. Never underestimate the espionage of females, Bernward. You will tell your sisters Morelands is gracious, snug, and majestic—regardless of drafty corridors, tipsy maids, or footmen who linger near the mistletoe.”

  The tone was gruff; the wink was charming. Elijah took the letters, feeling as if the Earl of Bernward had just been welcomed into some benevolent protective society of males who must endure the holidays without cursing before the womenfolk.

  “My thanks, Your Grace.”

  Elijah took his leave, and had spotted no less than eight fat sprigs of mistletoe before he paused to wonder how his family had known he’d be at Morelands, when four days past Elijah himself had been convinced his next destination was Northumbria.

  Twelve

  “So tell me, my lady, do you like it?”

  Jenny looked up to see Elijah Harrison standing in the doorway of her newly christened studio. Had she not been studying his parting gift to her, she would no doubt have sensed his presence.

  “You came back.” She could not help but smile as she spoke.

  “One does not refuse a ducal commission. It’s said Moreland has influence in every corner of government, and his duchess in every corner of Society. Then, too, as the duke himself informed me, any number of juvenile subjects are expected here over the holidays, and I’m intrigued by that potential.”

  These words constituted a credible, if wrong answer. The heat and tenderness in Elijah’s gaze as he prowled across the room gave Jenny far more cause for rejoicing. “You’ve closed the door, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Elijah to you, though it seems I’m becoming Bernward to the rest of the world.” He stood very close to her, so close she could catch his sweet lavender scent. “Happy Christmas, my lady. Did you like the sketch?”

  He did not kiss her, and the frustration of that was profound.

  “I cannot show this sketch to anybody, Mr. Harrison. No one but my lady’s maid has seen my hair down for years.”