Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (7 page)

She knew; she had tried
writing secretly to their cousins and their uncle. It wasn't difficult to
conduct a secret correspondence when she was the one who dealt with all
household chores from mail to sweeping the hearth and tending the fire. So at
least she'd been able to spare Henry the humiliation of their snubs.

Because she was dressed
for a day of work (cleaning and cooking, as well as painting backgrounds), she
rather hoped it wouldn't be Joysey today. Henry was certainly not up to seeing
him; he always seemed to talk more and exert himself further when Laurie—Joysey—was
here.

Joysey had a good nature,
but he would be teasing! While Jenny didn't mind it, and in fact rather liked
it, her brother seemed to fly easily into his high ropes. Although Laurie could
always get him out of a bad mood, it took some time. Getting into one of his
angry moods did her brother no good. For one thing, it wasted his energy. For
another, he was even less likely to take as much rest as he needed, as if to
prove he was as strong as any man.

The worst of it was that
one couldn't even be kind to him. Jenny had the rights of a sister, but even
she was sometimes fixed with a darkling, beetled-brow look, if he thought she tended
him too much, treated him too carefully, or heaven forbid, was humouring him.

She pulled open the door
and fixed a smile on her face, trying not to appear worried as she looked up at
the place where Laurence Joysey's handsome smile, sparkling with mischief,
would be.

Nothing but air. Adjusting
her gaze quickly downwards, she saw a messenger boy. The heavy hamper he
carried made his legs look even more bowed.

"Delivery, ma'am,"
he grated in the up-and-down, cracking voice of a boy turning man. He bit his
lip and swayed on the doorstep, too proud to put down the burden.

"Goodness! Bring it
in." She held the door wide, letting in a blast of London winter air. It
smelled of fog and smoke, horse manure and the streets which were never clean.

The lad staggered in
gratefully. Jenny did not attempt to help him, having experience with young men
and their pride. Her brother had been much the same at that age.

"A heavy burden!"
she said. "Tell me, pray, who sends it?" She spoke lightly, as if she
didn't know; but it made her heart beat faster and feel lighter, to know that
they would have a true Christmas feast and not go hungry as she had feared—all
due to Laurie.

"Mr. Laurence Joysey,
with Christmas compliments," said the young man, straightening his back,
his face ruddy from effort. He looked longingly at the kitchen, where the tea
things were still arrayed.

"You may have a cup
of tea if you like," said Jenny, moving to pour it for him.

"Thankee," he
said, brightening perceptibly.

Jenny waited with him
whilst he drank it, slurping and trying to make it last before eventually
lowering his gaze, flushing to his roots, and excusing himself. She shut the
door behind him, locked it and the cold air out, and turned with joy to open Laurie's
present.

It was a beautiful hamper,
no two ways about it, large and sturdy and made of brown wicker. Inside, a note
rested on top of the bounty. She set it aside to treasure last and began to dig
through the excellent provisions. Ham, turkey, pheasant, cheeses and a lovely
homemade Christmas pudding, pungent and carefully wrapped, a generous square of
sweet yellow butter (much nicer than the cheaper, Cambridge butter she usually
bought), five beautiful brown loaves of fresh breads, and several pots of jam. She
carried one of the latter in to her brother, her face shining.

"It looks as though
we have jam after all," she announced. He started awake from his doze. For
a moment he looked utterly bewildered, and stared at the strawberry jam as if at
the greatest mystery in the world.

"Who...? How...?"

"Joysey, of course."
She smiled at him, a happy, relieved smile. "And you can't return a
Christmas present—I'll not hear of it."

She must have looked
fierce for a moment, because he only said, "Hm! I don't like charity."

However, he liked the jam,
and the bit of ham Jenny sliced and fried for tea.

And they both read the
letter that sounded so very much like Joysey. Jenny read with a happy heart,
and even Henry's lips twitched as if he had to suppress a smile.

My dearest Wilkensons,

Knowing you'd try to NOT
accept it from me if I were present, I choose to send this hamper by messenger.
I shan't be home at all today, either, and I won't tell you which of my clubs I
plan to be at, and my butler is instructed to send you away if you arrive, so
you cannot possibly return it!

I know that it might look
like charity, but in truth, I wanted to give Miss Wilkenson something as a
token of my appreciation after dropping by and consuming her tea far too often
in the past few weeks.

My lamentable lack of
manners was brought home to me when I went to visit my mother at my family's
country estate. It seems I cannot have a cup of tea with her without needing to
be reminded to say 'thank you' and 'excellent tea,' and it reminded me that I
haven't said enough of either to a certain lovely hostess in town.

No, no, don't give me that
look, Henry! It's deserved, I assure you. Miss Wilkenson has treated me with
nothing but kindness.

Note, Henry, that I very
carefully did not include you in that pronouncement, because you haven't! And
you'll be a tartar if you induce your sister to refuse this gift—given to her,
not you, I might add! Though I do think you'll find the ham a tasty morsel, if
she deigns to share with you. It is from my estate, and quite good this year.

Ah, and by the way I am
looking forward impatiently to your visit in the spring, when I'll see the
artistic Wilkenson talent finally put to a good use—viz, recording me for all
posterity! A noble use, I'm sure you'll both agree!

Wishing you both the best
of Christmases,

Your
humble
servant,

L. Joysey

Chapter five

"I bought up those
debts the way you wanted me to," said Laurie's man of business, Harrison.

"My, how disapproving
you look about it! Tell me, what is the damage to my blunt? Am I quite run off
the rails? Ready for the poor house? No, I'll not tease you. But tell me what
the damage is." He faced Harrison, trying to look polite and less silly.

