Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) Page 2

  "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."

  He swung his cane, smiled, and left the room before Harrison could raise a voice to reply, or do more than nod in a dazed manner. He was far too used to Joysey's odd habits and strange charities to be surprised—and yet he still clearly was.

  Next, Laurie took his curricle and drove purposefully to the street where he had last left Jenny and Henry. He alighted and knocked with the head of his cane, then crossed one leg and leaned one arm against the side wall. He straightened quickly when he noticed the sheen of grime on the wall, and was brushing his arm off, wearing a peeved expression, when the door opened.

  "Hullo! You're back." Jenny smiled up at him without the least bit of simpering missishness. "I wondered if you meant it. He's going to take the job if it kills him. I do hope you won't make it too strenuous or hurried."

  "No, indeed I won't." His gaze settled fondly on her for a moment, taking in her morning appearance: sensible gingham, hair combed neatly and pinned up with only a few strands escaping so early in the day, though more appeared to be trying. Her face was small, heart-shaped, and rosy of countenance, her expression friendly and free of guile.

  All these things must be in a hundred—a thousand—women, and he had thought himself immune. But something about this young woman touched his heart. Well, it would do him no harm to feel some springtime in his blood, and he could help the siblings whil
st he was feeling generous.

  From the little he remembered of gossip about the family from his father's day, Mr. Wilkenson had wasted his wealth in drunken debauchery and gambling. The gambling, at least, had been no rumour, for Laurie recalled his father mentioning seeing Wilkenson leaving some gaming hell or other, and saying with a disapproving look that some men ought not to gamble until they got their own house in order. "I trust I shall never see you partaking overmuch of the gaming tables, Laurence," he'd said. "Especially if you have debts to cover."

  Laurie's evil genius for witticisms had prompted him to reply, "I don't see why I would ever want to gamble unless I already had more debts than I could cover, Father. I'd either win and be able to cover them, or be no worse in the hole."

  At this, his father's lips had compressed, and he'd delivered a little speech about a man's duties. Laurie had tried not to let his eyes glaze over whilst his mind travelled different roads.

  For all their differences, and as much as his father and he had annoyed one another at times, Laurie had felt a great respect for the man and been shocked at how grief-stricken he'd felt when his father passed away. The mourning months had passed in a haze, and when he came to himself, head of the household, going through the motions but neglecting friends and acquaintances alike and keeping to himself, he had been equally amazed and alarmed.

  It had taken time to get back his jovial ways, his light-hearted manners that were so well known to his friends and detractors. Laurie had always liked to handle things with a joke and a laugh, but he'd found himself unable to do so when real, deep, terrible grief struck. It had shaken him to his core.

  The death of his sister the next year had been an added blow, compounding the pain.

  Though Laurie spoke little of such things, both losses deeply affected him. For all his light-hearted ways, Laurie took good care of his family's holdings. He was certain it would've pleased his father. If he occasionally wasted money, it was not as a gambling roué, but to host a party, to play a trick, or to secretly give a charitable contribution to those in need. This latter especially gave Laurie more pleasure than the roll of bone dice ever could.

  And that, he thought, standing on the doorstep smiling fondly down at the young woman named Jenny, is all I am doing now. Finding pleasure in helping people.

  If he did not quite believe himself, at least he felt less in danger as he took off his hat and bowed deeply. The faintly-smiling Jenny showed him in. She seemed to be amused by his manners, and neither impressed nor indignant. If she minded his teasing, he certainly couldn't see it. If she was flattered or hopeful for his attentions, she gave no sign of it.

  She seemed like a distant observer finding amusement in humankind whilst she could, and approaching him with the open, unselfconscious expression of someone who would be willing to consider him a friend. Perhaps that touched him most of all, though he was unsure why it should.

  He looked around the small, bare room she led him into, taking in his surroundings more closely than he had yesterday. It was just as shabby as it had been at a glance in the near darkness. Obviously poverty pinched them tightly, not just in the street they lived on, but in their furnishings and lack of even one servant. "Is your brother here?"

  "Oh yes, of course, or it would be improper for you to visit." She smiled. "He's in the other room changing. If you have something to say, please do so quickly before he comes!"

  "I haven't. Except that you look lovely this morning."

  He was rewarded with a faint pink blush in her cheeks, but she simply smiled at him and waved him away. "No more than you, my lord," she said in a silly voice and laughed.

  "Oh, no, indeed—!" he protested, trying to school his grin. She meant to playfully cross swords with him? Wonderful!

  "You are quite a tulip of fashion, I'm sure!" Her green eyes sparkled naughtily up at him from an oh-so-innocent face. "I've never seen the like!"

  "Jenny!" Henry's voice intruded, aghast.

  Jenny and Laurie turned as one to face the elder Wilkenson. He looked particularly pale and weak this morning, and stood leaning on the back of a chair to support himself. "Please, pardon my sister," he said, his face gone rigid. "She is used to the free and easy company of equals."

  "Don't be absurd," said Jenny. "He was teasing me, so I teased him back. I'm sure there was no harm done. But I'll leave you now to discuss business." She curtsied and went into the tiny kitchen. Laurie watched her go with a faint smile playing around his mouth. He attempted to school it.

