Circle of Family

by Mia Ross

  She thought of what Yves had suggested. It was ridiculous to even imagine that this man might become her benefactor. On what basis? A compliment on a sketch she had done? Hardly. She could not deny that she was flattered by his attention. But in the world she had known such attention was usually romantic in nature. And wasn’t such an encounter the very circumstances she had vowed to avoid when she had fled to Paris in the first place?

  The duke was watching her and she turned so that there could be no doubt that she was studying him in return. They were two contestants for some unnamed prize taking the measure of their opponent. She did not know how or why, but she was quite sure that Lord Groton-Hames was destined to become a part of her life.

  As the lights came up and the audience rose as one to mingle in the aisles and lobby, Jeanne saw that the duke was not the only one looking up at her. Several people in adjoining boxes were clearly speculating about who she was and why the duke would give up his box to her for such a gala performance. Jeanne hated being the object of gossip and scandal. She’d had quite a large dose of that when her father had ruined them. She stood abruptly and brushed past Yves. “I have to...I must...”

  “Are you ill?” Yves was on his feet at once.

  “Not at all. I need some air. Please excuse me.” She bolted for the exit and ran straight into the starched white piqué vest of Lord Groton-Hames.

  Chapter Four

  “Miss Witherspoon, are you all right?” The duke gently touched her bare shoulder as Jeanne found her balance.

  “Quite,” she assured him, although she was anything but. In spite of her determination not to be seduced by him, she was quite flustered by his genuine concern, not to mention his touch. “I just needed some air...water...”

  He led her to a tufted bench. “Wait here and I’ll bring you some. You’re looking quite pale.”

  If only Yves had followed her, but he’d gotten caught up in a throng of admiring women anxious to show off the gowns he had designed for them. Almost before she could think of her next move, the duke returned and handed her a cup of water. He waited for her to take a sip and then sat next to her. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  Jeanne forced herself to focus on her surroundings—the grand theater, the well-dressed patrons, the thrill of the music and the dance. There had been a time when she’d thought she might never be a part of such an event again, yet here she was. And it was thanks to the man sitting next to her. “It’s quite wonderful, don’t you think? The ballet?”

  “I do. As a painter, I would imagine you view such things differently than others. Tell me what strikes you first.”

  He sat next to her and Jeanne noticed that others were watching them with interest.

  “I see color,” she replied.

  “Ah, the costuming and sets are magnificent.”

  “Not just actual color. There’s also color in the movement and the music.”

  He leaned closer. “I never considered that, but you’re right. There are certain...”

  “Strokes,” she offered as he fumbled for the proper word.

  “Exactly.” He smiled and in that smile Jeanne saw that they were not to be the opponents in some contest as she might have imagined. They were of the same mind when it came to the arts. They had found a connection, a mating of artistic souls. What Lord Groton-Hames saw in her was a kindred spirit, one with whom he might share his love and appreciation for art.

  The lights blinked, signaling the end of the intermission. The duke took her glass. “Miss Witherspoon, I am hosting a concert at my estate on Sunday. Would you do me the honor of attending?”

  She took note that he did not include Yves in the invitation. If she said yes it would be understood that she was accepting an engagement with him.

  “I will admit an ulterior motive. I would like you to see my art collection,” he added. “And with dozens of guests around, I thought that you might be more comfortable...”

  Jeanne smiled. “You saw my hesitation and have now made it impossible for me to refuse your kind invitation. Do you mind if Yves comes with me?”

  A slight frown skittered across his handsome features but he recovered immediately.

  “Of course. I’ll send my carriage for you on Sunday at three.”

  He walked with her to the entrance to his box. “Enjoy the final act.”

  “Thank you, your grace, and thank you for giving me such a wonderful evening.”

  “The first of many, I hope.”

  So, there it was. He was no different than any other man. Jeanne returned to her seat but could not have said what happened onstage.

  Chapter Five

  Yves begged off attending the concert at the duke’s home. “Not my cup of tea.”

  “But how can I go unaccompanied?”

  “You are not unaccompanied. You are the duke’s guest. Do not tell me you would stand on ceremony when you have the opportunity for a personally guided tour of his collection?”

  “I thought you wanted to see his collection,” Jeanne pointed out.

  Yves smiled. “I do, but two hours of fugues and dirges is far too dear a price to pay. Another time.”

  The duke’s carriage arrived pulled by a perfectly matched team of horses. Inside she was surrounded by luxury and it was difficult not to reflect on the decision that had driven her to Paris in the first place. Gabriel Hunter had been a wealthy man. Perhaps not as wealthy as the duke and certainly with no title, but nevertheless if Jeanne had married Gabriel she would have wanted for nothing.

  Except true love.

  Her youth and the growing evidence that her father was about to lose everything had made the decision to break her engagement to Gabe all the more difficult. But Jeanne had seen the way Gabe looked at his parents’ housekeeper, Lucie. The man was so smitten that he could not hide his feelings. And Lucie had accomplished the one thing that Jeanne had never thought possible. She had brought Gabe back to God.

