Journeys Read online

  “I do not see how you can look at these and come to that conclusion. The modesty of a lady becomes you, I must say. But when business is in question, reticence must be abandoned for accurate representation of your talent,” he told her.

  “Business?”

  “Yes. I believe you are an exquisite artist. In fact, let me prove it. If you will agree, I would like to commission you to paint a portrait of me.”

  “Really?’

  “Yes. I can write you a bank draft today. How does fifty pounds sound for a retainer fee?”

  “Fifty pounds! I have never been paid nearly so much.”

  “Then your friends got a bargain.”

  “But fifty pounds!”

  “And fifty more will be forthcoming once the work is complete.”

  “Really, Stratford, you do not have to buy my friendship.”

  “I would hope not. If you were a man, I would tell you that I was insulted that you would make such an observation.”

  Dorothea felt a wave of remorse even though she thought Stratford overreacted to her remark. “I am so sorry. Please, I beg your deepest indulgence. I never meant to say that. I simply do not wish you to overpay me out of some sort of misplaced obligation of friendship.”

  “I am not, I assure you,” he said. “It so happens that I do not believe in the concept of the starving artist. Please. Allow me to be your first patron here in the country. I promise you once people see my portrait, you will gain even more clients.”

  Dorothea mulled over his offer. If she took the commission, the job would allow her to remain in the country. She wouldn’t have to go back to London after all. “I will need to ask Helen’s opinion in this matter.”

  “I have no doubt she will be agreeable to the idea.”

  Dorothea remembered her cousin’s promise never to abandon her. And the idea of starting a business painting portraits—a hobby she enjoyed—held much more appeal than becoming a governess or nanny ever could for her.

  “You know, I think you are quite right. And if I can build up a business as an artist, I can either pay my way here or move to my own place.” She looked at the wainscoted ceiling. “Not somewhere this large or luxurious, of course. But somewhere.” The idea sounded agreeable.

  “Good. It is settled, then. Consider yourself Lady Dorothea Witherspoon, Artiste!”

  ❧

  A month later, Dorothea studied the emerging portrait of Stratford. She was in the process of painting a few more strokes to complete the work, not a difficult task even though her sitting with Stratford was complete for the day. When she first began painting his picture, she hadn’t thought she could ever capture his exquisite likeness, but somehow, through the grace of God, she had almost managed to show him as comely in the painting as he appeared in real life.

  Helen entered and looked over Dorothea’s shoulder. “That painting is absolutely exquisite. It certainly flatters its subject.”

  She touched up a spot on the black suit he wore in the picture. “Do you really think it flatters him? I think it looks just like him.”

  “Then you must be in love.”

  Love. Really? Dorothea wondered. Stratford had certainly seemed more than companionable during their sessions. To her delight, they had fallen into the habit of prolonging their visits after each portrait sitting. Though she had anticipated attending worship since childhood, his presence each Sunday now pressed her into even more eager attendance. But to enter into any irrevocable entanglement too early was something she wanted to avoid.

  “A confession is not necessary. I can see the love in your eyes,” Helen proclaimed.

  “I did not come here to find a husband, if that is what you imply.” Dorothea kept her gaze on the portrait.

  Helen scrutinized her. “I would not believe every woman who tried to tell me such a tale, but I do believe you. You are much too honest for your own good.”

  She touched her brush in a dab of black paint. “Can one really be too honest for one’s own good?”

  Helen shrugged. “I do not suppose I could prove my theory by you. Luck seems to follow you into the best of circumstances.”

  “Speaking of which, I do wish you would let me repay you for allowing me to remain here while I paint Stratford’s portrait.”

  “A small gesture, especially compared to the sum of ten thousand pounds.”

  Dorothea flinched.

  “I am sorry. I did not mean that. Of course I am delighted to have you here. Perhaps you might consent to painting my portrait, as well.” She crossed her arms and admired the painting. “Although I do have a better assignment for you first. Why not offer to paint Baron von Lunenburg’s portrait?”

