by Sophia Nash
She sat by the window, and became lost to the power of the image that took shape. It was a portrait of her father. She had drawn so many portraits of him, her first teacher. But each time she attempted a new one it gave her great comfort. It was as if she were having a conversation with him. Her questions to him were always answered by the expression of his face that took shape on the page. She liked how he was smiling in this—
A knock sounded at the door, and she immediately returned to the moment.
“Yes?”
“May I?”
It was his voice, but she had not a moment to think. “Of course.”
As he entered she stood up too quickly and placed too much weight on the ankle that was almost but not fully healed. She dropped her sketchbook and caught the edge of her chair with her hand to prevent more pain.
He rushed toward her. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. Really. It’s just that sometimes I forget to take a bit of care.”
“How is your ankle?”
“I swear to you that it is almost perfect. I just made an awkward movement. That is all.”
He gave her a long look and then bent to retrieve her sketchbook and the pages that had fallen out.
Of course the one that she had drawn of him while at Derby Manor was in full evidence along with more than a dozen others. Would the embarrassment never end?
He glanced at it and did not say a word. He picked up another one, a landscape and studied it before replacing it in her book. And then he studied each and every drawing as he carefully gathered them together.
The last one was the one of her father, nearly complete. He examined it for a long while, his eyes squinting.
She handed him her spectacles she had hastily removed, just like she did whenever he was in her presence.
He accepted them without comment and put them on the end of his broad nose. “Your father?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly.
“You are very like him, except for your eyes.”
“I know. I liked his eyes best of all.”
“You have your mother’s eyes.”
“Yes. And you must have your father’s eyes.”
“No one has ever suggested that,” he replied, ill at ease.
“There are no portraits of your father here. But you must take after him.”
He stiffened. “Not as much as my brother did.” He paused. “March . . . it is good to see you.”
“Thank you,” she replied. She wasn’t sure when she had felt this shy in her entire life.
He placed the book in her hands. “Tell me, how are you?”
“I am good. Excellent, really.” She stopped then rushed on. “I am so sorry you returned to find me and my mother installed here without any advance warning. It is just that my mother wrote to yours without informing me. It seems they were acquainted long ago and your mother insisted we stay here when we decided to come to Town.”
“It’s perfectly correct, March. You should always stay here when you are in London.”
“I would not have agreed had I thought you were coming back so soon. I only came to purchase goods before I leave. We are to sail very shortly.”
“I am so glad,” he replied. “March, you have a very great talent. Especially with portraits. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And I am certain this trip will be everything you hoped it could be and perhaps more.”
“Your mother is very excited about it too. We are going for part of the time to a place where she apparently spent some time one summer many years ago.”
“My mother?” He appeared stunned.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I guess she did not have time to relay it to you, but she asked if she could accompany me. I’ve never seen my mother so relieved. She was originally supposed to journey with me, but her heart wasn’t in it. She accompanied my father to so many museums in his lifetime that I think it secretly bores her to pieces. She was delighted to switch roles with your mother and chaperone your beautiful sister, during the social whirl of the upcoming Season.”
He did not respond and so she filled the void, as she was always wont to do.
“I should warn you that I do believe they have formed a wager. Your sister’s future husband is about to be found come hell or high water.” Esme could not think of another thing to say to fill the silence and so she stopped.
“My mother is going with you?”
He obviously hadn’t understood. “Yes. She is quite enchanted with the yacht you so very kindly purchased. Your sister tells me that she has never seen her mother this excited about anything. She even went so far as to interview the captain and every last potential member of the crew, along with your steward.”
He closed his eyes and sagged against the wall.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Are you worried about the idea of her sailing?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
He exhaled and heaved himself upright. “I’ve just realized I’ve made a grave mistake.”
She waited.
“I’d forgotten how much my mother loved to travel. My brother did too. She was forever sending me letters to my school or university from points across Europe and beyond. But it has been a long time since she went anywhere beyond England. I should have arranged this for her long ago.”
“Well then, this will be lovely for her. I am so glad.” And Esme was. She had adored his mother nearly on sight.
She would not tell Roman, but they had visited every last museum in Town during the time since she had been here. And at every entertainment, they had sought out and studied each privately owned piece of art.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” She retrieved an unsealed missive from a drawer in the bedside table and handed it to him. “This was delivered yesterday by a footman from Carleton House. It was directed to both of us so I took the liberty of opening it. I hope you do not mind. I was worried it was something important from Prinny.”
He opened the missive and quickly read it. “So we are still not to announce our wedding.”
“Correct. One can hope that news from people and servants who know the truth in Derbyshire will be slow traveling from the north.”
He smiled. “And Prinny is gone south toward Cornwall in secret?”
“It appears so.”
“Well, since Candover has gone with him, at least it appears an answer to my wager with Abshire will be forthcoming.”
“What wager?”
