Mr. Harrison’s composition was quite good.”
Louisa paused in her march toward the door and gave Jenny a look that suggested Bedlam might be lovely this time of year as well—if one enjoyed subarctic climates in winter. “We’ll restore your studio, Genevieve, and when the grandchildren arrive, Her Grace will be too busy managing His Grace to trouble you over it much.”
Elijah used the entire journey from London to consider his latest of several dinners with the nominating committee.
He’d had Buchannon’s butler announce him as Lord Bernward; he’d dressed to the very teeth in sober evening attire; for the first time in years, he’d shown the Harrison family crest on his town coach.
Even old Fotheringale had been impressed with the sketches of Sindal’s sons. The composition was good art, as evidenced by the fact that it became more interesting the longer one studied it. West had muttered that the portrait harked back to Sir Joshua’s skill with juvenile subjects, and no one had contradicted him.
Elijah’s gelding slipped on a deceptive patch of ground, more ice than road. He let the beast right itself, scanned the horizon, and wrapped his scarf more snugly around his chin.
The evening had had two sour points.
The first was when Fotheringale had harrumphed into his port that one unfinished portrait hardly demonstrated depth of skill or range of ability. Anybody could pull off one pleasing portrait of
The second was when Fotheringale had gone off on a tangent about the Academy finally being free of the pernicious influence of dabbling females. He’d squinted at Elijah, as if his tirade ought to have particular meaning, and Elijah had remained quiet.
Which had been a mistake. A prudent man seeking a well-supported nomination would have chimed in with ringing endorsements of Fotheringale’s sentiments, except in his mind, Elijah kept seeing Genevieve Windham sitting at the breakfast table and eating strawberries she could not taste while her dear, doting Papa casually tromped all over his daughter’s dreams.
Mindful of the lowering clouds and the increasing wind, Elijah pushed those thoughts aside and asked his horse for a faster pace.
“There, you see?” Louisa pulled on her gloves with the same confidence she did everything. “Ten minutes of asking Mama’s opinion, thirty minutes of overseeing the footmen as they moved your easels and
Jenny fastened the frogs of Louisa’s cape, wishing her sister could stay longer. “I thought Joseph’s pig preferred lurid novels.”
Louisa’s smile was wicked and gleeful. “Lady Opie doesn’t get a crack at those until Joseph has read them to me first. I threatened to name our firstborn Radcliffe, and oh, the lengths Kesmore traveled to bribe me from that notion.”
“You are so happy.”
Jenny hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, much less sound forlorn when she did. Louisa paused with a red merino scarf half-wrapped around her neck, her smile fading. “I am. You will be too, Jenny. Christmas is the season of miracles, and surely, with all the holiday socializing, the mistletoe, the wassail… Did you know Eve and Deene exchanged their first kiss under the mistletoe?”
“I am not Eve.” And Elijah Harrison was not Deene. Elijah Harrison was on his way to Northumbria, where winter was very cold, and mistletoe likely hung from every rafter.
“Joseph and I kissed under the mistletoe too, before we were engaged. I daresay mistletoe had something to do with Sophie and Sindal’s initial dealings.”
Jenny glanced around at the soaring entrance hall to the Morelands mansion. Mistletoe was in evidence, of course. She wanted to burn every sprig and branch of it.
“I’m going to Paris, Lou. After the holidays.” The packet schedules were up in her room, and four days ago, Jenny had sneaked into the attics and set a pair of cedar-lined trunks to airing.
Louisa stopped fussing with her bonnet strings. “To Paris? Are you going to shop? With Their Graces?”
“No, I’m going to Paris to study art. They do that there—allow women to study art, not simply dabble with watercolor still lifes. I’ve had seven Seasons, and I cannot… I have no interest… Victor once said…” Louisa was studying her with what looked like understanding—or pity. “Will you write to me, Lou?”
“For God’s sake, of course I’ll write to you, but Paris? St. Just would cheerfully take you North with him, or Valentine would welcome you to Oxford—”
“No more damned racketing about as the doting maiden aunt. An artistic calling requires sacrifices, and it’s time I started making a few in the right direction.”
There. Jenny had put the situation into words any sibling could comprehend. Victor and Bart would both have approved.
Louisa left her bonnet strings trailing. “You just cursed, and now that I think on it, you haven’t called me dearest… I can’t recall the last time you called me dearest. Are you sickening for something, Genevieve?”
Louisa studied her for an uncomfortably long moment. “If you don’t tell them, you’ll break their hearts. They need time to grow accustomed to this, Jenny. You’ll regret ambushing them and leaving them no time to adjust.”
Yes, she would. She’d also regret giving them time to change her mind about it.
“I reached my majority years ago, Louisa, and I have a competence from Grandmother Himmelfarb. Their Graces cannot deny my heart’s desire indef—”
The row of coat hooks along the wall by the porter’s nook caught Jenny’s eye.
“Think about this, Jenny. A step like this cannot be untaken, and you’ve never even visited Paris. You might hate it. Joseph says the stench on rainy days is horrendous.” Louisa treated Jenny to a fierce hug, kissed her cheek, and took her leave.
While Jenny ran her hand over a purple scarf of very soft wool with a subtle tartan print woven into it. She lifted it off its hook and brought it to her nose.
“Elijah.”
“I have a dozen grandchildren, counting various stepgrandchildren and works in progress. If you want subjects for juvenile portraits, we’ve a full supply. More brandy?”
Elijah passed his host an empty glass. “My thanks, Your Grace. Perhaps we could focus first on the painting for Her Grace that you mentioned in your note?”
In his summons, more accurately. The epistle had been three sentences long, and every word had savored of imperatives.
His Grace handed Elijah back a half-full glass, topped up his own drink, and resumed a seat on a blue velvet sofa near the fire. The blue of the velvet brought out the blue of Moreland’s eyes, something Lady Jenny had probably often noted.
“I still managed to look distinguished,” His Grace said. He wasn’t smiling, and the words bore no humorous inflection, and yet Elijah had the sense the man was poking fun at himself. “I’d like to memorialize myself for Her Grace before old age transmogrifies dignity into stubbornness and ducal consequence into pomposity.”
A towering need to search the premises for Genevieve Windham receded—but did not disappear—as Elijah considered his host’s words. A portraitist often became a repository for confidences, a consequence of time spent in close proximity to people who could not camouflage their thoughts and emotions with activity.
“This is not a public portrait, then?” And how did one convey on canvas the essence of a man who could use the word transmogrify convincingly?
His Grace considered his drink. “This is a gift for my duchess, not a statement of Moreland power and influence. The woman I love deserves such a token, but it’s one I’ve neglected over the years. To sit for a portrait
