Page 20 of Trusting Miss Austen (Miss Austen #3)

London, March 1801

‘Moo cow, Mama, moo cow!’

Freddie turned to me, eyes brimming with excitement, as the carriage lurched. Fortunately, Max was sitting next to him and had good reflexes.

He caught him as he launched off the seat into the air and placed him neatly on his knee.

‘Whoa, Freddie, you are not meant to go riding in the carriage, unless you are on my horse!’

He held him around the middle and jerked his knee so Freddie bounced around, giggling, his little hands waving in the air.

I took my heart out of my mouth. Only three more days to go. Travelling with a 1-year-old toddler in a cramped carriage, especially one as lively as Freddie, was stretching my nerves to capacity. Luckily, he tended to wear himself out by the afternoon. So we had a few hours of peace and quiet while he napped before he was scrambling all over the carriage again with boundless energy .

‘Where are we going, Freddie?’ Max asked, jiggling his knee harder and making him squawk.

‘Londwon.’

‘And who are we going to see?’

‘Dorwian!’

Staring out the window at the ‘moo cows’, I pressed my lips together tightly. Now there was a name I never thought I’d hear my son say. Max and his blasted portrait bargain—but we couldn’t get out of it.

Dorian hadn’t forgotten his ‘gentlemanly conversation’ with Max either. He wrote to him at the beginning of February, saying he had scheduled us in for the second week of March for the sitting. Max had spent the last month conveying to Freddie how we were going to have our picture painted in London by a ‘nice man called Dorian’ and it was going to be a lot of fun (he told me he hoped that Freddie didn’t recognise him as the man who kidnapped him and start screaming his head off!).

On the whole, Max actually seemed rather excited about having us immortalised in oil. I wanted to get it over and done with.

And there were other things in London I was looking forward to that didn’t involve having my portrait painted: like staying with Lucy and Harry in Holborn.

** *

How much things could change in a year! It was hard to believe that I had stood in this street last February, commenting to Harry how it must look lovely in the spring. Freddie wasn’t even born yet. Now here I was in exactly the same spot with his little hand clutched in mine, witnessing the trees in all their green leafy glory. London was waking from its winter slumber, and a freshish breeze was blowing in off the river and rustling through the trees. The city would never smell clean to me, not like it did in the country. But at least we were not going anywhere near Smithfield Market on this trip!

No, we were going somewhere much more pleasant today, and I had eaten a small breakfast in anticipation of the event.

Harry, Freddie, and I were waiting outside by the gate for Lucinda because we were about to walk to a cake shop on the high street to try some samples and buy the ones we liked best. Max had politely declined, saying he needed to write a letter, but that he would gladly partake in the eating of the cake when we returned. He did make one request with a wink at me: ‘Could you purchase a cream-and-jam sponge, if they have one?’

I looked over at Harry, who was inspecting the side of his house, frowning. He mentioned last night that it had been ‘an extremely damp winter’ and that some of the plasterwork might need repairing.

‘Do you remember asking me if Lucinda would like living here, Harry?’

His eyes crinkled. ‘Yes, I do. And you said that she would like it very much indeed.’

‘And was I right in saying that?’

‘I have not asked her outright. But from what I can deduce from her general demeanour and her comments about certain aspects, she likes it well enough,’ said Harry carefully. ‘Yet it is a moot point as we may not be here for much longer ... But I will let her tell you herself.’

I was intrigued by this speech but did not press for more information. Were they going on a trip somewhere?

When Lucinda came running out, apologising for keeping us waiting as she had not been able to find her favourite shawl, I urged Harry to walk ahead with Freddie perched on his shoulders.

‘Do you have any travel plans in the coming months, dearest?’ I asked her.

Lucinda looked askance at me. ‘Has Harry said something to make you think so?’

‘He piqued my curiosity just now but gave no details, which is why I am asking you.’

She combed the fringe on the edge of her peach silk shawl with her fingertips. ‘Well, actually, we do have travel plans. We are going to Godmersham in April to visit the Austens. We will stay with them for about a month.’