  Meanwhile Henry was glaring at him. "I trust you have some reason other than shameless flirting with my sister to come here?"

  "Oh yes!" said Laurie, keeping back any of a dozen flippant replies; he oughtn't to bait the young man. Anyone could see Henry was feeling poorly. "The painting. I've decided I want to hire you to paint my manor. And me, and perhaps my prize horse as well. I'm addicted to your artistic style, you know." He smiled.

  Henry's gaze narrowed. "That's nonsense. You could afford any painter you liked."

  "Why, keeping track of me, Henry? I'm honoured! The old school ties mean so much to you!"

  Henry blushed, a faint reddish hue starting up his cheeks. He did not drop his gaze, though, or shuffle his feet or do any of a dozen other things to try to hide his discomfort. Laurie found himself admiring the young man for that.

  When Henry spoke, it was in a low, even voice. "You must be well aware, sir, that no particular investigation is needed to mark you out as one of the wealthy and influential set. And I and my sister live simple—dare I say, poverty-stricken—lives. I am at best an average painter..."

  "No, hardly!" protested Laurie.

  Henry held up a hand imperially. "I am at best an average painter, and I can think of no reason for your sudden interest in my family, unless you are playing one of the games you are so well-known for. Or unless you have less than honourable designs on my sister."

  Laurie felt his shoulders stiffen. His smile was no longer difficult to conceal, for he didn't have one. "I assure you, I do not," he said in a more serious tone than he had yet used with Henry.

  Henry stared at him, searching his face with a cold gaze it would have been uncomfortable to meet if one were concealing something. Instead Laurie met it openly, letting some of his indignation show.

  At last, Henry nodded. "Good. I want to believe you, so I shall—for now." He seated himself suddenly, the stiffness going out of him, and gave a great sigh as he seemed to collapse, enfolded in the chair's arms. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a couple of deep breaths and coughed.

  Then he opened his eyes and looked up again at Laurie. His expression was bleak. "But know this, Joysey. If you or anyone else hurts my sister, he shall answer to me. I may be nothing but a poor painter, but I am an excellent shot. My sister has been everything to me for some time now. I venture to say I wouldn't be alive even this long without her tender care, and if anyone hurts her, I'll see him dead at dawn for it."

  Instead of feeling indignant as he supposed he ought to at these fighting words, Laurie found himself strangely touched by the quiet strength in them, spoken as they were by such a weak man. He could picture it, too: Henry standing up with fire in his eyes, aiming at an opponent (some world-weary, sneering roué), and firing. He would aim for the heart. There would be no deloupment in the air, no aiming for a scratch on the arm. Not from Henry.

  "I can see that you care for her very much," said Laurie in a gentler tone, taking a seat unasked opposite the painter. "I am glad of it. Everyone should have someone they feel that way about."

  The painter nodded wearily. His head fell back against the chair. "I'm sorry to have been so brusque, but our life has not taught me to trust easily, and I thought I had best get it out of the way before you waste any time, or Jenny returns."

  "Oh, you think she didn't hear?" He glanced up at the sound of Jenny in the kitchen, and the tell-tale rattle of cups on a tray, nearly ready for them.

  "I hope not. She hate
s if I talk about duelling." Henry gave a rare, rueful grin. It transformed his face from grumpy and ill to youthful and winsome. "She says it's no good for someone to have the attitudes of their class if they can't afford to live like their class. We're too poor for any of our relatives to own us, and our neighbours think we're putting on airs whether we say a word or not. If we don't, we're impossibly high-minded and snubbing them. If we do, we're flouting our upper class speech."

  Laurie tsk'd in sympathy, shaking his head. "Really, you can't win!"

  Henry's gaze narrowed slightly, as if he suspected he was being laughed at. But then he gave the faintest of smiles. "Indeed." He still looked exhausted, and his face lacked colour, but he no longer seemed to be on the lookout for an insult.

  "My apologies for the delay." Jenny entered the room holding a tray of tea things. She gave no excuse and spoke brightly, but she gave her brother a speaking look. Catching and interpreting it, Laurie was obliged to still the smile that wanted to rise on his face. They were so very comfortable together, he could not help but enjoy it.

  His own sister had sometimes taken to prosing at him about his levity and his light attitude toward life, but in truth he could always make her laugh with some well-timed witticism as no one else could, and before he had been home from school for a day, she would be returning them. "I believe you'd be a shocking bore if not for me," he'd quizzed her one day, swinging round to peer at her from beneath a low-hanging tree limb. "Pity for all your suitors!" he'd added.

  She'd laughed at him and informed him many suitors respected a sober turn of mind and preferred as well a fashionably pale face, and she would get most horribly brown if they continued to take their walks. Of course, they'd continued to take their walks, and she hadn't grown brown, for she always wore a hat.

  Those had been good days, before she became ill. How he would have longed to see her so healthy, later...

  Here, in the present, Henry and Jenny looked at his face, theirs united in common heritage, a certain look of their faces, and also in wearing an enquiring, concerned expression.