Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

Five

People lied.

Jenny assured herself of this as she joined her sister and brother-in-law in the breakfast parlor. All the people who said sitting to Elijah Harrison was a pleasant experience were perishing liars.

Sophie beamed a smile from her place at Sindal’s elbow. “Good morning, Jenny! I hope you slept well.”

Jenny had tossed and turned for most of the night, wondering how—and why—a wish to see Paris had been announced to Elijah Harrison as something far more permanent and binding. “I slept splendidly, dearest, and you?”

“Well enough.” Sophie cast a speaking glance at her husband. “Sindal, be a love and fix Jenny a plate. We must fortify her against the ordeal of the holidays at Morelands.”

Sindal rose to his blond, golden height. “Jenny, prepare to be stuffed like a goose, though the boys would have me remind you that sanctuary always awaits you here. What is your pleasure?”

To be sketched the livelong day by Elijah Harrison, even if it did leave her feeling… emotionally ravished. Wonderfully, exhilaratingly, emotionally ravished. The things she’d said to him…

“Some toast will do.”

He set a plate before her laden with toast, omelet, crispy bacon, and several sections of a Spanish orange. “Sindal, I am not going a-Viking. If I eat all of this, I’ll have to let out my seams.”

Sindal paused to kiss his wife’s crown. “One can never have too much of a good thing, and you are going a-Viking. Sophie says you’ve agreed to help with the boys’ sittings, which I’m sure Sven Forkbeard himself would shudder to attempt.”

Sindal’s people had come from the North, as was evident in his height, blue eyes, and the intrepid courage with which he’d taken on marriage to Sophie Windham. Jenny liked him tremendously, and yet, the way he regarded Sophie was hard to watch so early in the day.

“Children are sometimes more themselves when parents are not in evidence,” Jenny replied, touching a dab of strawberry jam to her toast.

Another look passed between Sindal and his lady, reminding Jenny that they’d met and fallen in love when Sophie had maneuvered a few days of solitude one fine Christmastide—a few days of freedom from the loving eyes of the duke and duchess.

“Good morning, my ladies, Sindal.”

Elijah Harrison stood in the doorway in informal morning attire. At the sight of him, Jenny’s hunger skittered sideways, into a bodily longing that had nothing to do with food.

“So, Harrison, any last wishes before you take on the Vandal horde?” Sindal pushed the teapot down the table as he spoke. His smile was friendly, though Jenny sensed an element of challenge to it as well.

“Tell my brother Joshua not to put up with any of his lordship’s nonsense, and never to underestimate her ladyship.” Elijah poured for himself and passed the pot to Jenny. “Though I’m sure your sons are delightful.”

They were—also complete hellions.

“Jenny will be on hand to ensure nobody is seriously hurt,” Sophie said. “You must help yourself to whatever appeals at the sideboard, Mr. Harrison. Cook is in alt to have company, though there will be more directly, based on Her Grace’s last letter.”

An alarm sounded through the fog created in Jenny’s mind by the sight of Elijah Harrison’s hands in morning light. “Mama has sent along some news?”

“She has. Papa has decreed that we’re all to gather for Christmas at Morelands this year. Her Grace is vexed because Papa will not remove to the country yet, and such a large house party will require significant preparation.”

Sindal winked at his wife. “His Grace is not done with his holiday shopping.”

Mr. Harrison stirred cream into his tea, apparently used to marital glances and winks over breakfast. “I thought shopping was the province of the ladies. I have six sisters whose letters—when they bother to write—are filled with dispatches about this and that shopping sortie. Even the two youngest like shopping for books.”

He stirred his tea counterclockwise then clockwise, a slow dragging of the spoon along the bottom of the teacup. Jenny wondered if he stirred his paints with the same symmetry—first one direction then the other.

“Papa must find Mama the perfect Christmas present every year,” Jenny explained. “Some years, we don’t know what he gives her, but we know a gift was bestowed in private. One year it was new chandeliers for the ballroom in Town, another year he found her a Shakespeare folio. Another year, he borrowed the regent’s chef for a private meal of Her Grace’s favorite dishes. Papa can be ingenious, and he’s very determined.”

