Chapter Eighteen
Painting a portrait took time and concentration—the latter of which Whitney had very little today. Her subjects were without fidgets, except for Christopher, who always seemed too full of energy no matter the time of day. His parents were happy together, although the marquess wore the occasional frown sometimes.
Whitney was struggling to bring this family portrait to life and longed for an outside distraction or visitors to put an end to this torture for a little while. There was nothing wrong with the portrait but, for the moment, she couldn’t put her finger on what distracted her today.
“Christopher,” Miranda murmured out the side of her mouth. “Don’t wave your foot about like that.”
“Sorry,” he said quickly, and his eyes drifted toward the window again.
Whitney had already decided that the boy should be painted looking off toward the window, because he never stopped looking for his friends. Lord Carrington had taken them all off for a long walk this morning while Whitney painted.
She set her paintbrush down. “Perhaps we should take a break. Everyone may stand and move about.”
Christopher shot off the chaise he’d been perched on and immediately headed for the French doors that looked over the rear of the property. Miranda followed, warning him not to go far.
Despite the necessity of ending the session, Whitney was disappointed with herself. She had never been so distracted as she was this past week. Perhaps it was the change of location upsetting her focus, but whatever the cause, she had no choice but to return to her work shortly. She’d made a promise, to the family and to herself.
She had to finish this one last painting before she could leave for the continent.
She had promised to meet her traveling companions on a certain day, which would allow them to meet their ship with a day to spare.
She could not understand why she wasn’t in the mood to paint. She always painted. In London, there had been a steady stream of new bodies and views to capture. Even in the never-changing countryside around her cousin’s estate, Whitney had painted every single day.
She was almost as distracted as Christopher. Her mind far away, beleaguered by images of a man she shouldn’t think about.
The marquess approached Whitney. “You’re frowning. Is something the matter?”
She did not want to answer that. “So were you.”
He grunted. “It’s nothing. Did I hear that you returned yesterday wearing the blacksmith’s wife’s gown?”
“I had an accident with a puddle of water.”
His brows rose in surprise but he did not laugh. “And that required you to change clothes?”
“I fell in a horse trough,” Whitney confessed, believing confession now was better than trying to hide the truth from him. The details of the encounter with Acton would eventually reach his ears.
The marquess appeared shocked, though. “How did that happen?”
Ah, so he didn’t know that Acton had caused it. Not yet, anyway. “An accident. Nothing to worry about. Why are you in a bad mood?”
“As I said, it’s nothing of importance.”
She did not believe that. “You have been looking toward the windows all morning.”
“So have you,” he countered.
Whitney turned away as a blush climbed her cheeks. She hastily cleaned her brushes. She’d not realized she’d been looking out the windows, too, but she knew what she’d been searching for outside.
Acton still had not put in an appearance. She had not thought the marquess would banish his oldest friend forever because he’d shown compassion to someone who didn’t deserve any.
When Whitney had a problem, she always faced it head-on, head high, and without regret. Today would be no different. She was concerned that this estrangement could go on too long if she didn’t speak up. “Why has Lord Acton not called with Miss Quartermane these past few days?”
The marquess’ jaw firmed. “I’ve no idea.”
Even now, he would not admit that he had banished the earl. “You and I are only children.”
The marquess frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Whitney smiled sadly. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to have a brother or sister to be responsible for? I wanted a family quite desperately when I was young.”
Taverham’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t.”
“You had the advantage of having neighbors, Acton and his sister Emily, to play with, I hear. After my parents died, I lived with my aunts and uncles until their deaths. None of them had children, so it was an adjustment for all of us.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Everyone says that, but I consider myself very lucky,” she mused. “Each one of them were different situations. Some of my family were easy to get along with, others more difficult. Aunt Thomasina never let me out of her sight. She smothered me, nearly kept me her prisoner because she was afraid I’d be seduced and ruined, or taken away from her. She lived in fear of everything, I later learned.”
“That must have been difficult for you,” he said, wincing in sympathy.
“When Aunt Thomasina died, I moved to Uncle Nash’s home, and there I had a chance to make some friends.” Whitney smiled broadly. “Uncle Nash had a very active social life, and he was very handsome and well informed. But he often secretly entertained female acquaintances after I’d retired for the night. Some of them were married, I’m ashamed to say, and from influential families. He made his living being agreeable, and I loved him regardless. Even though he never intended to, he broadened my knowledge of romantic entanglements and love, quite a bit, let me tell you.”