  Gabe had forgiven her father his transgressions and established a trust that would permit Jeanne’s parents to maintain a lifestyle that at least approximated their life before the downfall. Jeanne was well aware that he had done this because of their plan to marry, but even after she had relieved him of that commitment, he had not withdrawn the trust. His generosity and kindness touched her. After he and Lucie married and Jeanne had sent her best wishes to them both, Gabe had responded that indeed it was she who had given the greater gift and he had wished her every happiness.

  Every happiness, she thought as she felt the carriage turn off the cobbled street onto a graveled drive. She had come to Paris full of grand ideas. She would paint and frequent the famous salons where she would meet kindred souls. She had no plans to marry. If it happened, fine, but she would marry only for love.

  But now she had been in the city for nearly a year and money was tight. Each day brought more worry that she might soon have to return to the States and take up residence with her parents. This month her usual stipend had not yet arrived and she feared her father had fallen into old habits of borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. Or in this case, borrowing from his daughter to pay some creditor.

  “Whoa!”

  The carriage rolled to a smooth stop and within seconds the door opened. Expecting to see a footman or butler, Jeanne was speechless to see the duke himself waiting to assist her down from the carriage.

  “Welcome, Miss Witherspoon.” His smile was boyish and charming.

  After the shadowed coach the sun seemed inordinately bright and Jeanne blinked rapidly to adjust her vision, then realized that the duke might take the action as coyness or outright flirting.

  “Good afternoon, your grace.” She forced a modicum of reserve into her tone. “Such a lovely day.”

  “Frankly, I’m so relieved. My staff had their doubts about ho
lding the concert outside in the courtyard but God has clearly favored us with a perfect afternoon. Your friend is not with you?”

  “He— No.”

  “Would it be unfair of me to say that I am not that disappointed?”

  “I find that it is never wrong to state your true feelings, your grace. It saves so much time.”

  Chapter Six

  The afternoon flew by in a whirl of faces—surprised and even stunned faces.

  “Why, Jeanne Witherspoon, I didn’t know you knew the duke.” A dowager that Jeanne had met on several occasions when she had traveled to Europe with her parents had taken the seat next to her as the musicians were tuning their instruments. Jeanne saw the woman scan her costume and was glad she had worn her yellow silk organza for the occasion.

  “He’s a bit older than you are, my dear,” her mother’s friend continued. “Quite a bit.”

  Was the woman offering a warning or simply stating the fact? And what of it? So he was older. Could a woman not have male friends who were older? But she knew the answer. The answer was yes, as long as those males were attached to wives who were also Jeanne’s friend.

  Jeanne gave the woman a tight smile and turned her attention to her program while staff and guests alike sought the duke’s counsel. Jeanne could not help noticing that he treated everyone the same—from the stage manager who had encountered some problem to a man he had introduced as his cousin, Archduke something-or-other from Austria-Hungary.

  The concert was both uplifting and thought-provoking. Jeanne found herself following each movement closely, her spirits rising and falling with each change in tempo. Toward the end, a violin solo brought her to tears and the duke quietly offered his handkerchief to her. Embarrassed, she dabbed at her tears, then tucked the monogrammed linen into her drawstring purse. She would have it professionally laundered and returned.

  “Did you enjoy the concert?” the duke asked as he and Jeanne made their way up the aisle and into the vast reception hall following two encores.

  “Oh, so very much,” she gushed. “I really can’t thank you enough for including me today. I...”

  He was smiling at her, his gaze moving slowly over her face. She suddenly felt quite breathless and found herself unable to continue. He did not seem to notice. Instead he took her elbow and guided her toward an exit. “Come and see the collection.”

  Jeanne was well aware that once again heads turned as he ushered her into a spacious room lit with stained-glass skylights. A few other guests were walking the length of the gallery, stopping to admire the framed pieces that lined both walls from floor to ceiling.

  “It’s overwhelming,” she whispered.

  “Isn’t it? There’s far too much. I’m thinking of taking out that wall and expanding into the reception hall. At least then each work can have its proper place.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea. It’s so difficult to really see every piece when they are... Forgive me, your grace. I have no grounds to offer advice or criticism.”

  “But you do. You are an artist. What if this were a portrait you had done and you came here and saw it cheek to jowl with these other portraits?”

  He pointed to a portrait and Jeanne gasped. “That’s Renoir’s work.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And over there, is that— Oh my, it is. Is it real?” She approached another painting as if she were in the presence of royalty.

  “If you’re asking if it’s an original, then yes, it’s quite real.” He waited for her to study the painting more closely, then added, “I would like to offer you a proposition, Miss Witherspoon.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jeanne stiffened. In the year she had been in Paris she had met several men who seemed to believe that after a brief acquaintance they might take liberties. She was disappointed that Lord Groton-Hames might be such a man. “Perhaps we should return to the reception,” she suggested, noticing that they were now alone in the gallery.

