Chapter 10
By the time the week of the showing had elapsed, every one of Thom’s paintings was spoken for, excepting only the portrait of Caroline.
That, he refused to sell. It was a result beyond anything he might have hoped for, and one that would take up all of his time for a considerable period.
Between delivering paintings and arranging new commissions, he ought to have been too busy to think of Caroline.
Instead, she had been the first thing on his mind, almost to the exclusion of all else. Even had he wished to avoid all news of her, it would have been impossible. His every contact with fashionable London was full of her name.
Given the success of the showing, there surely must have been a great deal of curiosity about Caroline in any case.
To have the young woman who had modelled for the most significant painting of the exhibit actually present had excited no common degree of interest. But with his request for an introduction, and the obvious fascination with Miss Bingley that followed, Viscount Moreland had whipped the murmured gossip into a frenzy.
The viscount had requested permission to call, which had been delightedly granted.
The viscount had turned up only the next day, and with an arrangement of hot-house flowers costing as much as a poor man earned in a month.
The viscount had taken Miss Bingley to a tea shop for pastries, and to Hyde Park, and to the theatre.
Some of it must have been only invented — surely their acquaintance could not have progressed so quickly — but all the gossips seemed to agree on one thing.
Viscount Moreland was preparing to select a wife, and Caroline Bingley seemed likely to be his choice.
Could an emotion truly be said to be jealousy, when you knew your own feelings to be absurd?
He ought to have rejoiced for her. The viscount was everything she wanted.
He would satisfy not only her ambition, but her softer hopes as well.
Lord Hooke was young and handsome, a charming conversationalist. Even his character seemed above reproach.
Thom knew he ought to have been delighted by it. Anyone who truly cared about Caroline should be. Only he could not pretend to be so unselfish. Madness as it was, he could not wish to see Caroline become engaged to anyone. Not when it would mean so final a parting from himself.
All the same, Thom thought wryly, he had not yet grown selfish enough to risk interfering with something of such importance to her life. He could at least stay away, if there was nothing more he could do to contribute to her happiness.
Such was his intention, and such he did faithfully until the twenty-third of December. At that point, all the other purchased paintings had been delivered. Only Mrs Bingley’s painting remained, and as that was intended as a Christmas present for her sister, he could delay no longer.
As it was a nasty day, with a leaden sky and heavy snow, Thom wrapped the painting up heavily, so that it should remain perfectly dry when moving from apartment to coach, and from coach to townhouse.
Though he set out during calling hours, Thom told himself he was not likely to see Caroline alone.
To judge by London gossip, she had been out nearly every day of late.
Either she would be away, getting one step closer to becoming Lady Hooke, or perhaps the whole family would be there, and he would talk principally to Bingley and his wife.
Whatever happened, they must avoid an intimate tête-à-tête, which could only be disastrous for them both.
So much had Thom faithfully promised himself, and reasonably believed to be true, only to find that it was all mistaken upon being shown in to the drawing room. Caroline stood there to greet him, and she was alone.
For a moment, he was too overcome to speak, or even bow.
The surge of happiness that had risen up in him upon simply seeing her face was too great.
And in the next moment, it was followed by an odd mix of desperation and desolation.
He wished, only too greatly, to make her his forever, and he hardly knew whether he more hoped or feared that he could.
Surely it was his duty not to be the ruination of all her plans, even if it was within his power.
“Mr Northville,” Caroline said with a bow, which he was at last able to return. “I am glad to see you again. I confess I have missed sitting for you.”
“You surprise me,” he said. “I would have imagined it to be rather tedious.”
She looked at him with a challenge in her eyes. “I think you know me better than that,” she said, and nothing more.
“I had expected Mrs Bingley to be here,” Thom attempted. “I have come bringing her painting.”
“She is with her sister. Perhaps you did not know that Mrs Darcy is in confinement.”
“I had heard,” Thom replied. “I believe it is generally known. Partially, of course, because the Darcys are such a consequential family, and partially —” here, he covered a laugh with a cough — “and partially because Mr Darcy is so very excited.”
Unlike himself, Caroline did not trouble to conceal her laughter.
“It is delightful, is it not?” she remarked.
“I have known Mr Darcy for a number of years now. He and my brother are close friends. Rarely have I seen such a dignified man. To see him so overset by the coming child and by Elizabeth — excuse me, I mean to say, Mrs Darcy — is quite delightful.”
