A Prince for Aunt Hetty

by Kimberly Truesdale

“They are in town, in fact! Did I not tell you?”

  “No, you have not. When did they return?”

  “A few days ago now. They are settling in and appreciating some of the entertainments London has to offer. I suspect,” Lola lowered her voice, though there was no one near enough to hear them, “that both young people had grown a bit weary of her parents. From what I have seen of them, they do tend to smother her. I cannot imagine it was any less on their own home patch.”

  Hetty giggled. “Now, don't disparage their parenting, Lola.”

  “Says the woman who has remained blissfully childless her whole life,” Lola teased.

  “I have,” Hetty confirmed. “Children are good if they belong to someone else and I can give them back at the end of the day.” The women laughed. They'd been through this all before.

  “It is your privilege to say that. You, who have never had to stay up all night with a child who will not sleep.”

  “Ah, that is where you are wrong, my friend. I have stayed up many nights – most recently on this last visit to my sister – nursing children through illnesses.”

  “So you have the duty without the ownership. Sounds like a bad deal to me,” Lola shook her head.

  “We have been over this many times. I am aunt to many children and godmother to yours. I have my hands full.”

  “You do, indeed.”

  “So what has Howard been up to since his arrival? I have not seen him or Maria at any of the parties we've been to.”

  “They've been having a quiet time of it, though I'm sure you'll see them soon. I rather think that Maria hasn't been feeling well and they've been trying to keep it from me.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. I hope it is not anything serious.”

  “I hope so too. But they have ventured out in the afternoons to various places. In fact, I had wanted to tell you about a showing they liked at Dulwich.”

  “A new artist?” Hetty was intrigued.

  “Apparently. And Howard had nothing but good things to say for the art. He said we simply must go and see it. He said it's art that makes him smile, that makes him feel good, whatever that means. Maria echoed his sentiments.”

  “Well, you know how I love to visit Dulwich. And with such a high recommendation we can hardly miss it, can we?”

  “I think not,” Lola agreed. “Howard and Maria might even like to return with us. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I think we had planned to make some calls, but those can be saved for another day. Cat!” Hetty called out to her niece.

  “Yes?” The young woman called back. She and Jack stopped walking and waited for Hetty and Lola to catch them up.

  “Lola has just been telling me about a new artist that has very much impressed her son. She wonders if we would like to go see his exhibit at the Dulwich Picture Gallery tomorrow.”

  “I think that sounds quite agreeable. Much more so than making calls,” Cat smiled. She knew her niece was a kind soul, but her patience sometimes ran thin on these afternoons of endless calls and mindless talk. She preferred an afternoon with friends and family.

  “It is settled then,” Lola said. “Tomorrow we will sally forth into the wilds to view art.”

  “In the meantime, may we sally forth to someone's home for tea?” Jack grinned.

  “Only if you will regale us with yet another story of your misspent youth, Jack,” Cat teased.

  “Done and done,” he said.

  “Then I think we had better go to our house, my dears,” Hetty said. “We would not want your children being shocked by Jack's, shall we say, interesting past...”

  “I'm really not that bad, ladies,” Jack protested as they made their way back to Hetty's townhouse for the afternoon.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DULWICH PICTURE GALLERY had only been open to the public for a few years, but it had already gained a following of devoted visitors, especially those eager to be near greatness or make some claim to knowing one of the artists displayed there. The gallery was associated with the Royal Academy of Arts and housed an extensive collection of art from all over the continent. It was especially known as a place for young artists to come and study. Any given afternoon, one could see half a dozen young men earnestly copying the paintings.

  Hetty had been there any number of times in the past few years, delighting in the brilliant light that, even on the dullest days, spilled into the gallery through windows in the ceiling. The building itself was a work of art and had been an example for many new rooms added to the houses of the wealthy in recent years. It also lent a kind of lightness to the space that made one want to spend hours there.

  They did not have hours to spend this afternoon, though, as Hetty, Cat, Jack, and Lola had all been specifically engaged by Lady Isabella Fairfax to attend her mid-season ball this evening. Hetty and Lola had known Lady Fairfax since before she had married into her title. Though she had spent nearly thirty years in town, she still worried that no one would attend her parties.

  Two weeks ago she had called specially on Hetty to beg her to attend and to make sure she brought Miss Catherine and anyone else she could enlist. So their trip this afternoon would not be a long one, but after Lola's enthusiastic review of the day before, they had all decided to spare an hour.

  Jack took Lola's arm when they descended from the carriage and escorted her up the walk, through the large brick doorway. Hetty followed with Cat in tow. She forgot that the young woman had never been here before and she smiled and listened kindly to her effusions on the beauty of the gardens to their left and the grand entryway in front of them.

  It seemed to be a quiet afternoon in the gallery. Hetty noticed only a few couples moving here and there. Just as well... more time for us to actually look at the paintings instead of catching up on the gossip of all and sundry.

  Once into the interior of the gallery, they were greeted with a grand sign announcing the new display: “The gallery is proud to host a limited-time engagement of a new artist, roundly praised by the Royal Academy of Arts and recommended by King George himself.”

