The Painted Lady (13 page)

Lilyanne nodded, almost regretfully.

“I wished to bring you a gift, as a peace offering.”

“You already did, all those cream cakes. Which reminds me that I have not properly thanked you.”

“Nonsense. That was only to put a few pounds on your frame so you would not blow out of my carriage when we feathered the corners. I meant a real gift. But I, uh, that is, deuce take it, I made you a drawing.” He set the whip in its holder and reached under the driving bench for a rolled parchment that was tied with a ribbon. Looking as shamefaced as a schoolboy caught pilfering from the pantry, Kasey held it out to her. “You don’t have to hang it up or anything, of course.”

Teddy was still up ahead by the gate, scratching his head, but the duke was in no hurry to move on, waiting to see her reaction. Untying the ribbon, Lilyanne hoped the picture was at least good enough that she did not have to work too hard to feign delight. The mere fact that His Grace had given her a present was pleasing enough. She started to unroll the parchment, getting a glimpse of bright colors. “I am honored that you thought of me. I was wondering about your—oh. Oh, my.”

What Lilyanne held in her hand was no amateurish daubing. This was a small gem of a jewel-toned watercolor, almost like the church’s stained glass windows in its purity. It depicted a field of wildflowers, with a girl dancing in the middle. Her arms were out, her pink skirts were fluttering, and her long black hair was like a floating curtain about her head. “It is beautiful,” she said, shaking her head in awe. “I have never seen anything so lovely, much less owned it.”

Kasey exhaled in relief. “You like it, then?”

“I adore it. The girl appears so happy, I think I can look at it every day and feel my own spirits raised every time.”

“She is you, you know.”

“Me? How did you know I always wanted a pink—no, you did not. This cannot be me, with my hair gone all untamed.”

“It is. It is how I see you.”

“This? This pretty girl?”

“A lovely woman,” he corrected, “in a field of flowers, yes, dancing with sunbeams. As sweet and graceful as another blossom. I did one by moonlight, with you in the rose garden, but the colors were not enough contrast.”

Lilyanne had to wipe at a drop of moisture in her eyes, quickly, before it spilled onto her beautiful picture. Her portrait. “You really think I am ... ?”

“Beautiful? Of course you are, my dear Miss—botheration, may I call you Lilyanne? Just for today?”

She nodded, still staring down at the picture in her hands, trying to find herself in the carefree girl she beheld.

“And I am sick unto death of being Your Grace’ed. Could you manage to call me Caswell, if not Kasey, as my friends do? We are friends, aren’t we?”

How could she not be friends with someone who had given her such a gift? Lilyanne nodded again. “For today,
Your Grace—Kasey—I am touched by your present, but I am also awed by your skill. Uncle said you painted, but he never mentioned you were an artist of such overwhelming talent. I am no expert, of course, having seen little artwork outside of books, but this must surpass even those.”

“No, no, this is just a quick study,” he said, busying himself with the reins and the whip.

“Heavens, if this is such a casual work, I cannot imagine your serious efforts.”

He clucked to the horses. “No, no one can. That is the problem. Come, let us drive on.”

The horses were pleased to move along, with little urging on the duke’s part. Lilyanne fell she had to point out that His Grace, Kasey, had left Teddy behind at the gate, in case he’d simply forgotten.

“No, he can stay behind to open it when we return. We shall just go ahead a bit, where we can speak more openly. I have been needing to unburden myself, you see.”

Lilyanne did not protest further, but did say, “Should you not be speaking to my uncle?”

“Your uncle feels that I should not dwell on my problems, that thinking on them makes them worse, while they will disappear if I ignore them.”

“But you cannot help worrying?”

“Exactly. Whatever brain fever I suffered seems to have passed, but the poor King was cured for a while, too, before progressing deeper into madness. I need you to tell me, I beg it of you, my dear, do you think me still insane?”

Lilyanne had rolled the painting again, and was tying the ribbon. “I never knew the precise nature of your problem so I could not say. Uncle mentioned visions; I thought perhaps those that come from habitual overindulgence in spirits.”

“But I do not overindulge, no more than the next man.”

“The next man at your gentleman’s clubs or the next man beside you at church on Sundays?”

