The Officer's Temptation Ch. 08

"I would chide you for being late this morning, but you're looking rather green, Lieutenant. You needn't have met me if you were feeling ill. I am not such a harsh mistress as that." The fountain behind her splashed pleasantly as the water surged and fell back into its basin. The soft rushing sound almost drowned the droning pain in his head. Miss Jennings watched him appraisingly from her perch on its stone lip. A straw bonnet shaded her face and a tablet was balanced on her lap.

He lowered himself beside her and took out his own tablet and paper. The morning sun glared against the white page. He squinted, wishing for nightfall to hurry. He wanted to go back to bed, though he had woken up early. "I'm not ill."

Her eyebrow quirked. "Lieutenant, I mean no offense, but..."

He made a smudgy mark on his page with his pencil. "Let me clarify. I am not ill, but perhaps I am unwell. I believe I may have been rather intoxicated last night."

Kate's eyebrows lifted, but she did not look up from her page. Her pencil made a soft scratching sound. "You believe? You are not certain?"

Marlowe peeked over the edge of his tablet at hers, which was quickly filling up with an impressive sketch of the plaza. He was amazed at the power of just a few lines to so clearly communicate the essence of a place. "I would not expect such a gentle lady such as yourself to know this, but when one imbibes liquor in extreme excess, one's memory tends to fade around the edges."

She made a snorting sound. "Oh Lieutenant, how naive you are! Do you suppose that I have never found myself intoxicated before?"

He glanced sharply at her. The motion made him feel nauseated, but he smiled at the devious expression on her face, shadowed as it was under her bonnet. He wished for a moment that he might have his own bonnet to block out the appalling glare of the sun, though he supposed he would look a fool. The brim of his own hat was too stylish to be of much use. "Is that so?"

She colored prettily. "Well, not often, of course. Maman insists that I water down my glasses of wine if I have more than one or two."

"She's quite wise, your mother. If only I had her guidance last night." His stomach did an unseemly flip flop at just the thought of wine. At the thought of what he had done after the wine, well, his stomach positively roiled.

He looked across the plaza at the building he had decided to draw and sighed, dragging his pencil across the page. The line looked wrong. He rolled the pencil in his hands and tried again. "So how did you happen to become intoxicated then, my dear Miss Jennings?"

She suppressed a grin. "Once, when I was thirteen, my mother vexed me thoroughly one afternoon-I had asked her to have a new summer dress made up, you see, for there was going to be a grand picnic with all of the young ladies, and I had ruined my best dress only days before by spilling a pot of ink on the skirt. When she told me that I was too clumsy to have a new dress made up that I would only destroy, and that my second-best would have to do, I knew that I must have my vengeance. I was a regular fury at that age, you must believe."

He snorted. "I believe it."

"Oh Lieutenant, you must at least pretend to protest and tell me that you think I must have always been a well-mannered girl!"

"I beg your indulgence, dear lady. My mind is addled from the drinking."

"Proper young men do not brag about their vices, Lieutenant, but with your permission, I shall carry on in my tale."

He waved his hand. "Pray do."

"Maman was having quite a little party that evening, and had just got ahold of some sort of costly peach brandy that she was planning on serving to the ladies after dinner. I knew that it was a point of pride to her, so I resolved to throw the whole thing out. Only when I went to dump the bottle, it smelled so nice and peachy... and mother and father had never allowed me to drink brandy before. Well, I trust you of all my acquaintances to know how alluring forbidden fruit may be. I thus resolved to try it for myself. It was quite sweet, and though I did not quite like it, I pretended that I did and brought the bottle to my two bosom friends who were visiting for the fortnight. Oh, we had quite the afternoon! We drank the whole bottle in the attic, laughing and giggling... Until we were sick, of course. Violently ill. But before the vomiting, oh forgive me ladies shouldn't speak of vomiting, but before the vomiting, I believe it was one of the most entertaining afternoons of my life. I say 'believe,' not 'know,' for even now, that afternoon is a bit of a blur. And I have no memory at all of the evening!" Her eyes crinkled in the corners with her laughter. "Maman says that I tumbled into the parlour of her friends while laughing like a demon before vomiting on someone's shoe and then passing out on the floor!"

