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Elijah’s gelding slipped on a deceptive patch of ground, more ice than road. He let the beast right itself, sca
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 children, for pity’s sake.
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 whatnot, and twenty minutes of setting things to rights, and you have your studio back, better than ever. Now I had best leave you, or my daughters will have fed the cloved oranges to Lady Ophelia.”
Je
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.”
Je
“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.”
Je
“I’m going to Paris, Lou. After the holidays.” The packet schedules were up in her room, and four days ago, Je
Louisa stopped fussing with her bo
“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 ca
“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. Je
Louisa left her bo
You have talent, Genevieve. Yes, she was sickening, and that was Elijah Harrison’s fault too. “I beg your pardon for my language, and I am not sickening for anything. I do not relish telling Their Graces that I am eloping. If I tell them, the holidays will be most difficult.”
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, Je
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 ca
The row of coat hooks along the wall by the porter’s nook caught Je
“Think about this, Je
While Je
“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 Je
“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 stubbor
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 has always seemed… arrogant, to me. Her Grace would have it otherwise, and so you see before you a willing subject, as it were.”
To Elijah, His Grace’s casual use of the word “love” was more impressive than all the polysyllabic blather Moreland had at his command. “My recent work at Sidling notwithstanding, I do not make a credible holiday guest under your roof, Your Grace. Her Grace will have to know the portrait is being done.”
“Young man, do you think I’m going to sit still for hours with only your company to occupy me? Of course Her Grace will know. She will supervise the entire undertaking, making sure I behave myself adequately to see the painting completed. You will consult her on every detail of the composition, and thwart her wishes at your mortal peril.”