‘Thank you, Mr Penscott. I think it went very well.’
‘How could it do otherwise when you were so intimately involved in the arrangements? You have always been a great organiser,’ he said with an engaging smile. ‘It is a shame your involvement will soon be coming to an end.’
‘An end?’ Joanna regarded him quizzically. ‘Are you aware of something I am not, Mr Penscott?’
‘No, of course not. I simply thought...that is, Lady Cynthia led me to believe that you were...soon to be wed, in which case I thought it was unlikely that you would be able to...or indeed that you would wish to, continue travelling with us,’ he stammered, cheeks darkening.
‘I see no reason why my marriage should have any bearing on that,’ Joanna said. ‘I am hopeful of my husband sharing my interest in the work and perhaps even of his being willing to do it with me.’
‘Yes, of course, that would be the ideal situation,’ Mr Penscott said, not quite meeting her eyes. ‘I know I would have been...more than happy to do so had our circumstances not altered so...dramatically.’
As if realising he’d said too much, Mr Penscott bowed and hastily walked away, leaving Joanna to stare after him and mull over the significance of his words. She had long been aware of his feelings towards her and of his one-time hopes in her direction. But they both knew those hopes could no longer be entertained. She was the earl’s daughter and he the earl’s employee. Their worlds were far too distant to permit such an association.
Breathing a sigh of regret, Joanna slipped the rest of her drawings into the case and set it on the table. The evening had started off well, but had deteriorated as the hours passed—and it was not over yet. There was still the carriage ride home and knowing she could not delay it any longer, Joanna bid her father and Mr Penscott a good evening and then made her way downstairs. She was glad Mr Dustin would be riding in the carriage with them—indeed, his presence was the only reason she had agreed to go—but she knew she would be expected to make conversation and, given the way Mr Bretton had spoken to her earlier, that wasn’t going to be easy.
He certainly hadn’t been backwards in telling her what he thought of her opinions of him.
Still, after tonight she doubted their paths would cross again. Apart from their interest in Egyptian history, it was obvious they had nothing else in common and so had no reason to seek one another out. She neither expected him to follow through on his invitation to the theatre, nor to seek out her father’s company. Nor had she any intention of using Volney’s Travels as an excuse for seeing him. She would post the book back to him or deliver it to his house at a time when he was not there.
Mr Bretton had made very clear his feelings about her conduct towards him tonight. She did not need to be told again.
* * *
London was never pleasant at night and in a grey, driving rain and with the overpowering smells of the street rising up to meet her, it was even less so. But, true to his word, Mr Bretton was waiting for her at the door and, in the street beyond, Joanna saw an elegant carriage drawn by two perfectly matched greys. Obviously being a successful playwright paid well.
She picked up her skirts and, with the gentleman at her side, made a dash towards the carriage, glad she had only a short distance to go.
‘I say, what a dreadful night!’ Mr Dustin said as she climbed into the luxuriously appointed interior. ‘Wouldn’t like to be waiting around for a hackney on a night like this.’
‘Indeed not, Mr Dustin.’ Joanna sat down beside him and wiped the rain from her cheeks, savouring the warmth rising from the heated bricks. ‘We are most grateful for your offer, Mr Bretton.’
‘My pleasure,’ that gentleman said, having climbed in behind her and closed the door.
‘Don’t see many young bucks owning fine carriages like this,’ Mr Dustin observed.
‘Nor do you see one now.’ Mr Bretton rapped the head of his cane against the ceiling. ‘It belongs to my uncle, Theodore Templeton.’
‘Templeton! Not the chap who owns the Gryphon Theatre?’ Mr Dustin said. ‘Took my wife and eldest daughter to see a play there last year. Can’t remember the name of it just now, but it was very good.’
Mr Bretton just smiled and removed his beaver, knocking the rain from the brim.