“Touché. Still, while I am not abstemious, I am rarely foxed and have not disgraced myself since my salad days. No, this is, was, something different.”

“Well, I have never noticed you behaving peculiarly, although there have not been any other dukes”—or rakes, she added to herself—”in my experience to know what might be considered odd. According to Lady Edgecombe, a nobleman is entitled to eccentricity, the higher the title, the more quirk-some. I would imagine, then, that a duke could have any number of foibles before people labeled him insane.”

“Lady Edgecombe is a widgeon. Furthermore, I do not care what anyone thinks. I asked if you thought me unhinged.”

Lilyanne toyed with the ribbon on the painting. “I think, sir, the important question is whether you think yourself sane. Since I have been helping Uncle with his work, I have found that the truly disturbed are often unaware of their mental conditions, or else they refuse to believe in them. They think everyone else is cork-brained not to see things the same way.”

“Such a wise little wren.” Kasey stared at the horses’ backs for a while before answering, then he said, “It’s the painting.”

Lilyanne glanced at the rolled paper in her hands.

“No, not that painting, one in London. An oil of a reclining nude, only she insisted on a covering.”

“She, the model?”

“No, she the woman in the painting. The blasted woman spoke to me!”

“She actually spoke aloud, not simply in your head, like a dream or a voice of conscience?”

“Her lips moved, and her expression changed. Once she even winked at me.”

“By Heaven, no wonder you were upset. Who is she?”

“No one I know. I made her up out of whole cloth, and she came alive.”

“That sounds just like a myth, or a fairy story.”

“Aye, she’s beautiful enough for a fairy princess, and made for loving. Pardon. But this is no myth. It happened, by George. She never stepped out of the picture, thank goodness, but the lady definitely talked. The problem was, she would not speak to anyone else.” It was a good thing his horses were so well trained, because Kasey’s attention was anywhere but on them, worried about the painted lady, and more worried about Lilyanne’s opinion.

“How ...” she began.

“How daft?”

“How fascinating. I don’t suppose you believe in ghosts?”

“Unfortunately, no, nor elves, witch-cursed damsels, or meddling Greek gods. She just is, and a more quarrelsome, complaining female I have yet to meet.”

“Well, that’s good.” It was good for Lilyanne, at any rate, who was beginning to resent the painted lady and her hold over the duke. She had to stop and ask herself now who was discomposed? “I mean, you would not want to fall top-over-trees in love with a woman in a painting, would you?”

“I stand a better chance of falling out of this curricle. But she says I created her.”

“I thought you said you did?”

“No. I painted the picture. She says I created her, a being, not a blot of paint. She claims something in me, some need or desire, formed her.”

“Do you have some need, then?”

“I want for nothing,” he insisted, setting the horses to a faster pace, as if he were trying to outrun the suggestion. “Besides, she is a painting. What does she know?”

Lilyanne had no answer. How could she comment on the wisdom of a woman who did not exist?

“Here in the country,” the duke was going on, “the pictures do not talk. Birds sing, brooks babble, but paintings stay silent, thanks be. The only sounds in my head are those of nature. Your uncle’s treatment worked. The problem, of course, is what happens when I go back to Town, back to the ton, where ladybirds do the singing and gossips bibble-babble, instead. What if your uncle’s remedies fail in the real world of responsibilities? Perhaps that is what happened to poor Farmer George, whose madness returned when he went back to being king.”

“Or maybe the illness was never gone, only in abeyance.”

“That is what I fear, but I cannot stay here much longer, either way.”

Lilyanne could understand his concern, but again, she had no answer. Instead she asked, “Have you ever shown your artwork?”

He shrugged. “What for? I do not need the money. I paint for my own satisfaction, that’s all.”

“Most artists, I think, need the money, but they also need the proof of their worth, a vindication of their life. Like a writer with three unpublished manuscripts in a drawer, is that person an author? Are you really an artist if no one sees your work?”

“But I am not an artist, my dear. I am a duke. Those artists you speak of are self-important chaps who require an adoring public to fawn over them before they are satisfied, in addition to the money. I am not so vain, I hope.”

His Grace’s neckcloth had more folds in it than a stack of bed linens, Lilyanne noted, and his boots were shined to a fare-thee-well, and he was not vain? She had to smile. “There is no rule saying all artists are conceited, and all gentlemen are humble.”