  Such a notion had never occurred to Dorothea, but under the circumstances, she didn’t think the idea could be considered unreasonable. “Do you really think I should?”

  “Indeed. And,” Helen added, “such a plan encourages him to court you.”

  Dorothea held back an exasperated breath. “But you just said I love Stratford.”

  “Love is all well and good, but the best match is the thing for which you should strive.”

  She knew which man Helen meant. The best match indeed.

  ❧

  The village bustled as Stratford went about his errands. He wished he had sent a servant to town instead, but personal business demanded he go himself.

  Ready for a break, Stratford headed toward the tavern. An appealing smell of cooking meat rolled into the street as a customer exited and held the door open for him. Yes, a hearty bowl of beef stew and a slice or two of buttered bread would do the trick.

  Since so many people sought refuge from icy rain and cold, Stratford wasn’t surprised to see the tavern filled with people. In fact, considering the welcome heat he felt as soon as he crossed the threshold, the idea of finding warmth there seemed like sound judgment. Voices—mainly male, since few women would care to brave the elements—carried on many conversations, filling the room with the sounds of conviviality. The smell of baking bread dominated the odors of meats, vegetables, and pastries that mixed with the yeasty odor of ale and the bitter scent of brewed coffee and tea.

  He surveyed the inside to see if he knew anyone and saw Lunenburg sitting with Lord Hampton at a table in the center of the room. Suddenly the idea of stew and bread—and even warmth for his chilled body—didn’t seem so urgent. He turned to leave.

  “Brunswick, old man!” Lunenburg called, “Come sit with us.”

  Too late.

  Stratford held back a grimace. Seeing no way to retreat without appearing unsociable, he stepped to their table and took a seat. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. It is a pleasure to see you both,” he said amid their greetings.

  “You are lucky we happened to be here.” With an exaggerated motion, Lunenburg made a point of surveying the room. “Otherwise, you would have encountered difficulty in finding a place to sit at all.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Stratford pushed back one of the wooden chairs and situated himself in it. The legs made a scratching sound against the wide floor planks as he pulled up to the sturdy pine table. “I cannot stay long.”

  “I do not see why not,” Lunenburg said. “Dorothea has almost finished your portrait.”

  He bristled. “And how would you know that?”

  “Because she has just commissioned my portrait.” Lunenburg snapped his fingers at a serving girl. “Will you be drinking ale with us, Brunswick?”

  “I prefer hot tea, thank you.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Lunenburg sent a disapproving glance up to the ceiling and ordered tea. “ ‘Monk’ would be a fine nickname for Brunswick, wouldn’t you agree, Hampton?”

  The other man laughed, but Stratford failed to see the humor. “One cup of hot tea will do more to warm you up on a frigid day like this than a gallon of ale ever could.”

  “After a gallon of ale, would one care about the weather?” Lunenburg asked. “Not unlike when one is in the company of a beautiful woman
. Such as Lady Dorothea.”

  “Dorothea. Yes,” Stratford said. “So you commissioned a portrait with her? I was not aware that you knew she possesses a talent for painting portraits.”

  “How could he not know?” Hampton leaned over so that his expansive belly touched the edge of the table. “Everyone in the parish has heard Helen rave over the image she painted of you. Says it flatters you greatly.”

  “She would think that,” Stratford muttered under his breath.

  Hampton leaned back and rubbed his belly. “I think I might have her paint my portrait, as well.”

  “And take off a few pounds for you, eh, Hampton?” Lunenburg laughed, and Hampton joined him in his mirth.

  Stratford allowed himself a half smile as a serving girl placed a cup of tea before him. Only Lunenburg could get away with such truthful jesting. Hampton would have chastised anyone else.

  “She has even offered to paint it for nothing,” Lunenburg bragged.

  “For nothing?” Hampton took in a breath. “Why?”

