Page 217 of The Ladies Least Likely
The tightness in Harriette’s chest formed tiny cracks. She adored Amalie instantly, as much as she adored Ren. She wished she could stay and enjoy them both. Get truly acquainted, become part of their lives. Instead she would be forced to the Continent to preside over a duchy she had never seen.
“I wish I could paint you,” Harriette said.
Amalie gasped. “As you are painting George?”
“Yes. A portrait of him, a portrait of you, and then a portrait of you two together. Perhaps,” and she grinned at the mischievous thought, ”a family group with Lady Renwick included.”
“I don’t doubt that will drive up the price of the commission a great deal,” Ren murmured.
“To be sure.” Harriette nodded. “And it would be to your benefit. This house very much requires new art along the stairs.”
Amalie blushed. Harriette detected the red tinge beneath the heavy layer of concealing makeup. “Mother won’t allow it. Not even if you disguise my—defects. I am delicate, you see.”
Harriette raised her brows. “Is that what she calls you?”
“Not just that.” Amalie looked both miserable and determined to bare all. “I am often ill. I am plagued by headaches and tire easily. And my appetite—” She rested her hand over her middle and gave Harriette an apologetic smile. “It is not robust, either.”
Her teeth were small and white, but Harriette noticed a thin grey line along the gums that she had seen before. She had alsoheard these symptoms described before. “Like the grippe?” she asked.
“Not the same, because there is no fever.”
“Rubbish,” said Harriette, who had never been ill a day in her life. “Taking fresh air and a bit of exercise will cure almost every ill. Shall we try it? Come to Marylebone Pleasure Gardens with me, and we will see if a turn about the paths and a tart or two might perk you up.”
“Oh, such a thing sounds lovely,” Amalie said. Her lovely face drew downward, lips, brows, chin. “But my mother will never allow it.” She looked toward her brother with a desperate, haunted expression.
“But your brother shall.” Harriette pushed to her feet, levering herself up out of the layers of petticoats. “Now then! This is a splendid tea, but I am holding out for tarts. Shall I play lady’s maid and attend your toilette? And Ren can go repair himself as well.” She waved a hand in his direction. “Your neckcloth is crumpled.”
“Because you crumpled it,” Ren grumbled. “I suppose I could read the news while you powder. There is some upheaval in Shepton Mallet over the new automated looms, and I’ve heard they expect a riot.”
“Pooh,” said Harriette. “Nothing exciting has happened in Shepton Mallet since the Duke of Monmouth’s supporters were drawn and quartered in the market square. Shall we?”
She slipped a hand around Amalie’s upper arm as she rose, and the girl startled. Harriette wondered if it were too bold in her to touch her—and the arm Amalie tried to keep hidden, no less—but it was too late to retract the gesture now.
“How is it you dare manage George?” Amalie whispered in awe as Renwick bowed and then left the room, his stiff leg causing a slight limp. “He does what you tell him!”
“What, Ren? He has always been the most biddable of men,” Harriette said. “Come, show me your dressing table. You are in London Town now, and we must turn you out in London style.” She kept hold of Amalie’s arm as they ascended the curved stairs to the second floor and her boudoir.
In the end she added only a light dusting of powder to Amalie’s hair, turning her gold-white to a becoming white halo. Harriette sorted through the pots and jars on the dressing table as Amalie darkened her eyebrows with a smudge of charcoal. Brilliant vermillion for lips and cheeks, an arsenic tonic to bathe the face; the girl’s assemblage was very much the usual.
“And this is the paint you use on your face.” Harriette opened a jar and sniffed.
“I need it.” Amalie looked pained. “My mark—it is very ugly. People cannot see anything else when they look at me. So I cover it.”
Harriette dipped a finger in the white liquid and touched it to her tongue, then spat. It was sweet, no less than she expected.
“Your paint is still in place. Whyn’t we simply put a layer of powder over it and go downstairs? We can tease Ren for making us wait for him.”
“I dare not.” Amalie plucked at the ruffle not quite covering her left arm. “Mama will be so angry—and I cannot be seen.” Her eyes filled with tears and she gave Harriette a watery, imploring gaze. Her shimmering, bereft eyes tore Harriette’s heart.
“My brother doesn’t know yet,” she whispered. “I knew Mama would disapprove, but I had to come to town because—because I am dying, you see, and I very much wanted to see him before the end.”
Then she put a hand over her face and dissolved into racking sobs.
Harriette put aside the thought of Marylebone Pleasure Gardens that day. Instead she knelt and wrapped her armsaround the younger girl, holding her shaking form as she wept. Her heart cleaved in two for the tender young woman, but she ached just as much for Renwick. His sister was ailing, and his mother had no ability to care for anyone but herself. Who would look after the Matheson siblings when Harriette was gone?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Did you know?” Harriette asked Ren a few days later as he leaned on the false marble pillar in her painting nook, staring into the distance. He wore his blue silk suit, his wig was impeccably shaped and powdered, his specially made boots gleamed with polish, and he did not need to affect his distant, absorbed expression. He looked as if he’d been struck across the head and his ears still rang from it.
