Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (8 page)

But her mother's careful
and diligent training didn't avail much in this current life. She sighed
heavily, and thought of her mother, who'd gone into a decline soon after Father
died. It was as though, despite their conflicts, she simply couldn't live
without him.

Or perhaps it was that she
couldn't live without the money. Father had died from an untimely illness when
his fortunes were at their lowest ebb. He always believed he would come about
at the gaming table or the horse races. And often he had; but this time he
never could again.

The family had been decked
in black, and tears streaked Mother's bleak face for some time to come. Grief
hit the family hard, and harder yet because of their now near-penury. No
relatives wanted to help them. They set up housekeeping without servants in the
City, in a poor part of town, whilst all their old belongings and their home
were sold off. None of the estate was entailed; Henry would have nothing.

And still the debts piled
up high. It seemed as though Henry went from a rosy-cheeked schoolboy on
holiday one day to a pale and worried, undersized man the next. The next few
years were difficult, with barely enough to live on and more debts coming due all
the time hanging over their heads.

Henry hadn't been able to
attend school anymore, but was still too young to find the good employment he
desperately wanted. He and Jenny cared for their mother, in some ways taking
over the role of parent to her child and shielding her as much as possible from
their new world of poverty. It was not always possible.

Painting lessons continued
for Henry, when they could afford them, and he taught Jenny all he learnt. It
was their one escape and one promise for the future. Henry longed to be an artist,
and had heard that portrait painters made a good living. Since it was obvious
that Henry would never be a very strong boy, and higher education was now out
of the picture, it seemed the best option for his future.

Of course, Mother
sometimes spoke of Jenny reversing the family's fortunes by marrying into a
wealthy family. "After all, you have the breeding!" she often
proclaimed. But Jenny felt nothing but embarrassment at such claims, uneasy in
her skin when Mother talked so. They were poor now, and surely nothing of her
doing could ever change that. At any rate, Mother's plans always fell fuzzily
short of details for how she would meet this rich man. They had no way to give
her an entrance into Society and no wealthy relatives eager to lavish money and
a coming out on her. So she tended brother and mother and learned all the
painting she ever could, and put her hope in her brother, not some brilliant
marriage for herself.

The men she did meet were
not of the sort Mother would have liked. She rubbed shoulders with a far
greater variety of humanity than ever her mother knew, for Jenny did the
marketing and a variety of ordinary household tasks that brought her into
contact with the less than genteel.

Once, one of Father's
sisters had offered to take Jenny in as a companion to her daughter. Jenny was
fifteen and a half at the time, and her brother and mother expressed horror at
the prospect. This particular aunt, Euphenia, was a "right tartar,"
according to Henry; Mother proclaimed that vinegar was sweeter.

Since Jenny desperately wished
to stay with her family, she was relieved by their refusal. She much preferred to
stay with people who loved her, instead of assuming the role of poor relative
and unpaid shabby-genteel servant to those who would lord it over her. But she
hadn't been able to shake the guilty feeling she was a burden.

Shortly afterwards, Mother
died and left her and Henry alone with the pile of debts and their grief. Henry,
at seventeen, had already completed his first portrait, and the money was good.
But a large portion of it had to be applied to their father's debts, and they
lived carefully. It seemed there was no one else in the world either could rely
on.

Their reversal of fortunes
had left Henry bitter and distrustful, particularly of men of the world who won
and lost fortunes with the turn of a card and laughed it off afterwards. He
could not forgive or forget Father's shocking debt, or the fact that he had
gambled away Jenny's portion and Henry's education, not to mention their home
and Mother's health.

He worked so hard that
Jenny had sometimes feared for his health. He was such a diligent young man,
but he had never been strong compared to other boys. When he grew ill, her
worst fears were realised.

At first it had been a
cough that hung on, that would never leave. Then the weakness of breath and his
paleness. Then a cough that sometimes produced blood. The doctor she finally
persuaded him to see (though they could ill afford it), proclaimed it a case of
consumption, untreatable except by laudanum, rest, and a few herbs to ease the
symptoms.

Her world turned grey at
that announcement, greyer even than Mother's death or Father's had left her. Henry
was all she had left, and he simply wasn't allowed to die.

Henry was made of sterner
stuff in this instance, refusing the verdict, heaping scorn on doctors who took
one's money and told one he was meant to die. Henry worked hard, made some
efforts to take better care of himself, and informed his sister in no uncertain
terms that he was
not
dying.

Jenny began to recover
from the deep, dark place the doctors' words had sent her, but she never forgot
the sentence hanging over his head—especially when his health waned.

She wanted to wrap him up
in a quilt and protect him, yet nearly every day he must go out and work. And
the people he worked for were difficult to please, kept him waiting at all hours,
and never considered his health or comfort at all. She could have cheerfully
wrung necks when her brother came home so utterly exhausted and discouraged
after a day of being kept waiting on some lord's pleasure.

His hatred of the rich and
idle, of thoughtless and wasteful men seemed to grow. Yet he made an effort to
be cheerful for her sake, to talk of things that pleased them both. It was in
these days that he taught her the most he ever had of painting, letting her
practice on his half-finished canvases, mock-threatening to box her ears if she
made a mistake, and describing everything he had seen for her so beautifully that
she could see it herself. She painted, and they watched the pictures bloom,
faster than Henry could do them alone. For he was too tired at the end of the
day to attempt more work.

Soon they realised how
useful this could be. Jenny contributed, though of necessity in secret. She enjoyed
the painting, felt useful, helped him finish faster, and improved her skills. It
was a blessing all-round. Henry, whose pride sometimes seemed to smother his
common sense, was too proud of his sister's work to object to the help.

