A Prince for Aunt Hetty

by Kimberly Truesdale

  The children grabbed his hands and pulled him forward, chattering happily to their new friend and to each other. He was greeted in the parlor by a friendly scene. A fire burned high in the fireplace and they had saved him a chair close to it. Rupert shook Hayes' hand and sat down opposite him. Refreshment was in his hand before he'd even had time to settle into the chair.

  He greeted the ladies, too, careful to observe Hetty. She was all politeness toward him, but not a hint of anything else. His heart felt heavy in his chest. Did I only imagine there was something else in her eyes when she looked at me yesterday?

  “Thank you again for having my little demons to your house yesterday,” Hayes said with good-humor in his voice.

  “You are very welcome. I hope they enjoyed themselves,” Rupert replied.

  “They very much did,” Hayes said. “Indeed, they are, as you hear them, very loud and still chattering on about all the fun things they did yesterday.”

  Rupert laughed. “Well, I was glad to have them. That house can sometimes seem very big. Some children running around will do it – and me – good.”

  “So you are all alone there?” Hayes questioned. Rupert had the feeling the ladies were listening as well from their place on the sofa just behind him.

  “I am.”

  “I expect it's quite peaceful.” He winked. “Not like in this house.”

  Rupert gave an embarrassed smile. With Hetty listening, he wanted to choose his words carefully. “Very quiet. Almost too much so, at times.”

  “I would be happy to send my children to disturb your peace anytime you'd like.”

  “They are welcome any day and time,” Rupert offered.

  “That's very kind of you, Henderson. But don't let them hear you say that or they will take you up on it. Then you will have to subject any of your guests to the comings and goings of an adopted family.”

  “That will be no issue at all, Hayes,” he said. “I don't plan on having any guests.”

  “None whatsoever?” Hayes' raised his eyebrows in question.

  “None that I expect.”

  If possible, Hayes' eyebrows rose higher on his forehead. “Not even family to disrupt your solitude? Or perhaps the company of a lady?” The last was whispered overly loud and accompanied by a very unsubtle wink.

  “No,” Rupert confirmed, hoping the dim light from the fire served to hide his blush. He had never really thought of that. Mistresses were for younger men who had time and energy and money for that sort of thing.

  “Oh,” Hayes dampened his humor. “I am sorry to hear that you have no family.”

  “No matter,” Rupert said. He knew the man meant well and was merely joking with him. “My father and mother are long ago gone.”

  Silence fell between them as both men pondered life and death in that moment of pause that always follows the discussion of loved ones who have died.

  “And no lady to embroider all the cushions in your house or complain that she is too cold or that the soup was not quite right at dinner last night?” Hayes asked, now clearly also aware that Hetty and her sister were listening to their conversation.

  “None, sir.” Rupert's humor returned. “I was never rich enough or handsome enough to deserve a wife. And even if I had, I doubt any woman would have put up with me for long.”

  “You give women too little credit, Henderson. I make sure to smile at Agatha once a week and that seems to be all she needs.”

  Mrs. Hayes gave a loud huff of protest behind them. She muttered something that made both women giggle. A pang of loneliness stabbed through Rupert's heart so hard he almost clutched his chest. He liked his life of solitude and quiet here in the country, but he did sometimes miss the company that was so readily available in town. It was a paradox. When he was there, all he wanted was quiet. When he was here in the country, he wished sometimes there were people about. And to be in this domestic scene as a visitor also hurt. It was true, he had no family left and no prospect of creating such a scene for himself. Most days this didn't bother him, but it suddenly hurt to think of what he had missed.

  “But,” Hayes continued, bringing Rupert back into the conversation, “I thought you were a London man. Surely some distant acquaintance will impose upon you when they take it in mind to rusticate. Why do you think we let Hetty come and stay?”

  Another loud snort from where the women were.

  “I am a London man, Hayes, you are right. But my friends all seem to have other places to rusticate if the need arises.

  Hayes nodded in acceptance. “And I suppose you need a copious amount of solitude in order to do your work.”

  “My work?” Rupert was taken by surprise, tinged with a bit of panic. Did they know about yesterday? Had Hetty told them about the painting? He supposed the children had said something about their adventure, but he hadn't considered that that would include revealing that he was a painter or that he had painted Hetty.

  Apparently, Mrs. Hayes could no longer remain an observer to their conversation. She exclaimed, “Oh yes! Your secret's out, Mr. Henderson!”

  Both men looked around their chairs toward her. Rupert's eyes went immediately toward Hetty. She was looking intently at the needlework in her lap.

  “My secret?”

  “Oh yes, yes,” Mrs. Hayes enthused. “My children came home raving about all the fun they had at your home yesterday, including something about getting to paint. I hope they didn't ruin anything.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Hayes,” Rupert replied. “It was all a happy accident that they found the room, but I was glad to make them happy.” Hetty kept her head down. He wished she would look at him.

  “And Hetty confirmed to me that the paintings she saw in your studio room were quite good, perhaps even some of the best she'd ever seen.” Mrs. Hayes threw the words at him as if they were nothing more than a statement of fact. But to Rupert they were much more. It appeared that Hetty hadn't told them exactly what she had seen in that room. And then to hear that she thought his paintings were among the best she'd seen. He stared hard at her, hoping she would look up and give him some clue to her thoughts.