I raised my eyebrows at that. ‘Gracious. I know she invited you, but after everything that occurred there ... are you sure you want to go?’

‘We are staying in the main house, so it will not be like last time. I will get to experience what life is like’—she spoke behind her glove in a hushed whisper—‘as a respectable married woman.’

‘Well, if you think it will not bring back bad memories,’ I said. ‘Just keep away from that Mrs Busby woman. She was a nightmare with her vague predictions. Honestly, nothing ever came true from what she said to me ... well, apart from Max planting red roses.’

Lucinda laughed. ‘But perhaps if I let her read my future, she might see a baby this time?’

‘I doubt it!’ I scoffed. Then I saw that she had placed a hand over her stomach in that protective way expectant women do. My hand flew to my mouth.

‘Oh!’ I squeaked. Harry’s comment about moving house suddenly made perfect sense. ‘Oh! Oh! You’ re going to have a baby!’

Lucinda nodded and smiled at me serenely. ‘Yes, the doctor confirmed it the other day. It’s due in September. You are the first to know ... well, apart from Harry. I haven’t even told Mama and Papa yet.’

Do. Not. Cry , I told myself sternly. But in truth, it was difficult to stem the tears. I ended up snivelling into my handkerchief all the way to the cake shop, much to Lucinda’s amusement, and I had to sample four slices of cake to calm down.

When we returned to the house, laden with cake boxes, I hurried into the parlour to find Max (Lucinda and Harry had given me permission to inform him).

‘Dearest, I have wonderful news! Freddie is going to have a brother or sister or cousin—oh, it is all too confusing to know which!’ I cried.

Max laughed and somehow understood what I meant from the fact that Harry and Lucinda were standing in the doorway with their arms around each other, beaming. He leapt up immediately to shake hands with the former and hug the latter.

That night, we celebrated with a roasted duck and many slices of cake for dessert. Oh, it was a happy day indeed!

** *

The next day, however, the edge was taken off my happiness as we had to dress in our finest and visit Dorian in Hampstead, where he was now residing.

He certainly seemed to have improved his lot in life, thanks to his portrait commissions. His house was not the largest or grandest in the street by any means. It was a rather modest two-storey abode, but it was a far cry from his pitiful lodgings in Saffron Hill. And Hampstead, I had to admit, was delightful. With its gently rolling fields and collection of quaint shops, it was a veritable haven away from the grime and noise of the city. But still, we were not there to have a picnic or go shopping ...

‘I am dreading this,’ I said to Max as we waited for Dorian to open the door.

He squeezed my hand. ‘I know, Fliss. Believe me, it is a duty rather than a pleasure for me as well. Just smile and nod politely. Let him do what he needs to do, and we’ll be back in Holborn in time for supper.’

‘All right.’ I grimaced and plastered a smile on my face.

Knowing that Max was feeling the same way made it bearable.

But I soon discovered being a model for an artist was actually quite unbearable .

Perching on a hard stool in front of a pastoral backdrop, I attempted to keep my back straight and chin up. My corset pinched, my arms itched, and it was hot and stuffy in the upstairs room that served as the studio. Perhaps it would have been easier if Freddie had fallen asleep, but he had not. He squirmed and grizzled on my lap and wanted to get down and run around. I sighed in frustration. Max, standing behind me, tightened his grip on my shoulder.

‘May we have a short interlude?’ he asked.

Dorian’s dark head popped out from behind the easel, where he had been sketching for the last hour.

‘Yes, five minutes, but that is all,’ he said curtly, his brown eyes flashing in disdain, and disappeared again.

I rolled my eyes at his tone and stretched my back. ‘For two thousand pounds, you would think the artist could be a little friendlier,’ I muttered. Loosening my grip on Freddie, he slid down from my lap and ran over to the easel, ducking behind it.

There came a low chuckle.

‘Eager to see yourself in a painting, Fred? Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until I’m finished. But I can give you a tour of my other artworks if you like.’

Dorian emerged from behind the easel, carrying Freddie in his arms and looking happier. I gave a start, not wanting him to touch my son .

