Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait (19 page)

Louisa understood cause and effect the way Jenny understood images and light, and yet the idea of sulking, grumbling, and dissembling in this fashion was… exhausting. “If you’re to return me to my dungeon, I’d best gather my things.”

Louisa rose with the child on her hip. “Yes, you had. Joseph had a note from Mr. Harrison.”

Jenny rose too, hoping the weakness in her knees was momentary. “I trust he fares well?”

“He’s considering some commissions in Northumbria. Said he’s taken an interest in juvenile portraits, of all things, and that the Academy’s nominating committee was very encouraging when they saw his sketches of Sophie’s boys. What do you suppose Papa has gotten Her Grace for Christmas this year?”

“I haven’t the least notion what His Grace has gotten for Mama. Northumbria is lovely this time of year, and Mr. Harrison’s composition was quite good.”

Louisa paused in her march toward the door and gave Jenny a look that suggested Bedlam might be lovely this time of year as well—if one enjoyed subarctic climates in winter. “We’ll restore your studio, Genevieve, and when the grandchildren arrive, Her Grace will be too busy managing His Grace to trouble you over it much.”

***

Elijah used the entire journey from London to consider his latest of several dinners with the nominating committee.

He’d had Buchannon’s butler announce him as Lord Bernward; he’d dressed to the very teeth in sober evening attire; for the first time in years, he’d shown the Harrison family crest on his town coach.

Even old Fotheringale had been impressed with the sketches of Sindal’s sons. The composition was good art, as evidenced by the fact that it became more interesting the longer one studied it. West had muttered that the portrait harked back to Sir Joshua’s skill with juvenile subjects, and no one had contradicted him.

Elijah’s gelding slipped on a deceptive patch of ground, more ice than road. He let the beast right itself, scanned the horizon, and wrapped his scarf more snugly around his chin.

The evening had had two sour points.

The first was when Fotheringale had harrumphed into his port that one unfinished portrait hardly demonstrated depth of skill or range of ability. Anybody could pull off one pleasing portrait of
children
, for pity’s sake.

The second was when Fotheringale had gone off on a tangent about the Academy finally being free of the pernicious influence of dabbling females. He’d squinted at Elijah, as if his tirade ought to have particular meaning, and Elijah had remained quiet.

Which had been a mistake. A prudent man seeking a well-supported nomination would have chimed in with ringing endorsements of Fotheringale’s sentiments, except in his mind, Elijah kept seeing Genevieve Windham sitting at the breakfast table and eating strawberries she could not taste while her dear, doting Papa casually tromped all over his daughter’s dreams.

Mindful of the lowering clouds and the increasing wind, Elijah pushed those thoughts aside and asked his horse for a faster pace.

***

“There, you see?” Louisa pulled on her gloves with the same confidence she did everything. “Ten minutes of asking Mama’s opinion, thirty minutes of overseeing the footmen as they moved your easels and
whatnot
, and twenty minutes of setting things to rights, and you have your studio back, better than ever. Now I had best leave you, or my daughters will have fed the cloved oranges to Lady Ophelia.”

Jenny fastened the frogs of Louisa’s cape, wishing her sister could stay longer. “I thought Joseph’s pig preferred lurid novels.”

Louisa’s smile was wicked and gleeful. “Lady Opie doesn’t get a crack at those until Joseph has read them to me first. I threatened to name our firstborn Radcliffe, and oh, the lengths Kesmore traveled to bribe me from that notion.”

“You are so happy.”

Jenny hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, much less sound forlorn when she did. Louisa paused with a red merino scarf half-wrapped around her neck, her smile fading. “I am. You will be too, Jenny. Christmas is the season of miracles, and surely, with all the holiday socializing, the mistletoe, the wassail… Did you know Eve and Deene exchanged their first kiss under the mistletoe?”

“I am not Eve.” And Elijah Harrison was not Deene. Elijah Harrison was on his way to Northumbria, where winter was very cold, and mistletoe likely hung from every rafter.

“Joseph and I kissed under the mistletoe too, before we were engaged. I daresay mistletoe had something to do with Sophie and Sindal’s initial dealings.”