“The one in which I wagered that my poor, dear friend, the Duke of Kress will be soon wed, very likely against his will.”
A coldness invaded her veins. “It appears the same unhappy fate awaits all of you, then.” She turned and walked toward her bed, refusing to limp in his presence. “I wonder who will be next. Abshire’s goose will be cooked, don’t you think?” She hoped there was no trace of bitterness in her voice.
“March?”
“Yes?” She would not turn around. Instead she rearranged the bedcover.
“I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”
She turned to look at him across the chamber. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m no good at this. I told you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve trampled on your sensibilities again, haven’t I?”
“No,” she said. “I just don’t know the rules for a marriage of convenience.”
He walked over to her and took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Neither do I.”
She took a deep breath. “Then we shall just have to decide on them together.”
“All right. What do you propose?”
“Well, I would like as I mentioned before, that we treat each other with respect and kindness above all else. The way we would treat our best friends in the world. What would you propose?”
“It is rather what you said only more. That we only think of what will bring the other the most happiness.”
“That is very important,”
she breathed, “especially for best friends.”
He stepped a bit closer. “Can you think of any other ideas?”
“Yes.” This was going to be difficult to say aloud.
“What is it?” he asked gently, tilting her chin up to gaze steadily into her eyes.
His eyes were so very blue, even in this low light. She would always drown in his eyes.
“We shall always have to take care not to do two things.”
“Yes?”
“We must never have relations again as you do not want an heir, or let any level of intimacy hamper our independence.”
He removed his hand from her chin and bowed his head. “You are, of course, right. As always, March. I suppose I shall bid you good night, then.”
He walked to the door of her room and departed, gently closing the door behind him.
“Good night, you,” she whispered.
Roman made good on his promise and attended dinner the following evening, and the theatre after that. He took care to pay more attention to his mother and sister.
But during the day, he had a breakthrough in his plans for the waterworks. All the hours of computations, all the many days studying water wheels after the first one that had inspired him in Derbyshire, came to fruition. He tilted back his chair in his study and looked at the long scroll of paper completely unfurled across his desk.
It would work.
He had not a single doubt.
It would take years to build, of course. And it would first have to be examined by any number of other experts, and debated in the House of Lords, and monies appropriated by Prinny, and so on, and so forth.
But it would one day revolutionize basic, everyday life in London.
God. He could not believe he had actually done it.
He had a sudden desire to tell someone. But there was not a single one of his friends in town. Kress was in Cornwall, Candover on his way south with Prinny, and Abshire languishing in Derbyshire. He really was not all that close to any of the other members of the entourage.
He dropped the chair back to all four legs and shook his head. He knew that none of the gentlemen he had thought to have a word with were really the one person he most wanted to tell.
It was March.
Of course it was she. She had said it all last night. They were, and always would be, the best of friends.
But he was too shy to go to her. He could not understand why. He had no reason to be reticent with her.
Instead, he did what he knew best. He said not a word. Better he spend a few days planning the political steps it would take to see this plan implemented in the fastest, most efficient way possible.
Yes, it was better to keep his excellent news to himself. He didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to celebrate.
The afternoon before they were all to go to Vauxhall began with the arrival of an unexpected guest. A man whom Roman had never hoped to have to lay eyes on again.
William Topher arrived at the Norwich townhouse in Wyndam Square with a gleam in his eye and a letter in his hand.
All the residents of the townhouse were gathered in the large walled garden in the rear, where a light repast had been laid out under the dappled sunlight of a small stand of white-trunked birch trees. March had wanted to paint a portrait of his mother in the afternoon sun. His mother wore an expression of such serene happiness that Roman could not stop looking at her. The last time he had seen such an expression had been when Vincent was still alive, and they had all been sailing for the day. He stopped the remembrance abruptly and focused on the servant who approached.
“Your Grace?” A footman came forward. “There is a visitor asking for Her Grace, but if you will pardon me for saying so, I do not think he is referring to your mother.”
Roman nodded. “I shall see to—” He stopped short at the sight of William Topher walking toward them. The man had had the gall not to wait for the footman to return to invite him to the garden. He was the most insufferable man alive.
“William!” Lady Gilchrist suddenly exclaimed with a warm laugh. “What has brought you to Town?”
March put aside her brush and rushed forward to meet her mentor. “William, it is wonderful to see you,” she said warmly. “Lily? Your Grace?” She beckoned his sister and mother to come forward. “Do let me present to you my longtime mentor, Mr. William Topher.”
He bowed with a flourish.
“William, I am delighted to introduce Her Grace, the Duchess of Norwich, and—”
Roman’s mother interrupted with a correction. “The Dowager Duchess of Norwich, sir.”
His wife blushed and looked at his sister. “And this is Lady Lily Montagu, His Grace’s sister.”