“ ‘Twould be broken daily. But are you saying that I should seek recognition, that such is the need I cannot see?”

“I cannot speak for you. I do know that you are denying the world a wealth of beauty by hiding your talent.”

“Why, that is a lovely thought. Thank you, my dear.”

“And I do wonder if you are afraid to face the critics, and the possible ridicule of your peers.”

That was not a lovely thought. Kasey turned the horses and headed back toward the gate. “You have given me much to consider, for which I am grateful. Could I repay you somehow? Is there anything that you need?”

Lilyanne rubbed her gloved hand along the rolled paper. “You have given me a fine gift already. Why, it is the first present I have received since my parents died, except for monogrammed handkerchiefs from my sister at my birthdays. For that alone I would cherish the painting.”

“I cannot believe there is nothing else. I see the sadness in your eyes, and see how rarely laughter lights up your face, as if you had trouble recalling how.”

Lilyanne thought about futile dreams and forlorn hopes. “We are not all dukes, to have everything we wish for in life.”

“Very well, not in life, but for today. For one afternoon when no one will know, what could I do to make you smile?”

Lilyanne thought a moment. She could not let a gentleman purchase her a pink dress, any more than she could let him pay her rent in London until she found a position. She could, however, have the pleasure of his company for a bit longer. “I wish ... I wish to see how fast your horses can fly.”

Chapter Fourteen

They went to the fair, of course. Lilyanne refused to go, at first. Not because of her uncle’s disapproval nor the impropriety, but she refused because she did not want to leave her painting in the carriage. Everyone knew ruffians and riffraff frequented such public gatherings, and Lilyanne would not chance her treasure getting stolen.

“But we might find a woodworker willing to frame it for you right there. I have seen carvers and turners at larger fairs. Who knows what this one might offer? Besides, I shall hire a lad to watch the curricle, so Teddy can see the fair, too. All of the grooms have been nattering on about two-headed chickens and a counting pig.”

They found a shaded spot to leave the horses, and a likely youth to stay with them, the chandler’s nephew, from town. Kasey helped Lilyanne down, then tossed Teddy a coin so he might enjoy himself

Lilyanne hadn’t so much as a ha’penny in her pocket, never thinking to have any use for her hoarded shillings this afternoon. She was wondering how much she could afford to spend on a picture frame while she stared about her at the little village that had sprung up in what used to be a vacant field. Even if she hadn’t a groat to spend, Lilyanne told herself, the sights and sounds and smells were enchanting enough.

Not for the Duke of Caswell, they weren’t. He meant to enjoy this stolen afternoon, and he meant to see that Miss Bannister enjoyed herself, too, despite herself and her uncle’s priggish, cheese-paring notions. He dragged her from booth to tent to trestle table, sampling foods, playing games, looking over wares from lace collars to linchpins. They saw wooden chairs and children’s wooden boats, walking sticks, and mixing spoons, but no picture frames. Lilyanne would not let the duke purchase anything for her, naturally, since that would have been entirely beyond the pale, but she did share a lemonade with him, and a meat pie whose juices ran down her chin, a sack of chestnuts, a handful of licorice drops, and even a small cup of spiced punch. Kasey only let her take a small sip of the potent brew, enough to take the chill out of the air, he said. Lilyanne hadn’t noticed the cool weather.

Caswell was so skilled at the games, ring toss, pitches, and darts, that soon Lilyanne had so many fairings, ribbons, and pinchbeck pins and doll-sized teacups, that her arms were filled. So was her heart. She could send a packet of ribbons to her sister for the Christmas parties Lisbet would attend, and still have some left to retrim her own gray gowns. Or her night rail, at least, if Uncle disapproved. She would not think about Uncle Osgood, though, not this afternoon. A frivolous bow was the least of what he’d disapprove.

They met Lady Edgecombe, trailed by her maid and Little Henry, all three burdened with purchases. “La, I see you got Miss Prunes and Prisms to come after all,” Catherine teased, having sampled more than her share of the lamb’s wool. “And not above time. The gal’s liable to shrivel into an old prune, living with that squeeze-crab.”