Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (2 page)

Jenny followed him
hurriedly. She cast one anxious glance back at her brother, then toward the
easel. "I—trust you will forgive the deplorable state of our—our abode."
She spoke as though the words were tangled inside her, confused but trying to
be polite. "I'm afraid my brother was—in the midst of painting before he
left, and I—I was trying to clean it up." She gestured to her paint-mussed
smock, and blushed slightly at these words, casting down her gaze.

"Shabbily done, Miss
Wilkenson. I'd not think it of you. A brazen truth would be better than such a
lie."

"Oh!" At this
she flushed scarlet, her eyes rising to his, scared and unhappy. "But you
can hardly blame me, for if it got out that I—that my brother doesn't...why it
could ruin—"

"Surely people are
not such snobs as to revile a painter because his sister helps him with the
background work?"

She looked relieved and
rushed on. "I wouldn't if he was better! But he grows so tired, he cannot
hold a brush anymore if he's been out at all that day. He describes the
settings for me, and I paint them."

"What, all from
memory?" His brows rose with interest. "Even the—bear rug and
mahogany furniture?"

Her expressive brows flew
higher, startled. "The Catchpole painting! You've seen it! Is his figure
coming along at all? My brother's been too tired to work much lately, and I was
very much afraid—" She stopped short, looking confused, and blushed again.

"There's
no need for such anxiety with a family friend. We went to the same school you
know, your brother and I. Come, I'll not tell anyone you paint backgrounds, if
you'll tell me how you do it so well, and from someone else's memory."

"Oh! Thank you. Well,
we often got in the habit of it when we were younger. We painted together, Henry
and I. On his holiday, he taught me anything he learnt. Later we learnt more together
from books and a tutor when Mother could afford one. Henry had a great talent
even then," she confided, looking quietly proud. "He's travelled more
than I, and when I wanted to paint landscapes, he described them for me and
corrected me when I got something wrong.

"When he began painting
portraits, he did the same with the insides of houses. It was fortunate we
learned to work together that way, or I wouldn't have been able to take over
for him so he could rest," she finished in a shy, confiding burst.

"You're charming,"
said Laurie suddenly.

"Oh!" Her brows
rose. "Are you really a rake, then? I suppose only a rake would say such
things, when anyone can see at a glance that I'm not." She gestured to her
attire. She didn't appear to take offense, merely to be curious, her eyes wide
with interest.

Laurie laughed a bit
unsteadily. "My dear—never mind the attire. You are, believe me! Now take
care of your brother and do try to persuade him I would be an ideal commission
to accept. I promise I'll pay ahead so you can afford more coal to keep him
warm. Adieu! Adieu!" He raised his hand in farewell, smiling, and then
turned and leapt into his carriage. "Parting is such—!" and he kissed
his hand out the window, smiling in a teasing manner, and smiling harder at her
confused blush.

Once travelling away in
the carriage, he tapped his cane on the floor and stared with a distracted
frown out the window. He was branded a tease and a rake—both his own fault, and
both surmountable.

He was very much afraid
that falling in with this family was not to be avoided. He did not know if he
should be unnerved at that or not, but it was with a not-quite-comfortable
feeling that he drove back to his home and called for his dinner.

He ate distractedly,
forgot to finish, and answered his butler somewhat at random when that worthy enquired
if he would like more wine. After his meal he sat before a fire, gazing into it
without seeing the flames.

"Send fruit," he
said suddenly, sitting up straight, uncrossing his legs. "I shall send
fruit. That is always good for an illness, and perhaps she would paint it."

He began to rise, and then
hesitated. "No! It's far too soon for fruit. What was I thinking?" He
relapsed back to his chair and frowned down at the glass of wine he'd been
swirling for the last ten minutes but forgetting to drink. He drained it off,
and set it down with finality.
I thought at twenty-and-eight, I was too old
to be such a fool.

He wandered off to bed,
only getting lost on the way once.

Chapter two

Jenny did her best to
settle her brother comfortably. He refused to be removed from the chair on
account of not wanting to waste the heat (he said), but more probably because
he hadn't the strength to rise or the humility to accept her help.

She could see from his
pale, sickly look how ill he felt, and gave him a spoonful of spirit of saffron
for his cough and refreshed him with several cups of hot, thin tea from their
cracked and mismatched china.

She picked up her mending
and sat opposite him, keeping an eye on him, hoping he would revive enough to
eat. Her own stomach protested uncomfortably, but she didn't want to eat
without her brother. The heat from the extra coal burning was pleasant, giving
a bit of warmth to her cold fingers. It made the mending easier.

At length Henry cast her a
sharp glance. "You're never mending my shirt again? I didn't rip it yet."

She was cast into
confusion, not knowing how to answer him, for indeed, it was not his shirt.
He's
found me out!
Her expression must have told the tale already. Henry's face
twisted.

"You're never mending
and darning for money," he said with savage scorn. He thumped a fist on
his chair. "Sometimes I could strangle our father!"

"He's already dead."
She bit through a thread, folded the finished shirt away, and began work on the
second. This one was obviously a worn workman's shirt, and she saw no reason to
hide it now.

"Well, if he wasn't,"
said Henry irritably. "I'm hungry. Can we eat?" He glanced at her,
his eyes holding emotions his words did not: sorrow and apology for her silent
sacrifices.

"Of course." She
rose, smiling, and fetched the bread-and-butter, broth, and half a mutton pie. They
divided it all carefully between them, eating slowly before the fireplace,
eschewing the tiny kitchen
where Jenny had banked the fire down for the
night.

