The Portrait of a Scarred Duke by Patricia Haverton

Chapter 11

“Elinor, you must behave,” Richard said. “Her Grace will expect nothing short of perfection, so you must remember to mind your manners. His and Her Grace will expect your knowledge of etiquette and propriety to be extensive.”

“I know, Father.”

It was the morning after the Duke and Dowager Duchess’ visit, and Elinor had wakened in a determinedly cheerful mood. Even her father’s usual concerns about her lack of propriety and inexperience with the ton weren’t enough to dampen her sunny mood.

“You say that,” her father said, sitting upright in his bed, “but I’ve my doubts on whether you’ll heed my words. I know you have the skills required for this. I just—”

“You worry about me,” Elinor replied, adjusting her cloak. “I know, but you ought not. I won’t be alone, after all. As much as you dislike Uncle Henry, you know that I can depend on him to support me. And I’ve already spoken to His Grace on numerous occasions. If he found me to be anything less than satisfactory, I’m sure he’d have said so.”

That wasn’t entirely true. His Grace didn’t seem as though he knew what would be satisfactory for a Duke sometimes. Of course, Elinor didn’t mind that. He was strange sometimes. But he was also kind. Truly kind. He wasn’t a man who just said kind words and then didn’t act upon them. His Grace said and did what he meant, and he’d supported her skills as a painter.

I must not make him look like a fool.

This had to be the most flawless perfect painting she’d ever created in her life.

“I would try not to rely too heavily on your Uncle Henry,” her father said.

Elinor gave him a fond smile. “I won’t vex him, I promise. You don’t need to worry. You raised me to be independent, and I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I think too independent, sometimes.”

“Maybe. But we can worry about my search for a husband after I’ve finished your painting.”

She felt a bitter pit form in her stomach. After she’d finished her father’s painting. It was selfish of her to be ungrateful for the opportunity. She knew that. It still seemed grossly unfair that she wouldn’t receive even a scrap of credit for her contributions, though.

Of course, Elinor knew that was often the way with female artists. If they wanted to be successful, they painted well and always claimed their work was created by a male relation—a father, a brother, or a husband. That was the way of the world.

And I hate it.

This was a small victory, one which would provide her and her father with money and him with prestige. And although Elinor was excited and pleased with the decision, she wished that through this opportunity, she’d receive just a little recognition for her hard work.

She had to be realistic, but she didn’t want to be.

“Perhaps you’ll find a nice, young man among His Grace’s household,” her father offered, “or among his guests. Of course, you don’t want to be too forward with your intentions, but if you meet someone who is suitable, it might be wise to express interest in pursuing a courtship once the portrait is finished.”

Elinor wrinkled her nose. “Your intentions are noble as always, Father, but I can think of nothing less exciting than trying to find my husband while I’ve been entrusted with this monumentally important task.”

Her father smiled wryly. “You can hardly blame me for planting the idea, can you?”

“I can and will,” Elinor said without any heat. “I don’t need a husband to look after me, and I never will.”

“Even when I’m no longer with you?”

Elinor’s throat grew thick. She tried to ignore how truly awful her father looked, still red-faced and damp with sweat. If she hadn’t already gotten the village apothecary’s promise that he’d look in on her father, Elinor wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to leave the house at all. She’d have felt dreadful leaving her father is such a horrid state.

“I will manage,” Elinor said at last. “You’ve many years yet to live, Father, but should you die before I do, I shall survive, with everything you’ve taught me.”

“Survival isn’t enough,” her father said gently. “I want you to thrive, Elinor, to have a life that you find fulfilling.”

“All I need to be fulfilled is my art,” Elinor replied. “And all the lessons you’ve taught me. That’s enough.”

“You say that because you are young.”

Elinor shook her head. “I say it because it is true, and I must go. His Grace’s carriage has arrived for me, and I’ve already kept the driver waiting for too long. It would be impolite to tarry any longer.”

Elinor grasped the unfinished portrait, tucking it under her arm with practiced ease, and opened the door.

“Good luck!” her father called after her.

Elinor grinned. “I don’t need it!”

