The Painter Page 5

  “She never said so,” Drusilla said, with an elegant lifting of the eyebrows.

  “I daresay you gave her no opportunity,” Giles said.

  “Well, that is a bit rich!” Drusilla cried. “Here she is in the home of a peer of the realm, and she prefers to go back to some hovel in Southport or wherever it was.”

  “Southampton,” Fin said.

  “Southampton!” Giles cried. “No wonder she wants to go home, for is it not paradise on earth?”

  “Now look what you have done, Fin!” Drusilla said in disgust. “You have set him off again! Giles, Southampton is undoubtedly as vile and pestilential as any other of our sea ports. Just because you spent a year of marital bliss there before your wife died does not make it paradise for the other poor souls who live there. Fin, you must settle this business of the governess at once, for the manservant who accompanied the children is to depart on Monday, and she may travel with him. The nursery maids will do, for now, but the governess must go.”

  “Very well. Let her be brought in.”

  While they waited, Giles, still chuckling to himself, poured Madeira for them all. Drusilla refused hers, but Fin accepted one resignedly. When Drusilla was in this sort of mood, which she almost always was, it was not worth fighting her, and a glass of something in the hand was a great comfort. She would soon be gone, he consoled himself, and the house would be his again. The two children would be safely tucked away in the nursery and would not disturb him.

  The governess arrived, and for the first time Fin assessed her properly. She was pretty enough, he conceded, although nothing to compare with Juliana, naturally, and the gown, although sober and perfectly appropriate for her station, yet had a touch of flair about the sleeves and bodice. She curtsied demurely, but when she lifted her head, she looked straight at him. He liked such directness, better by far than timidity or excessive deference.

  “Miss Oakes—” Drusilla began, but Fin lifted a disapproving hand.

  “I shall deal with this, thank you, sister. Miss Oakes, you wish to leave Hawkewood Hall, I understand.”

  “Oh no, my lord, not at all.”

  He was taken aback, but there was a decided twinkle in her eye.

  “But you told me—”

  “That I should go home, yes, but I do not wish to leave Hawkewood Hall. Indeed, I must be a very odd creature not to enjoy the luxuries of your house, my lord. I have never been surrounded by such comforts in my life before! The softest bed, with silk hangings around it, my own maid, a fire in my room — both my rooms, for I have my own sitting room, and we were served salmon in the nursery yesterday.” She sighed heavily. “I am very fond of salmon. And the glories of your house are such a spur to my imagination. It is very clear to me now that my father must have been an earl, at the very least, so much at home do I feel here. Walking about these glorious rooms, as to the manner born, I feel very much that I must be Lady Felicia. It will be a wrench to surrender such delights, I assure you. However, I know you will want a proper governess for Juliana and Margarita. I am sure you will have no trouble securing a candidate with the most excellent qualifications.”

  There was such a mischievous look on her face! She was teasing him, the insolent chit. But she was right — if she left he would need to find a replacement. That aspect of the matter had not occurred to him. “Oh… I suppose we will have to look for someone.” He looked helplessly at Drusilla.

  “I have it in hand,” she said smugly. “Miss Claypole will be here first thing on Monday morning.”

  “Miss Claypole? I thought she must surely be dead by now.”

  Drusilla gave a tinkling little laugh. “Dead? By no means! She has a great many years of service yet within her, I am certain. She has been very helpful at the rectory teaching the village children.”

  “Then she may stay there, for she is not coming here.”

  “But Fin—”

  “No! Good God, Drusilla, she made my life a misery when she was governess here. Discipline! That was all she cared about, discipline and rules and being punctual. I would not inflict her strictness on those poor girls for the world.”

  “As a temporary measure?”

  “Not for five minutes. Miss Oakes — I beg your pardon, Lady Felicia — how would you like to enjoy salmon and a soft bed for a while longer? I will pay you twice your previous salary, and feed you fish or game every day, if you will only preserve me from Miss Claypole.”

  “I am very much obliged to you, Lord Finlassan,” she said, curtsying with demurely downcast eyes. “I should be delighted to accept your very generous offer.” Then, with a sideways glance at Drusilla, she added, “Until such time as an acceptable replacement is engaged.”

