Jane Grey (The Brontë Brothers Book 1)

by Nina Mason

  Wrinkling her nose as if she’d smelled something foul, she added, “I am less impressed, however, by the fact that he works in them himself—with his own two hands, no less—not just to supervise the gardener. Can you imagine?” She laughed in a denigrating manner. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal of getting one’s hands dirty—or of knowing this or that Latin name for some stupid flower or tree. It all seems so dreadfully dull and pointless to me, not to mention, uncivilized.”

  Appalled by her speech (and her ignorance), Jane said, “Far from uncivilized, the communion with nature gardening provides is a balm for the soul. You might try it at least once before reproving the industry so bitterly.”

  Lady Cécile’s eyes widened in shock. “What? And ruin my manicure? Have you abandoned your senses, Miss Grey?”

  Jane considered mentioning the existence of gardening gloves, but decided not to waste her breath. They were almost to the house and she’d grown weary of the girl’s tedious conversation and thoughtless remarks. Getting this silly girl to listen to reason by the new year seemed an impossible feat.

  When the carriage pulled to a stop before the château’s front door, Lord Brontë—clad in a painter’s smock, narrow-legged trousers, and a black beret—came out to greet them. Jane’s improper flutterings returned as her gaze roamed over his person. The driver climbed down, opened the door, and unfolded the steps. As Lady Cécile emerged, the coachman helped her down, but, as usual, left Jane to fend for herself. Lord Brontë, observing the servant’s slight, stepped up and offered his arm.

  As she took his elbow, he said, “Welcome to my humble abode, Miss Grey. And thank you for your thoughtfulness in being so punctual.”

  “I would hardly classify Cœur Brisé as humble, sir.” Her heart beat faster as she used his strong arm to aid her descent. “And Lady Cécile has just been singing the praises of your admirable gardens. Perhaps when our lesson is finished, you would be kind enough to give me leave to explore the grounds.”

  Jane looked up at the sky. It was an exceptionally fine day. Clear, sunny, and warm, but not overly so. It almost seemed a shame to waste such glorious weather cooped up in a painting studio. She was, however, willing to make the sacrifice, as she’d looked forward to these lessons ever since he made the offer.

  “Let us explore them together, Miss Grey.” Turning to her charge with one of his dazzling smiles, he added, “You, me, and Lady Cécile, of course.”

  After escorting the ladies into the house, he led them through a hall with a beautifully painted ceiling and checkerboard marble floor into a sizeable and sparsely furnished room. The floor was tiled, the ceiling coffered, and the air peppered with traces of turpentine and linseed oil.

  Light poured in from a substantial window on the east-facing wall. In front of the view, bathed in bright sunlight, were a gold velvet chaise and large wooden easel. Whatever he was working on was covered with a bedsheet. A short distance away, more canvases were stacked alongside a magnificent mirrored armoire, their painted sides to the wall.

  Two smaller easels occupied the room’s center. The table between them was paint-spattered and held two sets of tools consisting of charcoal sticks, small clumps of putty, and tapered sticks wrapped in strips of linen. In front of the easels, another table held an arrangement of apples, grapes, bread, and cheese.

  “You will find smocks over there.” He pointed toward the armoire. “To protect your clothing from the charcoal dust.”

  After Jane and Lady Cécile removed their gloves and bonnets and put on their smocks, he showed them to their respective easels.

  “Do either of you have any experience drawing with charcoal?”

  “No,” replied both, after which Jane added, “But I’ve long wanted to try my hand at sketching with charcoal.”

  “In that case, I’ll begin with the rudiments.” He took his place behind them. “Charcoal is an excellent medium for achieving gradation, but can also be messy to use. The sticks, you will find, are quite delicate, too. So, do take care when applying pressure to the paper, lest they break in your hand.”

  Jane saw then that what she’d presumed was a blank canvas on her easel was actually a sheet of drawing paper.

  “We will begin with a few basic exercises in shading,” he continued. “First, select a stick of charcoal from the box near your easel. You will start by pressing as hard as you can without breaking the stick. Then, gradually, ease up on the pressure until you’ve achieved a progression of shades from the darkest possible to the lightest possible.”