Jenny glanced around at the soaring entrance hall to the Morelands mansion. Mistletoe was in evidence, of course. She wanted to burn every sprig and branch of it.

“I’m going to Paris, Lou. After the holidays.” The packet schedules were up in her room, and four days ago, Jenny had sneaked into the attics and set a pair of cedar-lined trunks to airing.

Louisa stopped fussing with her bonnet strings. “To Paris? Are you going to shop? With Their Graces?”

“No, I’m going to Paris to study art. They do that there—allow women to study art, not simply dabble with watercolor still lifes. I’ve had seven Seasons, and I cannot… I have no interest… Victor once said…” Louisa was studying her with what looked like understanding—or pity. “Will you write to me, Lou?”

“For God’s sake, of course I’ll write to you, but Paris? St. Just would cheerfully take you North with him, or Valentine would welcome you to Oxford—”

“No more damned racketing about as the doting maiden aunt. An artistic calling requires sacrifices, and it’s time I started making a few in the right direction.”

There. Jenny had put the situation into words any sibling could comprehend. Victor and Bart would both have approved.

Louisa left her bonnet strings trailing. “You just cursed, and now that I think on it, you haven’t called me dearest… I can’t recall the last time you called me dearest. Are you sickening for something, Genevieve?”

You
have
talent, Genevieve.
Yes, she was sickening, and that was Elijah Harrison’s fault too. “I beg your pardon for my language, and I am not sickening for anything. I do not relish telling Their Graces that I am eloping. If I tell them, the holidays will be most difficult.”

Louisa studied her for an uncomfortably long moment. “If you don’t tell them, you’ll break their hearts. They need time to grow accustomed to this, Jenny. You’ll regret ambushing them and leaving them no time to adjust.”

Yes, she would. She’d also regret giving them time to change her mind about it.

“I reached my majority years ago, Louisa, and I have a competence from Grandmother Himmelfarb. Their Graces cannot deny my heart’s desire indef—”

The row of coat hooks along the wall by the porter’s nook caught Jenny’s eye.

“Think about this, Jenny. A step like this cannot be untaken, and you’ve never even visited Paris. You might hate it. Joseph says the stench on rainy days is horrendous.” Louisa treated Jenny to a fierce hug, kissed her cheek, and took her leave.

While Jenny ran her hand over a purple scarf of very soft wool with a subtle tartan print woven into it. She lifted it off its hook and brought it to her nose.

“Elijah.”

***

“I have a dozen grandchildren, counting various stepgrandchildren and works in progress. If you want subjects for juvenile portraits, we’ve a full supply. More brandy?”

Elijah passed his host an empty glass. “My thanks, Your Grace. Perhaps we could focus first on the painting for Her Grace that you mentioned in your note?”

In his summons, more accurately. The epistle had been three sentences long, and every word had savored of imperatives.

His Grace handed Elijah back a half-full glass, topped up his own drink, and resumed a seat on a blue velvet sofa near the fire. The blue of the velvet brought out the blue of Moreland’s eyes, something Lady Jenny had probably often noted.

“I still managed to look distinguished,” His Grace said. He wasn’t smiling, and the words bore no humorous inflection, and yet Elijah had the sense the man was poking fun at himself. “I’d like to memorialize myself for Her Grace before old age transmogrifies dignity into stubbornness and ducal consequence into pomposity.”

A towering need to search the premises for Genevieve Windham receded—but did not disappear—as Elijah considered his host’s words. A portraitist often became a repository for confidences, a consequence of time spent in close proximity to people who could not camouflage their thoughts and emotions with activity.

“This is not a public portrait, then?” And how did one convey on canvas the essence of a man who could use the word transmogrify convincingly?

His Grace considered his drink. “This is a gift for my duchess, not a statement of Moreland power and influence. The woman I love deserves such a token, but it’s one I’ve neglected over the years. To sit for a portrait has always seemed… arrogant, to me. Her Grace would have it otherwise, and so you see before you a willing subject, as it were.”