  All of this Cat read out to them as they took in the spectacle of light and art around them. Hetty had spotted an unwanted acquaintance and was plotting how to avoid her as Cat continued to read.

  “Mr. Rupert Henderson has been praised as an exciting new talent and the gallery hopes you will enjoy his work.”

  No.

  Her mind rejected what she'd heard. Hetty spun around to read the sign for herself. And there it was: Mr. Rupert Henderson. Unmistakable and embossed in black letters right there for her to see. The world began to spin around her.

  It had not even occurred to Hetty that he might be the artist she was coming to see. It did not mesh with her thoughts. How could his artwork be here? In her mind it was only associated with her time at Hayes house. Of course, they'd all speculated that he'd been in London, but was this what he'd been doing?

  In the hush of the gallery, Hetty suspected that everyone could hear the pounding of her heart. She tried to steady her breathing, at the same time berating herself for such an overreaction.

  You are an adult, Harriet Masters. You are not a silly girl who cannot control her emotions and reactions to the littlest surprises. You knew you might see him sometime. And you have set aside those feelings. You decided not to be hurt and not to pine after a man you knew only incidentally, no matter how much you liked him or how much his kiss thrilled you. Really. Get yourself under control.

  The others had not yet noticed her discomposure, so she took a deep breath and determined to keep herself together. She reminded herself that no one knew about her kiss.

  In order not to betray herself and her feelings, Hetty hung back as Cat and Jack roamed each room, looking at the paintings that took their fancy. Hetty focused on her niece and the reactions she was having. It amused her that Cat picked out the very paintings Hetty herself was drawn to each time she came. But though Hetty focused her mind on this task, her body was still rea
cting to the shock of seeing Rupert's name on that sign.

  Oh no. It occurred to Hetty as they stood in front of a large portrait of a young woman named Lucy, that Hetty's portrait might be on display here. She quailed at the thought. By now she might have heard something from one of her friends, but she couldn't be sure.

  She tried to be patient as they roamed the rooms of the gallery, holding her breath each time they entered a new space, until finally there it was. Hetty looked around her eagerly, trying to take in the whole room at once. Thankfully she did not see her own face looking back at her from some obscure corner of the room. She breathed a little easier.

  Not knowing where to begin, Hetty again followed along behind Cat. She wanted to see all the paintings, of course, to gaze at them and try to find familiar elements or a way to understand the man behind them. Was this what he had been doing these past months?

  As they made their way around the room, Hetty saw a painting that looked like it might be the trees in the woods that separated Armstrong house and Hayes house. The way he had captured the light of the autumn sunset was spectacular. She might have stood in front of that painting for the whole time, had not Jack called them all to the other side of the room. On her way, Hetty saw beautiful portraits of men and women she did not know.

  But she stopped in her tracks when she saw a portrait of King George himself hanging there in this little room. The sunshine overhead illuminated the kindly-drawn portrait and caught the dazzling silver-gray of the King's waistcoat. It reminded Hetty that this exhibition was sponsored by the King himself.

  How does Rupert know the King? Hetty wondered. Surely that would be something one would share with friends. One might be disposed to boast about it. But Rupert had never said a word. And even if he'd sometime mentioned it to Agatha or Jonathan, Hetty would have heard.

  She pondered this as she covered the few steps to where Jack, Cat, and Lola were all admiring what they generally agreed to be their favorite of the paintings in the room. Hetty could not help her smile as she saw it. She took in the familiar scene rendered before her in brilliant paint while Jack explained to them that this one was titled “Play.”

  And play it had been. It was a scene of the maze outside Armstrong house, the very one where they'd spent a snowy afternoon. Indeed, there appeared to be a thin layer of snow on the ground in the painting. Through the hedges one could see small bodies and flashes of color, as if the bodies were in motion and could not be captured perfectly.

  Outside of the maze stood a slender woman, clearly supervising the scene, through her face was turned away. Hetty's cheeks heated when she saw that next to the woman was a man. One could see his profile as he looked, not at the children, but at the woman at his side. The overwhelming feeling from the scene was one of happiness and playfulness. Hetty didn't know whether it was her own remembrance of the scene or whether it was actually communicated in the painting.

  Her thoughts were answered when Lola began to speak to the group. “I do believe that this one is my favorite, though I think there are many in town who would scold me for saying so.”

  “Why would they scold?” Jack asked.

  “It is not fashionable, I think, to like simple scenes like this that remind one of home and family. It is much more proper to adore some stodgy old allegory painted by one of our Romantics.”

  Hetty chuckled, now eager to hear their praise for Rupert and somehow proud of it on his behalf. “Don't let any of those Romantics hear you say that!”

  Cat spoke. “And what is so different about this one? I quite like some of those portraits we saw before. They felt as if the person would walk right out at you.”

  “Oh, those can be nice,” Lola conceded. “But I like this painting because it feels a bit more raw. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” Jack agreed. “It shows a kind of style that is more about the feeling than about getting the features painted perfectly. In fact,” Jack peered at the painting closely, “I'm not sure there are any real faces here.”

  “That's exactly it,” Lola nodded. “Perfectly put. There is more feeling in this one, like the artist himself enjoyed this scene.”