  Giles laughed, but Drusilla pursed her lips and gave a grunt that might have been annoyance or grudging acceptance, Fin could not tell and did not much care. He seldom minded Drusilla’s high-handedness, preferring it to the exertion of arguing with her, but this time she had taken a step too far. Every man had his limits and Miss Claypole was his.

  When the governess raised her eyes again, they were brim full of amusement, and Fin found himself laughing out loud at her effrontery. She was no shrinking miss, that much was certain.

  After that, Giles began questioning her about Southampton and there was no more sense to be got from anyone, so Fin crept back to his studio in relief.

  4: The Painter

  Felicia walked about in a dream. Every room in the house revealed some exquisite extravagance — a window of painted glass, an intricately carved stone hearth, statuary and portraits or a painted ceiling. Even the furnishings were beautiful. Not that she saw many rooms, for most had their doors closed, but here and there one would be ajar and then she would peep at the wonders within and imagine herself living here. Lady Felicia! And there would have to be a lord to tenderly escort her in to dinner, and partner her for the opening dance of the grand balls they would no doubt have. Not Lord Finlassan, of course, for he was far too surly and cross to be the hero of her imagination. Felicia’s hero would be smiling and handsome and very charming.

  Juliana and Margarita were overwhelmed by the splendours in which they now found themselves. The size of the house, the number of servants and the sheer scale of everything, even nursery meals, were sources of amazement to them. Lady Drusilla spent two hours assessing their wardrobes, pronouncing them entirely inadequate and making lists of all that they would now need.

  “I shall order some bolts of material and arrange for the Miss Trimms to make up the garments.” She looked Felicia up and down assessingly. “You will need something more suitable, also, if you are to be here for some time. Do you have an evening gown? Half dress, that is, for you will hardly need a ball gown here.”

  Lady Drusilla had none of her brother’s countenance, being rather long-faced and plain, but Felicia liked her straightforward nature. One knew exactly where one stood with such a person, for she always spoke the absolute truth. Felicia could only agree with her assessment.

  “I do indeed have evening dress. You think that his lordship may wish me to bring his wards to the drawing room after dinner?”

  She gave a bark of laughter. “He would never think of such a thing! On Sundays, however, it is the custom of the Warboroughs that the children of the house dine with the family. There is a service in the chapel at three, then dinner at five. Naturally, you will be there to supervise your charges and ensure that they remain silent unless spoken to. Mr Warborough and I will be there as well as Finlassan, so there is nothing improper in it. I need not remind you, I am sure, that you must not put yourself forward. Your position here is only temporary, Miss Oakes, so do not get any ideas above your station. I shall see that you are given a good reference for your next employer. It might even be within my power to find you a new place.”

  “You need not concern yourself with that, my lady,” Felicia said. “I have a house of my own to go back to and an independent income. I shall not need to look for another position.�
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  Lady Drusilla’s eyebrows rose so high, they merged with the curls of hair framing her face. “An independent income! Whatever kind of a governess are you, to have your own house and an independent income?”

  “A very fortunate one,” Felicia said, chuckling. “Whoever my father was, he was no pauper.”

  “But not an earl, I suspect,” she said in severe tones.

  “Very likely so, but a girl may dream, may she not?”

  “Not in this house,” Lady Drusilla said sourly, “and definitely not of my brother.”

  Felicia only laughed. It was typical of the nobility, she thought, to presume that every lowborn young woman had an eye towards an elevation in rank. The earl was handsome enough, she conceded, if one admired a brooding countenance, a short temper and a distinct lack of manners. She adored his house, but as for the owner of so much magnificence, she hoped only to avoid him as much as possible.

  Sunday was delightful. Having no lessons and kept indoors by persistent rain, Felicia persuaded the housekeeper to show them around the public rooms. Mrs Shayne knew little of the architecture or decorations of the house, but, having been born on the estate, and in service since the age of ten, she was a wellspring of anecdotes about the Warborough family. Her memories stretched back to the Third Earl, the present earl’s grandfather, who sounded like a rackety sort of character, to Felicia’s ears. There were duels and gambling and ‘women of terrible bad character’, as the housekeeper put it with a sniff, glancing at the two children. Mistresses, Felicia guessed, with a sudden pang of realisation that one day someone would have to explain to Juliana and Margarita that their mother, too, was of ‘terrible bad character’.

