And as she worked, one part of her mind idly noted that she’d smell like tobacco smoke when she left. She’d smell like the men did after dinner. Like George or Jack sometimes did.
And yet another part of her mind dimly noted something else: she was glad, after all, that she wasn’t veiled. Even the thinnest gauze would have obscured something of what she saw, and she’d rather sacrifice her reputation than her ability to see.
That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Eschewing how the world sawherin favour of seeing the world herself. Caroline had once joked that artists supposedly needed to suffer for their art. For a woman, it was inarguably true. And at that moment, buoyed by the figure coming to life under her hands and the little-known joy of being exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what she wanted to do, Lucy decided she was prepared to suffer a great deal for her art.
At the end of the session, Mr Thornton warmly invited her back next week. And even more warmly, Lucy said yes.
Twenty-Three
Jack was exhausted. He’d spent two weeks traipsing across every acre and property he owned, meeting with every man who managed them, spending innumerable hours talking to stewards and bailiffs and solicitors, pouring over ledgers, and desperately trying to make two plus two equal five or six or anything other than the brutal truth. That gruelling task had been followed by a long journey escorting his mother to London. He wasn’t sure which had been the most draining.
He’d gone to his Herefordshire home first, straight after his interview with Blatherstock. When he arrived, he’d found himself smiling despite the wretched confession ahead. The familiar grounds were full of the ghosts of Min and no matter how his unruly yearnings now tortured him, it was hard to think of her without some kind of a smile.
He’d ridden down the familiar lane and seen her in the fields and woods. He saw her in the gardens and along the drive and in the stable block, grimacing at whatever restless, high-bred horse he’d ordered harnessed for their drive. He saw her in thehallway, scowling as he ran to be first to the stairs, and he saw her in the rooms he passed, head lifting from a book, a flash of dubious grey eyes, because he was grinning as he walked in, some scheme or other on the tip of his tongue.
“Ever thought you’d make a fine Swan Princess, Min? Let’s go catch one for you.”
“That’s cruel.”
“Then come look at them, at least. Come on, the sun is shining, and your book looks gloomy.”
“You’re just bored.”
“Never. With you at my side.”
It was only when he stood at the door to his mother’s morning room that his smile faded, or turned fake and tight, at least, despite the way she sprung up from her pretty purple sofa with a delighted cry of surprise. Her greetings were both too rapturous and too rapid to make any sense, and in the end, she gave up the attempt at words and clasped both his hands before sniffing back tears and kissing him soundly on the top of his head, though he had to duck to receive it, even with her standing on tiptoe. Every time he thought his guilt had reached its nadir, the world managed to twist the knife a little deeper.
He wasn’t surprised, though, to find her in fair health, with colour in her cheeks and plumpness still clinging to her bones, despite her complaints. She’d always had a suspicious knack for declining whenever an unpleasant duty was on the horizon, and though she genuinely was prone to bad bronchitic episodes, he’d long harboured doubts as to whether her health had really been poor enough to prevent her taking Nora to town for the season. Especially given she had a married daughter perfectly situated for the task.
But… “The London air, you know,” she said in regretful tones, adopting a languid air now they were settled down, a tea tray ignored on the gilt-edge marble table. She pressed a medicinallyscented handkerchief to her nose as she surveyed him dolefully from her position on the sofa. “I dare say I seem well enough now but put me in those dirty London streets and I’d decline with frightening rapidity.” She gave a sad sniff, picked up a cake, and ate half of it before recollecting herself and putting it back down. “Doctor Lucas agrees.”
“Doctor Lucas is always so obliging.”
He said it smiling. But he got up abruptly and marched to the fireplace where he toed the head of one of the brass fire dogs. Damn it. How to begin?
“This… This isn’t a visit of pleasure, Mother. I confess I…bring bad news.”
His mother paled, sitting up. “Nell? Nora?”
“No. No. They’re well, as I said. It is I…I who… Well. The short of the matter is that we’re halfway ruined. And it’s all my fault.”
He explained the situation—jerkily, confusedly. It was horrible, saying it out loud, worse than he’d imagined. His mother turned paler, and for the first time, looked seriously ill.
“But what is to happen?” she gasped, her breathing turning rapid. “What is to happen to me, and the house, and the girls? Nell might be alright, but what of Nora? Her dowry?”
“It isn’t so bad as all that,” Jack said quickly, hot with guilt. There was a clawing, sharp sickness behind his breastbone, reaching right into his gut.
He went to his mother and knelt before her, taking a clammy hand between his. “I promise you, it isn’t so bad as all that. Nora’s dowry is safe. The income father left you is safe and so is this house. I’ll take no mortgages out upon it, I promise. Ipromise, Mother. We’re only badly dipped—I’mdipped. It ismewho’ll retrench, none of this will touch you or the girls. But I wanted you to hear it from me, rather than the pens of town gossips. And I wanted… I knew I ought to…to tell you in person.Apologisein person.”
She looked up. Even kneeling, he was taller than she was seated. The tears in her eyes made whatever remnant of pride he had curl up and die. She put a hand faintly to his cheek, the touch cold and weak. The tightness in his chest stung, and he thought…God…he thought he might cry himself.
“You were too young.” Her voice was a whisper, blameless but sad. “Too young when your dear father died.”
“Twenty-one.” He could wield the lash himself if she loved him too much to do it. “Old enough. I should have done better. IthoughtI was, but…”
He moved and sat slowly down beside her.But what?What was his excuse? Boredom. Idleness. Overconfidence.
“I was careless.” The Aubusson rug stared up at him. He’d sent it as a gift from town last year. Where was the old green and yellow one Min had once sprawled upon, sketchbook and pencils spread before her? Mouldering in a loft, probably. Forgotten in an unloved room. “That’s the short of it. Careless and only thinking of today and tomorrow. Only thinking of myself.”
