Page 85 of Miss Devoted
The assemblage had reached the third verse, about many dangers, toils, and snares, though Michael could not recall a word of the lyrics. He knew only that Psyche held his hand, the children were safe, and he was happier than he’d ever thought to be.
Then Psyche kissed him, the angel chorus burst into applause, and he was happier still.
“Five days, Hazel,” Psyche said. “Five days, and not a word from Michael.” She examined the portrait that had occupied much of her past three months and found it… finished.
Complete. Michael Delancey, in splendid repose, felled by exhaustion. The composition was intriguing, with the light radiating up from the candelabrum on the floor, and the subject was compelling. What had worn such a magnificent man to such a state? Of what or whom did he dream?
Or was the arm flung up over his eyes indicative of nightmares? Even by the bright light of a new day, the painting created a mood of secrets, regrets, and hopes. A nocturne as much as a portrait.
“You should sign it,” Hazel said, standing at Psyche’s elbow. “Shreve would buy it from you.”
“But sign it how?” Psyche murmured. “As Henderson or as Mrs. Fremont?” Nothing about the confrontation at St. Mildred’s had announced Psyche’s artistic accomplishments to the world, and that was fortunate.
“Shreve walked me home from services,” Hazel said, wandering to her own portrait, which sat nearer the windows. “St. Mildred’s was packed and in very good voice.”
Something Psyche would have known had she not dodged divine services. “The weather is moderating. Attending church is no longer a battle with chilblains.”
“Will you come with me on Sunday, or will you hide away in your tower again, painting on the Lord’s day and breaking the commandments?”
“Ricardo was owed the rest of the flower girl series.” And the work had come easily.
“The final print is the best,” Hazel said, cracking open a window. “We put flowers on our altars and think nothing of it. A small touch for the greater glory of heaven. Those flowers are somebody’s bread and butter. St. Mildred’s won’t be putting their coin into Mr. Prebish’s pockets if there’s a flower girl we can buy from instead.”
“I honestly hadn’t considered…” Or maybe Psyche had considered. The final image had been of a child selling her posies across the street from a church. The edifice had gleamed with stately splendor, while the child’s cheeks were hollow and her gaze on the last of her blooms a cross between anger and determination.
“You finished the series with a single stem of gladiolus,” Hazel said, surveying the street below. Spring was apparently offering up yet another hint of coming attractions, because the breeze that wafted through the studio was mild. “Why that flower?”
“For the girl’s strength of character, which is real, as opposed to the cold, empty edifice across the street from her.”
“You filled that edifice,” Hazel said, coming away from the window. “Vicar Tom said you filled St. Mildred’s with a real congregation, and Mrs. Oldbach has become a font of ideas. She has begged me for an introduction to Shreve. She has become a tempest of Christian charity.”
An interesting image, though for once, Psyche was free of the compulsion to sketch. She yearned toseeMichael, to know he was well and happy, to know his children thrived, but in the past five days, she’d heard nothing from him. Her yearning was not the yearning of an artist for a subject to study, examine, and render on paper, but rather, the yearning of a woman for the man she loved.
“Ophelia Oldbach has never begged for anything in her life,” Psyche said.
“How sad for her, that her pride means more to her than her passions.”
“Subtle, Hazel. Will I be looking for a new housemate any time soon?”
Hazel gave Psyche a one-armed hug. “Love is the ultimate vexation, isn’t it? Shreve walked me home from services, and I suspect he attended at St. Mildred’s because he wants to make the acquaintance of the famous Mr. Delancey.”
“Famous?”
Hazel withdrew a folded paper from the pocket of her morning dress. “Ricardo might be able to tell you more about this.”
She passed Psyche a print of Preacher in action, a baby cradled gently in his arms as he raced ahead of the north wind toward a snug household in the shadow of a looming bell tower. An anxious couple looked on from the house’s bay window, the hearth behind them built high with a cheery blaze, an empty cradle near the fire’s warmth.
Hoping for Springwas the title, which struck Psyche as one of Ricardo’s less inspired efforts. But then, getting this print out had been very fast work.
She set the sketch on the mantel. “This Preacher bears an uncanny resemblance to Michael Delancey.” And the initials suggested Lord Dermot had bestirred himself to make a good effort—another good effort.
“Helmsley begged your Mr. Delancey to come back to work at the palace,” Hazel said. “Mrs. Oldbach all but bet me that Michael was holding out for Helmsley’s job.”
“Michael wouldn’t do that.” He wanted to remain near his father and sister, but he wouldn’t return to the palace for any amount of coin—or would he? “He won’t let me support him either.”
Was money the reason he’d not called? Was one of the children ill? Was he planning to move into his father’s vicarage until he found new employment?
Michael had kissed Psyche’s cheek and handed her up into her carriage on Saturday and stood on the walkway until the vehicle had turned the corner. He hadn’t been smiling so much as he’d been radiating beatitude and joy. Since then… not so much as a note. Was she supposed to go back to painting portraits as if… as if she wasn’t truly in love for the first time in her life?
