Page 55 of Miss Devoted
Hazel’s smile was sympathetic. “And we do so badly want to be taken seriously, don’t we? I will miss you, if you go.”
“I feel increasingly as if I must leave England while I still can.”
“Because, like a fool, you finally found a man to fall in love with, but he’s the wrong man. At least he’s not married.” Hazel spoke as if from experience.
“Michael isn’t the wrong man, but it’s the wrong time for us both.” And always would be as long as Michael considered himself a potential fugitive from the law.
Hazel sat on the vanity stool and held the earbobs up to her lobes. “What do you and Delancey talk about when you aren’tsketching?”
“Everything. The fellows he works with. He’s quite fond of them, though he doesn’t admit that. His family, which includes more colorful characters than I’d realized. He knows the crossing sweepers and strumpets and beggars, the clergy struggling in London’s poorest parishes, the grand dames in his papa’s congregation who remember him when he was in short coats. Many of them dismiss him as a dutiful cipher, and he wants it that way, but he knows and cares for them all.”
That picture had come together one quiet conversation at a time, one affectionate aside, one murmured regret. Michael preferred making love face-to-face, but in the drowsy interludes after and between lovemaking, he held Psyche close and gave her the intimate words that shared his whole world with her.
Hazel set down the jewels and swiveled on the stool to face Psyche. “If he is as committed to the Church as you say he is, and he trusts you with all of these confidences, then you had best cut him loose, my dear. He’s probably telling himself that his time with you is a frolic, a stolen pleasure, but he confides in you, and men like him don’t confide in mere passing fancies.”
Hazel articulated what Psyche hadn’t wanted to face. “Ending it won’t get easier for being put off, will it?”
“It might, if his past covers him in scandal or if you get a commission to paint some Scottish laird’s offspring at his Highland castle. The longer you and Delancey cavort, though, the more likely you and he are to cause a scandal that has nothing to do with his past.”
Psyche rose and opened the wardrobe, though none of her drab walking dresses and sensible boots appealed to her. Scandal would set her back artistically, but she was hardly awash in recognition as matters stood.
“As a widow of independent means,” she said, “society will permit me an indiscretion, provided I slink off to the countryside for a year or two as my penance. Michael would be tossed out of Lambeth on his ear. He’d be lucky to find himself in a destitute parish in the far north.”
Hazel returned the earbobs to the jewelry box. “I ought to tell you to be done with the man. The whole business has served its purpose. You’ve flirted with heartbreak and with pleasure, thought about something besides pigments and portraits, and that’s all to the good. Set him aside and treasure the memories.”
Psyche chose a dress she seldom wore, a dark raspberry velvet. Sensible, but luscious to the eye and scrumptiously comfortable. Not the typical walking dress, but hemmed so as to meet the basic definition.
“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.
ChapterTwelve
“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.
