His arms came around her. “You wanted children.”
She stood passively in the circle of his embrace, battling tears that made no difference.
“To be honest, I did not give children much thought until the physicians pronounced sentence on me. Then, as I watched my friends marry and be fruitful, I realized I was never to be to a child what my mother had been to me—a champion, guide, example, and wellspring of wisdom and love. Mama was not perfect, but she was my mother, and society regarded that contribution as worthy and sufficient.”
He stroked her hair. “You are worthy just as you are, Psyche Fremont. Never doubt that.”
Why had nobody—not even Jacob—said that to her? Why had she needed so badly to hear it? To feel a caress that purely comforted and asked nothing in return?
The previous times when Psyche had been close to Michael, he’d been in proper gentleman’s attire, layers of linen and wool coming between her and the man himself. Now she could catch the piney scent of his soap, revel in the warmth of his skin, and learn by feel the lean contours of his waist.
“The food will get cold.” While Michael’s embrace was a haven of warmth.
“To blazes with the food, madam. You were grateful to Fremont for marrying you.”
Psyche stepped back. “Is that an accusation?”
Michael led her by the wrist to the table and held her chair. “Yes, but not of you. I’m accusing Fremont of opportunism. Benevolent in its execution perhaps, but self-interested nonetheless.”
“Jacob and I were honest with each other.”
“No, you were not. He was content with the bargain, even pleased with it, while you were lonely and bored. All the while, you smiled at your friends when they had yet another new baby to show off in the churchyard.” He ladled them each a serving of soup, though Psyche wasn’t particularly hungry.
Michael was doubtless famished, so she took up her spoon. “Jacob was willing to try for children with me, despite the doctor’s pronouncement, despite Jacob’s preferences.” She put down her spoon and stared at the tower of sandwiches in the middle of the table.
Michael regarded her in some puzzlement. “You were supposed to be grateful for his generous attentions to a woman who knew she wasn’t who or what he desired? To a woman who’d likely all but stifled her desire for him?”
The problem in a nutshell. “I gave up on those attempts fairly early in the marriage, to the relief of all concerned. The doctors were very certain of their diagnosis—I consulted accoucheurs here and in Switzerland—and Jacob kept his word about supporting my art. I can see now that children would have been the death knell of my artistic aspirations. A widow is permitted her diversions. A mother must be concerned with her offspring.”
“Some mothers,” Michael said, tucking into his soup. “Other mothers endure five minutes of their progeny’s company before supper and send their sons off to public school at age six. Still other mothers abandon their infants at birth, and who can blame them when the lady has no means of supporting herself other than the act that resulted in conception?
“Here is what I think,” he went on, setting half a sandwich on the edge of Psyche’s soup bowl. “You would have been a marvelous mother, and it’s a rotten shame that you wanted children and could not have them. It’s another rotten shame that Fremont was only half a husband to you, offering out of duty or friendship or some convoluted sense of honor what should have been shared freely between loving and passionate spouses. Both circumstances are grounds for sorrow, no matter that you’ve made your peace with them, or found a way to be content despite them. Salt?”
He held out the dish with its elegant little spoon, the handle and the bowl fashioned into twin rosebuds.
Psyche took it, as if one typically bared one’s soul over the soup course. “I don’t talk about this, not even with Hazel.”
“You paint about it,” Michael said. “Those flower girls are you striking a blow in your mother’s name for all the children orphaned on London’s streets. Henderson lurking at the back of Berthold’s classes is you, going forth on Jacob’s behalf to twist the tail of polite society’s rigid expectations of women and men. With your pencil and sketch pad, you might not start wars, but you can start meaningful conversations.”
“I make pretty little pictures, Michael. I am not a revolutionary. My ambition is excellent portraiture for those who appreciate art and can pay well. I’ll make a sufficient mark if I can achieve that goal.”
“Portraits are a laudable ambition, but explain to me, please, why it’s the little penny-press cartoons that the crown pays so handsomely to suppress, and the satirists themselves tried most frequently for sedition?”
The soup was still hot enough to be appealing, and the toasted sandwich perfect for dipping. “The satirists lack subtlety and land in jail for it. One wants to suggest with one’s art, such that when somebody admires a print and thinks, ‘Society should do something for that girl,’ they believe that thought is unique to them and daringly charitable.”
The flower girls had been a lark, a curiosity that had taken on a life of its own. Perhaps the series was sufficient with the eight images already published.
“Have you considered taking on climbing boys as a subject?”
“No, I have not. I have considered how one does a grand portrait of a lady without putting a great hat on her or draping her in yards of elaborate, expensive fabric. Even Sir Joshua’s portraits of women lack the symbolism and grandeur of their male counterparts, but can a woman not be grand? Can’t her life have depth and scope such that she merits globes and swords and other indicia of importance?”
The soup and sandwiches disappeared. The gingerbread followed, generously slathered with butter. By the time Michael carried the tea tray over to the studio for her, Psyche knew why she’d paint him half sleep on the sofa.
Simply because she wanted to.
He’d be the weary, threadbare young man struggling against a lack of prospects in a world that did not admit merit unless a fellow first had money or family connections. He’d be the young father with too many mouths to feed, and he’d be the bachelor who had no prayer of finding a spouse, not because he lacked appeal or worthiness, but because he had far more honor than coin.
The result would be stunning and sad, but not despairing. Not grand in the usual sense, but heroic nonetheless. Time yet remained to paint something more conventional for the summer exhibition, but for herself, Psyche would paint Michael Delancey as she truly saw him.
Michael Delancey stood in the doorway to Psyche’s bedroom, his hair sticking up on one side, his feet bare. Jacob’s banyan was draped loosely about his shoulders, and his cheeks were shadowed with new beard.
“You let me fall asleep again. Mrs. Fremont, I am appalled.”
Psyche slogged to the side of her bed and stood, though leaving the warmth of the covers took fortitude. “You are an early riser. I am consoled to know you have at least that fault. I tried to rouse you last night, but there’s a look about a sleeping man that a model cannot achieve when awake. Then the hour grew so late I was unwilling to bother the staff to bring the coach around. Do not tell me you could have walked home. More snow fell last night, and your boots need new heels.”