Marchington Scandal (16 page)

“My painting!” Katharine laughed shortly.

Eliza exchanged a look with Mary. “Do you still mean to stay away from the party?” asked Eliza. “Nothing could keep me from going.”

“Oh, yes. It is impossible that I should go now.”

Lady Burnham cocked her head and examined Katharine as if she were a worrisome puzzle. “Do you go, Mary?” she said absently.

“Indeed, yes,” replied the older woman firmly.

Katharine turned to stare at her, and Eliza followed her gaze.

“I am very proud of your painting, dear,” added Mary, “and I mean to be there when everyone is praising it. I shall praise it myself.”

Her cousin's expression softened slightly. “Thank you. But you needn't—”

“I am determined to go.”

“As are we all,” added Eliza.

Katharine shrugged.

“Lawrence is coming, you know,” Lady Burnham went on. “It will be the oddest collection of people ever gathered at a fashionable party. They say Mr. Winstead is so pleased with his invitation that he no longer even cares about the painting. And Sally Jersey has asked Fanchon to make her an ‘artistic' headdress to throw all the rest of us in the shade. She can't bear to have anyone else admired, of course. I daresay she will look a shocking quiz.”

Abruptly Katharine rose. “I am tired,” she said. “Forgive me, but I think I must go up to my room. You will excuse me, won't you, Eliza?” And before the older woman could answer, she strode out of the room.

“What is it, Mary?” asked Lady Burnham. “She is burnt to the socket. It is quite unlike Katharine. Is it this painting?”

“Partly. But mostly…you will treat this as a confidence, I know, Eliza…mostly it is Lord Stonenden.”

“Stonenden! You don't mean…? Katharine?”

Mary nodded, and, unexpectedly, Eliza Burnham began to smile.

The first thing Katharine did the following morning was write a note to Lord Stonenden telling him she had changed her mind about attending the showing of her painting. She composed it hastily and left it on the hall table to be posted when she went down to breakfast. However, five minutes later she left her meal and went to retrieve the envelope, crumpling it in the pocket of her gown as she hurried back to the breakfast room. Her mind was in a turmoil, and had been all night. She was certain of only one thing—she never wanted to see Oliver Stonenden again—and this note would probably lead him to call. She would simply not go, she decided then. He could do nothing about that.

But when the night of the party arrived, Katharine wavered. Mary put on her best lavender silk and left the house at nine, very excited about the event, and when Katharine sat down with a novel, determined to read quietly and go to bed early, she found she could not concentrate. She could not help but wonder what society would think of her work. Stonenden was making a real show of it; the canvas was covered, and he would unveil it at ten precisely. Could she let pass a chance to see everyone's reaction?

“No,” said Katharine aloud. “I will go. It is so late now that I can slip in unnoticed, and I will leave early. I needn't speak to anyone.” Stonenden's housekeeper had shown her the back entrance one day last week.

Katharine hurriedly pulled on a dark dress, which would be harder to see in the unlikely event that someone should glimpse her hiding place, and took a hack to Stonenden's town house. The back door was unlocked, as arranged, and she went in very quietly and walked along the corridor past the kitchens. All the servants were busy, and none seemed to notice her as she moved warily along the hall behind the ballroom to the small door at the side.

She removed her bonnet and shawl there, and then, taking a deep breath, slowly opened the door. At once she could hear a babble of conversation. But only a dim recess about three feet square was visible, nearly filled by a straight chair. Letting out her breath, Katharine slipped in, hung her shawl on the chair back, and sat down, shutting the door behind her. She remained still for several minutes, getting accustomed to her position and listening.

She could hear very clearly. Someone just on the other side of the tapestry that hid her was talking about horses, and farther off a woman was telling someone else about a dressmaker she had found. Katharine looked at the watch pinned to her bodice. It was a quarter to ten; she had arrived in time.

Very carefully, she leaned forward. The tapestry had been arranged so that its edge hung just over the edge of the doorway. Thus, by pulling it very slightly to the side, Katharine could obtain a view of the ballroom in front of her, and it was very unlikely that anyone would notice this tiny slit.

It was a strange sensation, watching the crowd from her hidden vantage point. Katharine had often been an observer of society, standing aside and cataloging the foibles of its members. But even then, she had retained some feeling of belonging; she had been a part of the scene she observed. Now she was completely detached from it. No one could turn and stare at her as she did at them. She found herself at once more critical and kinder in these circumstances. She could see the flaws in her various acquaintances more clearly, but she also discovered more compassion than she had previously had for them.

Suddenly Katharine saw Lord Stonenden walking directly toward her. It was her first sight of him this evening, and something about the purposeful way he approached made her heart hammer in her chest. It almost seemed that he might expose her hiding place to the crowd.

