by Jo Goodman
Oddly enough, it made the afternoon seem brighter. The fact that they were dodging raindrops was of no account.
The following morning, Emma carried her breakfast to the studio and set it outside on the balcony’s wide rail. She chose the stool in front of the easel to take out as well and when all was arranged to her liking, she broke her fast in the day’s first rays of sunshine. From this vantage point she could see the park, though the angle and the canopy of trees kept her from viewing those few early risers who were taking a turn. Below her, there was already activity on Covington Street. There was not a house on the block where the servants had not been up for an hour or more. Deliveries were being made to the trade entrances of some homes, while trusted helpers slipped out of others on a mission to buy the freshest produce and meats from the vendors setting up at market.
Chewing on a triangle of toast, Emma leaned over the rail to watch the comings and goings of Covington Street’s lesser known denizens. She saw the Harveys’ kitchen maid slow her steps as she neared the Fords’ home in order to affect a meeting with one of the young footmen coming from that house. Cocking her head, Emma could hear snippets of a heated conversation between the Allens’ cook and the tinker who allegedly sold her inferior goods. The milk wagon rumbled along the cobblestones, late again this morning because of a mare that could not be coaxed to good humor by her driver. Two lads from Sir Harold Wembley’s home waited impatiently at street side to take delivery of the milk. Emma imagined that inside the home, Sir Harold’s twins were showing signs of impatience as well.
Fascinated by the patterns of purpose and industry below her, Emma was unaware of Marisol joining her until her cousin helped herself to a piece of toast. Startled, Emma sat back on the stool with force enough to tip it alarmingly.
“Goodness,” Marisol said mildly, observing Emma’s graceless surprise. “I had no idea you did not hear me coming. What were you doing leaning so far over the balustrade? You might have fallen, you know. Do you never consider the consequences of acting so precipitously?”
Emma recognized that Marisol was mocking her. She had captured, with remarkable accuracy it seemed, Emma’s own intonation and accent. “Do I really sound so insufferable when I deliver a scold?”
Marisol nodded. “I have always thought so.”
It was clear to Emma that Marisol’s mood was mercurial this morning. “Then I beg your forgiveness and promise I will be more tolerant in the future.” She pointed to the orange slices on her plate. “Will you have some? They’re very sweet.”
“No, I mean to take breakfast in my room.” Grinning slyly, she plopped what was left of the piece of toast she’d filched in her mouth and chewed with obvious enjoyment. “But it is good of you to offer.”
Emma seized the last piece of toast on her plate and her cup of hot cocoa before Marisol could do the same. “Why are you here? It cannot be so late. You are usually still abed at this hour.”
“I was curious about the sketch of Mr. Kincaid. You and Father were still discussing it when I retired. I wondered how it turned out.”
“It’s on the table. Didn’t you see it?”
“I didn’t notice.” She glanced behind her and saw several sheets of paper lying on the table. Pencils and brushes were scattered across the top of them. “Did you work late?”
“It was gone midnight when I was able to convince Uncle Arthur that he should be for his own bed.”
“I am glad for your consideration, Emma. He is most out of sorts when he’s not had enough rest, and yesterday was trying in the extreme.”
“Will you not look at the likeness of Mr. Kincaid?” asked Emma. “I should appreciate your opinion. After all, you spent more time in his company than I did.”
“True, but I do not think I paid him the least attention. Did you notice that Father was put out with me when I could not describe the man to his satisfaction?”
“It is not enough to say the man has a pleasant countenance,” Emma said dryly. “That is precious little information for an artist to begin a portrait. Your father required more in the way of detail.”
Marisol sighed. “I’m certain he thought it was little enough to ask, and I felt badly for not being able to accommodate him. Do you think it is because I am so extraordinarily self-centered that I did not attend closely to Mr. Kincaid’s features?” Her satin robe rippled as she rose on tiptoes and twirled sharply, giving Emma her back. “Don’t feel compelled to answer that question,” she said, returning to the studio. “If you are truthful, it will surely be lowering, and if you lie, well, you will not lie so it will surely be lowering.”
Shaking her head, Emma carried her plate and cup inside and set them down on the table. “There are four drawings,” she said. “You saw two of them before you went to bed.”
“They were adequate, I remember thinking.” Marisol swept the pencils and brushes aside and studied the two drawings that were closest to her. “Are these the ones? It seems as if they might be.”
“I believe so, yes,” Emma said. “Here, look at the others.” She pushed them across the table to Marisol and watched her cousin’s face as she studied them. Marisol’s concentration was absolute. All the telling indicators were there: the crease between her brows, the pressed mouth, the faintly narrowed gaze. With so much effort applied to her study, Marisol was in no danger of giving her thoughts away. Emma was forced to ask for her opinion.
“What?” Distracted, Marisol looked up, her glance rather vague. “Oh, you are wondering what I think.” Straightening, she pointed to the drawing on her left. “You know I haven’t my father’s eye for such things, but I believe this one is the best of the lot. Do you see how Mr. Kincaid is smiling here? It is somewhat sly, isn’t it? Or perhaps it is only secretive. I confess, it is what drew me to him from the first. Do you know who I think has a smile like this?”
