Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

“And yet one hears your son hasn’t been home for quite some time.”

This was offered as a puzzled observation, and a mild judgment on the foolishness of young men. In no way did Esther intend her words as an accusation, though she knew they would be perceived as such.

“Elijah is as stubborn as Flint.” Charlotte set the cakes down uneaten. “They had words years ago as only a young man and his father can, and Elijah galloped off in high dudgeon, determined to pursue his art. Flint maintains our son will come home—that Elijah is too dutiful not to—but when, I ask you, will Elijah come home, if in ten years he’s not set foot on the property even once?”

Esther wanted to hug her guest, for this sorrow was something one mother might share only with another, and yet, Charlotte had her pride too.

“Shall I lecture your son, Charlotte? I’ve had some practice at it, and not just with my boys. You will sympathize with me, I know, when I say that dear Percival occasionally benefits from his wife’s gentle admonitions.”

The moment lightened, as Esther had hoped it would.

Charlotte picked up the plate of cakes and took a dainty nibble of an almond and cherry confection. That a woman who’d borne twelve children had any daintiness left in her was a testament to significant fortitude.

“Matters are likely to come to the sticking point here directly,” she said when she’d munched her cake. “Elijah is under consideration as a full member of the Royal Academy. He vowed—young men are so dramatic—he vowed he would not set foot on Flint soil again until he’d gained full membership, and he will not be voted in.”

“Flint would do such a thing to his own son?”

“Flint would dearly love to see Elijah gain Academician status, but it isn’t meant to be. The nominating committee includes old Fotheringale, and he will never allow it.”

The worst problems were those created by a confluence of stubbornness and pride. “Mortimer Fotheringale wouldn’t know a decent portrait if it fell off the wall and hit him on his fundament.”

They shared a look, a look possible only when two ladies had made their bow the same year, and that year was three-and-a-half decades past.

“His arse,” Charlotte rejoined, starting on the second tea cake. “Back in the day, Mortimer fancied me, and I chose Flint. Flint was a dab hand with the caricatures, and I preferred a fellow who could make me laugh to a man who’d lecture me. Mortimer was always going on about the proper helmet for this or that naked Roman god when portrayed at an obscure moment in some unhappy myth.”

“If the Roman were naked, and as a young woman you could focus on his helmet, I would worry for you, Charlotte.”

An impish, Gallic smile flitted over Charlotte’s face, then faded. “Worry for me anyway. Fotheringale is wealthy and respected now, and he will sway many votes. I cannot blame him for wanting a wife of good fortune and good standing—marriage was not a sentimental undertaking thirty-some years ago—but he very much holds it against Flint for turning my head.”

“Have some more cakes. My husband claims tea cakes can solve many ills, and Percival is considered a wise man.” By most, anyway. Hearing this tale of masculine stubbornness and grudges, Esther wasn’t at all sure Percival had been a wise papa where Jenny was concerned.

Charlotte accepted two more cakes, one vanilla with orange frosting, the other vanilla with lavender frosting. “We should serve tea cakes in the Lords.”

“We should lock your son and his father in a room and not let them have any cakes or let them out until they’ve reconciled.”

Thank God her own boys hadn’t gone haring off in a snit—except Bartholomew had to some extent, and the army had been the best thing for him, up to a point.

“You must not interfere, Esther. Flint claims Elijah will find his own way home, but their situation is complicated by Elijah’s art and Flint’s lack of recognition in artistic spheres. I’ve promised my husband I won’t intercede, though I’ve often regretted that promise.”

As well she should. When a man misstepped with his children, who was to set him back on a proper course if not his dear wife?

“I will not interfere, then. I give you my word on that, but tell me, Charlotte, is it interfering to write to your son and remind him of all the holiday revels he’ll miss yet again? Is it interfering to send him a few holiday tokens? To admit that you respect his decision and can understand why his honor might require that he never lay eyes on you again?”

Charlotte’s gaze narrowed on her tea cake. “I am in Town much less frequently—I used to at least be able to count on Elijah being home to me from time to time, but his commissions mean he hares all over the realm. Flint crosses paths with him in the clubs…” She fell silent, her mouth flattening. “I still have daughters to launch, but Elijah won’t necessarily understand that.”

Esther remained silent, having planted what seeds she could. “Christmas approaches,” Esther said, squeezing her friend’s hand. “We can hope your menfolk recall their senses over the holidays.”

“Esther, you’re not to turn up duchess on me, please. Promise me you will not take the boy to task. He’s really very much like his father, and Flint is a fine man.”

A world of uxorial understatement lay in Charlotte’s modest appraisal of his lordship. Esther recognized a well-loved woman when she beheld one.

“I have given my word not to interfere, though you may release me from that promise at any time. Now, shall I ring for more cakes, and what is Flint getting you for Christmas? Percival positively torments himself over this each year, and all for naught, I can assure you.”

They ordered more cakes, and swilled another pot of gunpowder before His Grace and his lordship returned from luncheon at their club. Percival and Flint each stole a kiss from the other’s spouse under the mistletoe, and Their Graces saw their guests bundled back into a crested town coach.

When all the seasonal good wishes, waving, and smiling was done, His Grace led his wife by the hand back to the nearest spray of mistletoe and kissed her cheek.

“Your plan was brilliant, Esther. Ply a man with enough steak, commiseration, and seasonal libation, and all his troubles come galloping forth. Flint is miserable over the state of things with his oldest boy, and more miserable yet because his wife does not reproach him for it.”

Esther slipped her hand around Percival’s arm and let him escort her to their personal sitting room. She kept the fire going in here all day, because one never knew when one’s husband might want a few minutes of one’s time, say when the fate of nations or a little holiday scheming merited discussion.

“If her ladyship took Flint to task, his pride would have the fig leaf it needed to seek a rapprochement with their son,” Esther reasoned, “and yet Charlotte gave her word she would not gainsay Flint on this matter. I gave my word too.”

His Grace seated her on their cuddling couch, flipped out his tails, and settled beside her. “You rarely make promises, Esther. You are a duchess, need I remind you, and your word should be bond enough for anybody. What were you about?”

She was about being his duchess, and the mother of his children.

“I gave my word I would not interfere, Percival. Charlotte should know I certainly cannot speak for my husband’s queer starts.”

A smile lit His Grace’s delphinium-blue eyes. “A stubborn old curmudgeon, is he, your husband? Given to queer starts and wild hares?”

Esther winked at him. “My husband is the dearest man in the world, and the most devoted papa on earth. Now, shall I have some chocolate and some cakes brought up?” Because a rare steak and a half-cooked potato often passed for sustenance in the men’s clubs—that and copious amounts of spirits.

“You shall, you darling woman, and if these queer starts have to do with Fotheringale’s nonsense, then you will lament over them in detail, because I confess the entire mess seems impossible to me.”

The cakes and chocolate arrived, the cakes and the chocolate disappeared, and—telling herself it was all in aid of dear Jenny’s happiness—Esther did indeed lament her husband’s meddling ways at length and in detail.

* * *

At least the letter was not from a sibling lamenting Elijah’s protracted absence from Flint Hall, though in some ways, it was worse.

Harrison,