She sighed. “It can feel lonely, can’t it?”
Langham paused in the act of laying out his paints. His gaze fastened on her. “You understand.”
Cara saw a glimpse of unguarded sorrow in his eyes. A rare moment of vulnerability appearing from behind his mask of frivolity.
“Let’s not get morose,” Adrian admonished. “We’ve got work to do.” As if to punctuate his remark, the doorbell rang. “Finally! There are Augusta and Jane.”
The maid went to answer the door, and moments later, two women breezed into the room. They gave effusive hugs to everyone, including Cara, once Georgiana had introduced them.
“I’m terribly sorry, Adrian dear,” Augusta said after the painter had chided them for being late. “It took us ages to get here. There was so much traffic, the omnibuses could barely move.”
“We also stopped to curtsy to a real gentleman, whose carriage was just outside your door!” Jane added. “Is he a friend of yours? It’s so beneficial to have well-to-do friends.”
There was a pause. No one seemed inclined to discuss Langham’s brother.
“Today the money’s coming from me—if you will do your jobs,” Adrian said finally. “Georgiana, will you take them upstairs and help them get into costume? Let’s not waste the light.”
The rest of the day was filled with hard work as they focused their efforts on the painting. There was plenty of laughter, too, for Augusta and Jane approached everything with a sense of fun. Cara quickly felt at ease with them. This was a good thing, because they spent much of the time in close contact. Adrian had them pose together with their arms intertwined, and they tried innumerable combinations and expressions before he was satisfied that he had found the right look.
Langham set up his easel at the opposite end of the room and spent the afternoon diligently at work. Perhaps his brother’s critical attitude had only increased his determination to make a success of himself. Desire to rise up in defiance of a sibling’s low expectations? That was a feeling Cara could well understand.
CHAPTER
11
IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED Henry’s visit to the studio, Langham was, amazingly, as good as his word. He came home very late, it was true, but he did come home. He would then sleep late the following day. At some point after midmorning, he would call for a bath and breakfast, and then he’d be out the door before luncheon.
Their paths generally did not cross, for Henry preferred to rise early and walk in Hyde Park before the heat set in. It was a poor substitute for being in the countryside, but it was the best he could do for now.
After about a week, Langham made a surprise appearance for dinner. Actually, it was not too great a surprise; Langham had sent a note to the cook that afternoon with a desired menu. Henry wasn’t as irritated by his brother’s unsolicited instructions to the staff as he might normally have been. He needed to speak with Langham, and dinner was as good a time as any.
While they ate their meal, Langham talked at length about painting. It would seem his rule of not showing a work in progress did not keep him from talking about it. He described various technical issues he had to surmount to get the image exactly right. He used a lot of unfamiliar jargon. Yet for all his talk about the studio, Langham made no mention of Cara Bernay.
“It’s hotter than the devil these days, isn’t it?” Langham said at one point. “We had to move our easels outside and paint under the trees just to find enough energy to work. How are the repairs progressing at Morestowe?”
This gave Henry the opening he’d been looking for. “I received a note yesterday from Mr. Thompson. Things are moving rapidly now that the rains have finally abated. The east wing will remain uninhabitable for another month, but the main portion of the house is nearly complete. We can move in next week.”
Henry watched Langham carefully as he shared this news, wondering how his brother would react. The far end of the east wing was where Langham’s rooms had been. It was the most damaged, since the fire had started in Langham’s bedchamber. Langham claimed that heat or flames escaping from cracks in the “crumbling old fireplaces” had been the cause.
Henry had allowed this explanation to stand because it was the least embarrassing for the family. Privately, he was convinced his brother had set fire to the bed or chair while under the influence of alcohol or some other substance. He based this belief on his study of the ruins, plus the fact that it had taken Langham so long in those small hours of the morning to rouse himself, get away from the danger, and spread the alarm to the rest of the house. Henry could never get Langham to admit this—not even after a private confrontation—but he had been able to prevail upon his brother to go to a sanitarium, ostensibly to allow his smoke-damaged lungs to recover in the clean air of the pristine countryside.
Langham gave a grimace of distaste. “Oh, those cramped old rooms. There’s barely space for a proper wardrobe in them.”
“It’s only for a month,” Henry pointed out, ready to counter any argument his brother might make about staying in town.
“It will be deuced uncomfortable. But we have to go.”
This took Henry by surprise. “You’re ready to leave London?”
“Oh yes. The heat is sapping all my creativity. I need to get away. I’m thinking of turning the dower cottage into a painter’s studio. We don’t use it for anything else, and the front room gets good light most of the day.”
“I have no objection.” It was a small accommodation. Henry was just glad his brother was willing to return to Essex and leave his artist friends behind. Even Cara, apparently. “How is D’Adamo’s painting coming along?”
For some reason, this made Langham smile. Henry wouldn’t have minded, except it seemed his brother’s amusement was aimed at him. He raised his eyebrows and gestured for Langham to answer the question.
“Adrian works incredibly fast. I move at glacial speed compared to him. The painting is superb. But then, you’ve seen how beautiful the models are.”
