Page 37 of Miss Devoted
“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 painterto 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.
“The family is of the opinion that Michael needs not a marriage, but a divorce—from the Church. We can’t figure out how to pry him loose from Lambeth’s clutches, short of embroiling him in scandal. Sycamore is ever one to advocate for the outrageous, but Vicar Tom won’t hear of it.”
“Does Michael know of these schemes?”
“He likely does,” Mrs. Dorning replied, “but he’s such a reserved fellow, he’d never let on. He’ll leave early tonight, though, and refuse any offer of a coach ride home. He has to know we’ll discuss him in his absence.”
Mrs. Dorning was a cousin-by-marriage to Michael’s sister, not a close relation by most people’s reckoning, and yet, she’d clearly been a party to many conversations regarding Michael’s situation. He’d be appalled to learn that, probably even worried by it.
“Mr. Delancey is the last person who can afford to sleep late on a Sunday,” Psyche observed. Michael had a reason for not lingering among his sister’s guests, though he’d yet to impart that reason to Psyche. She suspected it had little to do with appearing for parade inspection at Sunday services.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the men, a bare quarter hour after they’d decamped for their port and gossip. Michael was the last to enter the parlor, and he had his cloak over his arm.
“I’ll take my leave of the company, with thanks for a fine meal.” He bowed over Hazel’s hand, kissed Mrs. MacKay and Mrs. Dorning on the cheek, and offered Psyche a nod.
A round of farewells followed, along with Hazel’s attempt to offer him the use of the coach, which he refused. His sister helped him into his cloak, MacKay passed him a silver flask “for restorative purposes,” and Dorning shook his hand and muttered something the ladies were not supposed to overhear.
The warning—Dorning had admonished Michael tobe careful—and the flask disturbed the fiction that Michael was simply the first guest to leave, one who sought a brisk, solitudinous walk in the frigid night air.
“Where is he off to?” Psyche murmured.
“It’s Saturday night,” Mrs. Dorning replied, linking her arm with Psyche’s. “Our Michael likely is off to steal babies again, but you mustn’t tell him I said that.”
“I don’t understand.” Natty Ingram eyed the prostitutes trying to look enticing on the opposite street corner. Their efforts were frustrated by the need to keep as much flesh as possible covered while at the same time exuding an air of naughty mischief.
Winter posed all sorts of challenges.
“The holidays are over,” Michael said, setting a course northward. “No more Yuletide charity at the soup kitchens, Town mostly empty of the fribbling sort, coal prices at their highest, and the Corn Laws driving bread prices beyond the reach of many.”
“Winter is hard,” Ingram said, hitching up his coat collar. “Those women are gaunt beneath their paint.”
“They are starving,” Michael retorted, “and if they so much as seek shelter from the night wind in some fellow’s garden privy, they can be arrested and transported. Come along. Moving helps keep the cold at bay.”
“You’re saying I’m not the only one peckish,” Ingram replied, loping along at Michael’s side.
“You’re peckish. The ladies are starving. On the smallholdings, the winter gardens are nearly done—no more cabbage or turnips. The root cellar stores—potatoes, onions, apples, carrots, beets—are dwindling to the point that nobody has any to sell. What’s left must last until late spring.”
“Time to kill a chicken or two,” Ingram said. “They’ll have stopped laying for the year as well.”
“If you have any chickens left to kill. Those with the ability will poach game more easily tracked in the snow and risk getting hanged for the sake of the stewpot, while in London…” He rounded a corner onto an ill-lit street.