But he merely threw a speaking glance in her direction, then turned and held up a hand for silence. After a few moments, the noise died down and the guests began to gather round him. When everyone was as near as possible, he said, “You all know, of course, the purpose of this entertainment. I am about to unveil a portrait of me painted by Miss Katharine Daltry. There has been some controversy associated with this undertaking, and for that reason I now assure you all that Miss Daltry did indeed paint the picture. I watched her do it, as did her cousin Miss Mary Daltry.” He turned to where Mary was standing and added, “Is that not right, ma'am?”

“It is indeed,” answered Mary in a clear voice.

Stonenden nodded. “Where is Mr. Winstead?”

There was a disturbance in the crowd, and then that gentleman emerged. Katharine nearly giggled when she saw him, for he was dressed in the most extreme fashion of the dandies, with padded shoulders, wasp waist, a collar so high and stiff he could not move his head, and a profusion of fobs and ornaments on his florid waistcoat. “Here I am, your lordship,” he called, preening himself before the crowd. Katharine saw more than one member of the
ton
exchange an amused glance with a friend.

Stonenden nodded to him. “I assume, Mr. Winstead, that you will accept the assurances of Miss Daltry and myself about the origins of this painting?”

“Oh, certainly, my lord. Of course.” The little man was obviously so overcome with pleasure at being present that he would have accepted anything at all.

Lord Stonenden suppressed a smile. “Good. Then I think we are ready.” He signaled, and one of the footmen pulled on a rope that would raise the cloth covering the painting. It was hung on the wall above Katharine's head, well outside her field of vision, but she could see the faces of the guests very clearly, and she watched them as they gazed upward.

Most looked curious, then impressed, then approving. She heard murmurs of “It looks like him, all right,” and “One can see at once who it is meant to be.” These made her smile. She also overheard several compliments to herself. An old gentleman exclaimed, “The girl's done a demmed fine job of it.” And a woman replied, “Yes, Katharine Daltry is certainly accomplished, though a bit odd, you know.”

Winstead himself scarcely glanced at the canvas. He looked up briefly, said, “Yes indeed, very competent,” and turned back to scan the crowd for notables. Katharine shook her head. Clearly, the opinions he had expressed in his offensive article had really meant nothing to him, beyond a venting of momentary spite. He didn't care whether she painted or not, or whether any woman did; he wanted only acceptance from society and would do anything to gain its attention. Having done so, he promptly forgot everything else. For a moment, this depressed her spirits. She had proved a point, only to have her opponent shrug off the whole question. But then she realized that she had actually proved it to herself, and no one else, and she felt happy again.

Just then, she saw Stonenden bringing Sir Thomas Lawrence closer to the wall where the painting hung. In fact, he escorted him right up to the place where Katharine sat, obviously so that she could better hear his opinion. “It is well done, is it not?” he asked the painter.

“I could see better from farther back,” objected Lawrence, “but, yes, I think it is. She has caught something vital, as any good portraitist must. In fact, Lord Stonenden, I hope you will pardon me for saying that she has been very kind to you. You seldom look quite so genial as you do in that painting.”

His host laughed. “I must try to model myself on my likeness, then.”

Sir Thomas smiled in return. “You might do worse. The girl has seen something of the charm you seldom reveal. Either she is an acute, and kindly, observer, or…” Lawrence's smile broadened, and he shrugged.

Stonenden gestured noncommittally. “Some champagne, Sir Thomas?”

“Indeed.”

As they walked away, Katharine sat frowning behind the tapestry. So she had made Stonenden look charming, had she? She couldn't imagine how or why. She certainly had not done it on purpose. As she was fuming, Eliza Burnham came forward, arm in arm with Mary. “It
is
good, isn't it,” she heard the former say. “Katharine is talented.”

“Very,” agreed her cousin.

“And one can see what she feels very plainly. I hadn't realized before what a portrait could show. Though this is an unusual case, I suppose.”

“Yes. Shall we get a glass of ratafia?” Mary spoke quickly and started to turn away.

“Oh, no, I want to look a bit longer. You know, if Stonenden looks like
that
to Katharine, I cannot see that there is any obstacle—”

“Elinor!” interrupted Mary. “Hello, dear. Over here.” Katharine, still frowning in her recess, was surprised at the vehemence of Mary's tone.

Elinor joined the other two ladies, bringing Tony Tillston with her. She greeted them despondently.

“Do you like Katharine's painting?” asked Mary.

“Oh, yes,” murmured the younger girl. “It is…very nice, isn't it?”

“It's first-rate,” added Tony. “And the rest of us may as well go out and shoot ourselves now, I suppose.”