Mr. Harrison rose, aiming a smile at Jenny. “Determination is a fine quality. Would my ladies like anything else from the sideboard?”

Sophie came to her feet. “I am quite finished, thank you. I’ll have the boys brought up to you in an hour, Mr. Harrison. Sindal, come along. A paternal lecture about decorum wouldn’t go amiss.”

Sindal was on his feet in an instant. “Of course, my love. The children can always use practice ignoring their father’s advice.”

And thus, Jenny was alone with the man who’d kept her up most of the night.

“Do you mind if I sit beside you?” Mr. Harrison asked. “The sun is in my eyes on the other side of the table.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, but took a seat to Jenny’s left. No footman stood guard over the sideboard—or the proprieties—but the door was open, and Viscount Rothgreb or his lady might come down at any time. Rothgreb was Sindal’s uncle, the one responsible for commissioning the boys’ portraits, but a very elderly fellow who likely took a breakfast tray above stairs.

“You’re going to eat all of that, Mr. Harrison?”

He glanced at his plate, which held steaming eggs, ham, bacon, and toast. “I’ll have some oranges and stollen on the next pass. What can you tell me about your nephews? And please be honest. Once Rothgreb joins us, diplomacy will be the order of the day, unless I miss my guess.”

“His lordship is a late riser, but he’d be the first to tell you the boys are very active little fellows.”

Mr. Harrison grimaced and tucked into his eggs. “I thought one was yet a baby.”

“He’s fifteen months. He walks, he talks after a fashion.” He also put all manner of inappropriate objects into his little mouth, cried piteously at the least sign of injury, had not one iota of sense, and could illuminate the world with his smile.

The disappearing pile of eggs suffered another grimace. “And the other boy?”

“About twice as old. He runs everywhere, yells everything, and is a prodigious good climber.” Kit was also very gentle with Timothy, who’d been known to take a swipe at Sindal on a bad day.

The grimace became a scowl, the first Jenny had seen from Mr. Harrison. “I suppose they abet each other’s mischief?”

“Siblings generally do.” To wit, sisters abandoned one with handsome, interesting men at the breakfast table. Sophie had either failed to note Mr. Harrison’s abundant charms, or she trusted that all in her ambit were as virtuous as she.

The wages of successfully appearing virtuous were constant temptation to behave at variance with those appearances.

Mr. Harrison sat back, his hands braced on the arms of his chair as if he’d rise and leave.

“Is there a problem with your meal, Mr. Harrison?”

“Yes.” He reached for his teacup then dropped his hand without taking a sip. “No… there is a problem with my digestion.”

Gracious heavens. “Is it the company? I would not impose on Sophie and Sindal above stairs, but I have correspondence—”

He shook his head and glanced at his plate, then at the plaster molding of disporting cupids above them, then at Sindal’s vacant place at the head of the table. “I’ve never done a juvenile portrait.”

His tone was a blank page. Jenny could not tell if he dreaded the task before him, resented it, was bored by it, was challenged by it, or… feared it. She could, however, hazard a guess he wasn’t looking forward to spending days painting two small boys.

“Painting is painting, Mr. Harrison. Shapes, colors, light—the process doesn’t change based on the subject. As children go, these two are attractive, and Rothgreb will be pleased with any reasonable effort.”

He shifted to focus on her, his expression fierce the way a raptor was fierce. “I will not be pleased with any reasonable effort.”

The conversation became more and more fraught, and Jenny had no clue as to why. “You are reported to have high expectations of yourself. You once burned a portrait of Princess Charlotte with her dog because it did not meet with your approval. Such standards have earned you significant respect.”

And what might the regent give now to have that likeness of his late daughter?

“This portrait will determine whether I gain acceptance to the Royal Academy. Nobody puts it in such blunt terms, because there’s always a vote involved, but ever since Reynolds made painting children so popular, it’s like a tacit requirement. One must paint royalty and near-royalty, academic subjects, and even the occasional landscape, but one must also paint children.”

“You do not like children?”

Something flickered through his eyes, something sad and bewildered. “I was a child once. That is the extent of my understanding when it comes to children.”