But Max murmured in my ear, ‘Let him be.’

Dorian headed off to the room next door with Freddie.

‘You can both come too if you like,’ he threw over his shoulder.

‘He won’t try anything, not with me here,’ said Max to me softly. ‘As you can see, he lives quite alone here after Rosalind broke off their engagement. Painting us together as a family is probably difficult for him.’

Max was far more benevolent than I. Then again, he had not dealt with Dorian as often as I had.

‘Very well,’ I grumbled, though I was far from pleased about him being anywhere near Freddie. I still didn’t trust Dorian an inch.

We wandered through to the adjoining room, which was sparsely furnished with a bed and side table. I noticed a jam jar that held a bunch of wilting violets on the windowsill that looked vaguely familiar. The violets I had purchased to brighten his sick room in Saffron Hill were long dead, but the jam jar looked identical. Surely it was not the same one I had used?

Feeling on edge, I hovered in the background as Dorian flipped through a pile of unframed canvases leaning against the wall. I was impressed despite myself. He had always been a good sketcher, but his oil portraits were excellent. I could see why he was making good money from them .

‘What do you think, Felicity?’ Dorian asked, seeing I was eyeing them curiously.

‘I don’t profess to be an art critic, but these are wonderful,’ I commented, remembering what Max had said and trying to be courteous.

‘Thank you,’ said Dorian, sounding pleased at the compliment. He always did like it when I admired his art. ‘I hope you will be as appreciative of your own painting.’

‘I’m sure we shall,’ said Max.

As we resumed our pose, I muttered to Max, ‘There were quite a few portraits of lovely ladies in his collection, so I don’t think he has been that lonely.’

Max snorted.

‘Please be quiet, thank you’ came the artist’s voice from behind the easel. ‘I need complete silence when I am creating.’

God, give me strength!

***

A few weeks later, we were back in Derbyshire; and one fine spring afternoon, our framed portrait arrived by private coach from London. It was of a reasonable size and carefully wrapped in layers of brown paper and tied securely with twine.

Max and I had a private unveiling in the parlour, where it was to be hung. He had planned exactly where it should go—above the fireplace.

I handed him a small sharp knife. ‘Do you want to do the honours?’

Apprehensively, I watched as Max cut the twine and started stripping away the paper. It was nerve-racking to have oneself displayed in a portrait. After all, family and friends were going to see it every time they sat in the parlour. I hoped Dorian had done me justice.

The last shred of paper fell away, and Max stepped back beside me so as to view it properly.

We stared at it in silence. A feeling, not unlike hysteria, began welling inside me until I could contain it no longer. I let out a volley of high-pitched hiccuping giggles.

‘It is not funny, Fliss!’ said Max, sounding royally peeved.

I clapped my hand over my mouth. But oh, it was funny!

There I was in the portrait with an adorable Freddie on my lap. I looked a tad haughty, but that was forgivable. What was not forgivable was the fact that Dorian hadn’t painted Max standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder—he had painted himself looking every inch the proud father!

‘Two thousand pounds and posing for him for hours, and he sends us this! Is it supposed to be humorous? If so, I am not amused!’ Max fumed.

‘That’s what you get when you do business with a rogue, dearest,’ I said mildly. ‘I am not surprised in the slightest that he has hoodwinked us. Now do you want to hang it in the parlour or—’

‘ Over my dead body! ’

***

Who knows what will become of Dorian’s painting? Will future generations of our family look at it and wonder what on earth it is all about? Perhaps Freddie will want it for his own home when he is older and has learned the story of his true parentage. But I doubt Max will let him have it—he’d burn it first.

For now, we have a two-thousand-pound painting we can’t hang in the parlour, dining room, or any other public-facing room. And I certainly do not want it in our bedroom as it will be like Royden Hart staring at me every night. No, even though I’m sure Dorian thought it was a huge joke and laughed himself silly over it, the last laugh is on us.

Max took the painting out to the stable that night and propped it on a hay bale. The only audience it will have for the near future are Apollo and George; and unfortunately, for Dorian, our horses are not very discerning when it comes to art.