Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (15 page)

"I've been meaning to
call for our local physician these many days for a consultation," said
Laurie, toying with his salmon. "I shall do so tomorrow and have him
attend Henry at the same time."

"You need a physician
as well?" asked Jenny, startled. The words came from her mouth a moment
before her mind caught up to how grateful she ought to be for Laurie's tact and
kindness. No doubt he didn't need a physician at all and it was simply a kind
excuse to get Henry the help he needed.

"Oh yes, my lumbago
you know," said Laurie airily. Jenny felt her face crease in a smile, and
wondered at it: that Laurie could always make her feel better, no matter what.

After sitting through the
meal with Laurie and his mother, Jenny attended her brother personally, trying
to tempt him with the soup and pudding the cook had made especially for him. He
was restless and irritable, so worn out from his coughing that he hadn't the
energy or appetite to eat.

"Please try some of
the soup," Jenny pleaded. "It has venison in it."

Henry closed his eyes,
taking a slow, deep breath as if to regain his patience. "I would rather
not, thank you."

Jenny blinked in surprise.
He was in general more likely to tell her not to be a nag, to go away and
irritate someone else into their grave. This stiff response—

She turned automatically
and saw Laurie in the doorway, hesitating as if he wished to enter but wasn't
sure he'd be welcomed. "Come in." She rose, turning to smile in
relief at him. Perhaps he could get Henry to eat where she couldn't.

"Don't," said Henry
in a low, irritable voice.

But Laurie's gaze was
fastened on Jenny's face. He smiled and stepped over the threshold. "Thank
you."

The two shared a secret,
conspiratorial smile—Jenny's a look of relief, Laurie's of sympathy and
reassurance. He stood over the bed and looked down at Henry, scanning the thin,
pale figure with his most exasperating blend of superiority, amusement, and
interest.

"Jenny, will you go
and tell the servants to bring another bowl of soup, and then wait in the
library? I shall join you later. I'm feeling hungry myself. I believe your
brother and I shall eat together."

"We shall not,"
said Henry.

Laurie raised a teasing,
challenging eyebrow. "Oh? Shan't we?"

Jenny removed herself from
the room. She certainly hoped Laurie's magic would work once again. Back in
London, he'd mastered the art of teasing Henry just enough to bring some life
back into him. But Henry hadn't been so poorly at the time, and Laurie hadn't
previously tried to do something as difficult as getting Henry to eat when he
refused.

She told herself not to
worry.  She trusted Laurie, from deep down, without thought or plan. He had
proved himself in so many ways, she just trusted him: trusted his heart and his
good judgment.

~*~

"You know you're
worrying your sister, I trust?" said Laurie, looking down at the sickly
portrait painter. He kept his voice soft, but his tone was serious.

A cough kept Henry from
answering. It was a weak one, as if he hadn't even the strength to clear his
lungs properly. He glared up at Laurie before shutting his eyes, his pale face pained.
"Worry—is the least of what she has faced or must face yet."

Henry sat down on the edge
of the bed. "You are giving up then, my friend?" he asked quietly. He
reached for Henry's hand, only to have it shaken impatiently away. "I've
missed your spark and volatile nature. Where is the man who tried to flatten me
in the carriage? Think of the old school, and don't give in so easily."

"Damn you and the old
school." Henry coughed again painfully. "I want to live. But I shan't.
Even this trip—" He paused for breath. "I know it's supposed to help
me. It hasn't."

"Perhaps my doctor
can. Perhaps a trip overseas, for drier air and warmer weather—"

Henry opened his eyes and
looked at him, just looked. His expression said volumes.

"Ah, but you must let
me, you know," said Laurie. "I intend to marry your sister, and how
can I if she's in mourning for you? It would not be irregular at all for me to
help my brother-in-law."

Henry blinked. "You
mean—? You and Jen...?"

Laurie nodded. "I
haven't asked her yet. Still screwing my courage to the sticking point, I'm
afraid. But I don't intend to give up too quickly even if she refuses me at first."

"She's not such a
fool." Henry's eyelids fell shut again. "She practically glows around
you."

"Oh?" Laurie
smiled. If her own brother thought she had feelings for Laurie, perhaps it
could be true and not his overactive imagination at play. "I hope she will
accept me. But I am unskilled in the ways of-of courtship."

"Hmph." Henry
snorted softly, eyes still shut. A small smile lightened his pained mouth. "You're
both fools. I wondered if you cared for her, but I didn't want to get her hopes
up. And Jenny's absolutely certain you couldn't. You should've given her a
hint."

"I kissed her just
today," said Laurie woundedly, and then realised that perhaps that would
not be to his credit.

"You kissed my
sister? Swine." Henry laughed. He opened his eyes; they had a bit more
life in them. "Well... I... own I will... be glad to see her happy before
I cash in my ticket." He reached for Henry's hand and shook it.

The two men smiled at each
other.

"Now, won't you join
me in a celebratory bowl of soup?" asked Laurie, his eyes alight with
mischief.

Henry groaned, rolled his
eyes—and conceded. Laurie helped him sit up and soon the two were peacefully
supping.

~*~

Jenny paced back and forth
in the library, twisting her hands together in their lovely lace gloves. She
glanced down at them, frowned at the thought of wearing them out, and then went
back to it.

Laurie... of course she
trusted him... but why did he need to talk with her brother privately? He wasn't
thinking Henry would die, was he? The thought was rarely far from her, but she
pushed it away firmly each time.

But, if both men thought Henry
was dying, she could well imagine they might wish to have private words. Perhaps
about her and what her fate would be. If she could find another relative to
live with, she would spend the rest of her days as a poor relation, an unpaid
servant straddling the class lines, doomed to a life of indignities and a lack
of love. Her life had not been easy, but without her brother it would be much
worse. Henry was a wonderful brother, and even when he was foul-tempered, she
wouldn't have traded him for worlds.