Joanna, having no desire to hear him brag about his fame, turned her attention towards the window and gazed out into the night. She was quite sure he would provide the name of the play and then go on to talk about his other accomplishments, no doubt pleased at having been recognised this evening even if the nature of Captain Sterne’s compliment had been of a decidedly condescending nature. A man who spent his life close to the theatre would surely be inured to such snubs.
To her surprise, however, Mr Bretton did not launch into a recital of his talents, but instead turned the conversation back on her.
‘I was very impressed with the work you had on display tonight, Lady Joanna,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘The rendering of the pyramid of Giza was particularly well done. Did you employ a camera lucida or draw it freehand?’
Joanna blinked. She hadn’t expected him to know what a camera lucida was, let alone to ask if she used one. ‘I...prefer to draw freehand, but I have used a camera lucida in the past. It depends on whether or not the lighting is good enough to reflect the image back on to the paper.’
‘I have heard that, in dim light, it is easier to draw by hand,’ he said, ‘but that must make it much more difficult to keep the scale of a temple or an obelisk accurate, as in the column in the Temple of Hathor, for example.’
‘I do struggle with that on occasion,’ Joanna admitted, ‘which is why I tend to draw such things from the bottom up. I count the lines of hieroglyphs, of which there were eleven in the case of that particular column, and then attempt to space them in relation to the height of the column.’
‘I don’t know how she does it,’ Mr Dustin said. ‘I can’t draw a straight line, never mind replicate the detailed drawings that appear on so many of the temples. But then, she started painting at a very early age, didn’t you, Lady Joanna.’
‘How early?’ Mr Bretton asked as his gaze settled on her again.
‘I was probably around six.’ Joanna’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘My mother was a wonderful painter. She would sit for hours in the garden, sketching flowers or birds, or the horses grazing in the field nearby. She had a marvellous eye. She could duplicate every detail of a butterfly’s wings and in such perfect scale that I oftimes didn’t know whether I was looking at a painting or at the real thing.’
‘So she was your teacher as well,’ Mr Bretton observed.
‘Yes, and I loved spending time with her,’ Joanna said, remembering those golden afternoons when the two of them would sit in the shade of a tree with their brushes and easels and paint whatever caught their eye. ‘My mother was incredibly patient, always insistent on getting the lines and the spacing right. It was from her I learned composition and scale.’
‘She was also very good at portraits,’ Mr Dustin said, yawning. ‘I remember the one she did of you as a child. Beautiful likeness it was, and as good as any done by the recognised portraitists.’
‘Papa used to say that Mama could have exhibited her paintings at Somerset House if she had been so inclined,’ Joanna said fondly. ‘But her health wasn’t very good and she tired quickly.’
‘She was a remarkably beautiful woman and as talented an artist as I’ve ever met,’ Mr Dustin said, settling back and closing his eyes. ‘And it’s long been obvious to me that she passed many of her best traits along to you.’
Joanna was surprised to feel tears spring to her eyes. Funny, she hadn’t spoken of her mother to anyone outside the family in years. Not because she was reluctant to do so, but because talking about her brought back so many other memories of the past.
Joanna had adored her mother. It had been her job to look after her when her health had begun to decline and she had done so without complaint, making the vegetable brot
hs her mother was able to eat and bringing her the delicate pastries and sweets she was so fond of. She had sat with her and read to her in the hopes her mother would get better, but despite all the love and care lavished upon her, Frances Northrup had not survived. She had passed quietly in the night with only her husband and her daughter at her bedside to grieve.
Joanna had been fifteen at the time and to be suddenly deprived of the woman who had been at the centre of her life for so many years had seemed unbearably cruel. She had withdrawn into herself, unprepared for the pain of loss and seeking comfort in the thoughts and memories that no one could take away from her.
Her father had fared even worse. He had become a shadow of his former self, burying his grief in work and seldom raising his head from the books that became his solace. He hadn’t been able to sleep, had lost all appetite for food and, when at the height of his misery, he had made the suggestion that the two of them travel to Egypt for a time, Joanna hadn’t hesitated. Less than three weeks later, they had left England and spent the last four months of their year of mourning in the desert.