"My word!"

She grinned and shrugged. "I told you I was a devilish child."

Marlowe felt a laugh bubbling up and pressed his hands on his temples. "Oh Miss Jennings, please don't make me laugh in such a way! It is murder on my skull."

She shot him a sly smile. "I can not help my naturally amusing nature."

"I should say not."

She frowned at his page. "I can, however, help you develop your artistic skills. You've barely done anything yet, and the whole page is waiting for you. Don't be afraid to start. You will, of course, make errors. But then we will correct them."

"Perhaps I could just watch you."

She stuck out the side of her tongue at him. "You are afraid that I shall reprimand you if you present me with unsatisfactory work."

He chuckled. "Not afraid. Afraid is an understatement. I'm terrified!"

"Am I such a cruel teacher?"

"The cruelest. Ow!" he laughed as the blunt end of her pencil went digging against his ribs. His head throbbed again, but he decided to ignore its whining. "Shall I bribe you with some peach brandy?"

"Oh heavens no! Just the thought of peaches makes my stomach churn. Do not think of bribes, sir, only imagine how cruel I shall be if you do not complete your work."

"I may faint at just the thought." He really might. He was damned exhausted.

She made a sound under her breath. "Lazy man."

"Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear your praise under the sound of my pencil scratching because I am working so diligently." He frowned at the paper, but did pick up the pencil once more, glancing again at Kate's paper beside him. It seemed effortless, the way she was able to render the world in just a few strokes. But watching her closely, he could see how she was at work, the little crease between her brows, the frowns that tugged at her lips which she was working, erasing, shading, gliding her pencil across the page. And as she had told him at least one hundred times, it wasn't talent that gave her the ability to paint and draw so skillfully. It was practice and work.

He concentrated on his page. He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he caught her looking over his shoulder. He paused for just a moment, feeling self-conscious but then continued.

"Very good," she said. "Take a look at that cornice piece you just drew for a moment, however. What do you see?"

"Mine's... not quite right."

She nodded. "Look at this line. Can you see it like this from where you are sitting?"

He glanced up. "No."

"You are trying to draw what you think the cornice looks like. Not what it actually does look like. You have to trust your eyes, not your mind, Lieutenant. It will try to fill in the details and inevitably skew them."

He nodded, looking again, trying to make the angle he drew on the page match the angle he saw across the street.

"That's much better," she said approvingly. "Make sure you shade it."

He gave her a quick nod and bent his head once more, doing his best to render his drawing as true to what he saw as possible.

He felt her peering over his shoulder. "This is quite good, Lieutenant. My word, you are improving daily! You have an eye for it, I think. For rendering beauty."

He felt suddenly bashful at her praise and took a long drink of water from the canteen that he had brought along before taking his materials back in hand.

She was still watching as he made a few more strokes across the page. "We've tried you at landscapes and still lifes, but there is something about the way that you render a building... it seems so natural. I wonder... have you considered what you will do when we return to England?"

He grimaced. "Not in the slightest." A thousand hopeless thoughts danced through his mind, mostly about Arabella, and just what exactly he was going to do if she was with child. The woman vexed him! Worse, he vexed himself. The tip snapped off his pencil and he groaned, reaching for the small knife they kept nearby for such occasions.

"You might consider apprenticing with an architect."

He scoffed. "Me?" But still, the idea was intriguing. He was a bit old to be apprenticing at anything, it was true. But what was the point of having money if you could not use it to get what you wanted? Surely it was something that he could study. His parents had connections... And he always had been interested in the shapes of buildings, their permanence on the landscape of history. There was many a ruined castle or abbey around the country that he had enjoyed romping about in, dreaming of the knights and ladies that once had resided there... He had sharpened his pencil to too fine a tip. It broke off again and he cursed under his breath.

Miss Jennings raised an eyebrow. "Why don't we consider this one completed?"

He handed it to her with a flourish and she eyed it approvingly before she tucked it away in his folio for him. She took out another sheet of paper for him, seemingly unaware of what her words had sparked in him. The idea was utterly ridiculous... And yet...

"Will you help me?" he asked.