To Elijah, His Grace’s casual use of the word “love” was more impressive than all the polysyllabic blather Moreland had at his command. “My recent work at Sidling notwithstanding, I do not make a credible holiday guest under your roof, Your Grace. Her Grace will have to know the portrait is being done.”

“Young man, do you think I’m going to sit still for hours with only your company to occupy me? Of course Her Grace will know. She will supervise the entire undertaking, making sure I behave myself adequately to see the painting completed. You will consult her on every detail of the composition, and thwart her wishes at your mortal peril.”

This was beyond an imperative; this was Moreland Holy Writ, perhaps Windham family Holy Writ as well.

“Of course, Your Grace, though to finish the portrait between now and the first of the year will be difficult. I haven’t yet completed Sindal’s commission, and I’m sure you’ll have holiday duties that interfere with your sittings.”

“You are a bachelor, so allowances must be made.” His Grace rose, took up the poker, and jabbed at the fire. Elijah studied the duke’s movement, the way he hunkered before the hearth, the confidence with which he wielded a substantial length of wrought iron.

His Grace was not merely spry, as that adjective was applied to old men who yet managed to dodder around unaided. The duke was limber, lithe, and strong, full of energy and… determination.

“When you wed,” Moreland said as he replaced the poker in its stand, “you will understand that he who fails to make proper gifts at the proper time where his lady is concerned risks disappointing that lady, and living with the shame of his failure well beyond the end of the occasion. Do you know why I maintain a conservatory here, Bernward?”

“To protect delicate plants over the winter and conserve them for the next year’s spring.”

“To give my duchess flowers when she’s in need of them. You’re here for the same purpose, to give my duchess a portrait when she’s in need of one.”

No, Elijah was at Morelands because he could not get out of his mind that sketch Genevieve had done of him when he’d been trying to write to his sister. The rendering had been accurate, but it had been another image of a lonely man—also a man bewildered by a simple bit of correspondence to a younger sibling.

And in some dim corner of his brain, Elijah perceived that the answer to his loneliness lay in Genevieve Windham’s hands—or at least the temporary relief of it.

“I’ll need some help if I’m to be done before Christmas, Your Grace. Perhaps Lady Jenny might again assist me?” He took the last sip of his drink in hopes that request might come across as casual.

“What says you have to be done before Christmas?”

Lady Jenny’s travel plans said it plainly enough. “The Academy announces its new members along with the honors list, Your Grace. I’d like to be back in London to congratulate the new Academicians.”

And he did not want to be here when Jenny went on her wrongheaded, misguided, unnecessary pilgrimage to Paris. For it was a pilgrimage, though Elijah had yet to determine what transgression on Jenny’s part necessitated such a penance.

“You will not disappoint my duchess, Bernward. The portrait will be done in time for our open house on Christmas Eve.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

“Then be off with you. Any footman can see you to your quarters. Jenny’s about somewhere, unless her sisters have impressed her into doting on their offspring again. Ask the footmen. Put off dwelling at the family seat as long as you can, Bernward. One loses track of one’s family in these old mausoleums.”

Bernward. The title didn’t feel as awkward coming from Moreland as it might from many others. “Thank you, Your Grace. Am I to join the family at meals?”

One could wait above stairs in evening attire for a summons that never came, or one could plainly ask.

“For God’s sake, of course you will dine with us. Her Grace would never forgive me if I suffered Charlotte Beauvais Harrison’s darling boy to shiver away his meals in a garret. And you have some correspondence.”

The duke stalked over to the mantel and swiped up no less than three letters, which he shoved at Elijah. “Your womenfolk are after you, and spying on my house, no doubt. Never underestimate the espionage of females, Bernward. You will tell your sisters Morelands is gracious, snug, and majestic—regardless of drafty corridors, tipsy maids, or footmen who linger near the mistletoe.”

The tone was gruff; the wink was charming. Elijah took the letters, feeling as if the Earl of Bernward had just been welcomed into some benevolent protective society of males who must endure the holidays without cursing before the womenfolk.

“My thanks, Your Grace.”

Elijah took his leave, and had spotted no less than eight fat sprigs of mistletoe before he paused to wonder how his family had known he’d be at Morelands, when four days past Elijah himself had been convinced his next destination was Northumbria.