  Jane picked up the stick, which immediately blackened her fingers, and did as he’d instructed. When she’d completed the task to the best of her abilities, he leaned in to have a look.

  “Well done, Miss Grey. Now, with the tip of the blending stick I’ve provided, rub the whole of what you’ve just drawn until the progressions blur together.”

  She did as instructed. “Like this?”

  “Yes. Do you see how the blending of the shades creates a smooth gradation?”

  “I do, yes.”

  After similarly guiding Lady Cécile through the exercise, he gave them several more simple assignments. When they’d completed them all to his satisfaction, he said, “Now, I want you both to attempt a sketch of the still life I’ve arranged on the table before you. But, instead of drawing fruit, bread, and cheese, I want you to perceive your subject as an arrangement of lines, shadows, and highlights.”

  “Lord Brontë,” said Lady Cécile’s with an edge in her voice. “I really must protest your methods. When I agreed to come here for drawing lessons, I didn’t expect to be made to resemble a common chimneysweep. Just look at my hands.” Turning round, she held up her begrimed fingers for his inspection. “They are as black as if I’d been working in a coal mine!”

  “The charcoal dust will wash off, my lady,” he replied, nonplussed, “with the application of a little soap and water.”

  “Yes, but—”

  The abrupt halt in the girl’s objection brought Jane around on her stool to see a young gentleman had entered the room.

  “Phillippe!” shrieked Lady Cécile, her expression now ecstatic. “What a wonderful surprise. I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “I arrived this morning—for the reading of my aunt’s will,” came the young man’s jovial reply. “I was planning to call upon you later today, but, by fortunate happenstance, here you are!” Then, more contemplatively, he added, “Perhaps it’s a sign my luck is beginning to change.”

  “Miss Grey, I don’t believe you are acquainted with the lately deceased Countess’s nephew,” Lord Brontë interjected. “Allow me to present Phillippe L’Hiver, the Marquis of Monaco.” Shifting his address to the young lord, he explained, “Miss Grey is Lady Cécile’s new governess.”

  “It’s a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord L’Hiver,” said Jane.

  “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Grey.” He offered a big smile and a small bow to garnish the compliment.

  Jane made a quick study of the marquis, unimpressed by his looks. He was tall and thin with sandy hair and mutton-chop side whiskers. The sallowness of his complexion and dark circles around his eyes suggested he wasn’t in the best of health.

  “How long will you be staying in Tours?” Lady Cécile wanted to know.

  Lord Brontë, rather than Lord L’Hiver, answered her. “My nephew will be my guest until the end of the year.”

  “Oh, but that won’t do,” she exclaimed. “You must extend your hospitality a few more days at least, Lord Brontë, for I couldn’t bear it if Phillippe missed my ball by only two days!”

  Lord Brontë offered her a placating smile. “I see no harm in extending the marquis’ visit by a few more days—providing he has no other pressing engagements.”

  “Even if I did, I would cancel them,” Lord L’Hiver cheerfully told Lady Cécile. “For I wouldn’t dream of missing your debut for the world. But, for now, I must beg you to excuse me, for I have a
lready intruded upon your lesson too long—and I must not invite my uncle’s displeasure when he’s been kind enough to take me in.”

  After the young man took his leave, they went on with the drawing lesson. When they’d finished their sketches, they shed their smocks, washed their hands, and tidied their appearances in preparation for the promised tour of the grounds.

  No sooner had Lord Brontë escorted them out of doors than Lord L’Hiver reappeared and, hooking Lady Cécile’s arm, whisked her away down one of the garden’s many gravel paths.

  Perceiving no threat to the girl’s reputation—and greatly desiring to be alone with Lord Brontë—Jane let her go with no more warning than to mind her Ps and Qs.

  As she took Lord Brontë’s offered arm, he said, “I was impressed with your drawing today.”

  His compliment lifted her spirits. “Were you?”

  “Yes, Miss Grey. I believe you show great promise as an artist.”

  “Thank you. Your praise means a great deal to me.”