“Is Miss Bernay still modeling?” Henry’s question came out a bit choked, as Langham’s words had brought back the sight of her in that Grecian-style gown. He forced himself to breathe.
Langham’s smile hadn’t abated. It made Henry uncomfortable, but he didn’t see why he shouldn’t ask after her.
“Georgiana is giving her painting lessons. Cara would like to do portraits, and that’s Georgiana’s forte. Cara is not yet ready to advertise her services as a professional, but she’ll get there.”
“How does she plan to support herself in the meantime? Will she remain at the D’Adamo residence?”
Langham gave him a thoughtful look. “You seem to be taking a great interest in her.”
“You were the one who picked her up like a ‘stray kitten.’ Don’t you think that makes you somewhat responsible for her?”
“Do you want me to be?”
“I just don’t want your actions to cause her any harm,” Henry insisted. Why did his brother always put him on the defensive?
“I don’t know what her plans are, exactly. Perhaps we can ask her about it.”
We?
Henry didn’t have a chance to ask what his brother meant. Dropping his napkin on the table, Langham rose from his chair. “I believe I’ll pass on the brandy and turn in early.”
Once again, Langham had surprised him. For him not to partake of a glass or two of brandy after dinner was unusual. Not that he hadn’t consumed plenty of wine at dinner. Still, perhaps, in a small way, he was turning over some kind of new leaf.
“By the by,” Langham added as they walked out of the dining room, “I need ten pounds.”
Henry stopped short. “And just what is this for?”
“I have to purchase art supplies before we go to the country. Also, I need to give some remuneration to Adrian for the use of his studio. I think you can agree that’s fair.”
This need for money was, no doubt, the real reason Langham had made it home for dinner tonight. Such requests
were inevitably bound up in their interactions. However, this sum was less outrageous than what Langham usually asked for. They went to Henry’s study, where he withdrew cash from a locked drawer. If his brother really was working to meet his commitment to the gallery, that was an encouraging sign. Even if this foray into the art world went no further than that, Langham would have finally finished something he’d begun.
When Henry came home the following afternoon after completing a few errands, he knew something was amiss right away. The footman was waiting for him, opening the door before Henry could pull out his key. Normally, per Henry’s instructions, they did not need to do this.
“Is something wrong, Samuel?” he asked.
“Not wrong, my lord. That is, not exactly.”
His words were belied by the beads of sweat on his forehead. Or perhaps that was just due to the heat.
“Well, what is it?”
“Miss Amelia and Miss Leahy have returned from Brighton, sir.”
Henry frowned. “And Lady Morestowe?”
“Her ladyship is not with them, sir. Miss Leahy is in the upstairs parlor, if you should wish to speak to her.”
“Thank you.” Henry made for the parlor straightaway, wondering what could have brought them back so soon, and without his mother. As he took the stairs, it occurred to him that the house seemed unusually quiet, given that Amelia was home.
Miss Leahy rose from her chair at the writing desk, murmuring a greeting as Henry entered the parlor. Judging from the open geography book and the paper lying next to it, she’d intended to plan a lesson for Amelia. However, the paper was blank. Miss Leahy looked agitated—a contrast to her usual calm manner. Dark smudges under her eyes indicated she might not be sleeping well. This set off new concerns in Henry’s mind.
He said anxiously, “How is Amelia?”
“She is well, your lordship. She’s presently in the nursery, working on her arithmetic lesson. I’ve asked her to make a drawing that illustrates ‘five times four equals twenty.’”
“That seems an odd way to learn arithmetic.”
“She seems to enjoy drawing, sir. I discovered I can keep her engaged if she uses the pictures to work out the problems.”
Henry knew he ought to be pleased at Miss Leahy’s perception and ingenuity. Instead, he felt a pang of dread. The older Amelia got, the more obvious her similarities to her father would probably become. At least those traits did not point to him, Henry thought with grim satisfaction. The gossips always assumed Amelia was his natural daughter. But in temperament—and now it seemed in artistic leanings—they could not be further apart.
Despite his misgivings, Henry could appreciate the calm in the house. “It seems you’ve discovered the secret to keeping her well-behaved.”
“I had to use every trick at my disposal today, sir. She was unhappy that we cut short our trip to the seaside—as you might imagine. I’ve tried to keep her occupied with something she likes, and, well, I may have implied that the return to Morestowe was more imminent than it is.”
She twisted her hands together, looking highly embarrassed at the admission that she’d more or less lied to the child. Considering that Miss Leahy was always honest in her dealings with Amelia, something was clearly amiss.
“Why did you leave Brighton? And where is Lady Morestowe? The footman tells me she did not return with you.”
“She has accepted an invitation to spend a few weeks in Torquay.” Miss Leahy picked up a sealed letter that had been lying on the desk and handed it to Henry. “I believe this contains all the particulars.”
Henry opened the letter. His mother wrote that she planned to spend a fortnight sailing on a yacht along the southwest coast with the Fitz-Wallaces. These were wealthy and well-connected friends of his mother, so Henry could see why she preferred that option to remaining with Amelia and the governess. “I’m sorry you felt compelled to return to London on account of this. You might have finished out the month there.”