She closed the door behind her and approached the carriage. A young man grinned and bowed at her approach. He was attractive with thick, dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. Elinor felt a flush of embarrassment with herself for noticing his appearance. It was probably the result of her father’s foolish words still ringing in her ears.

“Good morning, Miss. Is that everything you need?”

“It is.”

Except for the painting, everything she needed was at the Duke’s estate, waiting in the same room where His Grace and Elinor had first met. A nervous shiver rushed through her, like a swift-moving river.

The man opened the carriage door, and Elinor carefully arranged herself on the cushion, keeping her grip firm on the painting. Canvas was strong, but it could still be all too easily punctured. Her eyes traced over the lines of His Grace’s face, the details still yet to be defined. She would define them.

“Well,” Elinor murmured, “who’d have thought it would all happen like this?”

The carriage began moving, and Elinor tightened her grip on the canvas. This was all happening so quickly. Elinor tipped her head back against the cushion and let out a small, shaky laugh.

“This is really happening, Your Grace.”

She stroked a thumb over the portrait’s cheekbone. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned how the painting would take shape beneath her brush. She would begin the shadows and the contours of his face. Then, she’d work through the darker portions of his hair. Once that was completed, she’d define his lips and eyes.

Elinor swallowed around the lump which rose in her throat. She’d have to look very closely at the Duke to complete his portrait. That was obvious. So why did her heart beat more quickly with the realization?

He’s just a man. It’s not as if I haven’t seen men before.

But he was a very kind man, who’d supported her heart and defended its merits in front of his own mother, the Dowager Duchess. Maybe that was the cause. She felt she had to really please him, in a way that mattered more than any of her previous clients.

“I suppose we’ll see,” Elinor said aloud.

There was something steadying about the sound of her own voice, as if by the act of speaking, she might gain some semblance of control over her increasing anxiety.

“There is so much depending on this,” Elinor muttered, “and I don’t know if that’s for better or worse.”

No, it was for the best if she succeeded. Objectively, that was true. Elinor wondered if this portrait would be the beginning of her working under her father’s name for as long as he lived. Maybe instead of helping her cement her position as a serious artist, she’d instead be sinking herself further into obscurity.

“I shouldn’t be so selfish,” Elinor said softly. “I should just be grateful for this opportunity, but what if it isn’t enough?”

She wondered if His Grace ever felt that way. He’d expressed a love for the sea and a duty he would do, but not without some reservations. Did he struggle with the same feeling that he ought to be grateful and just couldn’t be?

“It’s strange to think that I could feel anything close to what a Duke may feel,” she muttered, “but I guess he isn’t most Dukes.”

It wasn’t that Elinor had met enough to know. She straightened her back, leaning away from the seat. There wasn’t a point in worrying about the outcome of this all. It would unfold as it was meant to, and Elinor would deal with the consequences of it, be they for better or worse.

She fell quiet, watching the wintery landscape pass through the window and sometimes absentmindedly tracing her fingers over the shapes of His Grace’s face. She heard the horse hooves change and knew that they’d moved from the road and to the cobblestones outside the estate.

The carriage halted, and the door opened. “We’re here, Miss.”

It was the same man who’d helped her into the carriage, and he helped her from it.

“Thank you,” Elinor replied.

He grinned. “The pleasure was all ours!”

Elinor smiled in return and carried the portrait quickly across the distance to the door of the grand manor, which opened as she approached. A maid helped her remove her cloak, damp with snowflakes. Elinor raised the portrait, ensuring that it remained undamaged from its brief exposure to the cold air. It had.

“Miss Thorebourne?”

Elinor turned at the sound of her name. The speaker was a young woman with dark hair and dark eyes. Her face had a soft, plaintive expression—she’d have made a good subject for a Renaissance painter. Those women were often depicted with the same features.

“I am Letty De Vere,” she woman continued. “I’m to act as chaperone, while you paint His Grace.”

Elinor wondered what the young woman’s usual position in the household was. She’d not really considered that needing a chaperone would mean that one of His Grace’s staff would have to abandon their duties to watch her.

“Thank you,” Elinor said. “I apologize if it’s an inconvenience.”

