The Clergyman's Daughter (15 page)

Jessica gasped, choking on her heart, but fortunately her stifled outburst was matched by the shocked protests of the other women in the room. Flora Talmadge blinked in confusion, while Claire, dropping her book onto the settee, tittered nervously. Lady Daphne wrinkled her brow pensively and at last judged, “Oh, Mr. Mason, although it pains me to say so, I’m sure you must be in error.”

The cartoonist looked down at her with an air of distress. He sighed. “My lady, as much as I mislike offending your tender sensibilities, I am indeed afraid that some debased member of your gender has committed these unconscionable attacks upon her betters….” When he saw the skepticism on Daphne’s face, he bowed and continued instructively, “As you know, in keeping with my profession, I am blessed with a certain knowledge of art and those who practice it. When the first of those…regrettable anonymous drawings made their appearance in London last winter, I considered it my sacred duty to see if I could determine their source, in the hopes that I might be able to spare further pain to their victims—many of whom I am honored to number among my acquaintances. Unfortunately, the publishers, in their avarice—for among a less enlightened segment of the populace, the cartoons have achieved a certain popularity—were most unwilling to stop printing the drawings or to reveal anything about their origin. Therefore, I was forced to try to deduce from internal evidence the identity of the…culprit, I’ll call her, for I hesitate to apply the word ‘artist’ to one who so perverts the noblest aims of that ancient craft….”

As Jessica listened anxiously to Mason’s pompous and self-serving oration she was torn between tears of fright and laughter at his affectation. His cadaverous chest seemed to swell with each new and hypocritical word, until he began to remind her, with his long skinny shanks, of some water bird, a heron strutting through the marshes, and she was amazed that Raeburn, who usually had little patience with humbugs, did not denounce Mason for his own vicious caricatures of the
ton.
Perhaps the earl’s forbearance derived from his rigid standards of courtesy, which prevented him from verbally attacking a guest under his roof—or else, Jessica thought apprehensively, like Mason, Raeburn was resolutely determined to ferret out and wreak revenge on the unknown artist.

“There are a number of clues discernible to the trained eye,” Mason continued loftily to his now enrapt audience, and he began to illustrate his points with gestures worthy of the most blustering of Drury Lane hacks. “Perhaps most obviously revealing is the very pseudonym itself: ‘Erinys,’ one of the Furies, the avenging spirits of Greek mythology—a
female
spirit.” Jessica noticed Flora clamp her hand over her mouth in awe of such erudition.

“And what does this Fury presume to avenge,” Mason went on, “to what causes does her maudlin pen aspire? I’ll tell you the so-called plight of undutiful wives rightly cast off by their husbands; the alleged mistreatment of animals; the employment of orphans and foundlings in factories where, instead of falling into a life of vice and sloth, they may happily be taught a useful occupation…. Weak-minded and
womanly
concerns all. And in every case this—this ‘Erinys’ seems to blame these highly debatable ills of society on those persons to whom we should look for guidance and example: His Noble Highness the Prince of Wales…our gracious host himself—”

At this point Raeburn was at last moved to drawl lightly, “Really, Mason, I am most flattered, but don’t you think you’re applying the butter just a trifle…thickly?”

Claire sniggered, and even Flora had to stifle a giggle. Mason, lost in the sound of his own voice, took a moment to interpret what Raeburn had said, and when he did, he flushed above the points of his thickly starched neckcloth. “F-forgive me, my lord,” he said stiffly. “If I seemed too…zealous, it is only because in addition to my natural indignation at the insolence of this scurrilous and ill-starred satirist, I am also offended that a woman would dare to trespass in what is rightly a masculine domain.”

“By that I collect you mean the world of art?”

“Indeed I do, my lord,” Mason said. “Although the delicacy of the feminine hand may impart to it a certain skill at draftsmanship, no woman is blessed with the intelligence and insight that distinguishes all true artistic accomplishment….”

Raeburn glanced past Mason to Jessica, who sat beside Claire on the settee, her raven head bent so that he could not see her face, her slender body rigid with tension. He noticed that one of the ribbons of the portfolio lying in her lap had become twisted so tightly around her hand that it cut into her flesh, inhibiting the flow of blood, making her fingertips lividly white. He stared at the glossy darkness of her hair until his gaze seemed to penetrate her consciousness, and slowly, slowly she lifted her head to look up at him. Her mobile features seemed unnaturally still, her skin ashen, but when her slanting green eyes met his, they glowed turbulently, alive with anger and defiance and—Raeburn scowled—even pain.