  Lunenburg shrugged but refused to make eye contact with Stratford. “I suppose it’s her way of letting people know she paints and paints well.”

  “Was your portrait free, Brunswick?” Hampton leaned toward him.

  “No. In fact, I am the one who encouraged her to paint portraits, and I voluntarily offered her a grand sum for mine.” He gave Lunenburg a pointed look. “I did not feel I should ask her for charity.”

  Lunenburg’s inability to meet Stratford’s gaze told him that he understood the underlying message. “Well, yes, of course I plan to offer her a grand sum, as well.” He took a hearty swig of drink from an opaque brown earthenware goblet with a short and squat stem.

  Hampton’s eyebrow arched, and he crossed his arms. Yet neither man would elaborate in response to his unspoken question. Instead, he changed topics, and the men managed to enjoy lunch.

  As they departed, Stratford made a point of bidding farewell to Hampton to let him exit but then grabbed Lunenburg’s sleeve to hold him back.

  “Careful, old man. This is my best coat,” Lunenburg cautioned.

  “Careful yourself,” Stratford said, though he released his grip. He kept pace with Lunenburg, who seemed to be in a sudden hurry. “I must say, you are a cad for accepting Dorothea’s generous offer.”

  Lunenburg looked around the tavern, obviously surveying the place for people he knew who might overhear. “Whatever is on your mind, you can say it outside.”

  “Very well.” Once they were outside, Stratford was glad to discover that the icy rain had ceased. He pulled his coat around himself in a further attempt to gain warmth against the chill.

  “I shall be glad for the advent of spring in a couple of months,” Lunenburg noted.

  “Finally,” Stratford said, “something on which we can agree.”

  “The street is nearly empty. It looks like most of the people who were out earlier today went home.” Lunenburg pulled his scarf closer to his face.

  “Yes.” Stratford paused in front of a millinery shop and set his face in the opposite direction of ice that had suddenly resumed its assault on the street. “Apparently even the shopkeepers saw no reason to remain open in this weather.” He nodded his head toward a sign in the window that told prospective customers that the merchant would return the next day.

  Lunenburg gazed into the window and admired the hats on display.

  Stratford gave them a cursory glance. “You know full well she thinks she owes you a debt when in fact she owes you nothing.”

  “You seem to be free and easy with your money. Even willing to pay a hundred pounds for my silence.”

  Stratford crossed his arms. Was Lunenburg right? Did he abuse his wealth to buy the silence, or happiness, of others?

  Whether he did or not, he would have to pray about it. Still, how he chose to spend his money had nothing to do with the conversation at hand, no matter how much Lunenburg wished it so.

  Stratford darted his gaze around them and noticed no one within earshot. “I suppose my payment of a hundred pounds and your subsequent acceptance of it makes us men of equal dishonor, eh?”

  “I am shocked that you would put yourself in my company.”

  “Not entirely. For as I said, I would not take advantage of a lady who has fallen on hard times, and if you were a man of honor, neither would you.”

  “I said I would pay her a fee,” Lunenburg snapped.

  “Only after I protested in front of Hampton.”

  Lunenburg didn’t answer.

  “Just make sure you remember that promise.”

  “If you are holding yourself up as an example of a modern Christian gentleman and man of honor, then why not tell Dorothea the truth—that you are her benefactor? Oh, but you choose to hide behind scripture. Strange, you never impressed me as a coward.”

  “Continue with your vexation of me and you will see how little cowardice I indeed possess.” He tipped his hat and left Lunenburg’s side before he did something he would regret. “Good afternoon.”

  Seven

  “I received another commission for a portrait today,” Dorothea told Helen as they sat by the fire in the drawing room over their sewing a month later. Spring had arrived, and with it, less necessity for a fire, although a small one kept them in comfort against the season’s brisk chill.

  Helen looked up from the napkin she was embroidering. “Wonderful! You should be proud of your little hobby.”

