Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (10 page)

Being with the Wilkensons
reminded Laurie of his own family, but in a good way. Instead of forgetfulness,
he found new insights, gentle reminders of the loyalty and love that could
exist between siblings, and of families making it through hard times together. They
also made him remember what a good father he'd actually had. Whilst Mr. Joysey
could seem harsh, austere, and cheerless sometimes (certainly things Laurie had
reacted against), he'd been a good man and a responsible one. From the things
the Wilkensons let drop, it had not at all been the same with their father. He'd
left them saddled with debt. He'd been cheerful and playful—and irresponsible
and thoughtless of all but his own happiness. Between the two, Laurie much
preferred his own father, despite all that had existed between them with the
power to confuse and hurt.

But more than what they
reminded him of or taught him, and more than wanting to help them because they
were good and kind and in need, Laurie found himself growing fonder and fonder
of the pair for their own sake.

He delighted in teasing Henry
and drawing him out. The young man was surprisingly well-educated, despite his
formal training being cut short. He read as much as he possibly could and tried
to stay abreast of politics and the current government situation. As he grew to
know Laurie better, some of his fierce distrust fell away, and he could be made
to smile much more easily. Laurie enjoyed earning one of those smiles and
distracting the young man from his troubles.

And then there was Jenny.

Despite thinking it was
just a temporary thing at first, Laurie only grew fonder of Jenny Wilkenson. She
still continued to amaze and delight him.

She never complained,
though her lot in life was difficult. She hadn't the least proud bone in her
body that he could see, and she looked after her brother with touching concern,
attempting to cheer him and make his lot easier, and never once complaining
about her own. Life she met with a level, head-on approach. Though she
certainly had cause enough to bemoan her lot, her brother's illness, and her
father's unfaithfulness with money, he'd never heard her do so, not once.

And, although he knew not
everyone would have thought so, he found her truly beautiful. She seemed more lovely
every time he saw her, with her brown hair coming loose in wisps, or occasionally
restrained—however temporarily. It became a source of enjoyment to him to wait
for some of her hair to escape, the rebellious tendrils that seemed to frustrate
her, but endlessly delighted him.

He enjoyed her smiles,
most of them quiet and shy, but occasionally, he earned a broad grin that she
didn't even try to hide. The way she looked when she smiled at something her
brother said. The way her gaze met his, openly and confidingly as a friend and
equal, not a coquette or uncaring tease. She did care, he felt certain; he didn't
know how much or in what way.

He'd begun to spend less
time wishing to get over Jenny, and more time thinking about how he could keep
her in his life, forever.

He hoped he
could make her feel welcome. Laurie didn't want his Jenny to feel lost, overwhelmed,
or unnerved by the size and occasional grandeur of his family's estate. He knew
Jenny to be a retiring soul, seemingly without any ambitions, and didn't want
the place to frighten her off.

He wished his sister Ann
was here to ease her introduction to his family, the Joysey property, and the surrounding
countryside. Ann always knew what to do in such situations. He was certain she
would've liked Jenny, with her quiet kindness, gentle nature, and hidden
depths. The two of them would have laughed and shared secrets. He could imagine
them walking around the manor, Ann showing Jenny all the secret places, even the
tree Laurie climbed when they were young and so free.

It brought a lump to his
throat every time, when he remembered what he had somehow, impossibly,
forgotten: Ann was still dead. And she would never meet Jenny.

~*~

There was a knock at the
door. Jenny hurried toward it, pulling on her nicest gloves, telling herself to
be calm, it probably wasn't Laurie anyway. Joysey, that is.

She brought a hand up
self-consciously to her hair, checking it had stayed in place. For a wonder, it
actually had so far. She opened the door.

There he stood, tall and
self-assured, and with such a kind, mischievous smile.

"Oh! Hello!"
said Jenny, holding open the door, hoping the colour hadn't risen in her
cheeks, as it did sometimes when she thought of how handsome he looked.

He gave her a bow and
stepped in. "I won't be a moment. I brought a book for Henry."

"I'm sure he'll
appreciate it."

"Yes, well, you may
read it too, of course—if he approves."

Jenny was obliged to bite
her lip to keep from laughing at that pompous, teasing tone. As if her brother
would even attempt to refuse to let her read anything she wished! He was not
such a goose; she was a grown woman.

She accepted it and thanked
him, glancing at the title. "Great painters! What a lovely subject! That's
very kind of you."

"Oh yes, I'm such a
saint to share a volume I'm not reading!"

She laughed. "Oh you
are indeed, sir! But tell me, how did you fare with the Singletons and their new
roof?" Last visit, he'd been telling her about one of his tenant families
and the repairs he was trying to enact to their home. She looked up eagerly
into his face, and was arrested by the expression she saw there. He no longer smiled;
his face held an intensity she'd rarely seen from him—as he looked at
her
.
She felt startled, and her heart beat strangely.

She began to speak
somewhat at random. "Oh, dear, I'm keeping you here talking when you'll
wish to speak with Henry. I'm sorry, come through." She led him into the
next room, where Henry sat before the fire.