  “I’m only being truthful.”

  He led her along a footpath at the end of which stood a small, neoclassical pavilion.

  “What a pretty fabrique,” she observed aloud.

  “You have impressed me again, Miss Grey,” said he. “For I wouldn’t have expected an Englishwoman to know the French name for a structure of this type.”

  In England, such decorative monuments were known as “follies,” but her study of formal gardening had included many French examples.

  “Does it serve any purpose?”

  “Besides adding charm and interest to the gardens,” he said, “I use it as an outdoor studio at times.”

  As they passed the fabrique, he turned down another path toward a salon of ornamental gardens made up of manicured boxwood hedges and topiaries. Some were heart-shaped, others geometrical. Red, pink, white, and yellow blooms filled their centers. Roses, mostly, but not exclusively. The splendor of the sculptural lay-out took her breath away.

  “This is my special garden,” he told her. “What do you think of it?”

  “I think it nothing shy of magnificent.”

  “It gladdens me to hear you say so, for I’ve labored upon this plot since I took up residence here.”

  “Your effort and care are evident, sir.”

  He smiled down at her and patted the hand she’d locked around his forearm. “I thought we agreed you would call me Matthew when we’re alone.”

  Joy fluttered in her breast. “It’s beautiful…Matthew.”

  A lump of emotion formed in her throat as she took in the black armband encircling his bicep. How soon would he be ready to take another wife? The thought provoked a pang, so she cast it from her mind. There was little chance he’d marry someone like her, and wishing and hoping would do nothing to improve the odds.

  “The garden is of the Andalusian style.” He swept his unencumbered arm across the expanse. “Do you see how the borders form four separate quadrants?”

  “Yes.” Upon closer inspection, she noticed the boxwood hearts in one bed were intact while those in another were split in half. “Why do the quadrants symbolize?”

  “Each represents a different aspect of love. That section there”—he pointed to the segment primarily displaying pink roses—“signifies tender love. The red roses in the corners are the flames of love surrounding the hearts, which are pink—the color of tender feelings. At the center are the masks worn at masquerade balls to conceal the wearer’s identity.”

  “What do the masks represent?”

  “In masks, we all become equal. Just as when we are in love.”

  Jane smiled at the sentiment, which struck remarkably close to home. “Tell me about the other three quadrants.”

  “The section just there represents passionate love.” He gestured toward the square in the northeast corner. “Do you see how the hearts are broken in that one?”

  “Yes, I do. Is that how the castle got its name? For Cœur Brisé means broken heart, does it not?”

  “It does, and that is an excellent guess,” he told her, “but this garden didn’t exist when I came here. It’s construction was my doing.”

  Jane blinked at him in astonishment. “You designed this garden yourself?”

  “I did, inspired in part by The Romance of the Rose, an old French allegory about the art of courtly love, and in part by The Garden of Love by William Blake, which speaks of religion’s repression of sexual desires. Though my garden is nothing like those in either poem.”

  “I see.” At his mention of sexual desires, a small thrill squirmed in her loins. “Now, I’d like to hear about the quadrant of passionate love, if you don’t mind.”

  “Far from minding, it would be my pleasure.” He gestured toward the quadrant in question. “The broken hearts represent thwarted passion. And the clumps of boxwood are entangled to form a maze meant to evoke the blindness and bewilderment of passion. Over there”—he indicated the square to the left of the last one—“is the quadrant devoted to flighty love. The fans occupying all four corners symbolize flirtation and capriciousness. Between the fans are the horns representing betrayal and, in the center, the letters exchanged by lovers. As you can see, the roses in this square are yellow—the color of betrayal.”

  Her fears regarding his intentions toward Lady Cécile eased some as she gazed upon the section he’d just described. Surely, a man with the wherewithal to plant an entire garden devoted to flighty love could recognize it when he met it in the flesh.

  “Last, is the quadrant of tragic love,” he continued, gesturing toward the final quarter. “Here, the boxes are shaped into daggers and swords—the weapons used in duels fought by the rivals for a lady’s affections. The flowers, as you see, are red to symbolize the blood spilled in such contests.”

