The Portrait of a Scarred Duke by Patricia Haverton

Chapter 9

“Iam surprised to hear that His Grace came to visit you,” Richard said. “Or me, rather.”

Elinor carefully measured the medicine just as the apothecary had instructed her to. Her father lay in his bed beside her. His face was flushed, and sweat lingered on his brow. And every so often, the air would be punctuated with the sound of his dry coughs.

“Is it so unusual, Father?”

He cleared his throat and grimaced, clearly in discomfort as he tried to speak. “The previous Duke never came to see me. With aristocrats, you always come at their summons.”

Elinor bit the inside of her cheek, trying to think of any improvements she’d seen in her father’s condition. There weren’t any, but her father’s health also didn’t seem as if it had worsened. Elinor supposed that she could be grateful for that small mercy, at least.

Belatedly, Elinor realized that her father looked expectantly at her, expecting a reply. “I have the impression that His Grace may be restless. Having been at sea for so long, being the Duke is quite a change.”

“True,” her father said.

He fell quiet, and Elinor didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure if her father desired silence, but she wouldn’t break it, just in case he did. Instead, she found herself thinking of the unfinished portrait. The Duke had seemed reasonable, understanding of any delays. It was impossible to know if his mother would be equally reasonable.

“I wish I’d been at the studio when he arrived,” her father said suddenly. “It’s unfair for you to be forced to manage all my affairs.”

“Why?” Elinor asked, seating herself on the very edge of the bed and clasping her father’s hand in hers. “Wasn’t that always your intention? That I would eventually take your trade to sustain myself on?”

“Not so soon, it wasn’t. I’m not a terribly old man, you know.”

“Indeed, I do know,” Elinor replied.

Her father sighed. “You were polite to him, weren’t you?”

Polite and proper were two very different things.

“I was,” Elinor replied, “and he seemed to be a very…open-minded sort of man.”

He’d liked her painting. His Grace had admired her art and had made jests about his late father and his fondness for collecting portraits of goddesses. Elinor turned her head, so her father wouldn’t see the warmth creeping across her face and neck. She didn’t blush prettily like some women.

She couldn’t tell her father that His Grace had liked her nymph. He’d say that she should’ve hidden it or else claimed her father painted it. It was all so ridiculous.

“I’m surprised,” her father said. “His predecessor was a very traditional sort of man. It was quite interesting, really.”

“Why?”

“Because the Dowager Duchess—in her youth, at least—was infamous for how forward and progressive she was. She was always championing some cause or another.”

“I’m sure they made quite a pair,” Elinor said, with a small smile. “Did they love one another?”

Her father offered a feeble shrug. “I couldn’t say. I painted for them, but I didn’t pay much attention to their private affairs. And even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. As artists, we’re meant to be discrete.”

Elinor felt the unspoken rebuke in that statement. She wasn’t exactly what anyone might describe as discrete. Besides, wasn’t part of the pleasure in having noble clients that one was allowed access into another world?

“Of course, Father,” Elinor said.

Privately, she thought that there were likely some instances when one ought not be so discrete, but her father would never agree to such an assertion.

Still, she liked to think that the late Duke and Dowager Duchess had truly loved one another. She liked to imagine that the present Duke of Worthwood, as kind and encouraging as he seemed to be, had grown into adulthood with parents who loved one another.

“Of course, it’s much easier to be discrete with men than it is with women,” her father continued. “Men are seldom inclined to share their personal feelings or emotions on any matter, while women are much less so.”

“You mean that my sex gossips,” Elinor said with a sly smile.

She didn’t really know enough women in the village to say if that was or wasn’t true. Elinor seldom had female companionship, and sometimes, she felt a sharp pang in her heart. The loss of her mother and the absence of any female friends made her feel as though she’d missed something very important, very precious, in her life and had no means to find it again.

If my mother had lived, would I still feel that same sense of emptiness?

She wasn’t sure. From what Elinor remembered and had heard, her mother had always been a solitary creature, too. Maybe if her mother had been alive, she’d have already urged Elinor to wed some suitor with the promise that they’d someday love one another.

“Your sex does gossip,” her father replied.

“And is often condemned for it,” Elinor said. “But consider this, Father. Perhaps it is not a problem that women gossip, but rather that men are unable to share their tender feelings with anyone else.”