Jenny considered him as he sat beside her, a plate of food growing cold in front of him, his finger tracing the rim of a blue jasperware teacup.

She was going to take advantage of him, shameless, wanton advantage. The knowledge was wicked, scary, and exhilarating—like the notion that she’d remove to Paris, with or without her family’s blessing. “I will make a bargain with you, Mr. Harrison. You give me eight hours of your time sitting, and I’ll assist you with the children for as long as it takes to complete their portrait.”

His reply was immediate. “I already owe you an hour, and I don’t see how you’ll collect an entire day of my time without drawing the notice of our host and hostess. This time of year, there’s hardly eight hours of proper light on a good day.”

“I’ll work with you by candlelight, and you will instruct me.” She reached over and stopped his finger as it circled the rim of the cup, this way then that way. “You will be brutally honest with me, and you will not spare my feelings. You will criticize every flaw, every mistake, every bad judgment you see in my work. Those are my terms, or we have no bargain.”

She kept her hand over his, as if she’d trap him with a single touch.

Though he didn’t pull away. “You cannot go to Paris, so you seek to bring Paris to you here.”

She did—the part of Paris that had to do with improving her art, though the part about living her own life, indulging her own passions, and escaping her family would have to wait. She said nothing to him about all of that, because he could refuse her even what she’d asked for.

Mr. Harrison turned his hand up and laced his fingers with hers. “My lady, you have a bargain. Now, what else can you tell me about the children?”

The holidays had an inexorable quality, the way a blight on the crops took over the countryside or a plague transformed a city into a morass of mourning. Holiday offerings crept onto menus, an innocuous initial step, like a few old men falling ill. Servants busied themselves swagging the eaves with greens, and even that wasn’t something a man need take notice of when his occupation kept him indoors during daylight hours.

Then, like an advancing illness, wreaths appeared on windows, cloved oranges were hung in public rooms, and table trees appeared in family parlors. Those of Germanic inclinations, which was to say a substantial portion of the aristocracy, might even have larger Christmas trees.

“The house is looking quite festive,” Elijah said as he escorted Lady Genevieve to his makeshift studio.

She glanced about, no doubt taking in the red and green ribbons wrapped around the oak banister and the tapestry of Father Christmas hung over the main staircase like a heraldic banner.

“Sophie and her baron have fond memories of Christmas. My parents are of the same ilk, and Louisa and Joseph are falling into the same camp. Surely your family has some Christmas traditions?”

“They indulge in much silliness.” Or they had, ten years ago. A change of subject was in order. “Am I to understand that you enjoy your sister’s hospitality because Their Graces are still in Town?”

“Nobody states it quite so plainly, but every time my parents leave Morelands, I am invited somewhere on a cheerful pretext. I am to assist Sophie with her baking. I was to keep Louisa and Joseph’s daughters company because they’d be simply too much for Aunt Gladys. Earlier this fall, Westhaven’s wife, Anna, needed my artistic flair to help her redecorate their nursery for the new baby.”

Elijah’s spirits inched upward. “This makes you furious, being shuffled about.”

She paused at the intersection of the main upper corridors and closed her eyes. “One can’t be angry at people who are trying their best to love one, but my artistic flair?” She was quietly, beautifully incensed.

“They do acknowledge your talent.”

“They denigrate it in the same breath. Hold still, Mr. Harrison.”

He was so bemused with her ire, he didn’t understand what she was about until she’d gone up on her toes and slid a hand to his nape. Her other hand rested on his chest, and a whiff of jasmine came to him on the thought: She’s going to kiss me.

And I’m going to let her.

Soft, soft lips pressed not against his cheek—Lady Genevieve was no coward—but to his mouth. The kiss was chaste—no tongues, no expressing the groan that lodged in his chest, no plunging his hands into her hair and desperately clutching her to him. And yet, he could taste anger on her and a frustration that wasn’t entirely artistic.

When she might have eased away, he settled his arms around her and brushed his mouth over hers. Kisses could be about anger, but they could be about so much more too: joy, pleasure, comfort… lust.

He dropped his arms. “Happy Christmas, Lady Genevieve.”

