Grace Burrowes - Lady Jenny’s Christmas Portrait

Outside, the day was dreary, a winter morning making little effort to shrug off a blanket of clouds. Inside Jenny’s heart, a rainbow sprang up, bright and warm. This was not Denby’s you’re-not-going-to-cry-on-me-are-you sort of male anxiety, which in truth had hidden the more genuine you’re-not-going-to-peach-on-me-are-you worry.

Thoughts of Paris fled as Jenny realized what she saw in Elijah’s eyes was caring.

“I slept wonderfully, Mr. Harrison, and now I am famished.” For the sight of him, for that slight easing behind his eyes when she turned a smile on him. The food she could take or leave.

“Allow me to fix you a plate.” He came around the parlor, stepped over the sleeping hound, and moved to the sideboard. “What would you like?”

He lifted the lids of the warming trays, served her eggs, bacon, toast, and some forced strawberries. He would have buttered her toast had they been guaranteed privacy, his solicitude putting Jenny in mind of her parents.

“Some tea, my lady?”

He’d know how she took her tea, just as His Grace knew exactly how Mama took hers. Jenny hazarded a guess that the tea the duke prepared for the duchess tasted better to her than those cups the duchess fixed for herself.

“I’m in more of a chocolate mood this morning,” Jenny replied. The words were no more out of her mouth than Elijah was swirling the little pot, this way then that, and pouring her a steaming cup.

His plate was empty, and the parlor was empty save for the old hound. As Jenny picked up her first forkful of eggs, she realized Mr. Elijah Harrison had been waiting for her.

The eggs were ambrosially seasoned, the chocolate rich, the butter on the toast superbly creamy.

“Have you any ideas for working with the children today?” Elijah asked. He poured himself another cup of tea, while Jenny wished she’d thought to offer him the pot.

She was being ridiculous, but as long as she didn’t act ridiculous, where was the harm?

“I’ll distract them while you sketch, if you like. Cards seemed to go over well.”

“Which suggests they’ll be bored with them today. Kit isn’t quite old enough to learn how to cheat.”

“I forget, you’re an older brother. I owe my older brothers an entire education that had nothing to do with deportment or elocution.”

He paused while stirring sugar into his tea. “Such as?”

“How to fend off a bully, where to apply perfume.” She’d also learned that she could trust her brothers to have her best interests at heart, even if they were complete dunderheads about it.

And she had learned that even her boisterous, indestructible brothers could die.

“They told you where to apply perfume?”

“Not willingly, of course. Little sisters eavesdrop and pick up on these things. Bartholomew remarked to Devlin that the nape of a certain chambermaid’s neck bore the scent of lavender water when he kissed her there. Bart sounded bemused to note it, as if the woman wore her scent that way exclusively to lure him closer.” Bartholomew had sounded besotted, but then he’d been besotted with life in all its fascinating details.

“God help me if my little sisters take their education from my brothers.”

Jenny put a strawberry on his otherwise empty plate and wondered where Sophie and Sindal had gotten off to. “Why not take their education from you?”

He sat back, as if something noxious had floated to the surface of his teacup. “Will the hound be as agreeable as your cat about sitting for a portrait?”

“Jock will bide anywhere there’s a decent fire, and he’s very patient with the children.”

“We’ll impress him into service then. I saw your sketches, by the way.”

Jenny was so busy studying the way the blue of the parlor’s wallpaper compared with the blue of Elijah’s waistcoat that she had to think before answering.

“Which sketches?”

He peered into his teacup, his expression disgruntled. “The ones you made of the children, the pastels. They’re brilliant.”

“Pastels can’t be brilliant.” And yet he’d sounded so puzzled by his own compliment, Jenny couldn’t help but be pleased. “I do enjoy children though, very much.”

He glanced up from his teacup, as if he’d heard the reservation in her tone. She enjoyed everybody else’s children, and that hurt like blazes.

A footman paused just inside the doorway. “Post for his lordship.”

Jenny didn’t think Sindal would appreciate his correspondence being left about for all to peruse. “Cornelius, the baron is likely—”

Elijah rose. “I believe Cornelius means me.” He retrieved a single epistle from the footman and resumed his place beside Jenny.

Jenny finished her eggs, toast, and chocolate, trying to decipher Elijah’s expression. He looked bemused now too, and the script on the letter was pretty.

A word came to Jenny’s mind, the perfect word for the feelings curdling the meal she’d just consumed: damn. Damn and blast. Elijah was handsome, charming, well liked, and never in want of commissions. Why shouldn’t some pretty widow correspond with him about a portrait of her children or about renewing her acquaintance with him over the holidays?

Damn and… damn. Double damn.

“It’s from my sister. My youngest sister.” Beside Jenny, Elijah popped a strawberry into his mouth and chewed mechanically.

A sister? Jenny had the sense he was liberally blessed with same. “Are you concerned for her?”

“Sarah has never written to me before. She’s the youngest by three minutes, though our mother claims they were a memorable three minutes.”

Sitting right there beside her, so close Jenny could catch a hint of his scent, he’d gone away to some familial place in his mind.

“Open the letter, Elijah,” Jenny said, passing him another strawberry.

He cast her one glance—a gentleman did not read correspondence at table—then slit the epistle with an unused knife.