The trip had been life altering for Joanna. Not only because she had seen and experienced things she had only read about before, but because being away from London somehow made her mother’s absence more bearable, as though they were only separated by distance rather than by the veil of mortality. It was as though for those four months, Joanna was able to block out her sadness, as though the unhappy memories were locked away in the world she’d left behind.
Unfortunately, upon their return to London the loneliness both she and her father had suffered had returned with a vengeance and Joanna understood why her father had immersed himself so deeply in his work. She had thrown herself into it for the same reason, needing something upon which to focus her attention, and in doing so had discovered a fascination with Egypt and its far-distant past.
But her love of painting—a love inspired by her mother—was still what brought back the sweetest memories and Joanna closed her eyes as the tears welled up again.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mr Bretton said, his voice low so as not to wake Mr Dustin. ‘It wasn’t my intention to dredge up unhappy memories.’
Joanna opened her eyes and was surprised to see him holding out a large white handkerchief. ‘You didn’t,’ she said, slowly reaching out to take it. ‘The memories I have of my mother are not unhappy. But I do miss her, so very much.’
‘How old were you when she died?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘An impressionable age,’ he said. ‘An age when a girl needs her mother.’
‘She was...a remarkable woman,’ Joanna said, her voice husky. ‘My father adored her. They married without my grandfather’s approval. Papa said it didn’t matter. As the youngest son, he knew he wasn’t of consequence. His older brother would inherit the title, and when my cousin came along, Papa just moved further down the line.’
‘How did he become interested in archaeology?’ Mr Bretton asked. ‘Most younger sons go into the church or take up a commission.’
‘Papa wasn’t interested in either,’ Joanna said. ‘But he was fascinated by history—Egyptian history in particular. So he started reading and eventually he began travelling. And the more he learned, the more he wanted to.’
‘Did your mother ever go to Egypt with him?’
‘Once. She wasn’t as taken with it as he was,’ Joanna said with a smile, ‘but she wanted to be with him and he took very good care of her when they were away. They loved each other so much,’ she mused. ‘Neither one was happy when the other wasn’t around.’
‘I’m surprised your father didn’t remarry soon after his return to London,’ Mr Bretton said. ‘Most men see it as a way of easing their loneliness.’
Joanna shook her head. ‘Papa has never expressed a desire to marry again. He buries his loneliness in work.’ She dried her eyes and then held the handkerchief out to him. ‘Thank you.’
He shook his head. ‘Keep it. My aunt sends me two dozen every Christmas. I have long since run out of places to store them all.’
In spite of her tears, Joanna felt a smile work its way to her lips. ‘My aunt sends me lace caps. I don’t know why. I never wear them. But they are beautifully embroidered and I cannot bring myself to say no.’
‘Then perhaps we might come to some arrangement,’ Mr Bretton suggested. ‘My eldest sister is now married and in need of such things, so I will trade you a dozen caps for as many handkerchiefs and we will both think ourselves better off for it.’
Joanna ran her thumb over the softness of the handkerchief and was again tempted to smile. What a strange moment. She had just revealed something of a very private and personal nature to Mr Bretton, but rather than feeling embarrassed for having shared such heartfelt emotions, she actually felt better for having told him. Perhaps because he had encouraged her to believe that his interest in what she said was genuine.
She looked up and saw him watching her, half of his face in shadow, the other half bathed in the light of the coach lamp. He was mystery and magic rolled into one, and in the intimacy of the carriage Joanna was suddenly aware of what a powerful a combination it was...
‘I say!’ Mr Dustin said, jostled awake as the carriage turned a corner. ‘If there are any lace caps or handkerchiefs going spare, I wouldn’t mind a few of each. I’ve five daughters at home and not one of them any good with a needle.’
