Chapter 1 The Portraitist #2
“You know, I think, what I am about to say to you. I am sure you were aware of my admiration when I was at Pentavon in the summer. I tried very hard but I could not conceal my feelings entirely, and there were moments when, perhaps, you must have guessed that my heart was engaged. Yet I never dared to hope… and your father was not encouraging. But when I heard you had returned to town, I was immediately drawn back to your side, as the bee is drawn to the sweet nectar of the flower.”
There! That was well judged, he thought, for he had laboured over that particular phrase for some days now. A little florid, perhaps, but one must pay some sort of compliment. She made no response, however, not even lifting her eyes to his.
“Now I can be silent no longer, Patience. I cannot imagine a future without you, for you are all that a man looks for in the woman to accompany him in life. Your beauty, your character, your ability to laugh at my feeble jests…”
That brought her eyes up to meet his, and he saw puzzlement there. Well, that was better than nothing. She must be nervous, that was why this felt like such hard work. Time to get to the point.
“Patience… my dearest Patience… will you make me the happiest man on earth and consent to be my wife?”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
Well, that was brief. Nothing about being honoured or obliged or any such nonsense. Still, it was the right answer.
He kissed her hand again, then smiled. “How happy we shall be, my love! How soon can we be married, do you suppose?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Lance. Surely you can call me Lance.”
“It is a strange name.”
“Well… Lancelot, then, if you prefer, but I do not like being ‘sir’, not when we are alone, at least.”
“I shall try to remember… Lance. Shall we tell my parents now?”
“A moment yet, if you please. May we seal the bargain with a kiss? If you would permit…?”
Without hesitation, she nodded, and there was that odd flash in her eyes again, which he could not interpret. But there would be time — years and years, in fact — to understand her fully. So he gently enfolded her in his arms and bent his head to hers.
The outcome took him by surprise. He had supposed, where he had thought about it at all, that a girl of eighteen, barely out, would not know much about kissing and would therefore be completely passive.
Patience was anything but passive. After only a moment’s hesitation, she seemed to get the idea pretty well and hurled herself into the enterprise with an enthusiasm that left them both breathless.
Giggling, she said, “That was most agreeable.”
“It was, was it not? Shall we just stay here for the rest of the day?”
She giggled again. “Better not. Mama and Papa will be waiting in the drawing room.”
Reluctantly, he followed her out of the room, back to the stairs and up to the drawing room, where the marquess and marchioness waited, smiles at the ready, to congratulate them.
On the wall, Lance’s own portrait of Patience beamed down at them.
He had captured her mischievous smile rather well, he thought.
She looked ready for any game, and that was what had so attracted him to her in the first place.
He had no wish at all for a docile wife.
Her initial demeanour today had worried him slightly, and set him wondering what had cowed her, but the kiss was reassuring. That was the real Patience!
He had to listen to the marquess reiterating for the benefit of the ladies the details he had already shared with Lance of the house in Gloucestershire. Patience seemed pleased with the idea, and clearly knew the house well.
“Aunt and Uncle Matheson will move out, presumably?” she said.
That was a surprise, that the house was already occupied.
“Naturally. We can easily find somewhere else for them to live,” her father said, with a wave of one hand.
Lance wondered how long the couple had lived there, and how they would like to be evicted at a moment’s notice, purely on the marquess’s whim.
How strange it must be to be a marquess and order the lives of lesser beings with a stroke of the pen.
Would he go and see these relations and explain the situation, or would he merely instruct his bailiff or steward to see to it?
He imagined the couple, grim-faced and weeping, packing up their cherished possessions.
Perhaps he would be able to paint them before they moved out. That would be an interesting project.
Seizing a gap in the conversation, he said, “I hope Patience will not keep me waiting too long before she meets me at the altar rail.”
“As to that, I do not foresee an early wedding,” the marchioness said. “May or June, perhaps. Patience will want to have another season of freedom before settling down to married life.”
There was no arguing with that tone of voice. “That is a disappointment, but it shall be as Patience wishes. Do you plan to stay in town long? My parents will be very keen to meet their future daughter-in-law, and would like to invite you all to dinner one evening.”
