Page 18 of Miss Devoted
She worked in silence for another hour, then paused at a tap on the door. “Dinner. If you are soothed by movement, you are probably ready to get out of that chair.”
Mr. Delancey rose and stretched up tall, then twisted at the hips in each direction. He finished by bending slowly from the waist until his knuckles rested on his toes. The whole progression might have taken him a minute, and he was utterly unself-conscious about it.
Jacob had been at ease with his own body, too, but not… not like that. Or not like that when Psyche was on hand.
“You are staring,” Mr. Delancey said. “One of the other models warned me that muscle cramps are a hazard of the profession, and the antidote is stretching, even on the days when I don’t sit for Berthold. I ignored his advice until my left calf rebelled against a particular pose Berthold was keen on. That night, I could not have made the distance to Lambeth on foot to save my soul. Something smells good.”
“We’ll eat in the parlor,” Psyche said, leading the way through the door that opened onto her bedroom. Mr. Delancey followed without comment, though he doubtless noted the landscape hanging opposite Psyche’s bed. They continued to her sitting room, where supper had been laid out on the table by the window.
“You like vivid colors,” he said, examining an oil of the pantry mouser lazing in the sun by a vase of yellow irises.
“John likes taking naps on my sewing table of a morning, though you mustn’t tell Hazel I permit the beast such privileges. His bright orange coloring, the green felt table cover, and the yellow flowers made a fine, sunny image.”
Mr. Delancey peered more closely at the painting of the cat. “Apricot, salmon, cream, ochre, coral, rust, peach, titian… How many colors did you use? The brushwork makes me want to pet what I know is merely paint, and I can almost hear him purring. Did you name him for John, Son of Thunder?”
An obscure biblical allusion, and not quite right. “John, the Apostle of Love—or kittens. Shall we sit?”
Mr. Delancey left off studying the painting to study Psyche. “Am I permitted to hold your chair, Mrs. Fremont?”
“Permitted, but not required to.” She took her seat unassisted. “Let’s eat before the food gets cold. I ordered a roast of beef, and Cook does a marvelous burgundy mushroom sauce.”
The meal was simple. Meat and potatoes, bread and butter, and a plate of cheeses and orange slices. The wines were unassuming, and the conversation more relaxed than Psyche had anticipated. Mr. Delancey was a frustrated advocate for reform—expanded suffrage, parliamentary reform, Catholic emancipation, and repeal of the Corn Laws.
“But you dare not express those opinions at Lambeth,” Psyche said, popping an orange slice into her mouth.
“I am kept too busy debating how many angels can dance on the Regent’s silk-clad knee. Reform is tantamount to heresy, though it’s consistent with every teaching the Church claims to propound. I do what I can within the bounds of ecclesiastical law. Shall we return to the studio?”
Psyche, much to her surprise, did not want to leave the table. The past hour had been congenial. She’d debated politics with Mr. Delancey, played devil’s advocate on any number of issues, and discussed the impact of public opinion on both painting and Parliament.
The meal had been friendly—honestlyfriendly—and more enjoyable than the simple fare and informality would have suggested.
And yet, as Jacob had said, all good things must end. “You stay here,” Psyche said. “I will ensure the teapot awaits us in the studio, and then you may join me. Finish off the last of that cheese, why don’t you? You seem to like it.”
He stood when Psyche left the table, and she placed a bet with herself: The remaining cheese would be unconsumed when she returned. More of Michael Delancey’s gratuitous self-denial.
The teapot was swaddled in linen and waiting on its tray, and the fire had burned down in Psyche’s absence. She added coal and returned to the parlor, intent on retrieving her model.
Alas for her, Mr. Delancey had been seized and carried off by the minions of Morpheus. He slouched back in his wing chair, eyes closed, hand dangling over the arm of the chair, napkin still on his lap.
What a glorious, masculine, exhausted, beautiful picture he made. The artist in Psyche was denied satisfaction by the widow, who’d been married to a good man. Pride and privacy were more precious to most fellows than they admitted to even themselves.
She moved furniture around as quietly as she could and deposited the remains of the meal on a tea cart that she pushed into the corridor. She hefted Mr. Delancey’s feet onto a hassock, deftly lifted the napkin from his lap, and covered him with a quilt from the bedroom. Only when she was certain of his comfort did she return to the studio and resume work on the earlier pose.
Though her progress was inexplicably slow.
ChapterFive
The first sensation to penetrate Michael’s awareness was warmth. Not the absence of cold won by a sleeper who huddled into a ball beneath the blankets and hoarded even the heat of his own exhalations, but rather, a comforting, abundant coziness.
Heat that bathed his feet and caressed his cheeks.
The next sensation to dawn upon Michael was a contented belly. A man who habitually awoke famished noticed that luxury even before fully waking.
Softness followed, of the blanket, of the cushions beneath him, of even the ambient sounds. A fire crackled gently. Off in the distance, harness bells tinkled rhythmically, and much closer at hand, a cat purred.
The scents were soft too. No stink from the river, no stench of tallow, no bacon-y reek from the landlady’s kitchen. Lavender predominated with a hint of clean wool.
The temptation to sink back into slumber was nigh overwhelming, but Michael and temptation were old foes. He opened his eyes and beheld… Ah, yes. Mrs. Psyche Fremont’s private parlor. John the Apostle of Love and Kittens perched on the arm of the chair, squinting inscrutably. The remains of the meal were nowhere to be seen, and neither was the artist.