Emma’s eyes darted to the drawing then back to Marisol. “No. Who?”
“Your Mr. Gardner.”
“What an absurd thing to say. He is not my Mr. Gardner.” Emma raised her cup of cocoa and sipped. “In any event, his smile is nothing at all like Mr. Kincaid’s. Cunning is not at all the same as clever. Mr. Kincaid has proved himself to be cunning. Mr. Gardner is clever.”
“I think he is both,” Marisol said, indifferent to Emma’s opinion. “Mr. Gardner, I mean.” She returned to her study of Mr. Kincaid’s features. “His eyes are rather more brown than the hazel color this suggests, and I do not think they are spaced quite right.”
“Really? Should they be closer?”
“Farther apart.”
Emma frowned. “I do not remember him that way.” She picked up the first drawing that Sir Arthur had done. In it Jonathan Kincaid’s eyes were widely spaced but with the left eye being a fraction closer to his nose than the right. “Like this?”
“Yes. It is the feature that I think we captured exactly at the beginning.”
“All right,” Emma said. “I hadn’t realized. Is there anything else?”
“His ears are not so prominent. They look rather comical here. Did you find them so?”
“They are hardly rendered prominent.”
“They look like jug handles. Do you think I would arrange an assignation with a gentleman with jug handles where his ears should be?” Her brow creased anew as she considered what she’d said. “You will not mention the assignation with Mr. Kincaid to Neven, will you? I could not secure that same promise from Mr. Gardner, and frankly, I am concerned he will upset all manner of things when he speaks to Neven. I was much relieved when I realized you had been invited to join him. I wish only that I might go as well, though I don’t suppose Mr. Gardner will be amenable to that suggestion.”
Emma could not fail to notice that Marisol said this last rather more as an entreaty than a statement of fact. “I don’t pretend to know what Mr. Gardner would think of you accompanying us. You could ask him, you know.”
“I did. Yesterday. When I thought he was going alone, I asked i
f I might join him and make the introduction myself. He does expect me to make certain Neven accommodates his visit, so it did not seem an unreasonable request.”
“He said no?”
Marisol nodded. “I thought it was small of him to do so, but he was unapologetic and intractable.”
“That is very much like him.”
“Then it is good that he has a charming smile, otherwise I am sure I would not forgive him.” She paused only a beat. “Will you not ask him? I do not think he will refuse you, not if you say that my company will give you ease.”
Emma did not commit herself. “Perhaps.” If she decided to make the request, she would have to propose some reason other than her cousin’s company giving her ease. To be believed, she had found, one could not stray so far from the truth. “Will you choose one of the drawings? Even better, arrange them in order of preferred likeness, with the best on top.”
“Very well.” Marisol offered no enthusiasm for the task. “Do I at least have your word you will not speak of the true reason you went to Madame Chabrier’s? I did not tell Neven the whole of it. He is everything loyal to me, but I have no wish to test the strength of his tether by having him learn I had arranged to meet Mr. Kincaid.”
“He is not a lapdog, Marisol. You would do well to reconsider your metaphors.”
“One does not put a lapdog on a leash. What a silly idea.”
Emma felt helpless to do naught but shake her head. “I will do my best to talk around the thing,” she said. “And before you ask, I will also strive to steer Mr. Gardner along a similar path. It cannot hurt anything to maintain, as you did, that I went to the milliner’s of my own accord.”
“To what purpose?”
“To purchase a hat, of course.”
Marisol drummed her fingers on the single pile of drawings she had collected. “You are not very good at this, are you? You cannot tell him that you were there to purchase a hat. He knows you depend upon me for your sense of fashion and would not go without me. Really, Emmalyn, you must think these things through to their end. Further, there is no hope that he will not learn about Mr. Kincaid, else why have we applied so much effort to these drawings? You must put in the notion that you were secretly meeting Jonathan. It explains why you went out alone, why you went to a milliner that I do not regularly frequent, and why I was so often in Jonathan’s company.”
“Excuse me, but I do not seem to know the answer to this last. How does it explain your time in Mr. Kincaid’s company?”
“Why, I was the excellent go-between, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
Marisol waved one hand airily. “Smoothing the waters for the course of true love.”
“Promise me you will rethink your metaphors.” Emma again directed Marisol’s attention to the drawings. “The preferred order, please.” When Marisol had sorted the lot, Emma scooped them up quickly lest they be rearranged. “Do you think Mr. Charters will believe that Mr. Kincaid and I formed an attachment?”
“Why not? I did.”
“That is not what I meant. I do not think I danced even once with Mr. Kincaid. If I did, it was completely forgettable. Where is the evidence that he and I shared a mutual interest?”
“Now you are overthinking the thing. Neven will not have noticed how often Jonathan was your partner in a set or even if you exchanged above three words with him, not when Neven only had eyes for me.”
Emma was thoughtful. “There is truth enough in that, I suppose. He does attend you.”
“When he is not engaged in discourse with his pretentious friends.”
“Pretentious? I did not realize you found them so.”