She smiled up at him, her anger nowhere to be seen. “My father says the traditions should be upheld where they don’t interfere with good sense, and you said mistletoe was a harmless tradition.”

He glanced up. “In this house, it appears to be a much-respected harmless tradition. Would you like me to sit to you while we’re waiting for the children?”

Because for the first time in years of sketching, painting, drawing, and otherwise rendering artistic images, it occurred to Elijah that the sitter was in an excellent position to study the artist.

“No, thank you.”

“No? But I owe you hours, my lady.” Eight long, lovely hours when he might study her chin, the curve of her shoulders, the way light shifted in her green eyes.

She stopped outside the door of his studio. “By candlelight, that was my condition. All of Antoine’s classes were by daylight.”

What was she about, and did he want to stop her?

“Some days were gloomy. You’ve sketched by candlelight, haven’t you? I’m sure you’ve had other subjects oblige you in this regard.”

She passed through the door, and Elijah was pleased to see somebody had started the fire. A tea tray sat near the hearth, the teapot swaddled in thick white toweling. Morning light, fresh and bright, came streaming in the windows.

Lady Genevieve turned in a slow circle. “We will need to make some adjustments, Mr. Harrison.”

Please God she wanted to hang some mistletoe in his studio. Elijah watched the sunbeams dance along the gold of her hair and realized he’d just had his first holiday-minded impulse in ten years.

“In what regard must we make adjustments, and you never answered my question.” She was forever dodging his questions.

She crossed her arms. “What question?”

“Have you sketched by candlelight?” And what would she look like, sketching by candlelight?

“I’ve sketched my dear sisters, though they aren’t particularly obliging about holding a pose. I’ve painted enough still lifes to cover every surface in Carlton House.” She aimed a glare at the hearth. “I’ve sketched Timothy in every position imaginable from every possible angle.”

Dislike for this Timothy fellow rose up, ranking nearly equal with dislike for holiday folderol—most holiday folderol. “Who is Timothy?”

Her glower shifted, taking on a hint of despair. “My blasted cat.”

He might have laughed, out of relief, but the image of her relegated to depending on the patience of a mute beast was not amusing. “Try something for me, Genevieve.”

“We need to find some toys,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him. “The boys will be here directly, and if we don’t entertain them, they’ll entertain themselves.”

Dreadful thought. “This won’t take but a moment. I want you to curse.”

Not only were her arms crossed, but she’d drawn herself up, aligned herself with some invisible, invincible posture board such as Helen of Troy might have relied upon to get all those ships launched in a single day. “I beg your pardon?”

“Curse. Call him your blasted, damned cat.”

Her brows knitted, making her look like one of Kesmore’s daughters. “I love Timothy.”

“Of course you do.” Lucky cat. “But you do not love having to rely on his good offices for your candlelit sketches.” He prowled closer. “You do not love being shuffled about from family member to family member.” Another step, so he was almost nose to nose with her. “I daresay you do not love baking.”

“I rather don’t.”

He unwrapped her arms and kept her hands in his. “Genevieve.”

“I do not enjoy baking in the least.”

He waited, certain if he were patient, she’d rise to the challenge.

The corners of her mouth quivered. “I perishing hate all the mess and heat.”

“Of course you do.”

“It’s a dashed nuisance, and one gets sticky.” A smile started, turning up her lips, lighting her eyes.

“How sticky?

“Blasted, damned sticky.”

“Say it again.”

She beamed at him. “Perishing, blasted, damned, damned sticky.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Well done. You must curse for me more often, Genevieve. It makes your eyes dance.”

And her cursing made him happy too. As she hugged him back, it occurred to Elijah that Christmas was touted as the season for giving, though in recent years, the occasion hadn’t arisen for him to do much of that.

He’d give to her. He’d give her a safe place to curse, a place to draw as she pleased, and some kisses. If he counted his approval of the mistletoe tradition, that was two holiday sentiments in one morning.

Elijah dropped his arms and stepped back. Two sentiments signified nothing.

“You said something about toys?”

She blinked, though the smile did not entirely leave her countenance. “Toys. Yes, for the children.”

“So I might pose them with their familiar objects?”

“Why, no, Elijah. We need toys because we’re going to spend the next hour playing.”