Pain!
he repeated in silent amazement. Jessica was something of an artist herself: was she actually hurt by Mason’s idiotic pontificating? Raeburn almost snorted in disbelief. The man was an obsequious ass, certainly, but Jessica had never given a farthing for anyone else’s opinion, and usually—in fact, all too often—she had been more than eager to contradict those with whom she disagreed…. But now she was enduring Mason’s near insults with uncharacteristic forbearance, and the effort was showing.

Suddenly Raeburn wondered if Jessica was being quiet for his sake, declining to argue with Mason because the man was Raeburn’s guest, or at least, a friend of his betrothed’s family. Raeburn had asked Jessica to forget whatever complaint it was that she had nursed for so long against his fiancée—and certainly it could be argued that Daphne was the injured party; after all, she was the one who had been left standing in Almack’s with orgeat dripping down her chin—and try to make her welcome at Renard Chase. Jessica had agreed with unaccustomed humility, and since then she had worked diligently, dealing with the servants with skill and tact that bordered on the astonishing, considering her utter ineptitude when she first married Andrew. In more ways than the physical, her trials of the past year had matured her….

Raeburn sighed. Now if he could only induce Daphne to treat her future sister-in-law with equal amiability and respect…. Aware that he was offering only a feeble sop to Jessica’s hurt feelings, Raeburn said with deceptive mildness, “You know, Mason, I fear I must contradict your statement that women are incapable of scaling the artistic heights. Was it not just in our father’s day that Angelica Kauffmann’s work as a painter was so highly admired by Sir Joshua Reynolds and others that she became one of the founding members of the Royal Academy?”

Mason blinked, rebounding with a thud off the steel in his host’s deep voice. Nodding, he said, “I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about art, my lord.”

Raeburn shrugged. “The Foxes have been collectors in a small way for generations…and, of course, our own dear Jessica is quite talented with her brush.”

“Yes, Mr. Mason,” Claire interjected eagerly, joining the conversation for the first time. “You must see the painting Jess is doing of her little girl and me—”

“A painting?” Raeburn echoed, his brows lifting sharply as he met Jessica’s gaze. “I didn’t know you were working on anything like that.”

Jessica bit her lip. “It’s not finished yet. It was supposed to be a Christmas present.”
A piece of myself I can give to you,
she thought wistfully, staring with ill-disguised hunger at his beloved face;
a gift of love, a feeble reflection of that which I dare not give
….

From her seat by the fireside, Lady Daphne rose and shook out her muslin skirt. “My dear Graham,” she said archly as she stepped over to the earl and slipped her arm through his, “don’t you think we have grown uncommonly serious and gloomy tonight, especially considering the season? If I may be so bold, I’d like to suggest we adjourn to the pianoforte and sing Christmas songs. Surely that is a more appropriate pastime than arguing about painters or some scurrilous scribe who ought to be quite beneath our notice….”

“Good idea, Daph,” Lord Crowell, perking up from the torpor into which he had fallen when the conversation turned “arty,” mumbled thickly from the depths of his armchair, and the others hastened to agree with him.

Raeburn patted his fiancée’s small hand and answered gallantly. “As always, your every wish is my command, my love. Some music sounds like a delightful suggestion. If you will play, I think I can be induced to turn the pages—but not even for you will I sing!”

“Thank heaven!” Claire declared as she rose to join the general exodus to the music room. “Daphne, now that you’re to be part of the family, I warn you you’ll have to learn to suffer silently on those memorable occasions when my big brother waxes musical….”

The mood of the group had changed utterly, and they trooped en masse from the parlor, leaving Jessica still sitting on the small sofa, weak with relief, hardly yet daring to believe that she had escaped undetected from Mason’s uncannily accurate conjectures about Erinys. As much as she despised the man’s work, he obviously had a keenly perceptive eye….

From the door Raeburn glanced back. “Jess,” he asked in concerned tones, “are you not joining us?”

Jessica shook her head as if to clear it and, as she stood up, a strand of black hair came loose and dangled across her smooth cheek. Noting the meticulously neat coiffure of the woman who clung to Raeburn’s arm, Jessica tried to brash the errant tendril back into place. “No, thank you, Graham,” she said softly. “I’m not much in the mood for singing now. You and—and Lady Daphne and the rest of the family enjoy yourselves, though.”