She must have imagined his
arrested look, for now he was his usual self with Henry, and later, with her.

~*~

Jenny turned around nervously
yet again, trying to see the back edge of her new blue dress. The material was
a finer cambric than she had ever seen since her girlhood days; it made her
feel unaccountably, almost tinglingly, beautiful and mature.

This was the sort of dress
you could go visiting in; visiting people you had met last night at an elegant
assembly or a shocking crush. People who wore long, elegant gloves and sipped champagne
and lived the life that Jenny hadn't imagined she'd ever have even a taste of
again. It reminded her of being a little girl and seeing her mother arrayed in
splendid glory. That life had been gone for so long. It was like a dream to
have another taste of it.

As the days grew nearer
for their departure to visit Laurie in the country, she grew more and more
excited. It was growing so she could hardly fall to sleep some nights, anticipating
the pleasure of the visit. Thoughts of the journey did give her pause for her
brother, knowing it might be difficult for him. But that was difficult to think
too much on compared to the glories of spring and seeing the countryside for
the first time since she was small. And... Laurie.

She didn't have the words
to express how she felt about him, was halfway afraid of the ones that did
occur to her—but most of all, she thought of Laurie.

Chapter seven

"Laurie, bloody
Laurie," grumbled Henry, scowling darkly, swathed in blankets.

Jenny blinked at the language
coming from her brother's mouth. The coach jostled again over some rough ground
on the road, and Henry winced. He looked sick to death of the long trip.

Though Laurie had made
ample provision for his comforts—plenty of blankets, a large coach, a trip
taken by slow steps and with lodging provided at each stop—it still proved exceedingly
difficult for her brother.

The good news about their
debt had given him an unexpectedly light heart for much of the winter, but
still the cold season took its toll on his health. He insisted on going on with
his work whenever possible. There was little fresh air, and what there was was
far too cold to be good for him. Some days he had to take to his bed, coughing
horribly and bringing up blood, dazed from the laudanum taken for the pain. But
there were other days when he got up and worked as if nothing was wrong with
him.

He hated to be fussed
over, but oh how Jenny's heart twisted at the sound of his worst, pain-filled
coughs. There were times when she'd have done anything, illegal or immoral included,
to help him. But all she could do was preserve an appearance of calm, fetch him
his medicines or another blanket, and bring tea or food when he could bear to
take them.

As much as she was
enjoying the trip on her own account—all the scenery they passed, the people
she could watch from the coach's windows, and the inns where they stayed—she
would have given it all up in an instant if Henry could be at ease. Even in the
shallow sleeps he fell into, his face looked pinched and in pain.

"Are the bricks still
hot? Do you need to stop?" she enquired solicitously.

He sent her a glare that
clearly expressed his opinion of protective sisters and the world in general.

She sat back, trying to
suppress a frown. Henry's pain never could leave her unaffected, even though he
grew irritated if she seemed to let on. "The coachman said we were nearly
there."

"Yes—centuries ago!"

Neither had a timepiece,
but the sun hadn't changed position enough for much time to have passed. Being
stuck in a jostling coach when in pain and utterly exhausted probably did have
a sort of relentless, timeless quality about it, as though aeons had passed.

The coach drew to a slow
halt. Up ahead, Jenny could hear the thickly-accented voice of the driver
telling the horses "Whoa!" and saying each of their names: Prince, Betsy,
Star, and Satan.

Satan?
she wondered, suppressing
a smile. Surely not. A horse with a bad temper could never work in a matched
team of four. And Laurie's horses were as lovely and elegant as could be. She
had felt outclassed, even in her new dress, hat, and gloves, when stepping into
a fairy-tale coach pulled by these beautiful animals. Each was mostly black
with only bits of white marking here and there: socks on their legs, or a spot
on the chest or near the proud face.

For a moment she had
thought wistfully of the old stable at home, and longed to reach out and stroke
each silky, black horse. It was only with great difficulty that she restrained
herself. She was a woman now, not a horse-mad little girl. She must conduct
herself with dignity.

So much about this trip
seemed like a fairy tale to her. If only Henry felt better.

"Why are we stopping?"
demanded Henry. He didn't even open his eyes to look around. His mouth hung
open as he breathed through it, ragged, exhausted breaths as though trying to
catch up with a lifetime of breathing.

"I don't know." Emerging
from her meandering thoughts, Jenny peered out of the coach, and was startled
and pleased to see a large country house in the distance. The road to it
stretched less than a mile now.

"I can see Laurie's
house from here. At least it must be. It's gorgeous, Henry! You'll love
painting it!"

Henry's only reply was a
sarcastic snort. He still didn't open his eyes.

Jenny frowned. Her brother
needed rest more than anything. She peered out the window. "Driver! Why
have we stopped?"

"Begging your pardon,
miss. The mud's bad here. Wheels are going too deep. I daresn't drive further
on or we'll be stuck good and proper. I don't suppose you and the young man
could walk—"