Again it was the marchioness who spoke, in the same implacable voice.
“Unfortunately, we are to leave almost at once for Wiltshire. Our eldest daughter has just been delivered of a son and heir, and the heir moreover to a dukedom, so we are all summoned to celebrate. After that, we shall go directly to Gloucestershire for Christmas.”
Christmas… he could wait until Christmas. But she anticipated his thoughts.
“We shall have the house full to the rafters as usual, I fear, with not a spare corner where we could squeeze you in. We shall see you again in the spring, however.”
And she smiled benignly as if this was a great concession, and not a separation of several months between a man and his betrothed.
He forced a smile. “At least I shall be able to write to Lady Patience, and you must write to me, my dear, and tell me all that you are doing. No detail is too small to interest me.”
Her parents exchanged glances, but Patience smiled and nodded.
And then, in the politest manner possible, Lance found himself ushered out to the street where his curricle already awaited him, and bidding farewell to his future wife for several months without any further opportunity for private conversation, let alone another startling kiss.
“Well?” Denny said, as soon as they were out of sight of the house. “It went as expected, I take it?”
Briefly, Lance outlined both the success and the disappointments of the morning.
“Not even invited for Christmas?” Denny said, disbelievingly. “What sort of betrothal is it, when a man is forbidden from seeing his lady?”
“Not forbidden,” Lance said uneasily. “Just… no room.”
“As if they could not squeeze in an extra man,” Denny said.
“Ladies are a different matter, but a man can sleep anywhere. Ridiculous. And as for not marrying until the spring— Well, it is your own affair, Lance, but I would not put up with it. I wonder if there is an inn near Pentavon Castle where a man who wished to see his lady love could put up for a week or two, eh? What do you think?”
“You are a devious scoundrel, Denny. Let it be for now. She is going to write to me, so if she expresses any wish for my presence, I shall consider it.”
At Mount Street, Lance was obliged to go through the same conversation with his family.
“Well, what a disappointment!” his mother said.
“We had so looked forward to meeting Lady Patience, and Lord and Lady Pentavon, if they should deign to grace our humble dwelling with their presence. However, we shall meet them in the spring, I dare say. Will they want you to be married by licence, do you think? At Grosvenor Square — that would be something, would it not? Such a pity they have to go out of town so soon.”
The lamentations went on, but Lance noticed several letters addressed to him sitting on the hall table. Most he recognised, but there was one he did not know. Ripping it open, he read the neat script within.
‘To Mr Lancelot Chamberlain, Mount Street, London. Sir, Your reputation being known throughout England, I have been instructed to write to you to invite you to attend the Duke of Brinshire at Staineybank, Brinshire, in order that you might paint a life sized portrait of the wife of the duke’s heir suitable for hanging in the library there.
Please reply directly to me to confirm your preferred date of travel, and I shall arrange private transportation and accommodation en route.
Respectfully yours, A Goodenough (attorney at law), Castle Street, Brinchester’
A ducal commission! And a life-sized portrait, too.
That was something like, and more than compensated for the modest setback he had encountered at Grosvenor Square.
He could wait to marry Patience if it meant a project of this magnitude.
The Pentavons were not the only people who could mingle with dukes.
“Well! Mama, you keep up with the society gossip. What do you know of the Duke of Brinshire?”
“The Duke of Brinshire? Well! He must be above seventy now, but he was a fine looking man when he was younger. I remember him well. There was some tragedy last year... now what was it? His young son died, that was it, and he was obliged to send for a cousin, who is his heir. I believe the heir’s wife had a daughter not long ago. ”
“I have a commission to paint the heir’s wife,” Lance said smugly. “Since I am not expected to dance attendance on my betrothed, there is no reason for me not to write to this… this Mr Goodenough, and accept. To Brinshire I shall go, then. Where is Brinshire? Does anyone know?”
But no one did, and there was an unseemly rush to find an atlas and pass round the sherry and toast the future of the youngest and most successful member of the family.