“So tell me, my lady, do you like it?”

Jenny looked up to see Elijah Harrison standing in the doorway of her newly christened studio. Had she not been studying his parting gift to her, she would no doubt have sensed his presence.

“You came back.” She could not help but smile as she spoke.

“One does not refuse a ducal commission. It’s said Moreland has influence in every corner of government, and his duchess in every corner of Society. Then, too, as the duke himself informed me, any number of juvenile subjects are expected here over the holidays, and I’m intrigued by that potential.”

These words constituted a credible, if
wrong
answer. The heat and tenderness in Elijah’s gaze as he prowled across the room gave Jenny far more cause for rejoicing. “You’ve closed the door, Mr. Harrison.”

“Elijah to you, though it seems I’m becoming Bernward to the rest of the world.” He stood very close to her, so close she could catch his sweet lavender scent. “Happy Christmas, my lady. Did you like the sketch?”

He did not kiss her, and the frustration of that was profound.

“I cannot show this sketch to anybody, Mr. Harrison. No one but my lady’s maid has seen my hair down for years.”

His eyebrows spoke volumes:
he’d
seen her hair down, her body naked, her face suffused with arousal. Thank God he’d sketched her in the grip of other emotions: pensiveness, a hint of humor, and something else she couldn’t name.

“You’ve caught a resemblance between me and His Grace. I can’t say I’ve noticed that before, but the likeness is genuine.”

“You have much of your father in you. Will you lend me your studio?”

He moved off, and Jenny wanted to grab him by the hand and drag him down to the carpet, there to renew his acquaintance with her unbound hair until spring.

“Who is to sit to you? I’m fond of my nieces and nephews. I assume you’ll allow me to assist again?”

He paced to the windows, which looked out over the stables and paddocks, toward Kesmore’s estate and Eve’s little manor at Lavender Corner. “My sitter is more fractious than any juvenile subject. His Grace has taken a notion to present his duchess with a portrait for the Christmas Eve open house. The light here is good.”

“I’m having a parlor stove brought up too. Her Grace will love a portrait of Himself.”
Why
haven’t you kissed me? Do you carry the lock of hair I gave you?

He turned and propped his backside against the windowsill, a pose Jenny’s brothers often adopted. “We never had a chance to paint together at Sidling, Genevieve. Would you enjoy that?”

Zhenevieve.
“Yes. And you will critique my work.” Not better than kissing, but some consolation.

“And you will critique mine. I’ll have my equipment set up here.” He sauntered toward the door, and while that view was agreeable, his departure without even touching her was maddening.

“Elijah?”

He half turned, a listening pose as opposed to one that focused on her visually. “My lady?”

“I’m glad you’re back. Very glad.” So glad, her chest had developed a peculiar ache, and her hands had balled into fists.

“I’m glad too, Genevieve.”

He sauntered back to her, kissed her cheek, and left.

***

Elijah tried to read the letters sent by his remaining sisters—they’d shared paper, the better to economize—and he’d barely comprehended anything except that they missed him and hoped to see him at Christmas.

Perhaps they would, if the Academy had given him the nod by then.

And perhaps they wouldn’t.

“I should not have kissed her,” Elijah informed a cat that looked very like the one he’d seen at Kesmore’s and Sindal’s. This beast also occupied Elijah’s bed, a green-eyed feline stare tracking Elijah as he unpacked his clothes and hung them in the wardrobe. Against the green, gold, and cream appointments of the room, a black-and-white cat commanded attention.

“I could not help but kiss her. When she saw me, she just stood there, a serene smile on her face, and me, not knowing—”

Not knowing if he’d made a small mistake by coming here, or a huge mistake.

“I am here to fulfill a ducal commission.”

The cat lifted a paw and commenced to tongue-wash between its claws.

“I am here because I could not hang about London, waiting for word from the nominating committee. The other fellows would stop by, the Christmas invitations would come. I wouldn’t get any work done.” Though he was caught up on his commissions, all except for the portrait of Sindal’s boys.

The cat rose to sitting and turned its back on Elijah, then tended to its ears with particular assiduousness.