"Aren't I already?" She slipped the paper on his tablet and pinned it down. "Draw the windows that you see just there, across the plaza. The glass will be tricky. I'd like to see how you think to render its reflections."

He nodded. His head didn't seem to be spinning quite so much anymore, although the sun was exhausting him.

When he looked up, Miss Jennings was looking at him oddly, the lines of her face suddenly tense. "There is something that I need to tell you." Her fingers toyed with the pencil in her hands, which were already covered with gray smudges.

He sat his tablet to the side and instinctively took her hand, stilling it in his. "What is the matter?"

"I found an artist to take me on in Paris." Her hand slipped from his hand and went to bother a strand of her dark hair which had slipped out of the front of her bonnet.

His throat seemed to close. "What do you mean?"

"A teacher. Monsieur Ponrigaud. He is very well-respected in artistic circles and has connections with all the best ateliers. I met him in London last season, and he told me that he might take me on as his student. So I am bringing a portfolio with me when we go to Paris. I have already sent him several of my sketches to evaluate... If all goes well..."

"Miss Jennings, you can't be serious!"

Her pencil rolled out of her fingers and clattered on the flagstones below. Her face was hidden as she bent to retrieve it. "You think that I am a goose for thinking that I could be good enough."

"Not at all. I think you are the most talented person I know. And so devoted to your craft. I see you working all the time. I rather admire it in you."

"One has to work at something. But have I any skill, truly, Lieutenant? Any talent?" Her eyes were so wide and hopeful. He had never seen her quite this way, so earnest and raw.

He looked at the page in front of her and then into her eyes. "I have never seen anyone as skilled or devoted as you. Monsieur Ponrigaud would be lucky to count you as a student."

She looked away and bent her neck over her work once more, but he thought she looked pleased.

"I only wonder what your parents think of this arrangement... I assume... that you would have to remain in Paris to study indefinitely."

She wet her lips. "My parents do not know my intentions."

His mouth dropped open. He shut it promptly. "Miss Jennings!" There was another throb in his skull, a lurch in his stomach. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The sun came in red through the backs of his eyelids. "You must have your parents' consent."

Her color was beginning to rise, splotching onto her pale neck. "You needn't pretend that you have never gone contrary to your parents' desires, Lieutenant."

He took off his hat, and pushed back his hair. The sun was coming down hotter now as the morning wore on. His forehead was beaded with sweat. "If you should go against their will..."

"You don't have to say it. They would be quite within their rights to disinherit me, though I don't think that they would ever go so far. They are rather loving, after all. Maman would fret and tear at her breast and moan and cry about it. And Papa would glower and praise God that he has Louis, who is such a good, perfect little boy, but in the end, I suppose that they will come around to it and insist that if I stay and study that I take on a trustworthy lady as my chaperone. And perhaps Maman would stay herself for a few weeks to see me settled and help me make some reputable connections. So they will be furious, you see. But I expect that they will survive the initial shock and disappointment. Heavens knows that they have had the practice."

"You've thought it all out, I see."

"I've been making plans for an age. If there were any notable teachers who would have me at home... But I have inquired with all of the English painters of note and those who would deign to take on a female apprentice have no need of one, for they are already busy with their own protegées. But besides, there is something much more romantic about painting in Paris, is there not? Rather than in our prosaic little country!"

He grimaced at the thought of beautiful Miss Jennings living among the French. His mouth pressed into a thin line, but he took a breath to steady himself. "Then we must be sure that you make your best impression on this Monsieur Ponriguad, hadn't we, Miss Jennings?"

The smile that she gave him was dazzling, radiant in its purity and hope. "I always thought that you would understand."

He snorted. "Well, I went through a similar desire to make something of myself, as well. Unfortunately, I chose the army and not painting in Paris. But fighting was all that I thought I was good for at the time."

"And were you?"

A sour taste flooded his mouth as the bile in his stomach churned again. 'Too good. And simultaneously not good enough." He thickened some lines on his page, trying to emulate the shadows that he saw playing on the windows across the plaza.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"I brought it up," he said.

"You think of it often."

It was not a question, but still, he responded. "Yes, I suppose I do. The memories trouble me."

"Then perhaps you should think of the future."

