Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance)

  Laurie's Painter © 2013 by Alice M. Roelke All rights reserved. All characters and events are fictitious; any similarity to real people or events is coincidental and unintended. This story is not to be reproduced without permission from the author in writing. Cover Art © 2013 by Alice M. Roelke using an image from Canstockphoto.com (photographer: prometeus) First ebook edition: May 2013

  Acknowledgements: With many thanks to Keanan Brand, jay Dixon, and Trish Glavin for their help and kindness! :) I also found helpful "The Writer's Guide to Everyday Life in Regency and Victorian England from 1811 to 1901," by Kristine Hughes, as well as "Georgette Heyer's Regency World," by Jennifer Kloester. All historical inaccuracies are my fault.

  Laurie's Painter

  by Alice M. Roelke

  Chapter one

  Jenny paced the small room from the tiny window to the portrait, with its nearly finished woman and dogs, the background still wet from her brush. No time to work on it now; it was too dark.

  But where's Henry?

  She moved to the small window and peered out. A streetlamp had been lit nearby, but it showed little in the fog and gathering gloom. It would be unthinkable to go out alone after him. Henry and Jenny lived in a rough part of town, because it was all the siblings could afford.

  But with his cough... She pressed her hands together tightly. What if something happened to Henry? I wouldn't even know where to look for him. The thought of her brother, prone in the street, coughing helplessly, filled her with horror.

  Her mouth tightened as she reached a decision. If he doesn't come in ten minutes, I'll go out and look for him, hang the danger!

  She gazed out again with trepidation at the darkness. Two men walked by, laughing and weaving. A glass bottle smashed against the cobblestones, shattering into dangerous shards. She drew back quickly.

  Oh, Henry. Please come home!

  ~*~

  "You still haven't told me your name." Laurie smiled at the young, weary-looking painter.

  "Henry Wilkenson," he said, sounding half defensive, half apologetic. Again he coughed.

  They were both guests at the home of Gervais Catchpole, an indolent man Laurie had known since they were at school together. This angry, sickly-looking man was taking Catchpole's portrait, but he seemed too ill to do so. And Catchpole was too selfish to notice.

  The painter coughed again, a terrible cough. Laurie thought with a brief pang of his sister's illness, and tore his mind away from the still-fresh pain of losing her.

  I shall have to send him home myself.

  "I grow weary of that cough," said Laurie, rising from his seat. "And lord, it's late! You should be off home and finish another day."

  The painter rose slowly and glared at Laurie over the top of the canvas. "I was just about the suggest it. I'm so sorry my illness offends you."

  "Well, it does, you know. You shouldn't be working till you're feeling better." He strode toward Henry, softening his words with a smile.

  "And how do you propose I pay my bills without working?" asked Henry, goaded into argument and betrayed by yet another hacking cough. This one was worst of all and caused him to clutch at a chair to keep his balance.

  Laurie moved quickly to his side. The painter looked pale and could not seem to catch his breath. "How did you intend to get home?"

  "Walk," said the young man.

  "Where do you live?"

  The painter hesitated.

  "Come on, Henry! Think of the old school. I'm hardly going to burgle your home."

  Henry's indignant gaze flew to his face. Laurie met it, smiling. He waited.

  Mumbling an address in the worst part of town, Henry dropped his gaze.

  "Well, what a coincidence. I'm going that way myself. I'll drop you off. Come along."

  He waited till the paints were put away, ignoring both Gervais's words to stop being a shocking bore and Henry's grumbling, offended pride. He was smiling about it, but in the end things went his way. The butler fitted Henry into his coat and promised the canvas would not be touched. He moved Henry along with an air of gravity that included helping him into Laurie's carriage, tucking the blanket around his legs, and shutting the door firmly after him.

  By this time, Henry's lips were compressed in a fine, angry line and his face was so very pale. Laurie kept silent, allowing the young man to regain his breath and strength before saying anything that could encourage hostilities to begin. Thin, bloodless hands gripped each other tightly in the young man's lap. His painter's case sat at his feet. Every once in a while, he coughed. It was an angry, painful sounding cough.

  Laurie looked out the window until he felt a hot, angry gaze on him. Then he turned and smiled at Henry. "Ready to rip me apart? Have I bullied you into accepting a ride?"

  "You know you have. I don't take kindly to being bullied. Even if you meant it for the best reasons, which I doubt, I needed to finish that picture today. I have another portrait I should've begun already and I need the money."

  "Shall I float you a loan?" asked Laurie with wide, innocent eyes, inviting Henry's anger.

  Blue eyes narrowed. Henry's mouth opened, then shut abruptly. He shook his head. "You're wicked. I don't care if Catchpole thinks the world of you!"

  Laurie laughed. "Oh, I promise you, he doesn't! He thinks the world only of himself." He grinned his best kind yet naughty grin and waited for the rejoinder that was surely coming.

  "Well, I promise you I have not the least interest in being your charity case! Or of offering you any sort of gratitude or amusement."

  Laurie's smile died away. "No, I promise you—I want nothing from you. But I couldn't let you sit there and suffer just because Gerry would never notice."

  Henry's thin lip curled. "Oh? And why did you notice? You are just the kindest of men, I suppose?" His eyes held the scornful, angry distrust of someone who's learnt to expect nothing but kicks from the world and to distrust kindness most of all.