If this sister called Elijah home before Jenny had pried from him just how those pastels merited the term “brilliant,” she’d hunt Lady Sarah down and ensure that a lump of coal for Christmas would be the least of the young woman’s problems.

“She’s well,” Elijah said, “and uses a fine vocabulary for somebody who doesn’t yet put up her hair consistently.”

“A bookworm, possibly. Louisa was the same way. I learned many a term from her that impressed our elders.”

He peered at Jenny over his letter. “She and Ruth are both mad for books. I always know what to send them for their birthday and Christmas.”

Twin sisters, then, which was common enough in large families. Two more strawberries disappeared while Elijah finished reading his letter, and Jenny stifled the urge to pace.

She was not ready to have him snatched from her. She needed these days with him, artistically and… otherwise. All too soon Their Graces would return from Town, the children’s portraits would be completed, and Jenny would be heading off for Paris.

If she’d doubted her resolve on that goal before, she didn’t now.

Come fire, flood, or famine, as His Grace would say. Jenny was more determined on her destination than ever, and Elijah Harrison was part of the reason for her conviction.

“Sarah misses me.” He got up and crossed to the window, where bleak winter light did little to brighten the parlor.

Jenny glanced at the epistle long enough to see “Greetings, dear and long lost brother…” in the salutation.

Jenny had two long lost—forever lost—brothers, and would have given her right hand, the hand with which she painted, not to have it so. “You’ll see her at the holidays, won’t you?”

He remained facing away. “She can’t possibly miss me. She hardly knows me.”

Jenny rose and went to him, wanting to see what he saw out that cold window. “She can miss you. I barely recall my grandparents, but because most of my memories of them came from holiday gatherings, I do miss them.”

Missing loved ones at the holidays was always part of the season. How could he not know that?

“I left when Sarah was little more than a toddler. I used to read her stories, her on one knee, Ruth on the other.”

Jenny slipped her hand into his, because he seemed not simply gone away, but lost. “You’ll be with them at Christmas, won’t you?”

He let out a sigh of sufficient depth that the window fogged before him. “After Christmas, and then only if I’m made a member of the Academy.”

“They often don’t announce the results of their votes until the New Year, when the honors list comes out.” And what had membership in the Academy to do with sisters who missed him?

“Then I’ll wait until the vote is cast, but I will not go home until I can do so with sufficient standing that my father will have to admit he was wrong.”

Jenny had been raised with five brothers and four sisters, each sibling a living tribute to their parents’ legendary stubbornness. She recognized foolish pride when confronted with it, and recognized as well that to the person displaying it, it wasn’t foolishness and never would be.

“What was your father wrong about?”

Elijah glanced down at her, then at their joined hands. He kissed Jenny’s knuckles and gave her back her hand. “Very little, as it turns out. He told me I lacked the fortitude necessary to succeed as an artist, told me I was turning my back on my birthright out of laziness and self-indulgence, not because I had an artistic vocation. He told me I wasn’t prepared for what my artistic inclinations could cost me.”

“And you think he was right?” The hound stirred at the sharpness of Jenny’s tone, but Elijah smiled.

“He was spot on about much of it, but not all of it. I’ll admit that when I go home with an Academician’s status. I’ll admit I had no notion of the cost and effort involved in pursuing an artist’s life, that I was a spoiled lordling with no understanding of the greater world—provided my father rescinds his judgment of my character.”

So Jenny could blame this familial drama on honor, the worst of the crotchets male pride was prone to, and not just Elijah’s honor, but the marquess’s honor as well. She linked her arm through Elijah’s and led him around the table, lest they disturb old Jock at his slumbers.

“The regent sings your praises. Sir Thomas sings your praises. Surely you don’t need the Academy’s imprimatur to prove your father wrong?”

“The last thing I said as I tossed my brushes and spare shirts into a traveling bag was that I would come back as an Academician or not at all. I knew I had enough talent, and I was determined he should admit it.”

Jenny wanted to tell him he was an idiot. She wanted to tell him that young men rode off, full of themselves, their talent, and their invincible honor, and they came back in coffins. When they were dead, one couldn’t write them letters, couldn’t apologize, couldn’t explain what had driven one to sharp words and stupid taunts.

“Tell your sister you’ll see her at Christmas,” Jenny said. “Or shortly thereafter. She really does miss you, Elijah.”

Just as Jenny would miss him, even as she boarded her packet for Calais.

* * *

Elijah had a reputation for completing commissions quickly. He’d learned the necessity for speed early in his career, when his fees were modest and a gap in work meant a gap in coin.

Though in truth, he wasn’t all that quick. He was organized and disciplined, and work tended to get done when a man rose early and spent time in his studio rather than at the numerous distractions available in London Towne.

Then, too, he’d cultivated the social nap, using fashionable Society’s evening gatherings to catch up on his rest, fill his belly, and remind all and sundry that artistic talent was near to hand.

“My ability has gone begging today,” he said. “I can render the dog down to every wrinkle and hair, but the children are beyond me.”

Jenny glanced up at him from where she was building a house of cards with Kit. Wee William was astride old Jock, who dozed on the hearth rug at Elijah’s feet.

“Come down here, Mr. Harrison. Your perspective from that chair has to be awkward.”

She had a point, and she had a way with children, both on the page and on the thick carpet before the fire. Elijah gave up his seat and stretched out on his side on the floor. William dismounted from his perch on the dog and came careening into Elijah.