Maybe that wasn’t entirely fair. Elinor remembered the Duke and how he’d seemed so open, so strong and yet so vulnerable.

“That is a general folly of man,” her father said. “I suppose I shall agree with you, if only because your own mother often said that I refused too often to discuss my own problems.”

“She was clearly a wise woman,” Elinor replied.

Her father’s expression softened. “She was, and I’m ashamed to admit that I never acknowledge her as such when she was alive.”

Elinor patted her father’s hand. “I should go to the studio,” she said. “Miss Young has said that she’ll send a man for her painting today, and I wouldn’t want to miss her.”

It was especially important that Elinor be paid for the commission since the Duke’s portrait, which had promised to bring a nice sum, was now delayed for an indeterminate amount of time. Elinor would obviously never expect her ill father to keep working on the portrait, but she also knew that they needed money. Desperately needed it.

“I’ll be fine until you return,” her father said. “You don’t need to treat me as if I’m made of glass, my dear.”

“I would never,” Elinor replied, trying to hide the worry churning in her belly. “I’ll see you soon, Father.”

She left his side and donned her cloak, hesitating only briefly by the door. Her father would be fine. He had continued in this same state for days now, but she still couldn’t fight away the irrational fear that her dear father might worsen so significantly while she was away.

Elinor drew in a sharp breath, steadying herself, and then she hurled open the door. The wintry air struck her at once, burning her nose and cheeks. She lowered her head, buried her hands in her pockets, and set about the familiar path.

Miss Young will arrive for her portrait, Father will recover, and everything will be fine.

* * *

Elinor kept eyeing her painting. The nymph’s smile seemed to mock her, as the hours crept by. Still, there was no man from Miss Young to retrieve the painting. Elinor attempted to busy herself in working on other commissions, but there were so few. Art was not essential like bread or cheese, so the villagers did not often buy art, especially in the winter. If they did, it was only little things.

Most of her father’s commissions came from wealthy patrons, who wanted his craftsmanship, and with her father’s illness…

Elinor curled her fingers into fists and took in a low breath of air. She tried not to be angry, to not linger on the injustice of it all. “Someday, I’ll manage,” she murmured to herself. “It just takes time. I can prove that they’re wrong and that I am every bit as good as my father.”

That was difficult to believe, though, as she sat in the empty studio, waiting for a client who hadn’t come.

And probably won’t come now.

When Elinor glanced outside, the sky was dark with night. She pressed her forehead against the window and sighed. It was winter, and snow was heavy upon the roads. It was entirely possible—likely even—that Miss Young’s man had been delayed and would arrive in the morning. A rational part of Elinor knew that, but another part of her felt the irrational urge to take a knife and rip apart that painting. If Miss Young didn’t arrive, all that work would be…

Not wasted. She could always sell the nymph to someone else, but the price wouldn’t be as good. It would be diminished, and Elinor wasn’t sure her pride would recover from having her first major commission fail in such a way.

I should check on Father.

That would keep her busy and prevent her from lingering on that painting for any longer. If she just kept doing, that would be enough. Elinor forced her anger away and donned her blue cloak. She straightened her back, preparing for the onslaught of winter as she left. Her boots crunched the snow in the path, as she walked the small distance to the small home she shared with her father.

Elinor felt her eyes burn, and she forced herself to blink back the tears. She wasn’t a little girl. She was a woman of two-and-twenty years of age, and it was ridiculous for her to be so upset over a client not arriving.

I’m just tired. It’s surely just because Father’s illness weighs so heavily on me.

She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Everything would be fine. She just needed to be patient. Just like she had to be patient with her father’s insistence that she marry quickly and well. Just like she had to be patient for people to consider her a serious, credible artist. She felt like her life was just an endless series of events which she must be patient for.

I’m tired of being patient.

She wanted an opportunity to prove herself, but she doubted that would ever come. As a woman, the whole world seemed to be set against her, and she hadn’t even had a mother to help her navigate it all.

As Elinor approached her home, she saw a black shape slowly form on the horizon. It took her a few moments to recognize it as a carriage with two fine horses. She paused, considering its presence.

Father must have visitors.

Who would have come out in the snow and ice? Elinor wasn’t aware of her father having scheduled any consultations or meetings since his illness took hold, and she knew all his affairs. In fact, she’d met with a handful of his patrons already, and most had either taken their business elsewhere or agreed to wait until her father was in better health.