“I believe that is no small part of why it is so much talked of,” Thom agreed. “Everybody finds such devotion pleasing and, coming from a man we had all thought to be as immovable as granite, quite amusing, too.”
She laughed lightly. “That is just it,” Caroline said. “It is very nice of Mr Darcy, when you think about it, to give us all such delightful gossip. I cannot think of a Christmas gift I would like more.”
“Perhaps only one,” Thom said without thinking, before realising how very inappropriate it was to share so much of his private thoughts. Worse still, the look Caroline gave him suggested she had no trouble in following his meaning.
But she did not press him. “I should like to see the painting again, if you would not mind unwrapping it,” she proposed.
He let out a long breath, relieved to let the moment go. Perhaps he would yet be able to control himself. “Gladly.”
To remove the wrappings was only the work of moments. He laid the painting against the back of the sofa, so that it might stand upright, and they moved across to gaze at it together.
She was too close: not too close for propriety, certainly, but too close for his peace of mind.
Standing by her side like this, he could smell the light perfume of her clothes — orange blossom imported from Spain, if he did not miss his guess.
It was surely nothing more than his imagination, and yet he felt almost as though he could feel her warmth.
Even without looking at her face, each shift in her breath and angle of her body seemed to communicate a world of information to him.
“I loved your painting even before I knew you,” she murmured, shocking him to the core, “but it is only since we have truly come to understand each other that I see its real worth.”
On such provocation, he did not think he could remain silent, and still consider himself a man. “I am not so sure that we understand each other, not truly.”
She turned to him, looking up into his eyes with shocking vulnerability. Her lips were slightly parted. For a moment, Thom wanted more than breath to kiss them. “Tell me, then,” Caroline challenged him, her voice low and silken. “Make me understand.”
He drew in a ragged breath. “I should not. It could only interfere with your happiness.”
“What do you mean?” she murmured.
“It is generally rumoured abroad that the viscount will propose to you soon, despite the newness of the acquaintance, and no one doubts you would accept. It would be a brilliant match, after all.”
“It would,” she agreed, though the thought did not seem to bring her much pleasure.
“But the viscount has not made me an offer. Perhaps he has no such intentions. After all, we have not yet known each other for a fortnight. In any case, I do not think anyone can owe it to another person to withhold the truth.”
She looked at him, then, with a gaze that might have been challenging, had it not also held a painful question.
Her very uncertainty struck him to the core. Caroline, then, did not know that she was everything to him. And he did not think he could bear to let her remain in doubt.
“It is selfish of me even to tell the truth, when I can give you nothing,” Thom said heavily, “but I do not think I can bear to do otherwise.”
“Of all things,” Caroline replied quietly, “I should wish the truth from you.”
“Very well then,” Thom replied. “I shall tell you everything, and I only hope that you will not come to regret it. I have fallen in love with you, Miss Bingley, and I do not think I could ever stop, even if we never met again. As, indeed, may be the case. I think I knew how important you would come to be to me even from the first night we met. I had the privilege, however briefly, of holding you in my arms, and the still greater privilege of seeing the thoughts written on your marvellously expressive face. You are my muse, now and always, and even if I never painted your features again, I think I shall be painting your spirit every time I pick up my brush. I should ask you to marry me if I did not think it would be a degradation and an act of foolishness for you to accept. You, who could so easily marry for consequence and wealth worlds beyond what I can offer. I have nothing but my hands and the love in my heart — no consequence, no fortune or even the hope of attaining it, not even any family that you might wish to call your own. I wish above all things for your happiness, and I know it cannot be found with me. And yet, fool that I am, I love you.”
Caroline had opened her mouth to reply. For a moment, Thom felt he could not move — could not even bear to breathe.
And then, before she could speak, Mrs Bingley entered the room.
“Mr Northville! Such a pleasure to see you, sir. And there is the painting. How glad I am that you have brought it! I can hardly wait to give it to my sister. Oh, she will be delighted! And just think, she has heard of your triumph, for all London is talking of the exhibition, and now she will be able to see it for herself. How happy you have made me!”
Somehow, he knew not how, Thom gathered himself to make a decent reply.
In her happiness and the unsuspiciousness of her nature, Mrs Bingley did not seem to notice that there had been anything at all odd in the meeting.
Though she asked him to stay for supper, Thom declined.
It would be an even greater cruelty than pressing his feelings on Caroline, surely, to remain lingering in her home, as though waiting to demand a response.
They had no opportunity to speak in confidence before he took his leave, but then, Thom had not expected it.