“I am here because it’s someplace my family will not casually drop by and leave hints the size of elephants that this year, I ought to join the revelry at Flint Hall.”

Though they’d stooped to letters, which was beyond hinting. The cat glanced over its shoulder at Elijah then started licking its own belly.

“I am here because Moreland’s holiday hospitality is legendary. The regent himself recommends Her Grace’s recipe for punch.”

At this, the cat started licking its privy parts. Elijah sat on the bed and put the damned beast on the floor. “Dignity, cat. At the very least set me an example of dignity.”

The cat leapt onto the bed, appropriated Elijah’s lap, and once settled in, began purring without any dignity whatsoever.

“Right. I am here because I want to spend whatever time I can around Genevieve Windham, even if it’s only a few weeks amid paint fumes and under her parents’ watchful eyes. I am here to share with her whatever support and insight I might render regarding her art before she leaves for damned France. I am here”—he brushed his nose along the top of the cat’s head—“because I could not resist the opportunity to see her, to kiss her, even once more.”

The cat appeared to consider this, then bopped Elijah’s chin.

“I am here because I am a fool.”

A knock on the door cut short these pathetic confessions. Elijah set the cat aside and opened his door to behold a mature version of Genevieve Windham.

“Your Grace.” He bowed to the duchess then stepped back, hoping he’d put his stockings and under-linen out of sight.

“Bernward, welcome. I am remiss for not being here when you arrived, but I needed a recipe from my daughter at Sidling.” She came into the room, a woman whose very posture could teach lionesses about dignity and presence. “Your mother and I made our bows together, you know.”

Though she offered him a smile that likely dazzled men half her age, she was warning him of something. His Grace’s words about the womenfolk and their espionage came back to him.

“Mother has mentioned this, as did His Grace. I enjoyed a drink with His Grace upon my arrival.”

“Timothy is welcoming you too, I see. Jenny’s cat is as particular as most of his breed. I hope you aren’t given to sneezing around cats?”

“He’s a friendly sort, and I like cats, generally.”

“Gracious, Bernward. You aren’t seeing to your own clothing, I hope?” She considered the open wardrobe and his traveling bag, where—thank ye gods—no stockings or linen were in evidence.

“My things are damp from the weather, Your Grace, and the sooner they’re hung up, the less objectionable my attire will be at dinner.”

Her inspection landed on him. “You have your mother’s pragmatism, though I’ll send along a footman posthaste. Tell me, Bernward, do you paint quickly?”

This was the woman for whom Elijah would be rendering a portrait of the duke, and so her interest in his art made some sense. And yet… the cat had stopped purring.

“Fairly quickly. Mostly, I’m disciplined. I spend hours in the studio, as any laborer spends at his work. His Grace says the portrait must be completed for your Christmas Eve open house.”

She peered into the water pitcher on his nightstand, putting Elijah in mind of Lady Jenny doing the same thing when he’d spent a night at Kesmore’s.

“Can you do two portraits between now and Christmas Eve?” While her tone was merely curious, the hairs on the back of Elijah’s neck prickled.

“I… can, if my sitters cooperate and I’m left undisturbed for most of each day.” That she might be requesting a portrait of Genevieve made his blood churn and ideas racket about in his brain—Genevieve in green or blue? With her cat? Sketching? Genevieve merry or pensive? Genevieve looking regal or slightly mussed? A portrait of Genevieve absorbed in her art?

“I assure you, Bernward, you will have full cooperation, for you see it’s my portrait I’d like you to paint.”

The disappointment this news engendered was hard to keep off his face. “It will be my pleasure and my privilege, Your Grace. Will this portrait be a surprise to His Grace?”

Her smile was mischievous, a smile he’d seen Jenny wear under circumstances her mother would not approve of. “If possible. Can you manage that?”

“I can, as long as it’s understood nobody sees what I’m working on until it’s complete—nobody except Lady Jenny.”

Fine blond brows drew down. “Sophie said you would never have gotten such a wonderful rendering of her boys without Jenny’s assistance.”