Raeburn frowned at Jessica’s wan features. She was obviously depressed and upset about something. Her casual use of the word “family” made him wonder suddenly if she were missing her brothers and sisters—if not her father—none of whom she had seen since returning to Renard Chase. She never talked about them, but surely now that it was Christmas…. He suggested gently, “Are you lonely for your other family, Jess? If so, it would be easy enough for someone to take you to the village.”

She blinked in patent confusion. “What?” Shaking her head, she murmured, “Forgive me, Graham, I was miles away. I’m sorry I’m behaving like the skeleton at the feast. I think I’d better go on up to the nursery and check on Lottie. I—I’ll see you all tomorrow.” She smiled briefly and fled through the dining room door, leaving her portfolio behind her on the settee.

* * * *

Firmly Jessica closed her apartment door behind her, shutting out the masculine voices that wafted upward from the direction of the music room. She recognized a raucous rendition of the “Gloucester Wassail”—“Come, butler, come fill us a bowl of the best, then we hope that your soul in heaven may rest”—and she could not help noting that the men’s roistering discord was in marked contrast to the clear phrasing of the musician who accompanied them. Whatever else Jessica might think of Lady Daphne Templeton, she conceded honestly that the woman seemed to be an accomplished pianist, no doubt a most suitable skill for the future Countess of Raeburn….

From across the room Willa glanced up from her sewing and surveyed Jessica with inscrutable brown eyes. “You look tired,” she observed laconically. “I’ve laid out your night things. I’ll help you undress.”

Wearily Jessica trudged into her bedroom, giving herself up to Willa’s silent efficiency, but after she had changed into a ruffled negligee of green silk, she found that she was far too restless to relax, and she wandered back into the sitting room. Willa followed, noting the deep depression that seemed to weigh down her mistress as she slumped into an armchair. The revelry that was only just audible from downstairs seemed to mock Jessica’s mood, and she tipped her head backward in a gesture of fatigue, one slim hand reaching up to rub her brow, the pressure of her fingertips a weak balm against the headache tension had planted behind her eyes. Without a word Willa took her station behind the chair and began to massage her temples with smooth, competent strokes.

Even as Jessica relaxed under Willa’s skilled ministrations she wondered at the woman’s silence. She realized with a pang that her growing fondness for Claire had made her less dependent on her maid for companionship, and she sincerely hoped she had not unwittingly offended her old friend in some way. For days now, Willa had been behaving…strangely, as if preoccupied with something other than her duty. She was watchful and wary in Jessica’s presence, and she had begun to disappear at odd hours. The previous afternoon, when the women had ventured out into the snow to watch Raeburn and the other men of the house party skating on the pond behind Renard Chase, the usually conscientious Willa was nowhere to be found, and Jessica had had to recruit one of the housemaids to carry her fur rug for her. When Flora Talmadge, noting the substitution, frowned a reproof and remarked on Willa’s absence, Lady Daphne had looked bored, and Claire had suggested with a teasing smile that perhaps the girl was off somewhere pursuing a flirtation. Jessica could only shrug lightly. Nothing would have pleased her more than to think that her friend had found some good, kind man to care for, but there was no way she could make herself believe such a happy discovery was behind Willa’s uncharacteristic behavior. Jessica knew the gleaming look of love, and that light was conspicuously absent from the maid’s round face.

Jessica’s hand, displaced by Willa’s, dropped away from her forehead and slammed down her cheek and throat to stroke wistfully over her breast. Not all her flagging spirits derived from her fear of Mason or her concern for Willa. Jessica knew she was suffering a very real sense of loss because she had begun to wean her daughter. Ironically, the wrenching break she had feared had been forced upon her not by Raeburn but by time. Lottie was over eight months old now, alert and inquisitive and utterly fascinated by the strange new implements the nursery, maids were using to feed her. Even as Jessica smiled tenderly at the sight of her child’s tiny fingers clumsily learning to manipulate cup and spoon she felt jealous anguish that she was no longer vitally necessary to her daughter’s continued existence. Just now when Jessica had gone up to check on little Charlotte, the maid had rebuffed her with a polite but firm, “Hush, she’s asleep,” and Jessica had grasped the painful fact that except for twice a day now, when the baby was brought down to her for her morning and evening feedings, the maids were more important to the child than she was.