Page 24 of Miss Devoted
“We had coal smoke in Yorkshire, though I prefer peat smoke. It’s the people. Too many of them, too many living in misery, and the whole place is one stinking temple to mammon.”
Mrs. Harris was merely grumbling then, which Michael understood quite well. “I could not have put it better myself, but I have found extra work here, and that means extra coin.”
Michael’s housekeeper heaved up the universal sigh of exasperated women the world over. “You need extra work, sir, only because life in London comes so dear. It’s late, and you doubtless want to be on your way. I’ll mind the pennies, and you cease worrying over a little trip to market for our Bea. It’s not like you stole her, after all.”
Michael decided against a piece of stale shortbread. “Until next week, then, and my thanks for all your hard work. The children and I are lucky to have you. I’ll lock up on the way out.”
“Mind how you go, sir. It’s colder than the devil’s privy out there. Until next Sunday.”
He left her in the shadowy, cozy kitchen dunking her stale shortbread in her weak tea. Seven nights before he could return, and they would be long, anxious nights. Michael arranged Dorcas’s latest scarf around his face, neck, and ears and locked himself out of the house.
Mrs. Harris was right about London being expensive, and she was doubtless right about Bea’s questions growing increasingly awkward. She wasn’t right about everything, though.
Itwaslike Michael had stolen Bea. It wasexactlylike that.
He emerged into the alley, bent into the bitter wind, and started walking for Lambeth.
ChapterSix
“Do you like living in London?” Mr. Delancey posed the question from the divan, where Psyche had situated him, another study of the male in his prime at his leisure. He lay on his back, one foot on the floor, the other knee bent.
A gentlemanly faun in repose.
His boots sat on the floor at the end of the sofa, his cravat was draped over the sofa arm, his coat and waistcoat slung over the back… and the composition was not coming togetherat all.
“I’m supposed to say yes, of course, I love London,” Psyche replied, rising to move Mr. Delancey’s boots into the shadows. “The Old Smoke is the throbbing heart of civilization. Art, commerce, culture, politics… Town offers all of that and so much more.”
She collected the waistcoat and coat from the back of the sofa and surveyed the results. “Better. Simpler is usually better. The line from your foot on the floor to the hand flung above your head works, but the rest of it…”
Mr. Delancey sat up and passed her his cravat, a plain linen affair that had long since lost its starch. “Try moving the candles. The sun, or the dominant light source, in an upper corner is so ubiquitous as to be trite. Try putting the candles on the floor beside an open book. The shadows created by placing the illumination below the subject will be interesting.”
Without even shifting the candelabra, Psyche knew he’d put his finger on the solution. “I should have seen it for myself. You have an artist’s eye, Mr. Delancey, despite your clerical vocation. Let’s have supper, shall we? Now that you’ve put my composition to rights, I can set aside my sketch pad for some bodily nourishment.”
He rose and stretched, a gloriously languid display of male vitality. “Shall I dress for supper, so to speak?”
“Bother that,” Psyche said, leading the way to the bedroom. “We’ll only have to undress you afterward.” Though she actually enjoyed the business of getting him into and out of his clothes.
Mr. Delancey followed, pausing before the landscape of Selwyn Manor. “You never did answer my question about London. This is the estate where you grew up?”
How had he guessed that? “As did my mother and her mother, back for at least six generations. When Papa died, the property went to his brother, though it had been in Mama’s family since the Great Flood. My cousin dwells there during hunt season. I haven’t seen the place in ages.”
“And yet, this is the art you keep in your most private chamber. Does the estate have a name?”
“Tres Fleurs, after the symbols on Mama’s family crest. My cousin renamed it Selwyn Manor to avoid French associations. The food will get cold if we tarry to admire a rather banal painting.”
Mr. Delancey—blast him to perdition—peered at the corner. “P.A.? P.H? Psyche and your maiden name?”
What was worse than consigning a man to perdition, and why did his curiosity bother her so much? “Psyche Henderson. Landscapes are not my forte. My preferred challenge is the grand portrait. That likeness is accurate, but it doesn’t do the place justice.”
“A sense of peace and plenty pervades the image. How much land comes with it?”
“A few thousand acres are left. Cousin Merrill has been selling off the tenancies to pay for his hunters. We correspond at Yuletide.”
Mr. Delancey’s gaze shifted from the painting to Psyche’s face. “I’m sorry. I should have realized the topic is painful. Let’s eat, shall we?”
Psyche abruptly had little appetite. “Merrill hasn’t the heart or the head for tending the land. He has the soul of a merchant, as my father did. He sees Tres Fleurs as a place to entertain business associates, but profitable agriculture takes a much greater commitment than that. Mama loved that place, and I always thought it would be part of my dower portion. Then Jacob offered for me, and I wasn’t privy to the negotiations.”
She left the bedroom at as dignified a pace as she could manage.
