Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (6 page)

"I don't want to see
you hurt," Henry settled on finally. His gaze was gentle on her, and she
felt awkward under it, as though he saw beneath her cheerful good sense to
those hidden, fairy-tale feelings she'd had.

"I also don't want that,"
she murmured. "But I believe he means no harm."

"He may not, but
everyone on this street is now bound to think he's courting you, and if you
take that thought into your head as well, you could be hurt if it turns out he
doesn't mean to do so."

"Nonsense," said
Jenny in a hearty voice. "Of course I know he's just a friend. He's a kind
man, that's all—a very kind man. I am sure I would be the last person he thinks
of when he wishes to marry, if he ever does."

Henry still looked
doubtful. Jenny turned away and busied herself fixing the tea things. Henry
must have some refreshment from his long walk. Perhaps they could eat from
those fruit cakes he'd been given. They would go well with Laurie's apples and
oranges.

"I don't say I wouldn't
wish it," said Henry, still in a gentle voice. "Nothing would make me
happier than to see you settled with someone as kind and well-off as Laurie. And
he certainly seems fond of you. But no, I think unless he makes his intentions
absolutely clear in that direction, we shouldn't count any chickens. We must
think of him resolutely as a friend."

"Of course,"
said Jenny in a voice that felt strangely tight. "I never had any other
intention."

Chapter four

Laurie drove his curricle
competently, despite snow and hazardous road conditions. He wore a near-permanent
grin at first, enjoying the drive and the challenge of it, not minding the
stinging cold that went right through his great coat and driving cape.

However, the nearer to his
family's ancestral home he drew, the less he smiled—and not from the cold.

He pulled up outside the
grand country estate and tossed his reins to a waiting man, giving him a smile
and a thank-you before striding up to the huge door.

Though the estate had
seemed to grow smaller as Laurie grew larger, it still managed to give off the
air of a place that could never be explored completely and would always have
new corners to discover, to get lost in, or in which to find secreted pirate
treasure. He and his sister had created many games around such possibilities as
their home seemed to hold. It was always with a pang of pain mixed with
pleasure that he remembered those days.

The door was pulled open
even before he could reach it, and he saw the stoic but nonetheless pleased
face of the loyal family butler. He held the door open grandly. "Beech,"
said Laurie with real warmth. He had always wished one could give a butler a
warm handshake instead of just a sopping, half-frozen cape to carry off.

Beech directed his valet
to Laurie's old room, and that worthy carried a bag up with him.

A statuesque older woman
with a stern face that had once been beautiful arrived to greet him before he
was even completely unwrapped. She was elegantly attired, but wore
predominantly black, as she had since his father's death.

"Mother," Laurie
said, unwinding his scarf with the help of Beech.

"Laurence," she
replied in a cold, stately voice. "I trust I find you well, since you
insist on travelling in the winter?"

Laurie knew that his
mother hadn't got over his sister's death any more than had he. Their grief manifested
in different ways and seemed to drive them further apart. But he recognised her
words for what they were: worry for him, fear of losing her now-only child. So
he answered gently.

"Mother, I am in the
peak of fitness! I wished to see you before Christmas, that is all."

"Yes, I am well aware
you wouldn't be caught here during the actual festivities." She gave a
sniff.

"Never could stand
crowds." He grinned cheekily whilst uttering this patently false
statement. Because, indeed, he could stand crowds—of his own choosing.

She ignored his baiting, pressed
her lips together, and contented herself with a cold look.

"You won't cross
swords with me? I didn't think it of you, Mother!"

"I feel sure we have
better things to discuss. Let us have tea in the drawing room and you can tell
me the real reason for your visit." She swept away to order refreshments
for them.

She ordered a great many
things, and Laurie's mouth watered at the thought of Cook's famous pastries
that had kept him happy since his boyhood, and still worked to do so.

He excused himself to
freshen up and bounded up to his old room. His mother kept it ready for him,
always clean and aired, though he rarely stayed at the estate.

The old home brought
nostalgic pleasure but also less pleasant memories of losing his sister. But
most of all, he was simply too busy in town to come down here often. His business
matters and studies as well as his friendships, jokes and charities all claimed
a fair amount of time and left him little extra for rustication, unless he made
specific time and plans for it. The country estate's management was largely
handled by his mother and Laurie did what he needed to long-distance for the
most part.

Shortly, his valet had
helped him change, and he returned to his mother's side. The tea and pastries—his
favourites—had arrived, and his gaze fastened on them briefly, before returning
to his mother.

"Laurence, dear, to
what do I owe this pleasure?" asked his mother, seated demurely across the
refreshments from him. She gave him a coolly assessing look with icy blue eyes.
He knew somewhere inside was the dreamy-eyed girl from her youthful wedding
portrait—unless that girl had died somewhere along the way to be replaced by a
termagant. Not that he thought of his mother in those terms... except for when
she began to meddle in his affairs and try to get him leg-shackled.

Though his mother often
mentioned that it was time he marry and produce and heir or heirs, he did not
think she would relish moving to the dower house. She enjoyed commanding a
horde of servants far too much for that.

He smiled at her now,
hoping it looked disarming. She deserved to know ahead of time. He hoped she
would take it well.

"I am inviting some
guests in the spring, Mother. I expect we'll be here for some weeks. I wish
them to be welcomed to the best of our family's ability. You needn't help me,
but I truly want them to feel at home here, and it would go easiest were you to
agree."