“Insufferable know-it-alls. They are quite tiresome with all their talk of art and drama and the like. I am inclined to forgive Neven, but he does have a tendency to countenance their company and conversation.” Marisol raised her hand to indicate the whole of her father’s studio. “He forgets—they all do—that I have had my fill of paint and turpentine. I suppose it seems romantic to them that I have grown up in a home where great works of art are lowered from a garret balcony to the street like so much manna from heaven, but I am heartily weary of making it seem so. It is truer that I can no longer tolerate the odors peculiar to this place, nor appreciate that my father confines himself here for hours—sometimes days—on end. You cannot grasp what it is like to share neither your father’s passion nor talent. You were fortunate that your father was a merchant. No one asks if you have a head for figures and investments. They do not expect it. I, on the contrary, am asked with irritating regularity if I paint.”
“It is a common enough question,” Emma said gently. “People are curious about a young woman’s accomplishments.” She added quickly, “But I comprehend your dislike for it. I imagine you are often confronted with their unreasonably high expectations.”
“That is it precisely,” Marisol said. She shook her head as though to clear it and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “How did we come to such a disagreeable conversation? And at so early an hour. The sun has barely topped the trees.” She pointed to the drawings that Emma held. “I hope that Mr. Gardner will find them helpful. Do you know, Emma, I do not think I have thanked you properly for engaging his services. I realize how poorly I received the news when it was first put before me, but you know the reason for that. I have had time enough to think, and I realize you have done right by all of us.”
Marisol skirted the table and threw her arms around Emma. She hugged her hard.
“The drawings,” Emma said. They were in danger of being crushed. “You’ll ruin—”
“Oh! Sorry.” Marisol kissed her cousin on the cheek before she drew back. “Are they damaged? I most sincerely hope not.”
Emma examined them, smoothing them on the tabletop as Marisol retreated to the top of the stairwell. “They are only wrinkled. It is nothing that cannot be pressed out.”
“Good. You will not forget to ask Mr. Gardner if I—” She stopped because Emma’s look made it clear she had not forgotten. “I’ll be in my room if you have need of me.”
Emma nodded, waving Marisol off while she studied the drawings as they had been arranged for her. She picked up a pencil and lightly numbered each sheet on the back to indicate Marisol’s preference. She did not recall that Mr. Kincaid’s hair was quite so dark as the favored drawing indicated, nor that his hairline peaked in the manner shown in the second. The more she studied, the less any of the sketches seemed to capture the man Marisol had sent her to meet. She wondered now if she would have recognized him at all or would again if their paths crossed. Still, in spite of her uncertainty, or perhaps because of it, Emma set her pencil to paper once more.
Restell arrived just as the entrance hall clock was striking two. He was shown to the drawing room and left there to amuse himself while he waited for Emma. He anticipated that Marisol would steal a march on her cousin and announce herself first, then proceed to enumerate all the reasons she should accompany him to her fiancé’s home. When that was unsuccessful, she would simply plead with him. She could not know that he had considerable practice in ignoring such entreaties as females were wont to put before him and was only occasionally vulnerable.
He did not expect that Emma would appeal to him on Marisol’s behalf, but that is what she did when she joined him. He found he was more than a little reluctant to turn her down. She was looking remarkably pretty, for one thing, and Restell knew his Achilles’ heel was a pretty woman, not a beautiful one. Although he could not precisely define the difference, he knew very well that one existed. Often a woman who was pretty at the outset became beautiful in his eyes, but the reverse had never happened. Pretty denoted a liveliness of affect that he had never found in strictly beautiful women. He appreciated the turn of the head that was prompted by curiosity, not vanity. The smile might be a shade too wide and was almost always a bit crooked in its presentation, but Restell was inevitably beguiled by its inherent honesty.
It was such a smile t
hat Emma gave him in greeting, and he had not yet recovered his footing.
“You can understand that she is concerned we will give her up,” Emma was saying. “In her position I might think exactly the same.”
With some effort, Restell pulled his eyes away from her mouth. “You would not be in her position.”
“All of us do foolish things,” she said quietly. “I have never found it wise to cast stones.”
“That is because you are sensible.”
Emma supposed it was a compliment, though it made her feel inordinately dull. “Will you allow her to attend us, Mr. Gardner?”
Agreement was on the edge of his mind when something in Emma’s eyes stayed the thought. Instead of saying yes, he asked, “Do you want her to?”
It was the question Emma had hoped to avoid. Here was her opportunity to tell him that Marisol’s company would give her ease or at least offer some other reason that might be believed. She turned over several in her mind and decided in the end that only the truth would serve. “It is always easier when Marisol has her way.”
Restell threw back his head and laughed. “I can well imagine that’s the case, so I regret informing you that you will have to endure her disagreeable mood at some point in the day, for she is not going with us.” That it was the correct decision was immediately apparent to Restell. Emma was not quite able to shutter her expression before he glimpsed her relief. “Do you have the likeness of Kincaid?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Good. I will look at it on our way. What about the sketches of the fishing village?”
“Did you bring payment?”
Restell smiled. “You do indeed look out for Sir Arthur’s interests.” He patted the area of his frock coat above the inside pocket. “I have the draft here.”