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.