His mother looked, as much
as she was able, surprised. "Well, this is news indeed," she said
dryly. "And just who are these extraordinary friends whom you plan to have
here?" She arched one brow delicately and raised a fine bone-china teacup.

Henry smiled. "Curiosity
piqued, Mother? Very well, the young man is Henry Wilkenson. He went to the
same school as I did. Then his family had a reversal of fortunes, and, to cut a
long and dreadful story short, he became a painter and is struggling under his
father's debts.

"He's a very good
painter, and I wish to support his efforts and pay him astronomically for some
portraiture here. I also very much wish him to take in the fresh air, good
food, and restful pace of the countryside. For he is quite ill and—grows weaker.
Consumption. It would not be wise to move him in winter, but if he lives long
enough nothing will persuade me not to bring him here."

He looked at his mother,
awaiting any disapproval or sign of dissent. She gave none.

She had looked startled
when he mentioned Henry's illness, probably feeling the same ache that was
still as painful to her as to Laurie. No matter how they both tried to cover
it, Ann's death kept coming back.

"And his sister,"
he added. "She seems a very pleasant girl and he can't leave her alone
without chaperone in the city."

His mother's expression
did not change, but he felt as much as saw the change in her attention. She was
extremely focused on his words now. "Oh?" she asked with casual
voice. "Tell me about them."
Tell me about her
, she may as
well have said. Laurie wanted to smile, but he didn't dare. How could he tell
his mother how serious things were between him and Jenny when he didn't even
know himself?

"They live very
poorly, without even a servant, though they are gently born and bred. He's very
proud, but she seems quite accepting of her reduced circumstances. I feel
certain that she would not have much in the way of enjoyment even if she wasn't
always caring for an ill brother. I would like her to have a good time, and her
brother a restful one," Laurie finished, watching her keenly for her
reaction.

He could almost see his
mother grappling first with the distasteful object of playing hostess to the
impoverished Wilkenson girl, then with the pleasing notion that Laurie might
finally wed and produce a grandchild.

The grandchild won.

"I will be very
pleased to do all in my power to take care of them," said Mother.

"You are the best. I
knew you would."

They exchanged a smile,
and hers was less chilly and more genuine than he had seen in some months. The
deeper things beneath the conversation they left unsaid, but he felt they
understood one another adequately. If he cared for Jenny, his mother would not
stand in the way. She felt the hint of possibility for something more between
him and the reduced sister, and to her, that Jenny was poor could be overcome
by gentle birth, respectability, and Laurie's interest in her.

His mother seemed content,
and he didn't doubt she would be all he could wish in a hostess. He rose,
bussed her cheek, and enquired cheerily about supper.

He managed to tease her a
bit more before his visit ended, and she pretended to dislike it, but Laurie
could see she had missed him and would not have minded if he stayed longer in
these short, weary winter days.

But Laurie had a mission
to complete back in town. He waited for a pleasant, cold day with a clear sky
to drive himself back and then did so, waving heartily and smiling, ignoring
his mother's well-meant scolds about catching his death.

~*~

Jenny pinched the hot
bread from the end of the toasting fork and quickly turned it around, speared
it again, shook out her hot fingers, and extended the fork back toward the
small fire burning behind the grate. She looked at her brother slumped in a
chair as she stuck her hot fingers into her mouth to cool them.

Today had been an especially
difficult day for Henry. The young boy he was supposed to be painting was worn
out and fractious from lack of sleep, the tight blue outfit his mother had
forced upon him, and too many sweets. It was nearly Christmas, and the parents
were in a hurry to have the boy's portrait done by then to show his extended
family. But the child was less than cooperative and had a tendency to squirm.

Henry had come home weary
to the bone and rather fractious himself. Jenny did her best to soothe him with
tea and sympathy, and made him change into dry clothes (for it was a wet day,
sopping with half-melted snow), and then sit in front of the fire.

She didn't even allow him
to use the toasting fork to make them a snack, fearing that any effort at all
would be too much for him after today. So he sat and stared at the flames
whilst she made the toast. They had no butter to add to it, nor jam, they being
low on blunt at present. (Henry had refused early payment from Laurie—at least
until it was closer to the time he would do the painting.) But hot toast, even
without anything on it, would still taste warm and homey on a cold day, eaten
whilst seated close by the fire.

They talked a little, but
mostly sat in silence. Henry felt too weary to be good company, but Jenny was
simply glad to have him home. She worried about her brother on winter days, so
cold and so quickly dark. And him not strong at all.

Someone knocked at the
door. She jumped up quickly before he could bestir himself and try to answer
it. "I'll get it!" said Jenny quickly, before her brother could begin
to struggle to his feet.

Though he had to know she
handled the household affairs, he always seemed to feel responsible to take
care of things when he was home, and she hated to see him tire himself out
further.

He cast her a resigned
look but kept his seat.

She smoothed down her
apron on the way to the door, mind slipping back to the thought of
Laurie—Laurence Joysey, that is.

I shouldn't be so
informal. What if I call him by his nickname out loud by mistake? It would be
dreadfully forward of me!

He hadn't visited for the
last two weeks, having run out of excuses, she supposed. Or perhaps he'd become
bored by her brother's stubborn-mindedness.

It wouldn't be difficult. Even
she, as much as she loved Henry, sometimes grew frustrated with his pride. He
couldn't stand to be looked down upon, and she certainly understood the
sentiment, but they were in reduced circumstances and might as well accept it.

She dearly wished they
could apply to relatives for help, but they had none close nor dear enough to
be induced to help with the debt or Henry's medical care.