  Dorothea ran a thread through one of her night shifts to repair a hem that had begun to fray. “Lady Cheatham and her two daughters. They want a group portrait.”

  “That is excellent! Why, with their commission and Lord Hampton’s, your pastime is bringing you quite a bit of pocket money.” By now Dorothea had learned just how much Helen’s voice lilted when she was truly impressed. Her voice lilted that way now. “I admire your talent, I must say.”

  “Thank you.” Dorothea paused for a moment, savoring Helen’s kind words. “I have been blessed. I thank the Lord every day and night for His mercy, for allowing me to progress beyond my wildest imaginings from where I was in my life when I first came here to ask you to help me. And I will never be able to thank you enough, either.” She inspected her work. “I will be most sorry when I leave you soon. I will miss you terribly.”

  Helen dropped a stitch. “Whatever makes you think I want you to leave?”

  “I have taken advantage of your kind hospitality long enough, although of course I do enjoy your home and company very much.”

  “And we, yours. I will not hear of any cousin of mine living by herself when I have this beautiful estate and so much room for you here. I insist that you stay with us,” Helen instructed.

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Besides, will you not be wed to one of our local bachelors soon? I noticed even Lord Hampton taking notice of you, and when he comes to sit for you, I do not believe he thinks only of his portrait.”

  She visualized the pompous and portly Lord Hampton. “I cannot imagine myself as Lady Hampton. And I am in no hurry to wed.”

  Helen resumed her sewing. “Do not vex yourself. Baron von Lunenburg will be making a declaration soon enough, I daresay.”

  Dorothea didn’t answer. She didn’t want any promise from the man Helen had chosen for her. Her heart remained with Stratford.

  ❧

  As Stratford sat in St. Mark’s Church, he studied the back of Lunenburg’s head above the worn but polished wooden pew in front of him. Even though Dorothea continued to worship beside him rather than Lunenburg, he couldn’t help but envy the man the time he spent with Dorothea as he had his portrait painted.

  At that moment, she sent him a sideways smile, which he returned. Did she share the same type of rapport with Lunenburg? Stratford was aware from tidbits of gossip he had overheard and from his general demeanor that Lunenburg wanted everyone to think so.

  Stratford gave himself a mental whipping. Why couldn’t he simply declare his
feelings to Dorothea? Feelings that had grown from fondness to love.

  Because of his secret, that’s why.

  She seemed to return his feelings, but what would happen if he told her he was her benefactor? Those sentiments were sure to go from fondness to mere gratitude. He didn’t want gratitude. Such an emotion was noble but nothing on which to base a lifelong union.

  Stratford never regretted paying off Dorothea’s debts. Once the burden was lifted, she had blossomed from a fearful girl standing all alone in Helen’s foyer to a confident and happy woman. Because of Stratford’s secret largesse and open encouragement, she had been lifted from an existence filled with worry to a life full of creative energy. And she would never realize just how much of a role he had played. Instead, he let that scoundrel, Lunenburg, take all the credit—and paid him for the privilege. And all because he had been trying to follow scripture.

  Were Christians really supposed to feel so foolish when they were doing their best? He wondered.

  Perhaps he should tell her the truth the next time he paid her a call. He gave her a sideways glance. No. She would think he pitied her. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  Father in heaven, I pray I am doing the right thing not to tell Dorothea.

  The sense of peace he felt told him that surely he was doing right by Dorothea and himself.

  ❧

  Hours later, after Stratford had taken Sunday dinner at the Syms estate as had become his habit, he made his way home. Sleepy, he anticipated a nap to help him digest the slab of roast mutton and gravy, potatoes, mixed vegetables, two slices of liberally buttered bread, and not one, but two, blueberry preserve tarts. He always tended to overeat whenever he dined at the Syms estate, a habit he had to break.

  He resolved to break that habit the following Sunday.

  As Stratford rode his horse up the drive to his estate, he noticed a strange carriage parked in front. Who could be visiting him?