“I am honored beyond words to meet you both. The reports of great beauty at Norwich Hall pale when faced with it in person.”
His mother beamed. “Thank you for the compliment to my daughter, sir.”
He smiled like a weasel. “I was speaking of you, Your Grace.”
Lily clapped her hands. “Oh, Esme was correct. I like you very much, sir.”
“Do call me William. I shall die a happy death if we can all be intimates.”
Roman looked at all four of the ladies surrounding his wife’s sodding mentor and decided the world had gone mad. Did they not recognize a simpering sycophant when they saw one? He shook his head in disgust.
“Ah, Your Grace,” Topher said bowing toward him. “I did not notice you against the shade of the tree. It is such a great honor and pleasure to see you again. I promise not to disturb this tranquil repast en famille, very long. I just have very important news to impart and then I shall decamp to the room I have taken at the hotel near the docks.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Topher,” his mother instantly said. “You must stay here. Will he not, Roman? This townhouse has nearly a dozen empty bedchambers.”
Five pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly.
Where was a duck when one needed one?
It took every ounce of self-control to modulate his voice. “Of course you must stay with us. Delighted to accommodate you, Topher.”
The man’s eyes brightened. “I do apologize to arrive without notice. Terrible of me, isn’t it?” He could not meet Roman’s eye. “But you see, the thing of it is, a letter arrived for me from Vienna.” He nodded his head and his eyes almost bulged with excitement. “Yes, yes, yes . . . it contains the most marvelous news. It is as I hoped, although with a slight alteration. It concerns you, Esme.”
“What is it, William?”
“The exiled Duc d’Orleans very much liked the works of yours I secretly sent to him.”
“What?” Esme said, shocked. “Why would you have sent my work to the duke?”
“Do you not remember that I have a regular correspondence with his daughter, whom I taught the year before I came to know you, my dear?”
“But how does that signify?” Esme asked, still taken aback.
“Well,” William began, “his daughter wrote to me and suggested her father was looking to commission a rendering of his new grand estate. I immediately proposed you, and promised I would be on hand also to guide you. But, and I hope you will pardon me for saying so, after I sent your portfolio, he changed his mind as many great men do.” Topher’s eyes darted to Roman in a most unguarded fashion. “For some odd reason, the duke now wants you to paint a portrait of himself, instead of the castle. Imagine, Esme! While it is vulgar to discuss payment, the amount he suggests stunned me to near speechlessness.”
Too bad Topher was only near to speechlessness, Roman thought darkly.
“What?” No less than three of the ladies said it at the same time.
“I am so glad I caught you before you sailed, Esme, I mean, Your Grace. I will, of course, have to go with you now. This is the most important piece of work you will ever attempt. But, never fear. I will be there to help you.”
Roman shook his head. He would never trust the man. There was something about his manner. And he was cer
tain—all jealousy aside—that the artwork Esme produced in the presence of Mr. Topher was not as good as the work she created on her own. Had not anyone else noticed it?
He cleared his throat. “March? I should like a word with you in private.”
She swiveled her head toward him, her gray eyes excited beyond recognition. “Of course.” She crossed the space between them and Roman offered his arm, which she accepted. They walked toward the mews, where their words would not be overheard.
“What is it, Montagu?”
“First, I congratulate you. You have unparalleled talent. And now you have an important first commission which shall prove it to the world.” He felt guilty. He should have arranged a way for her art to be displayed before now. He could have helped her more in her artistic endeavors instead of allowing that toad, Topher, to do it. “And I also want to tell you that I was wrong all those weeks ago when I suggested that artists are dreamers with little value. I was a fool to think it and I can’t even tell you why I had formed such an irrational opinion. Just the expression on my mother as you painted her likeness confirmed what an idiot I’ve been.”
She grasped his face between her hands and stroked his sideburns in the manner that sent a flood of tenderness through him. “Thank you, Montagu. Your approbation means a great deal to me.” Her eyes were shining with happiness.
“But there are two things I must add.”
“Yes?” Curiosity did not mar the happiness in her expression. She was so beautiful right now. So vibrant, so happy, so alive. But it would not last when he spoke the truth to her.
“First, while I hate to admit that your dear Mr. Topher is right about anything, he was correct to suggest that payment is vulgar for people of our class. What do you plan to do about it?”
“Thank you for asking my opinion, Montagu. Most husbands—in truth or in name only—would play the tyrant and demand obeisance to their decisions.”
“We have always had a gentlemen’s agreement, March. I shall always treat you as an equal.”
“I shall accept any monies proposed with the understanding that they will be set aside as a donation to the city from our family to help in the creation of your water project when you complete it.”
Our family. Whose family was she referring to? Something in the back of his throat prevented him from replying. This was the perfect opportunity to tell her his news. But he would not take away the excitement of her moment to shine. “That is very kind. The people of London will be grateful when and if the project is seen through.”