Myriad prurient connotations danced in his head in the instant he stared down at her. He mentally nudged them aside when he should have taken a cricket bat to them. “Playing?”

“I assumed you’d take Sir Joshua’s approach to children as subjects.”

She had gold flecks in those green eyes, and Elijah didn’t know any Sir Josh— “Sir Joshua Reynolds. He played with the children he painted.”

“Of course.” She took a step back, looking self-conscious. “Not everybody ascribes to the same method, but these are very young children. I assumed you’d—”

“Of course. The children will have to be comfortable with me if I’m to spend hours taking their likeness. Toys are a given.”

He’d dreaded this aspect of the commission. Dreaded the notion of getting down on the floor and playing at jacks or Patience or some inane, juvenile pastime. The dread had faded to a mild distaste. “What do you recommend?”

She prattled on about playing cards and spinning tops, toy soldiers, and jumping ropes, while Elijah thought back through their short, unusual conversation. He did not want to spend the morning playing with children, but he’d manage that.

Something she’d said had pleased him, pleased him even more than her hesitant, polite cursing. Something she’d said rivaled even that kiss, which he took as a perfunctory nod to holiday protocol on her part, one that had turned pleasurable and sweet despite its origins in seasonal nonsense.

Something…

He lit upon it with the glee of a boy opening a holiday present, absolutely certain his heart’s desire lay under the pretty paper.

He’d called her Genevieve, and she hadn’t objected. Again, she hadn’t objected, and better still, she had called him Elijah.

Jenny had a list of questions for her mother, questions she’d never ask. One of those questions was about grief: Does one keep having babies because the little ones grow up and get too big to cuddle in one’s arms or sit in one’s lap? Does one keep having babies—a dangerous, messy, uncomfortable proposition—because it’s the only way to keep one’s heart from breaking?

And then a question Jenny had barely let herself acknowledge: How did one cope when two beloved children had died as young men and no baby, no grandchild, no anything would ever bring them back?

Her thoughts were interrupted when William came barreling toward her on his chubby legs, Kit right behind and a harried nursemaid bringing up the rear. Jenny scooped up the smaller child and held out her hand to his older brother.

“My very best boys! How glad I am to see you!”

“You saw us last night,” Kit said. “Is that the painter man?”

Mr. Harrison’s brows rose at this rudeness. “I am Elijah Harrison, and I am here to make a painting of you and your brother.”

“Can I paint too?”

“May I,” Jenny murmured.

Little William chose that moment to swat her nose. “Paint!”

Mr. Harrison marched up to her and took William from her arms. “Draw first, with pastels, which have no sharp points. And you, sir, are not to be raising your hand to the ladies.”

William made a grab for Mr. Harrison’s chin. “Down! Paint!”

“He wants to get down and paint,” Kit volunteered. “I want a scone.”

“Later. You just had your porridge,” Jenny said.

Mr. Harrison brushed a finger down William’s little nose. “You’re going to turn your nose blue, like some warrior of old with his woad, and try the same thing on your brother. I have five little brothers at home just like you. Then you’ll eat my pastels, and I’ll have to limit my landscapes to cloudy days with no pretty skies.”

William was a fickle child. He was very shy of his uncles Benjamin and Valentine, and had a shrieking, unrelenting loathing for two of the footmen. He loved his uncles Gayle and Devlin, and the cat Timothy as well—most days. He was also, the little wretch, instantly enthralled with Mr. Harrison.

“Down!”

Mr. Harrison did not turn loose of his captive. “My lady, I think it best to put that tea service up where it will not tempt small boys.”

“Of course.” Jenny put the tray with its steaming blue teapot on the corner table, among the pigments, tablets, pens, and pencils. “Did you intend to get out the pastels?”

Mr. Harrison’s expression was resigned, while on his hip, William beamed cherubically. “He really will try to eat them.”

“We are not outnumbered, Mr. Harrison, and you outweigh him by a good twelve stone. We will dissuade him.”

Kit tugged on her skirts. “Can I have a scone now?”

“May I, and no, you may not. Mr. Harrison has some wonderful things to show you, but you must hold very still for a time too.”

