Marchington Scandal (14 page)

When he was gone, Katharine rose and began to pace about the room.

“Poor Tom,” said Mary.

“Tom is a fool!”

“Well, yes, he is being foolish. But he does not seem to be enjoying himself.”

“Good! Perhaps he will come to his senses, then. How I should have liked to shake him. Young men like that should not be set loose on the town.”

“No, I think his father should have brought him when he was a little younger and introduced him to gentlemanly pursuits.”

“No doubt. But he did not. It would appear he is as great a fool as his son. I have no patience with any of the Marchingtons.”

Mary eyed her. “Well, I daresay it will be all right. Tom seems to be worried about Elinor.”

Katharine made a derisive noise. “Pure dog-in-the-manger. He is at least as worried about Sto…himself.”

Mary continued to watch her. “I suppose he is.”

“Why are men such fools?”

“I fear my experience is limited on that head. But Father always said that foolishness led to wisdom if one allowed it to.”

“Allowed?” Katharine laughed shortly. Then, before her cousin could speak again, added, “I am going upstairs. I shall be down to dinner.”

Several days passed without incident. Each morning, Katharine worked on the portrait of Lord Stonenden while he posed impassively and Mary sewed silently in the corner. The painting began to go better the day after her walk, and in the following sessions she almost forgot she was not alone in the studio. When she had the brush in her hand, Stonenden seemed nothing but a subject, more challenging than a bowl of poppies perhaps, but no more distracting. When she wondered at this in free hours, she put it down to the fact that her canvas had now gone far enough to absorb all her attention. It was good; she knew it. And that fact was so stimulating that she could think of nothing else as she worked.

The Daltrys did not go out much during this time. They attended one concert with Elinor, but the latter had by now made a number of friends, and she did not require their company. She remained grateful to Katharine, however, and had no doubt at all that her plan would succeed. “I went driving with Tony again yesterday,” she said as they rode home in Katharine's town coach. “I am positive Tom has noticed. Indeed, he said something yesterday that makes me think he is becoming jealous.” She gave a great happy sigh. “I know he will give up that woman before long.”

Katharine and Mary exchanged a glance. They had not told Elinor about Tom's call, since he had said nothing to the purpose, but now Katharine felt that she should say something to temper her younger cousin's ecstasies. “Tom still dances attendance on the countess,” she ventured.

“Yes. But he is not so fierce about it. Indeed, I think it is a lucky thing that Lord Stonenden has lost interest in Countess Standen, for Tom is much better off without a rival. He always fights much harder when he thinks someone else wants a thing.”

“What do you mean?” asked Katharine.

“Oh, he has always been so. Since we were children. If he is hunting or shooting he is much more determined if he has a friend to match against. It is silly.”

“No, I mean…” Katharine coughed slightly. “You were worried at one time that he might challenge Lord Stonenden, I know.”

“Oh, yes, but that is all over now. Kitty Drew says it is a great pity, but I don't think so.”

“What is a pity?”

“Oh, that Stonenden has stopped flirting with the countess. He was, you know, outrageously. But now he isn't. Last night, at the Harridons' ball, he didn't even stand up with her. Kitty says that is too bad, because he might have cut Tom out, but I think Tom will be more likely to lose interest if he has no competition.”

“But why has he stopped?” Katharine spoke as if to herself, and she seemed startled when Elinor answered.

“Kitty says he is always doing such things. He will flirt with a woman prodigiously one evening, then pretend not to know her the next. He is never sincere. They call him Stoneheart, you know.”

“I…think I did.”

“Oh, yes, the matchmaking mamas have given him up. He never shows the least interest in debs, only older women. And even then, he sometimes treats them shamefully. Kitty says he is very bad.”

“Kitty seems remarkably full of opinions,” replied Katharine dryly.

“Well, she knows a great many people. And she is engaged to Lord Tremont.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

Elinor turned to look at her cousin. “Are you bamming me? It is just that Kitty is the first
particular
friend I have made in London. I suppose I do talk of her too much.”

For some reason, Katharine laughed aloud. “It is all right, Elinor. I was roasting you a little, but I didn't mean anything. And I am very glad you have made some friends.”

“Well, it is much more comfortable. Parties are not very amusing when one knows no one.”

“No, indeed. Quite the opposite.”