He glanced at his page, thinking to himself that his rendering, although not excellent, was a reasonable impression of the site that he saw across from him. Miss Jennings was right, he was making progress. He considered the building, admired the slope of its roof and the cut of the marble blocks of its facade. Could he design something similar? He shut his eyes against the sun. "Perhaps I am beginning to."

*******

The afternoon had not passed so pleasantly as the morning. After returning from his art lesson with Miss Jennings, Marlowe had fully intended to lie down for a spell, perhaps to sleep off a bit of his discomfort from his drinking the night before. However when they arrived at the family lodgings, they found the rest of their party dressed for an outing, with the servants rushing to fill up baskets. Arabella and Nicholas were in their parlour, holding court with the Jennings and the Hugheses, although the two older gentlemen were seemingly more absorbed in reading their papers than any of the chatter going on around them.

"Well there you are!" exclaimed Marlowe's mother as they entered the hall. "You were rather later with the lessons than usual." Her canny eyes flitted from Marlowe's face to Miss Jennings's.

"We had a late start," said Marlowe darkly. The inside of the house felt stuffy, even though he appreciated its comparative dimness. Kate was bustling ahead of him, passing her burdens off to one of the servants and untying the ribbon that held her little bonnet. Her dark curls were slightly mussed underneath. She caught him looking and passed a hand over them, upsetting them further.

Arabella's cat-like eyes narrowed. "Lieutenant, I've planned the most wonderful afternoon! I have rented some carriages to take us out of the city. There is a vineyard that I'm told is simply the most wonderful place to visit, only an hour's ride from here! They say that the countryside is just astounding this time of year, the rolling hills, the grapevines. The whole party is going to go and we shall have a picnic. Doesn't that sound divine?" Her face was in high color, her movements sharp and quick.

But still, he swallowed hard, thinking of the carriage bouncing his rather delicate head, the heat of the Italian afternoon. His stomach churned as he imagined the various ways Arabella might try to cordon him off from the others, corner him against an outbuilding, yank him into the grapevines... It was too much. He sank exhaustedly onto the chaise.

"Oh," mouthed Miss Jennings. "Then I shall take my easel. I could make a landscape of the countryside. Pastels, perhaps..." Her voice trailed away as she flexed her fingers and shook them out. He imagined how stiff they must feel with all of her constant drawing and painting.

"I am feeling a bit out of sorts today," he said, realizing that Arabella ought to very well know how indisposed he was since she had seen him in all of his drunken glory the night before. But she only batted her lashes at him coquettishly.

"But you must go, Marlowe, or Miss Jennings won't have an escort. The numbers will be completely wrong!" said his mother, who was apt to worry about such things.

"Bah," he said, "Isn't Louis joining?"

"Louis is too young to be counted, as you very well know!" His mother's face was flushed. She always was snappish in the heat. And the cold. And the temperate.

Arabella's eyes narrowed into feline looking slits. "Come now, Lieutenant, we wouldn't want Miss Jennings to be left alone, now would we?"

Kate had left the room for a moment, to send for her easel and pastels to be readied. She now returned with a wary expression on her face. "Did I hear my name in the hall?"

Mrs. Jennings touched her daughter's shoulder. "Mrs. Hughes was only saying what a shame it would be if Marlowe did not come on our excursion. The numbers, you know."

Miss Jenning made an unladylike snort from the doorway. "Of course. The numbers." She cut Marlowe a sideways look from her wry eyes. "The Lieutenant is not feeling himself this morning, Maman. It would be beastly to force him out of the house when he is unwell. I kept him out in the sun long enough as it is." She turned to him seriously. "You should lie down, Lieutenant. I've never cared about the numbers, anyways. And I shall have so many others to keep me company! Namely my pastels. I have dozens of them. I'll be sure to make the numbers even," she said sarcastically to her mother.

Arabella's lips puckered into a pout. "Oh, Lieutenant Hughes, can you not soldier through your illness?"

Her choice of words discomfited him. He sank onto a chaise. "I am really not feeling my best, Lady Balfrey."

"Oh, well, perhaps we had best postpone the entire affair!" Arabella fretted with her gown, twisting a bit of white muslin. It left a wrinkle against her skirt.