“I hope there’s a but, Hazel. I understand that I must not toy with a man’s affections, but I truly do care for him.”
“Then for once in your life, do the selfish thing,” Hazel said.
Psyche laid the dress on the bed. “I did the selfish thing when I ran off with my drawing instructor.”
“You did the brave, foolish thing. Your drawing instructor was selfish—also stupid. Since then, you’ve been Jacob’s quiet little wife, or the model young widow, or a pattern card of devotion to your artistic calling. Generous to the staff, a fine soprano, content to make up the numbers. If you aren’t careful, you will end up on charitable committees and managing church pageants.”
As Hazel had ended up? “What do you suggest I do?”
“Deal with his past, deal with your present. Have the arguments, say the hard things, but stop half living your dreams. If he’s the right man, and you’re the right woman, you will find a way forward together.”
“And if we can’t find a way?”
Hazel marched for the door and turned only when she had one foot out of the room. “If you try and fail, you will have the satisfaction of knowing you gave your dreams every chance. You didn’t slink off in your top hat to pretend a fascination with the plumage of pigeons when what you’re really drawn to are the faces of the old women who feed them.”
Hazel sailed on into the corridor, leaving Psyche to wonder if she’d been scolded or encouraged.
She donned the raspberry velvet, took up a gold silk parasol and her smallest sketchbook, and prepared to spend an agreeable hour with Miss Beatrice Delancey—and friend.
Chapter Twelve
“I’m taking a risk,” Michael said after he’d made a proper bow to Psyche and introduced her to Bea. “I could not resist on such a fine afternoon. Bea has been begging me for another outing, and what is a half day for if not fresh air and sunshine?”
To his chagrin, Bea was nearly as delighted with the wonders of the park as she had been to meet a friend of Papa’s.
“You and I have been introduced,” Psyche said, gaze on the child, who was fashioning a shawl for her doll from one of Michael’s worn handkerchiefs. “Exchanging a few pleasantries in public is hardly inviting the wrath of Lambeth.”
And for Psyche, that was hardly a pleasant remark.
“What troubles you?” Michael offered his arm. Psyche took it, which occasioned more satisfaction than such a simple gesture warranted. She’d patrolled the stews with him as Henderson, asking a thousand questions and making herself agreeable to everybody from Meg to MacGuire. She’d cuddled by the hour, listening to him maunder on about Danner’s uncles, Natty’s brilliance, and Twillinger’s gift for imitation. She’d reciprocated with memories of her mother and dreams of touring Continental capitals.
Dreams he could not share with her, but could encourage her to pursue.
“How can you tell I’m troubled?” she asked.
“Your eyes, your gait.”
She stopped on the walkway and glowered at him. “My gait? Explain yourself.”
“As you crossed the green to meet us, your stride was half Henderson, half Mrs. Fremont. Unsettled, betwixt and between. Does that reflect your mood?” It certainly reflected Michael’s. As happy as he was to finally oblige Bea’s constant importuning, as lovely as the day was, and as wonderful as a shared outing with Psyche should be… he was nonetheless plagued by worries.
“My mood is…” Psyche watched while Bea extracted a miniature tea cup from the hamper. “I should be painting. The days are getting longer, the invitations starting, and I itch to paint. What I need is a commission.”
“I had an idea.” Michael had considered this idea from every angle and saw no reason not to put it before the most talented artist he knew. “Jeanette Dorning was married to the late Marquess of Tavistock, and he left behind a son.”
“The current marquess,” Psyche said, once again regarding Bea, who was setting a complete little tea service before her doll. “The matchmakers pine for the day young Lord Tavistock ceases kicking his heels in France.”
“His young, handsome lordship is planning on a return to London in a few weeks, and I’ve asked Mrs. Dorning to suggest you to him as a portraitist. He’s a good-looking devil, ready to start voting his seat, and full of radical Continental notions. He’d make an interesting subject.”
Michael braced himself for an outburst—Psyche was nothing if not independent—but instead, she turned her face away so the brim of her straw hat obscured her features.
“Thank you.”
He could divine nothing from those two words. “Have I overstepped?”
“No.”
Which told him less than nothing. A quiet little sniff punctuated the honking of the nearby geese and Bea’s prattling to her doll.
“Psyche?”
“I want to hug you,” she said, still apparently admiring the trees just starting to leaf out. “I want to wrap my arms around you and hold you tightly and shout my thanks. Nobody has ever, ever taken my art seriously, and then you… A young, handsome marquess, fresh from years away in France. Oh, Michael…”
She fumbled in her reticule and withdrew a handkerchief, then dabbed at her cheeks.
“It might come to nothing,” Michael said, still worried that he’d blundered somehow. “Lord Tavistock has trouble sitting still for any occasion, but he doesn’t put on airs, and he’s devoted to Jeanette. If she asks him for a portrait, he’ll find a way to accommodate her.”
“She will ask him because you brought her the idea,” Psyche said. “Your family would do anything for you. Thank you, Michael.” She patted his arm, and he was assailed by the same impulse—to hold her close, to shout for joy, to rejoice.
“Papa, I’m hungry and so is Miss Feathers.”
“I am hungry as well,” Psyche said, addressing her words to Bea. “But I have not been introduced to Miss Feathers. Perhaps you’d oblige, Miss Delancey?”
Bea got into the spirit of the silliness, and for Michael, a small dream came true. He was indulging in an outing with his daughter on a fine day—a touch chilly, but sunny—and the lady he adored was enjoying the outing with them.
As Psyche opened her sketchbook and embarked on a likeness of Miss Feathers seated against the hamper, a little sadness stole through Michael’s joy. Tavistock would sit for his portrait and relish having his first lordly likeness done by a woman.
He’d throw the weight of his titled consequence in Psyche’s direction, and she’d have more commissions than the Regent had walking sticks. At some point, with that much work and that much renown, even a discreet affair would become too great a risk.
“You’re quiet,” Psyche said when the sandwiches had been devoured, and Bea had borrowed Psyche’s sketch pad to attempt a drawing of Miss Feathers on a nearby bench.
“A bit tired, very glad to be free of the office.” He longed to lay his head in her lap and close his eyes, but that would not do.
“You aren’t as tired as you were earlier in the year. Do you miss Berthold’s classes?”