“Did
you
feel that, too?” Elinor seemed astonished by this idea.

“Of course, goose. How should I not? I remember the first
ton
party I attended, when I was coming out. I hated it. I couldn't remember the names of half the people introduced to me, and I didn't know what to say to anyone, so I went and hid in a window embrasure, behind the draperies, for an hour.”

Elinor burst out laughing. “Katharine, you did not!”

“Oh, yes. But then Eliza Burnham found me and dragged me out again. She was so annoyed.”

“I can't imagine you not knowing what to say. Do you think everyone feels that way at first?”

“Everyone. And I cannot imagine why you think me never at a loss. I am, often.”

“Well, you never
seem
so. And that is the important thing, I suppose. Here we are already.” The footman handed Elinor down at her front door. “Good night. Shall I see you tomorrow at the duchess's masked ball?”

“I think not.”

“But, Katharine, you must come! It is the most exclusive event of the season.”

“Is it? I wouldn't want to miss that, would I?”

Elinor cocked her head, then laughed. “You are an original, Cousin Katharine. Everyone says so. Good night.”

She ran up the steps and into her house, and the Daltrys' coach started again. “Am I an original, Mary?” asked Katharine, half-amused, half-nonplussed.

“Yes,” responded Mary placidly. And when the other turned sharply to look at her, added, “You know very well that you are. In society's terms. You enjoy it.”

Katharine laughed. “Merciless Mary. And do I indeed seem never at a loss?”

“Oh, no. Elinor is simply too young to see beyond your surface manner. Few do, I believe.”

“You?”

“I think I do, more and more. But we have spent a great deal of time together.”

Katharine was smiling wryly. “You are always so quiet, Cousin Mary, that sometimes one forgets how very wise you are.”

“I? Oh, no. And I do wish I could talk more. That was the one thing dear Father always lectured me about. But I never could get the knack of light conversation. It is one of my failings.”

“On the contrary. You do not know how refreshing it is to have a companion who speaks only when there is something important to say. I call it a rare gift.”

“Thank you, dear. But you wouldn't say so if you were seated beside me at dinner like poor Admiral Cushing last week. I fear the poor man was dreadfully bored.”

Katharine laughed aloud. “Bother Admiral Cushing. He is an awful old bore himself. Here we are. You climb down first.”

“It is pleasant to be home again. I feel quite tired out.”

“Yes, the concert was tedious. You go straight up, and I will bring you a glass of hot milk.”

“I will get it,” protested Mary.

But Katharine shook her head. “I insist. You should encourage my benevolent impulses, Mary. They are so rare!”

Mary smiled and started up the hall stairs, pleased to see her charge in such spirits again.

“Get into bed,” called Katharine after her. “I will send Phyllis to you.”

“You needn't—”

“Mary!”

“Very well. But please, Katharine, do not send up a hot brick. It is quite warm this evening.”

The younger girl burst out laughing again. “I promise. Now, go.”

***

Katharine's high spirits persisted the following morning. At breakfast, she kept Mary smiling with a stream of amusing nonsense, and when Lord Stonenden arrived, she hurried him upstairs almost before he had time to take off his hat, she was so eager to get to work.

The portrait was nearly finished. It had gone very fast, but Katharine's best work always did so. Either she painted surely and quickly, or the picture did not succeed at all. Today she took up a very small brush and prepared to put the last touches on the face. She had been saving this difficult task for a day when she felt confident. The background was completed, and the rest of the figure nearly so.

The detail went smoothly, and after a time, Katharine began to talk to the others in the room. Usually she was silent when she worked, but at rare intervals she felt an irresistible urge to chatter. She had once told her Indian maid all about her London come-out as she painted her portrait.

Now, her amber eyes sparkling, she began without thinking, “When I first began to work with oils, in India, it was very exciting. I knew nothing about it, of course. I had done only watercolors, and that unsystematically. But I was determined to learn. I sent to England for the materials; they couldn't be gotten where we were. And it seemed a weary time before they arrived. I was ready to begin, but could not. I made sheaves of sketches and nearly drove poor Father mad teasing him about the mail.” As she talked, Katharine continued to paint with great concentration, so that she did not see Lord Stonenden look at her with surprise, then interest, or Mary let her sewing fall into her lap.