Henry seemed to feel better
for eating, and Jenny felt revived as well. She returned to stand in front of
the canvas and regarded her day's work critically in the warm, low light. "I
wonder how I've done for Mrs. Wainscott's hearth. And I can't think her pugs
can be quite so ugly."

"They are, trust me!"
Henry wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin and sighed, setting aside the tray. He
sounded more nearly human.

She wished that he would
feel well enough to play his pipe as he used to do, and the two of them could dance
around the room together, all silliness as if they were small children, faces
alight. But she knew such days might never be again. Quickly shifting her mind
away from the thought, she returned to his side. "Tell me of Joysey. How
did you meet him?"

Henry grimaced as if he'd
tasted sour lemon. "He came to visit Catchpole and distracted him. Catchpole
stopped posing. He hadn't been doing very well anyway. I don't know why he
picked that stupid pose. At any rate, Joysey fed me some of Catchpole's tea
things and made remarks about the background painting—quite nice remarks."
He coughed heavily. "He asked me where I'd gone to school, and pried it
out of me. We'd been to the same one, before Father couldn't afford the fees
anymore." He fell silent with a brooding frown, then began to cough.

Jenny waited on for him to
finish his coughing spell and continue.

He took a few deep
breaths, not quite gasps. "Then he drove me home above my protests. Sort
of has a way of demanding things," finished her brother with disgust. "Does
nothing but joke—yet always gets his way in the end."

"There are worse ways
to be bossy, and he was kind to you."

"Yes, using up our coal!
You know we can ill afford more. That needs to last us till I'm paid."

"Do you think he
means it about the portrait?" she ventured, watching him.

Henry's hands tightened
and his mouth twisted. "Oh—I'm certain he does, if he thinks he would get
a good joke from it!"

She maintained a tactful
silence for a moment, then changed directions with her inquiry.

"Do you remember him
from school?"

She thought back to the
days when their family had the money for servants and a good school for Henry. Though
she'd missed him dreadfully when he was away (and cried every term when he went
away till she was half sick with tears), those had been good days. Father and
Mother alive, a nice house, and always enough to eat.

Back then, there had been
talk of deportment and proper ladylike behaviour for Jenny, for her to grow up
and find a husband of suitable means. She hadn't disliked most of her lessons,
but used to cry over French verbs. She'd cried a lot in those days. Now that
there was far more to cry about, she was too mature to do so. It seemed a sad
irony.

"School? Yes. He was
one of the older boys. Doesn't remember me, and why should he? They all thought
we were useless squeakers at that age."

"He doesn't seem high-minded
now."

"No, but I don't
trust him above half. You never know what the gentry get up to, and he has a
reputation as a jokester. There may be worse I haven't heard, but I've certainly
never heard anyone speak of him as serious and sober-minded!"

"Dear me, no. What
sort of rake would he be then?"

Her brother frowned at
her. "You're innocent of the world, Jen, but there are some dreadful men
about."

Jenny smiled. "I am
sure there are," she agreed quietly. "But I really don't think—"

"Another thing. Don't
let him tease you and flirt outrageously. I can tell he means to. Did you hear
what he said about your name?"

"Yes." She
looked down at her lap, and moved her hands slightly. She reached for the
mending, remembering it with a guilty start, and began to work again at it, her
brow furrowing. Her old nurse would have scolded her for inattention to detail.
But never for her art, she thought, and glanced back longingly at the half
finished canvas. It was too dark to paint anymore today, at least not without
making costly mistakes. They could ill afford the time to repair them, or
enough light, even rushlight, to see by when the sun had set.

Jenny continued her sewing
with a silent sigh. Hours had to be hoarded and paintings to be rushed, making
a task she found as beautiful as springtime into almost a chore. Yet certainly Henry
had it worse with his sittings that would've tried a saint's patience. Not to
mention his dreadful cough.

"Henry," she
said. "I don't think he's that sort of rake. I don't think he's really a
bad man. He'd not bother with us if he were."

"He'd bother with
you," said Henry. "If he's a certain sort. You're pretty enough."

Her head rose and she gave
a startled laugh. "Oh! Well thank you for the compliment, brother, indeed!"

Henry made a face at her
and sat back, smiling. "You know what I mean, though. He's too rich to
look at us as equals, but he showed a decided interest in you."

"He showed one in you
as well," she pointed out.

Henry made an
uncomfortable face. "Yes, but he said that was because he had a sister who
was ill, the way I am."

Jenny grew still, the
animation leaving her face. She looked down at her mending and waiting for her gaze
to focus past the film of dampness. Had. That one word betrayed so much. If
even a rich man could lose a family member to this dreadful consumption, why...
It was not to be borne!

"Henry," she
said in a constrained voice, "I think you really must accept the
commission he offers. He told me he would pay ahead, and you know we need it. You
must have coal, and fresh things to eat, and... the rent is nearly due, Henry."

She raised her gaze
guiltily and met his stubborn, exhausted, pale face. Then she said the words
she knew would hammer it home. "And I can only take in so much sewing."

Henry flushed and turned
his gaze to the fire. He coughed several more times before he spoke, and then
his voice was low and grim. "I'll accept. I'll do his painting if it kills
me. But you be careful of him! I wouldn't have him hurt you for all the coal in
Newcastle."

"I'll be careful,"
promised Jenny.

~*~

Early the next day, Laurie
spoke with his man of business. After the usual enquiries about the orphanage,
funds meted out for widows, and a few business mattered attended to, he finished
with the following remarks.

"I need some information
about the Wilkenson family, Henry and his sister, Jenny. I believe they have
fallen on hard times, and I would like the rest of the details. Oh, and if
there should be any debts—please buy them up slowly and begin to pay them off."