Abruptly, Joanna laughed, and felt lighter in mood than she had all evening. Somehow, Mr Bretton had taken a melancholy moment and turned it into something positive. What an unusual man he was turning out to be. Contrary to what she expected, he was not arrogant or boastful, nor had he looked at all out of place at the lecture this evening. He had listened intently, asked intelligent questions and fit in very well with the gentlemen who had gathered to hear her father talk about Egypt. All of which made it more and more difficult to figure out the nature of the man seated across from her.
Was he Laurence Bretton...or Valentine Lawe? And why did it matter that she be able to tell the difference?
* * *
The following afternoon Laurence was seated in the fifth row of the elegant Gryphon Theatre, watching his uncle coach his two lead actors during a rehearsal of Victoria’s play. He had come to the theatre at his uncle’s request, but try as he might to concentrate on what the actors were saying, he found his thoughts drifting to Lady Joanna and the events of the past two days.
To say he was fascinated by her was putting it mildly. As a man who had experienced the attentions of any number of women since assuming the role of Valentine Lawe, the arrival on the scene of one who seemed not in the least impressed by his notoriety was a new and refreshing experience. Lady Joanna did not flutter her eyelashes when she spoke to him, or gaze rapturously into his eyes when he spoke to her. Indeed, there were several occasions upon which they’d met when he wished she might have been a great deal more receptive to his overtures!
Still, having watched both of his sisters fall victim to the idiocy of love, Laurence had derived comfort from the knowledge that such amorous ups and downs were unlikely to befall him as long as his heart remained unengaged.
It was disconcerting to find out that it only took the arrival of the right woman to turn that belief on its head!
‘Much better, Victor,’ Theo Templeton said at the conclusion of the actor’s soliloquy. ‘You delivered your lines with far more emotion than you did last night and made the whole scene eminently more compelling. Make sure you give it the same effort tonight.’
‘I will, Mr Templeton,’ said the handsome leading man with a nod.
‘What about me, Mr Templeton?’ the actress playing opposite him enquired saucily. ‘Is there anything you feel I should work on?’
Despite his preoccupation with Joanna, Laurence allowed himself a small smile. Signy Chermonde was one of London’s most beautiful and talented actresses, as well as being one of the cleverest. No doubt she had asked the question expecting to be
told that her performance was perfect and that she had no need to improve on anything. But Theo Templeton had not achieved the level of success he had by allowing the members of his troupe to grow complacent. No one was allowed to rest on their laurels—and that included the fiery and tempestuous Signy Chermonde.
‘As a matter of fact, I would prefer that your response to Victor not be quite so melodramatic, Signy,’ Theo said now. ‘Elizabeth Turcott knows what she stands to gain by marrying Lord Greystone, but at the same time, she knows what she stands to lose. I need you to be convincing, not maudlin, and I know you can carry that off. You have more than enough talent to make it believable.’
Aware that he was watching a master at work, Laurence sat back and silently applauded his uncle’s skills. Signy was famous for her emotional outbursts, but rather than being offended by Theo’s criticisms, she actually agreed that she could do the scene better. After casting a last lingering glance in Laurence’s direction, she regally exited the stage. Theo came down a short time later, shaking his head as he settled into the chair next to Laurence’s.
‘Little minx. I saw the way she was flirting with you. At times she seems to forget that she still finds her way into Lord Collins’s bed every night.’
‘It’s just a game she likes to play,’ Laurence said, unconcerned. ‘She thinks now that I’m Valentine Lawe, I’ll take her to Drury Lane with me, but you and I both know she’s better off here. No one can hold a candle to you when it comes to wringing the most out of an actor’s performance.’
‘It helps when you’ve been on the other side of the fence,’ his uncle said, shrugging off the compliment. ‘I received several harsh reviews from bad directors when I started acting and it didn’t help my performance one little bit. But a good director can make all the difference in the world. Still, it’s outrageous the way she flirts with you.’
‘As I say, it’s just for show,’ Laurence said. ‘Signy has no more intention of leaving Lord Collins’s bed than I have of putting her in mine.’
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