door of her wardrobe.
From her seat at Jenny’s escritoire, Louisa watched as the little bag got the same sentimental treatment. “What’s in there?”
“Elijah’s Christmas present to me. He left it on my pillow before he came downstairs on Christmas Eve. The embroidery is his mother’s, and it’s exquisite.”
Embroidery, no matter how beautiful, was tedious as the devil, and Jenny could create more fantastic stitchery even than what graced that bag. “He gave you the bag?”
Jenny nodded, her gaze on the bag where it lay on top of the other contents of the trunk. She might have been regarding the mortal remains of a beloved pet, based on her expression. “He gave me sketches, I’m sure of it. I’m saving them for when I’m in Italy, or Austria. Possibly France.”
Or maybe Bedlam. Louisa shoved to her feet and snatched the bag from the trunk. “You haven’t even opened your Christmas present, and yet you won’t leave the country without it. You, Sister, are in a state.”
Jenny said nothing, and that gave Louisa pause. The old Jenny, the Jenny who called everybody dearest and had to have a sketchbook in her hands, was never in a state, much less one she admitted openly.
This Jenny had a softness about her, and while she was given to leaving rooms abruptly, and sometimes looked as if she’d been crying, she was an easy person to love.
Eve’s brilliant ploy with Deene’s supposed Christmas gift had not worked, or not worked well enough, and Their Graces were watching these travel preparations with worry in their eyes.
Worry for Jenny, who’d never given anybody cause to worry.
Louisa opened the bag and peered inside. “These are not sketches.”
“They’re not?”
Before Jenny could grab the bag back, Louisa extracted a sheaf of letters. “Oh, good. Some are written in German, and I do enjoy German. This one’s Italian, and there are several in French. This must be… I didn’t know Elijah had a grasp of Russian.”
“He spent a year in St. Petersburg. Let me see those.”
Louisa handed over one, the first one in French, and watched while Jenny translated.
“Oh, that dear, dratted, man. That dear, dear…”
Rather than listen to Jenny prattle on, Louisa translated another of the French missives. “These are letters of introduction. Your dear, dratted man has written you letters of introduction all over the Continent. This one is written in French but addressed to some Polish count. This one is to some fellow on Sicily. Will I ever see you again?”
“There are ruins on Sicily. Greek, Roman, Norman… Beautiful ruins.”
What that had to do with anything mattered little compared to the ruins Louisa beheld in her sister’s eyes. “Was he
Jenny handed Louisa the letter, watching with a hungry gaze as Louisa tucked the epistles back into their traveling bag. “I didn’t ask Elijah for those letters, and I won’t use them.”
“Why in blazes not?” Blazes was not quite profanity. When a woman became responsible for small children, her vocabulary learned all manner of detours.
“Because he’ll never get into the Academy if he’s seen promoting the career of a woman in the arts. The Academy has been his goal and his dream for years, and he’s given up years of time among his family to pursue it. There’s unfortunate history between one of the committee members and Elijah’s mother, and it will obstruct Elijah’s path if he’s seen to further my artistic interests. I would not jeopardize Elijah’s happiness for anything.”
Elijah. Not Bernward, not his lordship, and certainly not Mr. Harrison. Perhaps Eve’s pretty, empty box hadn’t been entirely in vain.
Louisa pronounced sentence as gently as she could. “You love him. You’re in love with him.”
A young girl, a girl who’d never known real heartache, would have beamed hugely at this pronouncement and fluffed her hair or twitched her skirts. Jenny’s smile as she regarded her nearly full trunk was that of a woman, a woman who’d endured both life’s joys and its sorrows. “I love him.”
Being a Windham, this was a life sentence without hope of parole or pardon. “Does he love you?”
The smile dimmed, went from soft to uncertain. “Elijah is very kind. He cares for me, but he gave up everything to pursue his painting professionally—home, family, social connections—and now he has a chance to have it all back and more. The regent has taken notice of him. His family is clamoring for him to return to Flint Hall. As a Royal Academician, Elijah can accept their invitation without causing injury to his pride.”
Jenny’s recitation made no sense, though it resembled the convoluted maunderings of people overcome by sentiment regarding a member of the opposite sex. Louisa attempted to apply logic to the situation anyway.
If Bernward returned Jenny’s sentiments, he’d pop in at the ancestral pile, appease the family, then turn his horse right around and stop Jenny’s mad flight. His chances of doing so were enhanced if somebody—say, the Earl of Kesmore—made certain the exact details of Jenny’s departure and itinerary were put into Bernward’s talented hands.
“I think you should read these,” Louisa said, passing the bag of letters over to Jenny. “Bernward has lovely penmanship, and you should know which doors he’s so graciously opened for you.”
Also, how far away those doors were. Louisa led her sister to the escritoire then sent the footman in the hallway for tea and cakes. As much praise as Bernward had heaped on the talents of the woman whose aspirations he ought not support, it was going to take Jenny quite a while to read his letters.
The door banged open, but it was not one of the small Windham grandchildren charging into Jenny’s sitting room, but rather, Their Graces—His Grace at a brisk pace, Her Grace following more decorously behind.
“Your father has come up with a wonderful addition to your itinerary.” Her Grace sounded particularly pleased with His Grace. “You really must consider it, Jenny. Why, at this rate, we’ll be sending you to darkest Peru and the Sandwich Islands!”
Louisa’s expressions were not often hard to read, but Jenny’s sister looked torn between humor and exasperation.
“Perhaps you’re sending Jenny to Sicily now? She says there are wonderful ruins there. Greek, Roman, and what was that other?”
Her Grace beamed at the duke. “We can convince Arabella to nip down to Sicily, can’t we, Percival?”
As if traveling half the length of Italy was on a par with tooling out to Richmond. Jenny felt something building inside, something she’d felt since Elijah had been nowhere to be found after the Christmas open house. Whatever it was, it was not ladylike or pretty, but rather, loud and maybe even profane.
“Of course,” His Grace replied, looking equally pleased. “And then they can sail around to Venice. You cannot miss Venice, Jenny. They make glass there, and the place has canals. You like a pretty canal now and then, don’t you? You could sketch—”
“Venice would make a nice stop off on the way to Vienna,” Her Grace added. “And a respite from Florence. Florence will overwhelm you, I’m sure, with its basilicas and palaces. Florence ought to be pronounced the madonna capital of the world, according to your father.”
“And the bridges, my love. Don’t forget the bridges. Jenny can sketch those too.”
Except Jenny hadn’t sketched a single thing—not even Timothy—since Elijah had gone away. Timothy had been obliging, but Jenny’s hands had lost the ability to render an image on a page.
“Bridges are pretty,” Louisa noted. “I should think canals might tend to stink, particularly in summer.”
“Not these canals,” His Grace pronounced. “The sea tides keep them sparkling, or so the guidebooks say. So it’s decided. Rome, Sicily, Florence, and Venice. Marvelous.”
Louisa sent Jenny a look that had a hint of daring about it, and the loud, profane urge beating against Jenny’s insides took on an edge of dread. Elijah had written those letters, and Louisa would open her big mouth and see every single letter put to use.