  “It's like a memory in which the colors and the lines are pleasantly softened,” Hetty finally added her thoughts. They did not need to know that this was, in fact, a memory of hers.

  They continued to discuss the merits of the painting while Hetty moved around the room. She saw more portraits and a few pastoral scenes which might have been from around Armstrong house. Instead of the anxiety she had upon first entering the gallery, Hetty now felt a warm and almost pleasant feeling of recognition. She had played a role in this art and she felt proud on Rupert's behalf.

  But the anxiety returned as she approached the last wall of the room, near to where they had entered in the first place. There, hanging by itself, was a scene that looked all too familiar and a little bit intimate.

  She knew at once that it was her in the painting. The woman here didn't have a distinct face, but the scene was too familiar to mistake. In it, a woman sat on a chair facing away from the artist. She was deeply engaged in reading as she sat before a window spilling light over her. The rest of the room was darker, throwing most of the attention on the woman. It was the far side of the drawing room at Hayes house and the woman reading could only be Hetty herself.

  She stared at it for a long time, feeling a conflicted mess of emotions. So engrossed in the painting was she, that she did not hear the rest of them come up behind her until Lola announced that the painting at which Hetty was staring so intently was called “Home.”

  Home.

  What did it mean? This painting of her? With a title like “Home”?

  She had only begun to ponder it when two gentlemen, laughing loudly and disturbing the hush of the gallery, entered the room. She turned toward them with a glare ready on her face, but the expression quickly turned to one of surprise and horror. Especially when one of the men noticed her. He stopped laughing and stood staring at her.

  Hetty's feet, acting of their own accord under her extreme embarrassment, carried her out of the room and back toward the entrance of the gallery. She passed close to him on her way out, but he didn't try to stop her. She heard Cat call after her, asking her if she was ill, but Hetty merely waved her hand and headed for the door.

  Once outside she tried to breathe normally, but couldn't quite fill her lungs.

  After nearly three months, Rupert Henderson himself had just walked back into her life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HIS FEET WOULDN'T work. In fact, he didn't seem able to move at all. Except for his heart, which pounded along at breakneck speed. He wanted to go after her, but he couldn't seem to get his feet to agree.

  “All right, old man?” Sir Thomas Lawrence clapped him on the back. Rupert had brought his friend to the gallery today. They'd been busy of late and Thomas hadn't had a chance to see what Rupert had done with his paintings. So, thinking it would be a slow afternoon – it was the middle of the week, after all – Rupert had claimed his friend for a few hours and forced him away from the house. Thomas hadn't objected. They'd been working very hard and were anxious for any excuse for some time away.

  But now he was rethinking coming here. This was not the way or the place in which I wanted to do this.

  “Rupert? Man, talk to me. What is the matter?” Thomas was growing quite concerned.

  “Nothing, Tom, just... nothing.” Rupert tried to shrug it off. He hoped Thomas would get his meaning.

  “Nonsense. We were having a conversation and as soon as we walked in here, you froze, as if you'd seen --” Thomas looked at him curiously. Then he looked toward the door through which Hetty had just fled. “Ah, I think I see. Was that... her?” He inclined his head toward the door and raised his eyebrows in question.

  Rupert had regretted telling his friend anything at all about Harriet Masters as soon as it had come out of his mouth. It was shortly after he'd had all of his pa
intings shipped back to London. Thomas had spotted the half-finished portrait of Hetty and, of course, had teased him about it ever since. As a painter himself, Thomas knew when a man had found a muse. He'd wanted Rupert to finish the portrait and use it in the show. But Rupert had refused. He had made Hetty a promise not to display it and he hadn't.

  Not that it made much difference, judging by her reaction to seeing him. Did a woman run away from a man she wanted to see?

  When Rupert didn't say anything to him, Thomas made his own guesses. “It is her, isn't it? I was right.”

  “Yes, gloat all you want,” Rupert bit out the words.

  “Don't be upset with me.” Thomas wasn't truly offended. “But I say you need to move those legs of yours and go get her.”

  “Go get her?”

  “Yes! Follow her, go, move, take a trip, go on a journey... just go get her!” Thomas pushed him toward the door.

  “But --” Rupert stalled.

  Thomas shushed him. “No, no excuses. I have been in your place before and the best thing a man can do is go after the woman who has possessed his senses and his imagination. You must at least see what she has to say to you.” Thomas pushed his shoulders from behind and began marching with him toward the entrance to the gallery.

  “Fine, fine,” Rupert said after a few steps. Having moved his feet a short way, he found they were eager to cover the distance. Now, if he could just find out where she'd gone...

  Without thinking too much, he walked out the grand brick doorway and turned toward the gardens.

  And there she was.

  Standing under one of the newly-planted trees and facing away from him. He suddenly grew shy. What could he say? It had been months since he'd seen her and he did not even know if she'd thought of him at all.

  And if she had, what had she been thinking? He assumed it was probably not about how much she loved him. Not after so long without any word from him.

  He'd meant to write, he really had. But work had consumed his hours. Eventually he'd felt the window had closed and his opportunity had escaped him.