  Mrs. Hayes continued talking. “Hetty told us your portraits were uncanny in likeness. I should like to see them sometime. And Jonathan and I would like to know if you would paint a portrait of our dear children.”

  He was concentrating so intently on Hetty that it took a moment for him to realize what Mrs. Hayes had said. “A portrait?” he repeated.

  “Yes, Henderson,” Hayes piped in. “We have some portraits of the older children, but we haven't done one of all six of our little hellions yet. Would you do us the honor?”

  “Of... of course,” Rupert agreed, still a bit stunned by the past few moments. “But would you like to see my work?”

  “Hetty tells us it's splendid. And I trust her much more than I trust myself. She is, after all, the one who lives in London and knows what all the new talent is,” Mrs. Hayes chattered happily. Her trust made a refreshing change from his usual clients who demanded very exactly what and how he would paint.

  Within a few minutes it was settled that Rupert should paint portraits of the children in whatever style he thought best and for whatever price he would name. It was the easiest transaction he had ever conducted. For someone else, he might have taken advantage of this freedom to put a high price on his time and resources. But for the Hayes family, he was happy to do it. Indeed, he might do it for free.

  An idea occurred to Rupert. “Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Yes?” Hayes' eyebrows climbed high on his forehead again. Rupert noted the quirk for the future.

  “I would like to strike a bargain with you.” He paused and they waited. “What if I do the portrait for free --”

  “Oh, we couldn't let you do that,” Mrs. Hayes protested.

  Rupert held up his hand to stop her. “Hear me out,” he grinned. “What if I do the portrait for free, but you let me use the children in some of my other
paintings.”

  They considered his offer. Rupert added, “I would let you approve everything. But I have recently had an idea and I think your children would be perfect for it.”

  “Well, I can't see anything wrong with that,” Hayes shrugged. Mrs. Hayes nodded her assent.

  “Excellent! I don't know why I didn't think of it before. Do you approve, Miss Masters?” Hetty had remained silent the whole time, studiously working on the mending. She looked up, clearly startled to be addressed directly.

  “I... uh... I believe it will be fine.” She gave him a lopsided smile, as if she was unsure whether to smile or not. Rupert grinned back, wanting to show his thanks.

  “Children!” Mrs. Hayes called across the room to the children who had been running in and out. They stopped now and looked at her. “Come here, please.” With some pushing and shoving, they all gathered around their mother. “How would you like it if Mr. Henderson painted your portraits?”

  “Really?” Vanessa asked. She reached up to pat at her hair, as if wondering whether it would do.

  “When?” asked Harriet. “Can we do it right now?” The child looked seriously from her mother to Rupert. Mrs. Hayes turned to him and raised her shoulders in a shrug that left it up to him.

  “Well,” Rupert smiled at the girl. “I guess so. As long as you can fetch me some paper and a pencil, I think we can get to work.”

  The children were excited about yet another new adventure in the company of their friend. While Rupert set up some chairs, they described more and more elaborate scenes for their portrait. The most elaborate included a scene much like the theatrical they had put on the day before, with the boys battling a dragon – who would, of course, be a real dragon and not a man in a costume – and the girls dressed as princesses. This was quickly vetoed by their parents, who explained that they wanted it to be a likeness they could hang in the parlor for everyone to see and, therefore, dragons were off-limits.

  “Besides,” Mrs. Hayes tried to mollify the disappointed children, “today Mr. Henderson will just do some sketches of you all. We can always change it later.”

  Since the afternoon sun was growing dimmer, Rupert took up a station near the big windows at the end of the room. There was a little table there and a few chairs. With the help of the children, he maneuvered one of the sofas toward the light. Then he positioned them across it.

  They began to grow restless as he moved them this way and that. So Hetty came up with a plan. She announced that she would read them a story while they sat still and did what Mr. Henderson said. This pleased them. She retrieved the story – a book of fairy tales, as Rupert discovered once she started reading – and began to read. They sat spellbound by her voice. Rupert now knew exactly where they had gotten the fanciful ideas for their theatrical yesterday and why they had so wanted to be painted as knights and princesses today. It was actually quite charming.

  Once he was satisfied with the arrangement of the children, he turned back toward the window and the little table. But some instinct caught him before he had moved too far. There before him was a scene that struck his imagination and his heart: Miss Harriet Masters reading a book by the light of the dimming afternoon sun. She was intent on her task, her whole body absorbed in the story, unconscious of everything else. But it was more than that that grabbed at Rupert's heart. It was something about the scene that made him once again feel that loneliness he'd felt earlier. It was a glimpse of something that he didn't have and hadn't known he ever wanted.

  Rupert knew, though, that the children would not stay attentive for long, so he reluctantly made his way to the table and got to work on drawing the children while Hetty continued to read. Soon, he lost himself in the work, shutting out everything around him to focus on the positions and faces of the children in front of him. He was concentrating so much, in fact, that he didn't realize that Hetty had stopped reading until he felt eyes upon him.