They managed to stay ahead
of the debts coming due and all the portraits that needed painted, although
sometimes just barely. Things were hard, but Jenny would have been happy if
only her brother's health would improve, instead of growing worse and worse.

Then, amidst the bleakness
and scrimping, into their life strode a laughing, wasteful, rich man who probably
gambled, but who was funny and so very kind to them.

Joysey had polished
manners but delighted in teasing. He baited her brother, but in the gentlest
manner meant merely to divert. He was kind to Jenny, even gallant, and he was funny
enough that being near him made the day brighter, made her want to laugh aloud.
His presence and kindness toward them acted like a balm, healing the tiny,
wounded family that was all that remained of the Wilkensons.

Even Henry, for all his
stubborn pride, looked forward to the visits from Joysey, looked forward to
sparring with him, drinking tea, and listening to his diverting anecdotes. Despite
Henry's prejudice against anyone resembling their father, even he had to admit
that their new friend seemed to house none of their father's vices, and a great
many virtues that he carefully tried to hide but never could completely.

Joysey was, simply put,
the kindest man Jenny had ever met. He made an effort to put her at her ease
always. Few people had ever bothered to do so before. Sensitive to slights due
to their impoverished circumstances as much as her brother, Jenny wasn't the
sort to fly up in the boughs about it: but she still felt things. Joysey's tact
and open acceptance of them exactly as they were charmed her and won her heart.

She knew she must be
careful, for never was there a man she was so in danger of falling in love
with. The rough young men who teased her rudely, calling to her when she went
marketing, could never hold a candle to such a gentleman. And he had such kind
eyes.

But Jenny had learned
early and thoroughly what their reduced circumstances meant. She had determined
to see nothing more than friendship from Joysey. And to feel nothing but the
same in return.

If these good intentions
and resolutions were sometimes tested with a sigh as she thought of him and
wondered when again his visit would brighten the day, she kept herself strictly
in line regarding daydreams of him falling in love and requesting her hand.

No one would wish to marry
a young woman without a dowry—a young woman who was no longer so young, and who
had been sole carer for a household since her mother's death, and in practice,
often before.

She knew her hands were harder
than a lady's should be, rough from kneading bread and sweeping the hearth. Scrubbing
the floors, heating water, and washing clothes reddened her hands, and in the
cold weather, they cracked and bled. Nor did sewing till all hours before a dim
fire improve her eyes. She knew they were not exceptional, her hair was wild
and ill-behaved, her clothing wretched, and her looks only passable and growing
less so each day. And yet when Laurie—Mr. Joysey—came to visit, she felt a
smile bloom inside her; she felt like a beautiful woman for the rest of the
day. His presence was like a magic balm, chasing away all the fear and
humiliation of the years. When he was there, she could not even worry about her
brother's health, because nothing truly bad could ever happen with Laurence
Joysey nearby.

And if this was a bit too
close to falling in love, she deliberately pushed the thought away from her
mind and told herself she could deal with whatever feelings got past her guard,
after Laurie was no longer their friend.

After the portraits were
done, he would no doubt wish nothing to do with them any longer.

But, before that happened
there was the hamper to finish, Laurie's visits to look forward to, and a trip
to his country estate in the spring. And that was surely payment enough for a young
lady's dreams.

~*~

When her brother got home,
Jenny greeted him with a smile and brushed a stray hair from her cheek. He
smiled at her, looking tired but reluctantly pleased. "You'll have to wash
your face. You've paint on it."

Jenny made a childish face
at him, but rose and went to wash. The strong smells of turpentine and paint
blended in a slightly overpowering aroma, but one that was still pleasant to
her nose—more pleasant than the sooty coal fire burning in the grate. They
needed the chimney cleaned, but she found herself reluctant to push the matter
with money already tight. Certainly Laurie's basket had helped with the food
costs, but there were still the debts to be considered, as that letter from the
bank proved.

From the other room, her
brother uttered a stifled oath. She carried a towel with her, wiping her
still-wet hands on it, and hurried toward him, her brow wrinkled with concern. Both
her speedy walk and brow-wrinkling Mother would have called unladylike, but
Jenny couldn't be bothered about such things when there were more important
concerns. Such as her brother getting overwhelmed by their debt.

Goodness knows, it hung
heavily enough over both their heads, but the last thing he needed was a jolt
of surprise—especially when they were finally getting somewhere, with the
excellent job from Joysey lined up. It would, if she and Laurie could play
their cards right, double as a holiday for Henry, which he so needed: a time to
rest, to get fresh air, peace, and quiet.

"What is it?"
asked Jenny, watching him with large-eyed concern.

Henry stood in the middle
of the room, just past the small table where he must have found the letter from
the bank. A slight and sickly young man with a backbone of iron, he still wore
the greatcoat that seemed to swallow him whole these days. He often seemed to
stand erect only from his effort of will. Now he stood stiffly, blinking
rapidly. He glanced at her from the letter.

"It seems an error
has been made. About the money we owe."

"Oh no." Jenny
felt all the strength go out of her. This—on top of everything? She dropped
into a creaky wooden chair and regarded him bleakly. They'd worked so hard
lately! "How bad is it?"

"That's what I don't
understand. They're saying the error was made to our detriment. Father owes far
less than we were informed!"

They stared at one another
as this sank in. Then Henry went back to the bank letter, scanning the lines
over and over again. "I don't understand," he repeated. "If this
is true, we're nearly in the clear."