“Shall we get some refreshment?” blurted Mary Daltry in a high, uncharacteristic squeak. “I am quite thirsty.”

Tony shrugged, and Elinor nodded listlessly. Mary took Eliza Burnham's arm and urged her away. Katharine watched them leave with a scowl. Whatever had they been talking about? And why was Mary acting so unlike herself? Did she not like the painting after all? But no, she had liked it.

Before she could reach any conclusion, another group approached, Lady Jersey and two of her cronies escorted by several of the dandy set. “But, my dears,” Lady Jersey was saying in a penetrating voice, “it's perfectly obvious to
me
. She has to be in love with him. No one could see Stonenden so otherwise. I mean, only
look
.” She gestured grandly toward the painting.

“Well, but, Sally,” replied one of the men, “I don't see what you're getting at. The thing looks like him.”

“Does it? When have you seen that expression on Oliver Stonenden's face?”

“Expression?” The dandy held up his quizzing glass and peered at the picture. “Ha. See what you mean. He looks uncommon pleasant, don't he? Not sneering or bored.”

“Precisely. And look at the eyes, that smile. I tell you, Katharine Daltry is in love with him. I would wager my last guinea on it. Isn't it too funny! And he bedding Elise Standen. I always said Katharine Daltry was overproud. Now we shall see.”

“Pity,” replied the dandy. “She's a taking little thing.”

Lady Jersey gave a silvery laugh. “Well, if you truly think so, Edward, you may have your chance quite soon. I daresay she will be ripe for anything when Oliver drops her, now that he has got his painting.”

The dandy looked frightened. “No, no, just a figure of speech, you know. Nothing to do with me.”

Lady Jersey laughed again. “Come, let us go and ask Stonenden about his posing. He must see how it is, of course. It will be amusing to rally him about it.”

The group moved away again, leaving Katharine sitting bolt upright in her chair, her eyes wide with horror. She could not even think at first, such was the turmoil into which Lady Jersey's careless words had thrown her. She only heard, over and over again, “She has to be in love with him.” It seemed to ring in her ears, and she felt dizzy and almost sick. Every member of the
ton
would hear those words before this evening ended, and they would talk of nothing else. Her painting, which she had worked on with such dedication and hope, would come to mean only this in the heedless eyes of society.

Katharine realized that she had been holding her breath, and she released it in one great sigh. She folded her shaking hands tightly and tried to regain control of herself. Lady Jersey was a venomous, hateful creature; she longed to slap her. Everyone knew how she loved to gossip. Surely her silly imaginings would not be taken seriously. Then, abruptly, Katharine remembered Eliza Burnham's cryptic remarks earlier in the evening, and her cheeks flushed crimson. It was clear now that Eliza had seen something of the same thing in the portrait. How could this be?

Putting her icy hands to her hot face, Katharine tried to examine her feelings. She had always disliked Oliver Stonenden. She had! Ever since she first met him. He was a selfish, unfeeling man, completely wrapped up in himself. When he had offered for her, she had known that he did so with no thought of
her
. He had been attracted, perhaps, by the superficials of her appearance and manner, but he neither knew nor cared what she was really like. She had not hesitated for a moment over her refusal. She couldn't love such a man! They were mistaken about the painting; it showed her love of the work, not the man.

Katharine found this explanation very satisfying, for nearly two minutes. But then a vision of Stonenden's laughing face on their last day of work arose, and she realized that it was only partly true. She did love the work. But the man seemed to have changed a great deal since that long-ago proposal. She could not say now that he cared nothing for her true self. Indeed, he seemed to have turned right about. He no longer wanted to marry her, but he treated her as a respected friend. He had inconvenienced himself to help her over the portrait, and he had arranged this whole evening, with evident enjoyment, for her sake. These were not the acts of a selfish man.

Katharine slumped in her chair. She had changed, too. Her feelings toward Lord Stonenden were quite altered by his recent behavior. She did not love him, of course, but she did respect and esteem him more than most gentlemen of her acquaintance.

She flushed again. She had revealed these feelings to the world in the most shameless way. And it was no good saying she hadn't meant to, because the effect was the same. Everyone would interpret it as Lady Jersey had, and they would laugh at her behind their hands for succumbing to a man who had rejected scores of women and was even now known to be involved with someone else. And this mockery would be more bearable than the pity of her friends.

Utterly undone, Katharine stumbled to her feet and groped for her bonnet and shawl. She must get away from this place. She pushed open the door and stepped into the blessedly quiet corridor. Jamming her hat on her head, she hurried along it, but before she had reached the turn to the kitchens, a figure appeared in the archway there. Katharine stopped with a gasp and put a hand to her mouth.