  “If you like, but...”

  Jeanne was so infuriated that this man might actually think that because she was American or because her family had suffered some setbacks or...

  “I wanted to ask if you might consider allowing me to sit for a portrait,” he said. “There was something in your sketches of Mr. LeClercq that struck me as unique.”

  “Now you are teasing me, your grace. There must be any number of professionally trained artists that you know.”

  “Yes, but their work is pedestrian. They are bound by the latest trends in style. I want this portrait to be unique.”

  She was curious in spite of her reservations. “And why is it important for this portrait to be something uncommon?”

  “I have my reasons. Will you do me the honor?”

  “I suppose I could do a few sketches and then...”

  “Splendid. We can start tomorrow.” He motioned for his butler. “Charles, this is Miss Witherspoon and she is going to paint my portrait. You must see that she has everything she needs for the work.”

  “I’m doing a few sketches,” Jeanne corrected.

  “Where shall we work? Do you have a studio? I could come there.”

  “Perhaps I could come here, your grace, if that would not inconvenience you.”

  “Not at all. Charles, she will need space to work and supplies.” Charles nodded and glanced toward the front hallway. The duke took his cue. “I see some of my guests are preparing to depart so I’ll leave it to the two of you to work things out.” And he was gone.

  “Is he always so...” Jeanne searched for a word.

  “Decisive?” Charles suggested. He watched his employer with obvious fondness. “His lordship is a man of action. These past two years have been difficult for him.”

  Jeanne was tempted to ask how so, but she would never stoop to gossiping with a servant. “Is there a solarium, Charles?”

  “Yes, mademoiselle. Would you care to see it?”

  “Please. I expect the light will be best there.” She followed Charles through a side door into a veritable paradise. “Oh, my,” she whispered as she turned slowly to take in the glass-enclosed room filled with orchids and palms and ferns.

  “Will this do?”

  “It’s perfect, and for the sketches I have the materials I need. Thank you so much, Charles.”

  “My pleasure, mademoiselle.” Charles stopped short of clicking the heels of his polished shoes together and saluting before leaving the room.

  Jeanne took advantage of the opportunity to position one small chair in such a way that it caught the best light. Of course, if they worked in the morning...

  “Are you pleased?” The duke was leaning against the doorway, watching her. The day had been a complete success and yet Jeanne could not help noticing the same sadness she had observed when they first met. Jeanne had to resist the urge to touch his cheek and then she realized they were staring at each other, a hundred unanswered questions flashing between them as if riding some electric current.

  Yes, your grace, I am most pleased.

  And although she had not spoken aloud, he seemed to understand. His smile broadened and touched those sad eyes. “As am I.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you honestly suggesting that I charge the duke for these sketches, Yves?” They were in his salon where Yves was draping a heavy brocade fabric on a dress dummy. “I mean, what would that make me?”

  “Someone who knows the true value of her talent.”

  “Surely there are measures that are not so...”

  “Boorish?” Yves shrugged. “Possibly.” He wrestled with the stiff fabric, then threw it aside. “Chérie, you have a gift and now that talent has garnered the attention of one of Europe’s most renowned art collectors. Do you not understand what this could mean for your future? For y
our fortune?”

  “I hardly see how making a few quick charcoal sketches...”

  “The sketches are but a means to an end. It will be the portrait that will establish your reputation. If the duke is pleased then others will scurry around wanting first claim to having their portraits painted by the same artist as the duke. You’ll make thousands. Certainly enough to establish your independence for the foreseeable future.”

  It was so very tempting. But outward appearances aside, Jeanne Witherspoon was devoutly religious and even the hint of temptation sent her into a flurry of self-examination.

  “Times are changing, ma chérie. Many women today are finding their own way in the world, working, building personal fortunes—either inherited or earned—and using those funds for the greater good.”

  Jeanne fingered the silk brocade, lost in thought. “It would be nice to be the giver instead of always the recipient,” she ventured. “Do you really think I might build a career painting portraits?”

  Yves shrugged. “Ask yourself what would be the worst thing that could happen here. The duke does not like the sketches and decides not to choose you to do his portrait. There’s nothing lost in that, is there?”

  “No, but...”

  “And if he does like the sketches and chooses you? Voilà! Your future is launched.”

  Jeanne smiled as the full impact of what could come of all this rushed over her. “Oh, Yves, I always believed God brought me to Paris for a purpose. Perhaps this is that purpose?”

  “One cannot say for sure unless one gives it a try.”

  Jeanne picked up her sketchpad and waved to her friend as she left the salon. Outside she dodged carts and carriages as she crossed the busy Rue Royale on her way back to the small room she had rented mostly for its good light and tiny balcony.