The Thursday night sessions would end when the Season began—Psyche had been clear about that—and until then, Michael would enjoy his own private, unlikely friendship. Psyche sought to become an incarnation of Sir Joshua Reynolds in petticoats—a worthy goal, however difficult. She did not seek to remarry, Michael was in no position to marry at all, and yet, he looked very much forward to seeing the lady at his sister’s tomorrow evening.
As he enjoyed the one slice of buttered gingerbread he’d saved for his nooning, it occurred to him that supper at Dorcas’s with Psyche was the sort of occasion a courting bachelor eagerly anticipated. Counted the hours—roughly six-and-thirty—and so forth.
Psyche had no interest in remarriage, and Michael had no means with which to marry, but he looked forward to seeing her again nonetheless. No harm in that, certainly.
None at all.
The supper party included eight, counting Aunt Hazel and Psyche. The MacKays had invited Sycamore and Jeanette Dorning, as well as Michael and his father, Vicar Thomas Delancey. For the Dornings, the evening was in the nature of a farewell supper.
“My step-son has grown too fond of France,” Mrs. Dorning said. “The French have had a taste of life as a republic, and Lord Tavistock is nothing if not liberal. We must fetch him home to England before he’s lost to us for good.”
She was a striking woman with angular features, an abundance of red hair, and a marked fondness for her husband. The Dornings had exchanged subtle looks across the supper table, and when the ladies had retired, Mr. Dorning had kissed his wife’s cheek and murmured something in her ear. She had excused herself and gone upstairs rather than directly gather around the teapot in the parlor.
Michael had apparently noticed that exchange and brushed his fingers over Psyche’s knuckles before bowing her into the company of the other ladies.
“The fellows won’t be long over their whisky and port,” Mrs. MacKay said, ushering her guests into a cozy room done up in green plaid. “Sycamore and Jeanette are off to Dover at first light, and they will want to look in on the Coventry before retiring. Sycamore has become more of the éminence grise or visiting dignitary this year, a role I don’t think anybody foresaw for him.”
Aunt Hazel took a wing chair angled toward the fire. “What does he do with the rest of his time?”
Mrs. MacKay settled on the sofa before a sizable tea tray. “The Dornings have an estate out by Richmond, which they are turning to market gardening and flower gardening. Spices, too, I hear. They’ve put in a modest vineyard as well, though Sycamore calls the winemaking experimental. Sycamore’s father was a noted amateur botanist, and Sycamore apparently shares that interest.”
“He’s purely besotted with the former marchioness,” Hazel said, sounding puzzled. “She was married to the previous Marquess of Tavistock, and that was not a love match. The old goat was quite the martinet and vain as a royal peacock.”
The talk moved on to a MacKay cousin in Wales and a titled cousin-by-marriage dwelling in connubial bliss out in Shropshire. Psyche listened, because these were Michael’s people, albeit at a slight remove. Mrs. Dorning rejoined the ladies and took the place next to Psyche on a love seat.
“I can see where Michael gets his striking good looks,” she said. “Vicar Tom is apparently a favorite with the dowagers and widows of St. Mildred’s.”
“Vicar Tom is very agreeable,” Psyche said, “and Hazel is easily charmed.” She’d patted his arm more than once, each instance an occasion when Michael and Psyche pointedly did not glance at each other, or snicker, or wink.
Though Psyche had wanted to.
“Michael gets his eyes from his mother,” Mrs. Dorning said. “Dorcas has them too. Compelling eyes, Sycamore calls them. He gives Michael a wide berth lest confessions start tumbling out all unintended. My husband can be quite silly.”
This was said with half a glance at the door.
“I suspect Mr. Dorning is serious about the things that matter,” Psyche replied, “but can play the jester when needful. My late husband had that quality. People tended to take the lighthearted fellow for the real man, and while insouciance was part of Jacob, it was not the most significant part.”
Mrs. Dorning accepted a cup of tea from their hostess. “Do you miss him?”
“I do, though not as I once did.” And saying that felt like the simple truth rather than a betrayal.
“And what widow in her right mind,” Mrs. Dorning murmured, “would remarry unless she had children to support and no means to support them?”
Psyche had declined a cup of tea, though she took a piece of shortbread when the plate came around.
“You not only remarried, Mrs. Dorning, you gave up a lofty courtesy title when you did. Does one conclude that you and Mr. Dorning were a love match?”
Mrs. Dorning smiled a secret, pleased smile at her tea. “We are a love match. The nominal reason for making a winter crossing is to look in on my step-son, but Sycamore knows I like Paris, and he’s working diligently on his French. He wants our children to be bilingual, as Orion and I are. Do you enjoy languages, Mrs. Fremont?”
Psyche had enjoyed the feel of Michael’s thigh brushing hers beneath the table, enjoyed the touch of his fingers when he’d passed her the butter dish. That was a sort of language, wasn’t it? A language in which she knew too few words and had too much to say.
“I have the usual schoolgirl command of French, Italian, and German. I once upon a time thought I would study art in the more enlightened capitals of Europe.”
Mrs. Dorning set aside her teacup. “So you can paint history pictures and old fellows looking stern and imposing in their togas? Or do you go in for mothers and babies, in the school of Madame Gérard?”
“I adore Madame’s cats and dogs, if you must know. Her brushwork is amazing, and Madame understands that smaller works are more easily collected and displayed. Not every home has a grand gallery or a soaring staircase suitable for the heroic works, but every home has walls, and most have mantels.”
“You have given this some thought.”
“I have given France a great deal of thought. Madame Basseporte was a painter to the king, and her flowers are unrivaled to this day. Anne Vallayer-Coster was admitted to the Académie Royale at the age of twenty-six, before I was even born. Madame Le Brun was Marie Antoinette’s preferred portraitist and also admitted to the Académie Royale.”
“And then,” Mrs. Dorning said, “female academicians were abolished following the revolution.”
“And then,” Psyche retorted, “Le Brun was admitted to academies from Parma to Saint Petersburg, painting for half the nobility of Europe.”
Mrs. Dorning leaned nearer. “Careful, Mrs. Fremont. One must not be too fierce when impersonating a retiring widow. Does Mr. Delancey know of your passion?”
What had Michael to do with…? But then Psyche recalled that Michael’s family was bent on seeing him wed, and the happily married could be among those most devoted to the sport of matchmaking.
“Mr. Delancey remains something of an enigma to me,” Psyche replied. “He falls short of charming when in company, and yet travels well past handsome.” He was full of charm, when half dressed, when pouring Psyche’s tea, when debating with her the use of climbing boys as subjects for portraiture.