Taverham frowned. “What are you getting at, Trouble?”
“What I am trying to say is that I don’t imagine it is easy to turn aside a sibling in need when they are the only family you have left. They will always be a member of your family, even when they are evil to the bone.”
Taverham sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re talking about that woman?”
“No. I am talking about your friend.”
The marquess turned away. “You don’t know what he’s done.”
“Actually, I do,” she confessed quietly. “I discovered the lady’s whereabouts quite by accident, and I spoke to her to be certain it was her.”
The marquess stared. “Do not go near her again.”
“That is almost exactly what Acton said, too, but with much more panic and concern in his voice than yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Can you not see that he is terrified?” Whitney shuddered. “Consumption is a horrible way to die.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
She nodded. “My parents.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am, too. I knew they would die, everyone said so. Aunt Thomasina came and tried to take me away from them for my own protection. I ran away from her, of course. I walked three miles in the dark, just so I could nurse my parents in the last days of their lives because I loved them.”
Taverham lowered his face.
“What he’s done is understandable. Reasonable. She’s all he has left. He’s taken all the precautions he can to protect everyone.”
“What precautions?”
“Emily is locked behind a wall. There is a servant with a pitchfork patrolling the grounds to keep the unwary at a safe distance. No one goes in without his permission. Acton seems to wear gloves at all times, he says he bathes after every visit, never wears the same clothes around other people after he’s seen her. He acts with more caution than I ever did.”
“How do you know so much about him?”
“Artists pay attention to people around them.” She laughed softly. “Also, I bullied it out of him, and he couldn’t resist me.”
Taverham chuckled, too. “That would be a first. He’s usually much more inscrutable.”
“You underestimate my skills at uncovering secrets.” She licked her lips, thinking of the man again. “He probably didn’t want to tell you because he imagined you couldn’t possibly care what became of her after all she’s done. I can understand your anger with her may never end, but why punish him for something he cannot change? Will you truly turn away from a lifelong friend in his time of need?”
“You don’t understand.” He checked the room. Miranda and Christopher were on the far side of the room still. “Christopher barely trusts Acton as it is. I don’t want to make things worse between them. And there is Miranda’s health to consider. I cannot lose them.”
“Then explain the reasons you sent him away, but please clear the air so he knows you don’t hate him. It doesn’t even have to be in words. Invite him riding or ask his opinion. You told him to leave and he went…and hasn’t returned, has he? Did you mean forever?”
Taverham’s eyes widened. “No, of course not.”
“But he’s done exactly as you asked and expects nothing more.” She had an idea. “If you are so worried about the risk to Miranda and Christopher, invite Acton to luncheon in the open gardens, where there can be no danger to anyone else.”
The marquess fell silent for a long while. Eventually he nodded. “That is actually a good idea. We’ll have a party tomorrow when the other guests arrive. The children can come and go at will and be as noisy as they like. Thank you, Whitney. I know you don’t care for the man, but you’ve a great heart and courage to speak up.”
Whitney sighed. She might like Everett more if he wasn’t marrying someone else. “We can continue with the portrait later today when you have time.”
When Taverham announced the idea of an outdoor luncheon to his wife and son, the pair were greatly enthused and they all went away. Whitney straightened up the room, repositioned pillows on the long chaise the family had been sitting on. She returned to cleaning her paintbrushes on Lord Acton’s breeches, covered the canvas from idle viewing, and tried not to think about what might happen tomorrow.
Lord Acton was full of unexpected surprises lately. He had made her feel quite good about herself. They were friends now, and Whitney always took good care of her friends.
Whitney had a lot of male acquaintances, but her friendship with Lord Acton felt different. But then again, she’d not almost shared a bed with any of the others.
That made her reasons for offering friendship with Acton complicated. She liked looking at him. She liked talking to him, but his impending marriage cast a pall over every conversation. He was making a mistake marrying Miss Quartermane. Couldn’t he see the woman was wrong for him?
Alice only cared about being a countess. Gaining a title and the distinction that came with it for her family had always been her goal. She didn’t even like or want children, which was of course a common reason any man took a wife.
Whitney had trouble believing now that Acton only wanted a wife for the size of her dowry, but there was every chance she didn’t know him as well as she believed. He was quite introspective here in the countryside, and kinder to those with less distinction than he seemed to be when in London.
His friendship with the Blakes, a rough-looking blacksmith and his hotheaded wife, was proof of his good heart. He deserved more.