Elinor quickened her pace. The anger she’d tried to diminish all day suddenly bubbled to the front of her mind. She would not let anyone cause her father distress while he was ill. It didn’t matter if the Prince Regent himself had arrived at their humble abode! And the last thing her father needed to think about while ill was his art.

She seized the door and pulled it open, startling the man who’d been standing before it. He turned around, staring at her with startled green eyes. “M—Miss Thorebourne?”

Elinor’s face grew hot. It was the Duke again. Had he come to see her father because he hadn’t wanted her word, as a woman? Elinor curtsied. “Your Grace, apologies. I hadn’t known that we should be expecting you.”

His expression softened, becoming apologetic. The scars on the side of his face seemed thrown into sharper contrast, becoming more like tree bark than ocean waves. He shifted aside, and Elinor saw that the Dowager Duchess was also present, seated in a nearby chair.

“Oh! Your Grace,” Elinor said.

The Dowager Duchess nodded curtly. Behind her, there stood a slight, young woman, likely her lady’s maid.

Not only had His Grace arrived to talk with her father during her absence, but it seemed as though he’d brought his mother, also. Elinor’s breath hitched. She wasn’t prepared for this.

Her eyes darted about the room and found her uncle Henry. He winked, and an anxious shiver traced down the path of her spine. What if her uncle was her to persuade the Duchess to take her work elsewhere? Elinor didn’t know if her uncle would do something like that, but he most certainly didn’t find her father agreeable.

I don’t know what to do.

She had to control the damage. She had to persuade the Dowager Duchess and the Duke to wait on the portrait.

“I apologize for interrupting,” Elinor said, trying to sound appropriately contrite. “I had come to see to my father, and I hadn’t realized there was company.”

“We came unexpectedly,” His Grace said.

He moved aside, his eyes flitting over Elinor’s shoulder. She followed his glance, and with a flood of embarrassment, she realized she’d left the door open behind her. Elinor hastily closed it and pressed her back against the familiar wood, as if that would help steady her.

“And you arrived unexpectedly,” the Duke continued, “so I suppose you’ve repaid us in kind.”

“Indeed,” Her Grace said. “I think we should return to the matter at hand, however…”

Elinor wasn’t sure what to do. Her father occupied the bed and the Duchess the only chair, so she remained awkwardly near His Grace. She was near enough to smell his cologne, a sharp blending of orange blossoms and anise. And from where she stood, she could see only the scarred side of his face. She tried not to study the shape of those scars, how they curved and bent around his high cheekbone and the strong line of his jaw.

“Yes,” her father said, sounding tired. “The portrait. I regret that I won’t be able to finish it in a timely manner like I promised.”

Her Grace hummed. “I suspected as much, looking at you. I had hoped to have it completed by the Season. It’s unfortunate that there aren’t more artists as good as you in the dukedom, but we could always consider London as an alternative.”

“Or we could wait,” His Grace interrupted. “Mother, I don’t see a need to find a new artist. Mr. Thorebourne is highly qualified, and we can wait until his illness passes.”

“That might take years,” Her Grace said, “and I suspect that someone would take advantage of those years.”

Her Grace’s tone was light, but there was a sharpness to it that Elinor didn’t understand. From the way the Duke’s shoulders stiffened, it seemed he knew what that glance implied. Elinor gulped, panic fluttering in her chest.

Years.

She tried not to think about what that would mean, her father being ill for years. Her trying to work for the both of them, her trying to help her father survive. It all seemed so impossible.

When Elinor met her uncle’s gaze, he offered her a small smile and a wink. Although he’d remained silent since Elinor entered, he cleared his throat. “Apologies, Your Grace, but I’ve an idea. A compromise, rather. Why don’t we let Elinor complete the portrait?”

Elinor drew in a sharp breath. Suddenly, everyone in the room looked at her. She bit her lip, her eyes darting to her uncle and then, her father. Was Uncle Henry truly suggesting that she complete the portrait? It would solve so many of their problems if she could. It would provide her and her father with the money they desperately needed. It would be an opportunity for her to prove herself.

The Dowager Duchess shook her head. “That is not an acceptable solution. Not in the least.”