“Not at all, Miss Thorebourne.”

“You may call me Elinor, if you prefer. I think I’d like that.”

Everyone in her village called her Elinor, and while Elinor expected for His and Her Grace to call her Miss Thorebourne, it would become terribly arduous if everyone on the estate did also. Especially another young woman.

“If that pleases you, Miss,” Letty said.

Elinor nodded and smiled. “Well, is the room ready? I’d like to arrange things before His Grace sits.”

“It’s mostly as you left it,” Letty replied.

The main led the way up the stairs, Elinor following with the portrait of His Grace.

“I will also be cleaning the room when you’re finished with it, Miss—Elinor—so if you have any specific instructions, feel free to tell me. I’ve worked with artists before, and I know that sometimes they’re very specific about their spaces.”

Elinor knew that better than anyone. She loved her father dearly, but he was as imperious as Caesar when it came to dictating how his studio ought to be handled. Her father was remarkably observant, too, and would know if a single brush was moved from where it ought to be or a single spot of paint smudged.

“I can’t think of anything at the moment,” Elinor said. “As long as you’re careful not to move the fabric or the furniture around where I’m painting His Grace, it should all be fine. I’m not as particular as some.”

Like her father. In hindsight, Elinor’s father was probably the artist who Letty had worked with before, unless she was new to the household.

“Noted,” Letty said. “Should you decide you require anything else, though, don’t hesitate to tell me. I’m happy to do whatever you need to please His Grace.”

“Thank you,” Elinor replied.

They’d arrived at the makeshift studio, and as Letty had said, it remained mostly unchanged from when Elinor had entered it last. The only notable change was that the easel was empty, and that was because Elinor had taken the portrait from it.

She returned the Duke’s picture to the easel and stood back a little, considering it. Elinor had stared at the painting so much that she felt as if she could commit it to memory, if she truly desired to. The satin would need a few more highlights to it, her father hadn’t yet done those.

“Do you enjoy it?” Letty asked.

“Hm?”

“Being a lady painter,” Letty replied.

“I enjoy it enough,” Elinor said, glancing around her. “I don’t know if it’s proper, but you may sit. I don’t expect you to stand throughout this entire process.”

Elinor felt awkward, giving orders. Her father always seemed so confident when he commanded the staff, but for Elinor, it felt strange.

“As you wish,” Letty replied, seemingly finding nothing strange.

The maid seated herself in a nearby chair and tilted her head towards the portrait. “I’m glad to be chaperone,” she said. “I want to see how you do this.”

Elinor blinked and glanced at Letty over her shoulder. “You’re interested in painting?”

“In art, generally,” Letty replied. “I think it’s the most amazing thing in the world to create something beautiful from that.”

She waved a hand to the portrait’s indistinct colors. Elinor slowly nodded. “I do enjoy that aspect of it.”

As Elinor began preparing her paints and brushes, Letty kept up a steady stream of conversation, which fell into a pleasant sort of lull. Elinor wondered if this was what female companionship was like. It was welcome, but odd. She was accustomed to a mostly quiet studio, cut only with her father’s occasional comments or—of late—reminders that she was of a very marriageable age.

“I can also crush pigments if you need,” Letty said. “I’ve never done it before, but I’ve seen others do it.”

“I think I’ve all the crushed pigments I need,” Elinor replied, “but I appreciate the offer.”

“All right.”

“What do you normally do in the household?” Elinor asked.

“Oh! I’m…a maid,” Letty admitted, sounding sheepish. “I was in the kitchens, but that ended disastrously. Rather than turning me out, the housekeeper thought she might see if I’m better suited as a lower housemaid.”

“That was kind of her,” Elinor said.

Letty nodded. “Mrs. Powell is a generous woman. I can understand why she’s been on the estate for so long. She understands people well and knows how to treat them properly.”

Elinor smiled. “That’s good.”

At the sound of footsteps outside the door, Elinor straightened. It was just a few minutes before His Grace was set to arrive. She felt the sudden urge to fidget with her brushes, to feign as though she was still preparing when the only missing piece was him. Elinor drew in a deep breath. This was her chance.