  Of the present Lord Finlassan, Mrs Shayne could not mention him without adding ‘poor man’.

  “Is he so much to be pitied?” Felicia could not resist asking.

  “Oh, indeed, Miss Oakes. Such a tragic life he has led.” Glancing hastily at the two girls to be sure they could not overhear, she whispered, “Jilted three days before his wedding, poor man. Soured him against all society, it has, and here he stays, with only his painting to console him.”

  “But surely that was years ago.” Felicia looked at Juliana and did some sums in her head. “Eleven years ago, at least.”

  “Thirteen. Indeed, but he was so in love with her, there was never anything like it. So delightful to see him happy, and oh, what a lovely pair they were! So affectionate together… ah, but she was a deceitful little minx. Never cared nothing for him at all, for all her smiles and blushes. Artful creature! Cut his lordship to the quick, she did, and he has never recovered, poor man. Let us hope her daughters have a better disposition.”

  Felicia had gained a very different image of the Lady Juliana Dulnain from the servants at Summer Cottage, but there was no sense in arguing the point. “Her daughters are very good-natured,” was all she said. “I am sure his lordship will not have any cause to regret his guardianship.”

  “It’s to be hoped not,” she said with a sniff. “Although what’s to become of them, the poor lambs…”

  She left the thought unfinished, but it was not Felicia’s problem. She would miss them abominably, for they had been her life for four years now, but she had always known she would have to let them go eventually. Her task had been to place the girls in the charge of their guardian, and, that done, their future was for Lord Finlassan to determine. And Lady Drusilla, she admitted. Probably in a year or two they would be sent away to school, to be trained to become superior governesses or to move on the fringes of society, where their noble guardian’s rank might outweigh their unfortunate origins. Would they remember their first governess? Probably not, but she would remember them long after she had left Hawkewood Hall.

  Mrs Shayne led them through one elegant saloon after another, and each a different shape, a different style, but all beautiful. And so many textures! Felicia ran her fingers over cool marble, rough stone, polished mahogany, delicately traced silverware, soft silk and velvet hangings and intricately carved wood, savouring each one, and itching to draw them all, to capture some ephemeral element of the awe she felt in such surroundings.

  They entered another room, the housekeeper throwing open the door with the words, “This is the library.”

  There was the earl, sitting at a desk with a book open, taking notes. He looked up in surprise, his pen dripping ink.

  “Beg pardon, my lord,” Mrs Shayne said, rather flustered. “I thought you would be in your sitting room just now, or I should never—”

  “Mama!” cried Juliana, running forward.

  There over the fireplace was a huge portrait of a woman, just her head and shoulders, and several times larger than life. Without Juliana’s words, Felicia would have assumed it to be of the earl’s mother, perhaps, or some other relation. The other portraits in the room, and there were many of them, were all of older people, mostly men in their peerage robes, wearing the voluminous wigs of the previous century. That the earl should keep a painting of the woman who had jilted him in such dreary company struck her as odd.

  “Come, Miss Juliana!” Mrs Shayne said sharply. “We must not disturb his lordship.”

  The earl had looked up, glowering, as they entered, but his expression softened at the eagerness in Juliana’s face. “No, let them look at it. Is it like, do you think?”

  “Yes, very. I like the way her mouth is painted. That is exactly how she smiled when she was trying not to laugh.”

  Felicia looked more closely. She had been a beauty, there was no doubt about it, with rich curls framing a heart-shaped face, the full mouth made for laughter and perhaps for kissing, too. Yet there was something in the eyes that spoke of sorrow… or was that just her fancy? Or perhaps the knowledge of how her life had ended, as a mistress and mother to two natural daughters, when she could have been a countess.

  While the two girls gazed up at their mother, Felicia took in the rest of the room. Although not large, the library was sufficiently high-ceilinged to accommodate two levels of book cases, with small tables or desks in alcoves for the convenience of readers, leaving the mosaic floor mostly clear. Only one object seemed out of place, a large wooden box, filled to overflowing with unopened letters.