"Ahem." Harrison
cleared his throat and examined some papers. Then he handed the top one to
Laurie.

Laurie's brows rose
dramatically.

~*~

Over Christmas, he spent
some time quietly checking up on the orphanage he helped to support, several of
the widows and impoverished families he considered his responsibility, both in
the city and on the estate, and generally getting his affairs in order for the
end of the year. He sent flowers to Jenny on New Year's Eve, and grapes for
Henry.

They are a waste, I know,
he wrote on the note he
sent with them.
But they will go to waste if you don't have them, and the
gardeners insist on growing them in the greenhouse! I can imagine you painting
them and making them even more beautiful than they are. I do hope to see you
and Henry soon. In the meantime, please know I am thinking of you and looking
forward to your visit in the spring. Your friend, L. Joysey

He wondered afterwards if
he had been too informal in his note, if he had let too much of his fondness
for Jenny shine through the words. Why must he be so very awkward with her?

And then her note returned
to him, a light-hearted missive on the back of some poor quality paper that
appeared to have once been used for wrapping something.

Hello, friend. Thank you
for the grapes and flowers. Henry was livid, naturally, but I enjoyed the
blooms, and he ate the fruit despite grumbling about it. The flowers made the
house smell lovely over New Year's. I don't think I could do them justice right
now, as we are very busy at present with other painting, but they make the
house so pleasant. Henry has nearly finished the book you loaned him, and I've
read it twice. Thank you again. Your friend, J. Wilkenson

Laurie wondered how such
simple words on such crumpled paper could make him so glad. He carried the note
around with him all day, and it gave him pleasure to take it out at odd moments
and read it. But then he found himself trying to read more into it, trying to
divine the mind of the woman he found himself caring for more and more
helplessly every day.

He tried to set aside
these confusing and overwhelming feelings and concentrate on his work and
charities. A new order of books came through for his library. He dug through
them greedily, ready to sink himself into the volumes. But then he found
another book, one he'd forgotten he'd even ordered, a volume he knew would
please Jenny. He had it wrapped and sent over immediately by messenger.

But he didn't dare go over
to see her himself. Somehow, he just didn't dare. His heart held a strange mix
of spring and winter—of fear and fearless, blooming love. And he wondered when
it would ever resolve itself into one or the other, when he would ever grow up
and know for certain how he felt about Jenny and what to do about it.

Somehow, he felt, the
visit in the springtime would determine it one way or the other. And part of
him couldn't wait, and part of him was terrified and wanted it never to come.
Because it would be time to be a man, then, and finally step up and dare ask
her to marry him—or else set that ambition aside, forever, and stop bothering
her. And some days he didn't know if he'd ever be brave enough to do either
one.

Fooled once, shame on you.
Fooled twice, shame on me.

But Jenny would never hurt
him. Somehow, he felt certain of that. Even if he asked her to marry him and
she refused, she would never laugh or humiliate him. She would be kind and let
him down gently.

The only trouble was, he
felt certain that would hurt just as much as being laughed at in the face by
anyone else.

~*~

Jenny didn't suppose there
was anything special about the letter from the bank, simply another reminder of
debts due. With a sigh, she set it aside for her brother to look at when he got
home and went back to her painting. Or rather, her brother's painting.

He had described things
very well for her yesterday evening, being particularly eloquent. The way he
described the pinks, greens, and blues of the drawing room's decoration made
her long to see such beauty. She pictured it so clearly in her mind's eye,
correcting mistakes as he described each thing more clearly. Because they had
worked together so long this way, she understood him as clearly as herself.

Henry was less than two
years older than Jenny, but she remembered looking up to him as a little girl,
how her happiness could rise or fall depending on whether he had time for her.

She remembered once having
a crying jag when Henry was busy with his tutor. She hadn't been allowed to sit
in the back of the room and follow along. Mother tried to comfort her, to tell
her that girls had special things to do and boys had special things to do, and
she would be old enough for her own teacher soon. But she was inconsolable.

She and Henry prevailed
when Mother, a gentle soul, sided with them shortly: Jenny could sit in on Henry's
classes if she kept quiet. She felt so special learning his lessons with him,
and when art was part of it, she was allowed to have her own canvas.

Even at a young age, she'd
been able to keep up with Henry's art. After he started at school, on holidays
he taught her from memory, describing beautiful scenery and places he'd been. He
was sometimes impatient and demanding, but the discipline of painting together in
those days had allowed her to spend more time with her brother then, and allowed
her to help him now.

With few neighbours their
parents would admit to being of their social rank, and most of their time spent
in the countryside, Jenny had little opportunity to make friends other than her
brother.

Jenny's life had been
sheltered until their abrupt reversal of fortunes. She'd had a governess and
new dresses, and they'd always had plenty of servants and excellent meals. They
lived in a beautiful country home, spacious and draughty, full of cold in the
winter and always with new corridors and rooms to be explored.

She remembered it as an
impossibly large place with fires always lit and aglow, and everything so tall
and glittering and ornate. She also remembered her parents shouting, and Mother
bursting into tears, and slammed doors. She and Henry never heard the
arguments, but the children's whole world seemed to end whenever their parents
fought. It was worse when Henry wasn't there.

She supposed she'd been a
clingy sister, and lucky her brother put up with her so well. Actually, she had
no complaints about him. He'd been sometimes bossy, but more often protective of
her and quick to teach anything he knew and she didn't, sometimes enough that
mother worried about her growing up to be ladylike and took extra pains with
her instruction in womanly behaviour.