  As Jane studied the garden’s details, she was tempted to ask him what had inspired such a sentimental monument. The question, however, required no answer, for it was right in front of her, spelled out in flowers and hedges. He’d been unfulfilled in his marriage. The reasons didn’t matter. What mattered was that she understood his regrets to the core of her being. He, too, had been a drifting ship with no anchor to drop or safe harbor in which to seek refuge. Like her, he knew the hardship of never being able to open his heart, or freely share his thoughts with any hope of understanding.

  And Jane knew all too well that to be confined to such unsympathetic companionship for an extended period of time was akin to depriving a rose bush of life-sustaining sunshine and nutrients. No one’s heart and soul could thrive under such blighting conditions.

  Hers certainly hadn’t, either at home in England or as a governess who must keep her feelings and opinions to herself, lest she overstep her bounds, as she’d done at her last place of employment.

  “I understand, Matthew. Truly I do. Your garden is akin to a poem whose meaning the heart grasps but the mind cannot explain.”

  “Indeed, Miss Grey. That was precisely my intention when I created it.”

  “Please.” Strong emotion threatened to overwhelm her. “Call me Jane when we’re alone.”

  “Jane,” he repeated softly, turning toward her. “An ordinary name for an extraordinary person.”

  As she stood there gazing into his beguiling dark eyes, she came dangerously close to forgetting she wasn’t good enough to win the heart of a man like him.

  * * *

  As Matthew and Jane walked back toward the house, his hopes strained against the ropes he’d used to tether them to the ground. If not for those bindings, he would have kissed her just now, ruining them both.

  But, oh how close he’d come!

  Jane Grey was a superior woman, who seemed to understand him better than anyone he’d ever met, his mother included. And he felt as though he understood her, too.

  “Tell me, Jane, are you still reading my cousin’s novel?”

  “I must confess that I am.” A blush enflamed her cheeks. “Partly because I have so little time for
reading, but mainly because…well, let me just say that I’m not like those readers who rush through the pages of a book as if running a footrace toward the finish line. I read in the manner of a leisurely stroll, drinking in the story like a beautiful flower until it takes root in my soul.”

  An impressive answer. “And what, if I may, is your opinion so far of the hero of the novel?”

  “I find him a tragic figure,” she said.

  Her answer intrigued him. “Tragic, not wicked?”

  “Wicked only in that he should have been truthful with the heroine about his dilemma.”

  He arched an eyebrow in her direction. “To what better end?”

  “She might have understood him.”

  Ah-ha. A chance to test the waters. “Yes, but would she have stayed with him, knowing he couldn’t lawfully marry her?”

  He waited on tenterhooks for her reply, sure she was insightful enough to decipher his meaning. Before she could give voice to her response, however, Lady Cécile and Phillippe, their heads bent in intimate conversation, stepped from a side path onto the one he and Jane were walking.

  Upon seeing them, Cécile broke off in the middle of whatever she’d been saying to exclaim, “Well, well. How chummy the two of you appear to be. Now I see why Miss Grey was so eager to come to Coeur Brisé. Not for the drawing lessons as much as to cozy up to the drawing master.”

  To her credit, Miss Grey laughed off her pupil’s ridicule. “Now, come, Lady Cécile, don’t be silly. You know perfectly well our host was only showing me his beautiful gardens.”

  “He was showing you his love garden, I’ll wager.” Her tone of voice was maddeningly suggestive. “Tell me, Miss Grey, did he kiss you among the roses? Did your toes curl as his tongue caressed yours?”

  When Miss Grey’s face colored, Matthew’s irritation rose steeply. “What idiocy all this is! We were only walking and talking—unlike the two of you, I’ll venture.”

  The blush that pinkened Lady Cécile’s cheeks let him know his accusation wasn’t far from the mark. Her lips were swollen, too—a clear indication they’d been kissing. He probably should have said something before they’d run off together, in light of the discernible preference she’d shown toward Phillippe the last time he’d visited his aunt; though, for the life of him, Matthew couldn’t fathom what she found in the least attractive about the no-account scoundrel.