  “Why do you do that?” the earl said, looking straight at Felicia. Such blue eyes, and the gaze so intense! Yet she felt no hostility in it, only curiosity.

  “Do what, my lord?”

  “Touch the chair back that way. Stroking it.”

  “I like the feel of it, my lord. The carving of the wood and the slipperiness of the upholstery.”

  “Slippery? Is it?” He strode across the room and ran long, slender fingers over the padded back of the chair. “Hmm. Interesting. And the carving…” He closed his eyes, allowing his hands to tell him of it. “There is a slight irregularity just here.”

  “And a flaw in the wood lower down,” she said, touching the place.

  “How observant you are,” he said. “You see with your hands.”

  “My art master at Miss Latimer’s Academy taught me to use every sense,” she said, “although I confess it is more difficult to make use of the sense of smell when capturing a scene in paint.”

  “Scents… aromas… are more subtle,” he said. “Sometimes, when I want to paint the summer I have roses brought from the hot houses. Or lilies… that always evokes summer sunshine for me. In the middle of winter, I have dried lavender scattered about.”

  She shuddered suddenly, assailed by memories. “Lavender would not work for me. Pies, though… the pie seller always makes me think of autumn. Such a wonderful aroma! And chestnuts roasting.”

  “Chestnuts… yes! Very true,” he said, laughing. Then, abruptly, he said, “What else do you notice about this room?”

  “The letters,” she said at once, gesturing at the overflowing box. “Do you never open your mail, Lord Finlassan?”

  “Never,” he said. “Why should I do so, when such missives bring me only unwanted invitati
ons to evening parties or balls, or complaints from my tenants? Uncle Giles goes through everything from time to time to deal with it all.”

  “If you had read your letters, my lord,” Felicia said crisply, “you would have known about your wards and the household would have been prepared for their arrival.”

  He lifted one shoulder in obvious indifference. “Has there been any deficiency in that regard? No? Then it would have made no difference. Letters are too much of a distraction, Miss Oakes.” Abruptly, his face changed, as if he were suddenly aware of his housekeeper and the two children who were watching him in silence. His habitual glower returned. “You may go now.”

  They went, leaving him to his scowling contemplation of his letter, but Felicia was left with a lingering memory of a quite different man hidden away behind the testy exterior.

  ~~~~~

  ‘To Miss J. Pollard, High Farley, Dorsetshire. My dear Jane, You cannot conceive the luxury with which I am now surrounded. Hawkewood Hall is magnificent and I have been persuaded, with how much becoming reluctance you may imagine, to remain as governess until someone more suitable is engaged. May it be many weeks! Ellen and Mary are to stay on with the girls. I did think Ellen would regret the loss of Peter Kennett, but I suspect she will find acceptable consolation in the vast array of footmen here. The earl is very rich and as yet unwed so would satisfy your mama’s requirements admirably, except that he never stirs from home so you are unlikely ever to meet him. He is also very cross and ill-tempered, and not at all likely to make a conformable husband. On Sunday, after the briefest service imaginable in the chapel here, the girls and I were instructed by the earl’s sister to present ourselves, suitably attired, for family dinner. ‘What are you doing here?’ said the earl, on seeing us. ‘Go away!’ Meekly, we went, only to be berated by the sister and instantly dragged back to the drawing room, where the two of them argued over us as if we were cattle at market. In the end we were grudgingly permitted to eat with His Mightiness, who said not a word throughout. We did not care, for there were two full courses, with three joints, plentiful fish and game, and such an array of pastries and jellies and sweetmeats that we were as stuffed as the veal. We have not ventured outside much on account of the rain. Have you had rain in Dorsetshire, too? Or perhaps it is only Derbyshire that is about to float away. When next I write, you will be in London no doubt, enjoying the delights of the town and the attentions of all your admirers. Do tell me all about it, and of any new fashions you observe, for I am quite prepared to have Mary rework all my sleeves again if you command me so. Yours in affection, Felicia Oakes.’