  “Rupert?”

  He looked up at Hetty. “Oh, I'm sorry. I was concentrating.”

  “I could see that,” she chuckled.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I think the children might need to get up and move around a bit,” she said.

  Rupert looked at them. The little ones could hardly sit still and even the older children were beginning to wiggle. “Oh, of course! How long have we been sitting here?”

  “Nearly three quarters of an hour. I've finished reading the book.”

  “I'm so sorry. Of course you may get up children. I have what I need for today,” he called over to them. They raced to a tray of cakes and pastries that had been brought into the room sometime while he'd been lost in the drawing.

  Hetty remained seated, but now she was looking closely at him and the sketches on the table. “Did you not hear me finish reading?”

  Rupert apologized. “I'm sorry. When I am sketching or painting, I tend to lose track of the world around me.”

  “I noticed.” They looked at each other for the first time all day, but he still could not read her face. “So tell me your story,” she said.

  “My story?”

  “Yes, how did you get to be so talented? I mean, people can have talent, but you have clearly developed yours in a most extraordinary way.”

  “You think so?” Rupert was embarrassed at her words and yet wanted to hear more.

  “I do. I am no expert in artistic things, but those paintings in your studio were something I've not seen before. Where did you come from?”

  He laughed. “Only a little place called London.”

  “But I know London and I have never heard of you. So where have you been hiding?” She was looking intently at him.

  Rupert's mind went to war with itself. He wanted to tell her his story, share his life with a woman who he thought would understand. But at the same time, he'd moved to the country to be anonymous, to escape himself and what he had been. It had defined him and his art for nearly his entire life. And now he wanted to find himself, find what suited him and discover what he wanted to paint. Her praise of his work made him think that he had done that, but how would she change if she knew the truth? He'd seen the look many times. One that said he was no longer his own person. One that said he was subsumed in the story he'd told. Did he want that with Hetty?

  No. He wanted her to know the real him, independent of what he had been. So he played off her question. “I seem to have been hiding in plain sight if you haven't seen me. I hear that you are quite the person to know when one is in town.”

  She looked at him with eyebrow's knit for a moment, clearly disappointed in his response. Her brow finally cleared after a long moment and she laughed. “Am I now? And where did you hear this?”

  “A certain sister told me a little bit about you.”

  “Oh, she did? You know you cannot believe anything she says.”

  “Hmmm... so I should not believe that you had a previous life as a privateer capturing Spanish ships and spending all of your gold on drink and women?”

  She laughed loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room. “No, I think not. Even as delightful as that sounds.” Her eyes flashed with humor and her mouth quirked to just the angle he'd been waiting for, though he hadn't known it. It was what he needed to finish her portrait. He searched the table for a new sheet of paper and began scribbling quickly.

  “Rupert?”

  Had he drifted into his own world again? “I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be rude.” He gave her an apologetic smile.

  “It's all right, but is everything good?”

  “Yes, I just discovered the perfect thing I needed to finish your portrait.” He heard her breathe in quickly, a sign of alarm. Oh no. “I... I mean... that is, if you would allow me to... to finish it.” Damn. And it was going so well.

  “My portrait.” She said it as a statement.

  “Hetty, I know you were startled yesterday. I know I should have asked you.”

  She interrupted him. “I have been thinking ab
out it all day.”

  “And?” Rupert felt as if his fate hung in the balance of what she said.

  “And...” she was fingering the papers on the table and not looking at him. “And I think I would like you to finish it.” She looked up at him.

  Rupert breathed out in relief. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “I am,” she nodded. “This afternoon I have seen the care you take with your drawing and the way it absorbs you. I cannot imagine the hours you spent on that painting and I would hate for you to either leave it unfinished or destroy it. I only ask --”

  “Yes?”

  “That you not display it once it is finished.”

  “Of course not. And if I ever wanted to, I should ask your permission first.” He wanted to assure her, set her mind at ease at the same time that his hopes were soaring.

  “Good.”

  With that settled, they fell into a comfortable silence. Rupert turned back to his drawings and Hetty went back to her book. Their camaraderie lasted through their intimate meal with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes. And then through a lengthy after-dinner chat in the parlor. It was a jovial time and Rupert learned much about Hetty and Agatha's childhood together. He saw how it had shaped both women into intelligent, humorous, charming adults. He also heard much about Hetty's life in town. He had been half joking when he had teased her about being the one to know. But with the kind of stories she told, he saw that it was true. And each new story about her made him want to know her even more.

  Too soon it was time for him to go. He could have stayed all night just talking with these new friends. Rupert shook Jonathan's hand and kissed Agatha's before he turned to leave. His hosts made themselves suspiciously scarce and it was left to Hetty to escort him to the door. Not that he exactly minded.

  They both hesitated at the door.

  “So I should finish the portrait?” He wanted confirmation again.

  “Yes.”

  “It's very generous. Thank you.”

  She bit her lip. “ I must confess that I am very curious to see it finished. I see my own face in the looking glass each day. But what you have on that canvas is something I have never seen in myself. Asking you to finish it is rather vain, if I am honest.”