Then there was the matter
of the debt. Though far less than they'd thought, it was still more than a
single woman would ever be able to repay in her lifetime. A job as a governess
would leave her nearly penniless; a job as a schoolteacher (for which she was
by no means qualified) would be little better. Perhaps she would be thrown into
debtor's prison until a relative or friend repaid the rest of the debt. Such
things happened; she knew very well they did. Their family had been spared that
fate only because of the earning power of Henry as he matured into a painter,
and because of a few assets that they had petered out over time to repay the
debts, to keep the jailors off their necks.

But Laurie would never
allow her to go to debtor's prison. No. Her twisting hands relaxed. Laurie was
too good a friend, and too kind a man, to allow her to suffer such a double
blow.

A frown stirred again on
her brow. Henry would be too proud to accept Laurie's kind offer to repay their
debts, too stubborn to accept help even from a man noted for his charity work. Perhaps
especially from him.

He would refuse.

But Laurie wouldn't allow
her to go to jail. She felt this knowledge stirring deep inside her bones. Laurie
was too
good
to allow such an evil to befall her. Though in truth if it
would somehow save her brother's life, a lifetime of jail might just have been
worth it; she felt that desperate about his situation.

But no. It wouldn't help.

And Laurie was stubborn,
too. Which meant...

Oh, dear.

Her hands twisted together
harder than ever.
He would offer for her
! Poor Laurie, pushed to it by Henry's
stubbornness. She had rarely been ashamed of her brother, but now Jenny blushed
over him. Dear Laurie, forced to offer for her whilst Henry was alive—and no
doubt too kind to back out, afterwards, in those dread days when the world
would lack her brother's protective presence. Laurie would perhaps even
convince himself it was his duty to marry and protect a dear friend, the sister
of someone from the 'old school.'

She could have wept.

To marry Laurie was her
fondest dream, her most private desire and longing. Yet to marry him thus, to
be a duty, a burden, a chain round his neck... It was of all things most
loathsome to her; she shrank from it with her whole soul.

To be a burden to that
magnificent man who'd brought such pleasure and joy into her life. How could
she allow such a thing?

Yet where can I go? What
other choices do I have?

She paced the room in
agitation. The answer was abundantly clear: none. A young woman, gently bred,
unmarried and very, very poor, thrust on the world without relatives to protect
her. She simply had nowhere to go but into degradation or spinsterhood as a
servant or teacher—or into a marriage of convenience.

And there was nothing she
could do about it. Jenny had felt helpless enough times in her life to know it
was an unpleasant feeling, to dislike it and wish to get away from it as soon
as possible: but rarely had she felt this altogether helpless and hopeless at
the same time.

You're being foolish, she
told herself. Things aren't so dark as you think. Perhaps Henry will rally
and...

She sat down suddenly,
buried her head in her hands, and wept.

Chapter ten

There was a sound at the
door. Jenny raised her head, looking up in alarm, shocked to realise that
Laurie, her dear, foolish Laurie, would find her in tears.

He entered the room
looking so happy and lively, as if he were in the best of moods and didn't care
who knew it. As he caught sight of her face, that expression faded to one of
perplexed concern.

"Your brother has
eaten," said Laurie. "Are you so worried for him?" He moved toward
her and sat down on the chair next to hers.

Jenny fumbled for her
handkerchief and wiped her face and nose, feeling ineffectual and foolish. "I...am
sorry. I was worrying."

"Of course." His
eyes showed sympathy. "But you needn't worry now. I don't say we have no
reason for concern, but I'm going to have doctors look after him, the best
doctors I can find, and he has agreed to go to a warmer climate that will be
healthier for him, as soon as he's able to travel." He patted her hand. "And—he
has even eaten his soup." Laurie's roguish, proud grin seemed to beg her
to ask how he'd done it. His eyes shone with enjoyment, perhaps even
anticipation.

It was all a very good
joke, to be sure. Except that Jenny was not at all certain her heart could
stand it.

She gave him a pointed
frown, trying to gather her dignity, along with her soggy handkerchief. She
straightened her spine. "He would not agree to these things without great
reason. I wish you will not have lied to him to accomplish these goals, however
worthy."

"I am sure I never
did. I...do have something I would like to ask you, however. When you're
feeling...better able to discuss it with me." His smile faded, replaced
with an almost uncertain look.

Jenny swallowed, dread
filling her. He was so very kind. How could she possibly tell him she couldn't
bear to have a false engagement simply to fool her brother? What was more, she
wasn't certain she could fool Henry. He knew her far too well, and she was
dreadful at lying.

Of course she ought to do
anything to help her brother, and wouldn't marriage be less degrading than the
jail she had so dramatically thought to consign herself to?

And would marriage be so
dreadful? To a man she loved, no less. She should toss aside her principles and
wounded pride, more nicety than a girl in her circumstances could afford.

But oh, to be Laurie's
wife, to see him every day yet not have his love...

But he had kissed her. Perhaps
he could grow to love her. He seemed fond of her.

Perhaps that would be
enough. Even married only to save her brother, it would be preferable to any of
the other wretched choices.

She swallowed and tried to
un-crumple her handkerchief; tried to belief it. She was starting to tear up
again. "Yes. I shall talk with you later, thank you," said Jenny,
with her best stiff upper lip. "I—I must go now." She rose and left
the room, hardly knowing what she said.

~*~

Laurie watched her go,
feeling thoroughly confused. That flash of alarm, that look of drawing herself
together to face the inevitable. Had she not understood that Henry finally
agreed to accept some help? Or—fear struck his heart—had she guessed what
question he meant to ask her?