“Her ladyship told me that as well. However, another issue has arisen. My mother’s health has been declining, and yesterday my sister sent word that things have reached a critical stage. I must visit her right away if I’m to see her before she—” The governess cut herself off, tamping down her emotions. “I apologize for the lack of notice, but I should like to leave right away, with your permission, sir. There’s a train departing in an hour.”
Now Henry understood the reason for her unusual behavior. “Of course you have my permission. It’s only natural that you’d want to be with your mother.”
After profuse thanks, she began to apologize for the lack of a lesson plan. Henry assured her not to worry, that they’d work something out. “You do plan to return at some point, don’t you?” he asked.
“If I may, sir.”
“Well, then. Do what you need to do, and keep me apprised of the situation.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”
Perhaps she had thought she’d be dismissed for leaving like this. Henry was sure his mother would have been only too glad to do so. But he wasn’t about to get rid of this woman if he could help it.
And yet, even as Miss Leahy hurried from the room, he couldn’t help worrying. What would he do with Amelia in the meantime?
Cara and Georgiana were sitting under a tree in the small garden, trying to find some relief from the heat, when Adrian came out the back door to join them.
“There you are,” Georgiana said.
“I’ve some news,” he announced. “A few days ago, I sent a note to Arthur Hughes, asking if I might bring you along to a garden party he’s having the day after tomorrow. I got his reply today. He said that, as you are a friend of ours, you will be welcome.”
Cara grinned in joyous disbelief. “Why would Mr. Hughes concern himself with me?”
“He does a lot of pastoral scenes. Country folk in fields and villages. Shepherd girls and the like. I think you’d be perfect for one of his paintings. He said he’d be glad to meet you.”
Modeling for the famous Arthur Hughes! Perhaps this was the opening Cara had been looking for.
“Langham’s also invited,” Adrian added. “Where is he, anyway?”
“He went to the chemist’s shop,” Cara answered. “He said he wasn’t feeling well.”
Adrian frowned, sending a glance toward Georgiana. She gave a resigned shrug.
Cara sensed their worry. “Is there a problem with Langham’s health? I heard a friend of his speak of recurring illnesses.”
“He gets terrible headaches sometimes,” Georgiana answered. “Sometimes he has to stay in a dark room for days. Other times, the tonic he gets from the chemist seems to solve the problem.”
“I hope he’s not becoming dependent on that stuff,” Adrian said, shaking his head. “It’s not good for his art. Makes him too nervous to work properly. He has real talent, if he will only get serious about making use of it.” His gaze turned toward the house. “I see he’s acquired his ‘tonic,’” he added acerbically.
Cara turned to see Langham approaching, raising a bottle he was holding. “Anyone care for Vin Mariani?”
Georgiana rose from her chair. “I think Susan is making us more lemonade.”
She brushed past Langham and went into the house.
“Cara, how about you?” Langham said.
Cara saw Adrian shake his head. She didn’t know what Vin Mariani was, but apparently he and Georgiana disapproved of it. “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Picking up an unused glass from the small table, Langham dropped into the chair Georgiana had just vacated and began to pour himself a drink.
“What’s the status of your painting?” Adrian asked him pointedly.
“It’s been a wretched day. I’ve had a splitting headache since this morning.” Langham lifted his glass. “This will help.” He didn’t seem to notice the disapproving look Adrian sent him. Or perhaps he was simply ignoring it.
“We’ve been invited to a garden party at t
he home of Mr. Arthur Hughes the day after tomorrow,” Cara said, hoping to relieve some of the tension between the two men.
“Splendid. I’ve no doubt his place at Kew will be more pleasant than it is here in town.”
“If you’re not planning to do any work today, perhaps you should go home and rest,” Adrian said. It was more of a directive than a suggestion.
Langham gave him a sour look. “I am on my way home, as it happens. I only dropped by to fetch Cara.”
“Me? What for?” Cara said, startled.
“So that you may join me and Henry for dinner tonight.”
“Oh! That sounds wonderful! But I thought you weren’t feeling well. Besides, won’t his lordship—Henry, I mean—be put out if you bring an uninvited guest?”
Langham gave a little snort. “Of course he’ll mind—at first. He’s far too fussy about such things. But he’ll get over it.” He leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “Your presence will be good for all of us. Remember, I live there, too. So you will be my guest.”
In Cara’s opinion, this made perfect sense. Not that she was inclined to contradict him. She wanted very much to go to Lord Morestowe’s home. She sprang up from her chair. “I need to change my clothes first.”
Langham poured himself more wine. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Just inside the house, Cara met Georgiana returning with a fresh pitcher of lemonade.
“Where are you going?” Georgiana asked.
“Upstairs to change clothes. Langham is taking me to his house for dinner.”
“Just don’t drink any of that stuff,” Georgiana warned, motioning toward the bottle in Langham’s hand.
“What is it?”
“It’s cocaine mixed with wine. You would do well to stay away from it.”
“Thank you, I’ll remember.”
“You’re a good girl,” Georgiana said. “I would hate to see Langham spoil you.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want to do anything to harm me.”
The Artful Match Page 11