The espionage of females, His Grace had called it. “Lady Sindal misstates the case, Your Grace. I would never have gotten
any
rendering of those children without their aunt’s patient and clever intervention.”

The duchess’s smile turned maternal. “Jenny is very good with children. Her siblings, nieces, and nephews adore her.”

Genevieve was equally good with a sketchbook, though Elijah doubted her mother would smile if he said as much. He tried anyway. “Her assistance was also artistic, Your Grace, having to do with both composition and execution of the portrait. Your daughter has a great deal of artistic talent. I’ve asked His Grace’s leave to call on Lady Jenny’s assistance while I’m here.”

While he watched, the duchess crossed to the wardrobe and withdrew a sachet bound in cream muslin with a green ribbon. She held it up to her nose—neither the lady nor her nose would qualify as dainty—and sniffed. “These need to be replaced. We’ve a large gathering descending in a few days, all of it family, Bernward. Your late addition to the party means the staff might not have been as attentive to your accommodations, for which I apologize. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything at all that will make your stay with us more enjoyable.”

“My thanks, Your Grace. The duke made it clear I am to consult you regarding all aspects of his portrait. When would you like to begin on our project?”

She left off running her finger down the mantel above his fireplace. “Tomorrow morning. You will meet with me first, and then we’ll summon His Grace and make haste before the rest of the family arrives at week’s end, if that suits?”

She was as accomplished at issuing orders as her husband was. “That will suit perfectly.” Particularly if he was to complete two portraits in less time than many would need for one.

“I’ll wish you good day, then, Bernward. If you’ve any correspondence to send, you can leave it on the desk in the library. We do not dress for dinner except on Christmas Day and Sundays, and of course for the open house. You will attend services with us, weather permitting.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He bowed to her in parting, feeling as if a military fanfare should have started up as she swept from the room.

She was a gracious hostess and a woman intent on securing a holiday gift for her husband, but that she was more worried about the sage hanging near his clothes or the dust on the mantel than about a compliment to her daughter’s talent made Elijah want to… pitch his stockings at her.

***

Elijah Harrison was a demon, a slave-driving fiend.

“You have once again neglected the shadows, Genevieve. Here”—he gestured to the folds of the curtains in her sketch—“and here. Whether they are crisp folds or soft, whether they hang exactly straight or a trifle rumpled, it all makes a difference to the image you convey.”

She was going to clobber him with her sketchbook then dance a gavotte on his elegant, talented fingers while wearing her riding boots.

“This is a
sketch
, Mr. Harrison. This is not the finished portrait of my mother. Your shadows are no better defined than my own.”

Dark eyebrows rose up, and he stepped away from the table where their day’s work was displayed side by side. “What do you mean?”

She pointed to the hearth beside Her Grace’s seat in his drawing. “That is a gesture, not a rendering. The light sources in any painting are of a paramount importance, and you’ve barely hinted at the dimensions of the fireplace.”

His hands went to his hips, and he seemed to grow not just taller, but larger. “I
know
that, Genevieve, but having painted several hundred portraits, I also
know
that wasting my time in pencil on an object that can be rendered accurately only with paint is dithering.”

She closed the space between them. “And your carping on my perishing, damned shadows is the same!”

That
felt good. The consternation in his eyes when she used foul language felt very good indeed, almost as good as kissing him.

“We’re tired,” he said, his gaze on their sketches. “All of this will be here in the morning. We can shout at each other further then. Better still we’ll get out the paints and inspire you to more cursing. Please promise me, however, that you won’t curse in front of your parents.”

As if she could.

She
was
tired, tired from spending most of the day in this room with Elijah Harrison, being close enough to catch his lavender scent, to see the way he studied his sketch as if composing a sermon for its betterment, to watch how his beautiful lips firmed when he was concentrating most closely on his work.

Jenny was also tired from trying to see her parents not as the people she’d known and loved since birth, but as subjects for portraits.

Mostly, she was tired of exercising the discipline necessary to not touch him.

“I don’t want to shout at you, Elijah.” She wanted to put her arms around him and feel his arms around her. With him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his cuffs turned back to reveal his wrists and forearms, she wanted very much to touch him.