Interesting theory. “And thus you become an aid to the cooper’s conscience?”
“Something like that, or so I hope. The penny press will ignore grumbling apprentices—apprentices were born to grumble, according to John Bull. But the penny press and even some of the more respectable publications will give a nod to proper ladies grumbling about the lot of apprentices. If nothing else, our meetings give Mr. Prebish a night of quiet solitude, and that has to aid the peace of the realm.”
“I don’t care for Prebish. He’s all smiles and gallantry when I drop by his shop for a fresh bouquet of posies, but he treats the flower girls abominably.” And his oldest son, a strapping youth with an abundance of golden hair, had yet to learn how to keep his gaze from improperly straying over a lady’s person.
“Prebish is opening a second shop in Knightsbridge,” Hazel said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “Flowers are apparently good business these days. Why was the coach coming back just as I arrived home, Psyche?”
Damn and blast. Jacob had often said timing was everything. “I had a guest. I lent my guest the coach owing to the late hour and the cold.”
Hazel opened her eyes and studied Psyche. “May I hope you are indulging in a discreet frolic? Please say you are. One of us should enjoy an occasional diversion. It’s been so long, I vow I’ve forgotten how.”
“I’ve hired a model to work with me on Thursday evenings.” Psyche could admit that much without compromising Mr. Delancey’s privacy. She’d hired other models from time to time. “Shall I ring for tea, Hazel?” The staff would make Psyche pay for that imposition at this hour, and well they should.
“Gracious days, please do not. I’ve had enough tea to float the royal barge with Wales himself strutting about on deck. Is this model of the male variety?”
“He’s one of Berthold’s finds, and that’s all I will say about him.” Mr. Delancey was trim, muscular, and handsome to sketch, but when hugged, he was too… guarded? Reserved? Controlled?
Psyche had not sensed offense in his reaction, which would have been mortifying in the extreme. She hadn’t intended to wrap her arms around him, but he’d seemed so alone, so resolute, that a hug had happened.
She well knew the loneliness of soldiering on in the face of adversity and heartbreak.
“And here you are,” Hazel muttered, “an hour later, still pondering his knees or his shoulder blades. I despair of you. I thought models came from the less constrained walks of life. If he appeals to you, then drop a few hints and see if he’s amenable to passing pleasures.”
Mr. Delancey came from a very constrained walk of life. “You are a bad influence, Hazel Buckthorn.”
“Thank you. I am also all committeed out for the nonce. If I don’t remove myself from this chair in the next five minutes, you will find me here in the morning, snoring like some tippling dowager.” She swung her feet off the hassock. “Something about this model upset you. Is that good or bad?”
“When did you become so inquisitive?”
“I should have been more inquisitive when you and Jacob were married by special license. I should have been more inquisitive when you declined to make your bow at court. Your father was a gentleman, and your mother certainly would have expected you to do the pretty.”
“But you did not force the pretty upon me, for which I will be ever grateful. Set a good example for me now and lead the way up to bed.”
Hazel pushed to her feet. “So you can stare into the fire and contemplate some out-of-work actor’s muscular calves. Not because he’s handsome and witty and inclined to mischief, but because no two calves are alike. I should never have allowed you to marry Jacob.”
“‘Allowing’ did not come into it.”
Hazel’s expression became unreadable. “I knew what he was, Psyche, and your father had no business marrying you to such as him. Jacob was a good fellow, and I’m sure he was an amicable husband, but you deserved better than to be his…”
Psyche picked up her sketch pad and turned over a clean page. “Do not malign my late spouse, Hazel. Jacob was my very dearest friend, and he left me quite secure. I treasure his memory and miss him sorely.” The truth, whether or not Hazel believed it to be so.
Hazel picked up her boots and went to the door. “His memory is why you have no idea what to do with a handsome, willing model, who was probably lounging about a state of nature for the greater part of the evening while you tried to get the shadow in the bend of his elbow just right.”
“He was clothed. The camellias were the troublesome element of the composition. Good night, Hazel.”
“Did Jacob even bother to bed you? He could have. I have reason to know this, and if he didn’t even—”
“Good night. I will happily accompany you to the lending library immediately after breakfast.”
“Youth is wasted on the young, and you were wasted on Jacob. Until morning, my dear.”
Psyche let Hazel have the last word, though Hazel was getting worse—more overbearing, more curious. Clearly, Hazel needed a diversion, though she’d wait until the spring social Season to indulge.
Better pickings, according to her, and she knew of what she spoke.
Psyche fell asleep in the chair by the fire, and when she dreamed, it was of Mr. Delancey. The shadow in the bend of his elbow did not figure in her imaginings.
At all.
“Papa!” Beatrice pelted up the back hallway as fast as her chubby legs could carry her. “Papa! You came! It’s Sunday, and you came, and even the snow and the cold did not stop you!”
Michael caught her up in a hug, the ache in his heart eased by the solid, healthy feel of her. She could cover ground with purpose now. Not long ago, her top speed had been a determined toddle.
“Of course I came. I could not miss a Sunday call upon my best girl.” He nuzzled her cheek and set her on her feet while Mrs. Harris held out a hand for his hat.
“Somebody was supposed to wait in the nursery like a proper young lady,” Mrs. Harris said, though her blue eyes were dancing. She had an ample figure imbued with an air of benevolent authority and the inherent kindness of one who’d experienced life’s injustices firsthand.
Bea seized Michael’s hand. “I saw Papa coming up the walk. I wanted to greet my papa. Besides, Finny said I could come down.”
“Wee Thaddeus is teething again,” Mrs. Harris said. “Finster has her hands full with the lad.”
“He’ll soon be three.” Michael made an awkward business of unbuttoning his coat while Bea tried to keep hold of his hand. “Isn’t he getting old to be teething?” A father ought to know those things, but Michael could not recall when Bea had stopped teething.
“This’ll be the last of it for a few years, sir. Child, turn loose of your father long enough for him to get his coat off.”
Bea complied, though she watched Michael closely as he finished undoing buttons and handed Mrs. Harris his coat.
Only the one sconce had been lit in the back hallway, and that was likely in anticipation of Michael’s arrival. The shadows hid wallpaper curling at the edges, a dubious stain creeping up the plaster beside the back door, and an old chandelier festooned with cobwebs. Nothing could hide the creak of floorboards that had been laid down during the reign of Charles II, and the scent emanating from the kitchen suggested the evening’s menu had included mutton.