“When the paints finally came,” she went on, “I was so eager to try them that I hardly waited to learn how. I simply began to daub. I did some dreadful botched canvases and used a vast amount of pigment before I settled down enough to study properly. It was wonderful to watch Father try to find some praise for them. They were terrible, of course, but he so wanted me to be happy that he didn't dare say so.”

“What did you paint at first?” asked Stonenden when she paused.

“Oh, the things I had seen painted—bowls of flowers, the English countryside, that sort of thing. I worked from my memory, you see.” She laughed a little. “How ridiculous I was.”

“But then you began to do native things?”

Katharine hardly seemed to notice the questions, though she answered them readily. “Yes. One morning I was struggling with a landscape that was all wrong. I didn't know what to do; I couldn't remember just how it had looked, but I knew that what I had was not it. As I was puzzling over it, one of the maids came in with a cup of tea for me. She made some sound, I suppose, because I looked up just as she was walking through a shaft of sunlight. There was a beautiful rug on the wall behind her, and the picture she made was dazzling. I knew at once that I must paint it, and when I began, I saw my mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Yes. In trying to paint when I could not look at my subject. I cannot understand now how I could have been so foolish. But I was rediscovering the simplest rules for myself. After that, I got on better.”

Lord Stonenden opened his mouth to ask another question, but just then Katharine said, “Hold very still for a moment, please. I am at a difficult place.”

He did so, and there was a prolonged silence. Katharine lost all awareness of her surroundings. The others watched her, fascinated.

Finally she straightened, drew a deep breath, and put down her brush. “There,” she breathed. She looked at what she had done, smiled a little, then looked up and said, “Do you want to see it?”

“Is it finished?” replied Stonenden, surprised.

“I think so. I must look again tomorrow. Perhaps I shall add a bit here and there. But it is generally finished, yes.”

He came forward, and Katharine stepped back. “You too, Mary,” the girl added when her cousin made no move, and Mary Daltry joined Lord Stonenden before the easel. Katharine turned away from them. There was silence.

“It's good,” said the man in an odd voice. “It's very good indeed.”

“I think it's the best thing you have ever done, Katharine,” said Mary.

Turning back, the girl scanned their faces carefully. “What is it?” she said to Stonenden.

“What do you mean?”

“You look…well, disconcerted. Is there something wrong with the painting? I should much rather you told me if you see a flaw.”

Slowly he shook his head. “I do not. If I am taken aback, it is probably because it is a strange experience, seeing oneself in a portrait.” He gazed at it again. “Is that really how I look to you?”

“You think I have distorted your features?” replied Katharine anxiously. She was frowning at the painting now.

“No, no. You are misunderstanding me. It is a wonderful likeness and a thoroughly professional job. But like any portrait worthy of the name, it is revealing. And I feel…somehow exposed. A novel emotion.”

Katharine gazed at him, then smiled. “If that is all—”

“All!”

She laughed. “Then it is all right.” She took a deep breath, threw back her head, and executed a sudden pirouette. “It
is
good, isn't it? Oh, I feel as if I could fly!”

The other two smiled at her.

“Come, this calls for some sort of celebration,” continued Katharine. “Let us all go downstairs and have…”

“Champagne,” suggested Stonenden.

She laughed. “I am not quite so extravagant at eleven o'clock in the morning, but we might bring out Father's good Madeira. You go on, and I will come as soon as I wash my hands.”

Mary obeyed, and Stonenden, after a lingering look at the portrait, followed her. Katharine let them go, then walked over to look at her handiwork once more. It was good. She thought she had caught her subject perfectly, leaning carelessly against the mantelshelf, a slight smile on his lips. As she turned away to go downstairs, Katharine gave a little skip of joy, and she shut the door of the studio as if some living person remained behind.

When she entered the drawing room a quarter hour later, she found Mary and Lord Stonenden sitting on either side of a tray containing the Madeira, stemmed glasses, and a plate of festive cakes. “Cook made them for tea,” said Mary in answer to her glance, “but I thought we should have some now.” She poured out the wine and handed it around.

“I propose a toast,” said Stonenden, holding up his glass. “To an artist.” His dark eyes met Katharine's as he spoke, and she felt a thrill.

“An artist,” echoed Mary. “Oh, my dear, it is a good portrait.”

The man nodded. “We must decide how it is to be shown.”

“Shown?” Katharine turned quickly back to him.