  "Well, I am, really," said Laurie, with another grin. "But it was my sister, you know. She had the—the same sort of symptoms. Grew abominably tired before anyone noticed, if she didn't take care." It was harder to keep his voice level and light here, so he affected to look out the window. Smiling all the time was certainly easier than letting other emotions out. Other, less displayable emotions, such as grief.

  "Oh," said Henry. "I'm sorry."

  "Well you needn't be. Now, have you a servant at home? Plenty of coal and someone to build up the fire?"

  Henry's face, which had relaxed and grown quite human, stiffened up again in a look of outrage. "That's none of your—"

  "No, no!" Laurie held up a hand. "I'll tell you another sad relative story! You mustn't cut up or I promise I shall."

  Henry seemed to suppress a laugh, and then had to bury his mouth in a handkerchief. Beneath his coughing, Laurie thought he heard the muffled word "Outrageous!"

  "But I am. It's my only hobby, you know. I like to think of it more as virtue than vice."

  "Everyone likes to think—that—about...themselves," said Henry, breathless and drained.

  "Indeed." Laurie looked out the window and kept his face averted, because his smile had disappeared completely.

  The horses' hooves clopped dutifully onward and a fine mist had begun to sift down. When they alighted from Laurie's carriage, Henry had begun to shiver, and though he scorned a helping hand, he clung tightly to a handhold on the carriage.

  Laurie strode up to Henry's address and knocked. Immediately the door sprang open.

  "Oh! Have you forgotten your key again? I was so worried! You should've been home awhile ago!"

  The young woman stopped abruptly and closed her mouth, which had fallen open. Laurie gazed down into green eyes the colour of clean, deep water, and smiled at the shocked face of a young woman. She could only be Henry's sister; something about their faces was the same, and one could not mistake her for a servant, no matter what she wore.

  "Excuse me if I don't bow, but I think it would do well to get your brother indoors, Miss Wilkenson."

  "Oh! Indeed!"

  Her brown hair, not in the best of array, tumbled down to her shoulders and beyond. While the curls would've been the envy of some women, had they been arranged, these appeared to have a mind of their own. They had either resisted arrangement or been given up altogether.

  The young woman stood back and held the door open.

  Laurie noticed with interest that she wore a painter's smock over a plain brown gown, that both were spotted with paint, and that none of the above took away from her fine figure. She was small, neat, slender and moved as quick and energetic as a bird, but without a bird's nervous energy.

  The invalid moved into the house, though not without grumbling and attempting to shake off his sister's solicitous hands and take his coat off alone. Here Laurie and Miss Wilkenson conspired against him, helped him out of his coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. Then they sat him in a large, sagging chair by a small fire burning weakly.

  Laurie put another scoop of coal on, ignoring the disapproving looks from the siblings. "There. We shall be cosy in no time." He took off his gloves and put them in his pocket. Shabby furniture and an easel, canvas, and paints occupied the small room. A small table by the easel had several paintbrushes, spots of paint, and a pot of turpentine on it.

  The canvas on the easel contained a partial portrait of a woman with two small dogs that resembled her. "I see you are painting Mrs. Wainscott. How
singularly apt your portrait is."

  Henry nodded vaguely, not opening his eyes.

  The sister cast Laurie a concerned look, her slim brows drawn up and worried. Her hands pressed together in front of her smock. Laurie smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner; she needn't think he'd point out that the canvas and paints were far too wet to have been used by anyone but the young woman herself.

  "I don't recall inviting you in," said Henry in a cold voice, weak and thin.

  "Oh, but you're not such a fiend as to send me away! Think of the old school."

  "We've no refreshments to offer you," said Henry, turning to look into the fire. He coughed again into his handkerchief.

  At this his sister coloured. "We—we have some port. Will you have some, Mr...?" She looked at Laurie humbly. "I'm afraid I don't know your name. Are you one of Henry's old friends?"

  Henry was too weak to answer, but he cast an outraged look at Laurie.

  "No, I am one of his very newest friends." Laurie smiled down at the girl. He accepted the hand she held out and bowed over it. He felt slim fingers, paint stains, and calluses such as might come from holding a paintbrush. "I'm Laurence Joysey. But everyone calls me Laurie. And you must tell me your charming name. Or should I guess it? I'm thinking something dreadfully exotic, such as January. No? Perhaps Aurelia."

  She flushed slightly under this teasing quiz, and drew back her hand. "I'm afraid it's nothing so special as that. I'm Jenny."

  "Jenny! A little brown bird. Why, I am very pleased to meet you, and you're quite better looking than your namesake." He smiled at her irrepressibly with his eyes.

  Her gaze cast down, and she blushed. "Oh—well I don't know about that. Thank you for bringing my brother home."

  "Don't let him tease you," said Henry in a croaking, weakened voice, scowling darkly. "He's a rake of some sort, I'm sure of it." He seemed to be holding himself up only barely by the arms of the chair, as if he would sink into its depths and be swallowed at any moment.

  "Henry," implored his sister, casting an agonised look at their guest, silently apologising for her brother. "When he feels poorly, it ruins his manners. But I beg you won't—"

  "I won't," promised Laurie. "And now I believe I've overstayed my welcome. See you tomorrow, Henry."

  "Oh! You shan't!" exclaimed that incensed person from his chair. And he coughed again, obscuring whatever else he meant to say.

  "Yes I shall, for I've suddenly developed an urge to have my portrait taken. I'll be round tomorrow to see you about the details and payment—and I'm not sure when I'll be free to come round, so mind you're here, waiting for me." He raised his gloves lazily and strode for the door.

  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.