Chapter 7 Painting #2
“Who at Staineybank would you most like to paint?”
He chuckled. “Now I have boxed myself into a corner, for you will expect my choice to be the duke. Yet I must decline, for his history is not so much written in his face as recorded in the chronicles of the day. He is a man of power, and his every move has been observed and recorded since the day he was born. Of course I would paint him if he wished it, but for my own free choice, I would prefer Mr Godley.”
“Mr Godley!” She laughed merrily, her whole face alight. “What is it about him that appeals to the artist in you?”
“I know nothing about him,” he said, hands spread wide.
“A chaplain may come from any sphere of life — a younger son of an aristocratic family, or the studious son of a grocer or miller, yet without knowing that, he is a blank canvas to me, so to speak. That means I must deduce his whole life, his character, purely from what I see before me. It is a painter’s ultimate challenge. ”
She leaned forward, her expression eager. “How do you paint character, Mr Chamberlain?”
He sighed. “I cannot explain it, your grace. All I can tell you is that I know when I have captured it and when I have not.”
“How wonderful it must be to take all those tiny blobs of colour, or great sweeps, sometimes, and be able to step back at the end and say, ‘There! That is the sum of this man, with all his quirks and foibles.’ And to think I imagined the only skill was in creating a good likeness.”
He laughed. “That is important too, your grace.”
“I wish you would call me Lily, as everyone does.”
“But you are a duchess!”
“I was not born to be so, nor has my whole life been lived in the eye of the world, as my husband’s has been.
My father is a gentleman of very little account, a rural nobody who does not move in the first circles — or even the second or third.
He is important only to his own tenants and his parish. ”
“As is mine,” Lance said, smiling at her. “We have both moved up in the world somewhat. How did you happen to meet the duke?”
“It was at an assembly in Chester, only my second for I had just come out. The duke was staying at the hotel which hosted the assembly, having some business in Chester, and he wandered in to observe for a while. I noticed him watching me, and he spoke to my parents, but I thought nothing of it, and neither did they. Two days later, we were invited to dinner by some acquaintances — a baron and his wife, whom we scarcely knew. The duke was there, he sat beside me at table and we talked. The next day, he called on my father to ask his permission to pay his addresses.”
“Heavens! That was quick!”
“And so unexpected. I cannot tell you which of us was more shocked, my father or me. Poor Papa was as white as a sheet, and swaying about as if he would fall over at any moment. ‘A duke!’ he kept saying. ‘A duke wants to marry my little Lily!’. He was all for refusing outright, but Mama pointed out all the advantages of the match, and so… here I am.”
“And are you—?” He stopped, realising belatedly the impropriety of such a discussion.
“I have never regretted it,” she said softly, answering the unspoken question.
“His grace has shown me nothing but kindness from start to finish, and he has been endlessly generous to me and my family. He needed a young wife to provide him with a son — one son, that was all he ever asked of me. It is not his fault that God took the boy from us.”
Lance had nothing to say to her. His heart ached for the child she must have been, no more than eighteen, perhaps, and given to a man of seventy.
No matter how kind the duke was, the match was too unequal, and he wondered at a father who could contemplate it for a moment.
No doubt the rest of the family benefited by the connection, but it was still too great a sacrifice for so lovely a girl.
She must have seen his discomfort, for she rested a hand on his sleeve, and smiled up at him.
“You must not pity me, Mr Chamberlain. I am… content with my situation, and I have never felt anything but respect and esteem for my husband. If I have had any uneasiness in my marriage, it concerns only my rank as a duchess, a position for which I am unsuited and which still brings me discomfort in company, and this house, which I find oppressive. But the Merrington ladies have brought music and liveliness and laughter to me here, so that now I find Staineybank bearable, and there may come a day, far in the future, one must hope, when I can lay down the burden of my title.”
“He is not a young man,” Lance said, understanding her.
“Indeed,” she said, her hand still resting on his arm, so that he felt the warmth of it burning through his shirt sleeve.
“He will not live forever, and then… I shall still be young enough to remarry. He has arranged my settlement with that eventuality in mind. So you see, my situation is by no means deserving of pity, Mr Chamberlain.”
“Lance,” he said, although hoarsely, for his throat was unexpectedly tight. “If I am to call you Lily, then you must call me Lance.”
“Lance,” she said, and there was that sudden smile, like sunshine after clouds. “Lancelot. It suits you.”
“As Lily suits you,” he murmured.
She did not blush or demur or coyly look away at the compliment. Instead, her clear eyes focused unwaveringly on his. Such eyes! Dark and deep as moorland pools, drawing him in, down and down…
Such madness! She was the wife of a duke, and not for him.
He rose smoothly to his feet, allowing her to retrieve her hand from his arm, and made some excuse to leave.
That evening, he studiously avoided Lily, devoting all his energies to flirting with Charlotte.
Although she reminded him three times that he was engaged, she made no move to deter him and even flirted a little on her own account.
He retired to his room determined to write to Patience, a long, affectionate letter that would bring some answering response from her. But he could not find the words, and went to bed thoroughly dissatisfied with himself.