“I can hold still.” The little boy stiffened up, like some pagan figure carved in stone, breath held, arms at his sides, teeth clenched.

“Very impressive,” Mr. Harrison said. He crossed to the table with William, and retrieved a sketch pad and box of colored chalks. “If I render your image thus, your parents will hound me from the shores of England. I will be lucky to earn my ale sketching caricatures at posting inns on the Continent.”

Kit looked up at Jenny. “What did he say?”

“He said he’ll do a better job taking your likeness if you’re comfortable and having fun.”

Mr. Harrison sent Jenny a look over William’s head. His mouth conveyed humor, while his eyes conveyed… trepidation? He jostled William higher on his hip. “I suppose it’s time we boarded our magic carpet?”

Never had a handsome prince sounded less enthusiastic about starting his enchanted voyage, and never had William been so content to remain in one place for so long.

“I’m coming too!” Kit caroled. He darted to the hearth rug and plopped down, landing by chance in the direct path of an early morning sunbeam. Jenny took a place beside him, though her skirts made boarding the carpet a somewhat undignified business.

“Shall I take William?” she asked.

“My first mate is content where he is,” Mr. Harrison said, lowering himself so his back was braced against the raised hearth. “Though he’s plotting the downfall of our expedition, lest you be fooled by his handsome visage.”

“What’s a visage?” Kit asked, crawling closer.

“I’ll show you what a visage is, if you’ll challenge your aunt at Patience.”

At Kit’s age, Patience was an exercise in flipping cards face up, making quite the fuss over any random matches. Nobody won, nobody lost, and nobody tried to keep track of where any cards might lie.

Jenny, however, kept track of Mr. Harrison. He sat against the hearthstone, legs splayed before him. William contentedly straddled one muscular thigh, while the sketch pad was propped on the other. Mr. Harrison’s left hand absently braced William against his body as the right moved the colored chalk across the page.

Both of them, man and boy, looked at ease. William was examining a red pastel, dashing it against Mr. Harrison’s dark wool trousers and leaving jots of red powder. Mr. Harrison was dashing his colors against the page in more fluid motions, though his expression bore the same concentration as William’s.

“Your turn, Aunt Jen.”

Jenny flipped over two cards, the queen of hearts and the queen of spades. “A match. Where shall we put their highnesses?”

“Give them to me!” Kit propped the queens face out against Mr. Harrison’s outstretched leg and soon had a family of royal spectators aligned there.

Mr. Harrison suggested that the twos might also enjoy the view from the gallery and could serve as footmen to the royal family. He offered this casually, an aside murmured between glances at Kit, glances at the page, and glances at Jenny.

When William started bouncing on Mr. Harrison’s thigh, Mr. Harrison passed the child another color and put the red aside. “Nobody stays with the monochrome studies for long, but five minutes must be a record,” he muttered to the child.

While Kit flipped over one card after another in search of a match, Jenny’s heart turned over in her chest. The sensation was physical, painful and sweet, also entirely the fault of the man casually holding one of her nephews and sketching the other.

She’d resigned herself to never having children, and her art, paltry and amateurish though it was, was some consolation. Watching Elijah Harrison casually tuck William closer and retrieve the blue pastel from its trajectory toward the child’s mouth, her resignation came into sharper focus.

The children she’d never have might have been Elijah Harrison’s, or belonged to somebody like him—a talented, handsome man, capable of whimsy and patience. A man willing to sit on the floor and see his trousers attacked by a ferocious, pastel-wielding infant, even as he kept that infant safe and content.

“I found a match, Aunt Jen!” Kit waved the six of clubs and the nine of clubs around. “They can be coachmen!”

It was on the tip of Jenny’s tongue to point out the child’s error. A six and a nine were not a match, not even if they were of the same suit.

“Let me see those.” Mr. Harrison set aside his sketch to pluck the cards from Kit’s hand. While Jenny watched, the artist launched into another little homily about reflections—symmetry by any other name—and Kit forgot all about playing the matching game with his aunt.

Jenny picked up the discarded sketch pad, slid the box of pastels closer, and began to sketch, while William enthusiastically drew green streaks on Mr. Harrison’s trousers.