She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on passing him his bowl of soup and Ivo watched her, speculating on just why she was so set against marriage. This business about setting up as an artist was obviously so much fantasy. His immediate reaction was to wonder if she had become tired of being a wallflower, but he could not believe that the gentlemen of her acquaintance would be so unappreciative of such an interesting young lady. No great beauty, of course, but perfectly passable and clearly equipped with the correct social graces when she chose to utilise them.
‘Your parents cannot approve of your desire to paint professionally,’ Ivo remarked when the business of passing bread rolls and butter was dealt with. ‘But they must be aware of your considerable talent.’
‘Young ladies learn to sketch and to paint in watercolour. Approved themes are landscape, children and rural scenes—provided the rustics inhabiting the landscape are picturesque and not squalidly poor. Serious figure painting or the use of oils is not considered suitable,’ she informed him. ‘Besides, they do not know of my ambitions.’
‘So how did you learn?’
‘I had a watercolour and drawing tutor. Then my friend Verity, the one who has married the Duke of Aylsham, held regular meetings for her friends at her home. Our parents believed we were gathering to read worthy texts. Instead we had an entire turret in the Bishop’s Palace to ourselves and our work.’ He must have shown his surprise at the word because she put down her spoon with some emphasis. ‘Female occupations may be work and just as seriou
s as men’s interests. Verity is an antiquarian. I paint. Lucy is a pianist, Melissa is a novelist and Prudence is a Classical scholar. None of us has parents who approve of our passions except for Verity. The Bishop is also a scholar and encourages her work.’
‘I gather that not a great deal of reading was done in your reading circle.’
‘On occasion Melissa reads novels, Prudence reads Greek and Latin texts, Lucy reads music, Verity studies learned journals and I dip into the lives of painters. As far as our parents are concerned we study sermons and tracts together. Although the Bishop has retired—he had a stroke, poor man—he is still sent any manner of spiritual publications. Our parents are most impressed by the tone of the pamphlets we bring home.’
‘And the Bishop connives in this?’
‘He has no idea we are doing anything of which our parents would not approve and so he has been very generous in continuing to allow us to use Verity’s tower, even though she has married and left home. He can hear the pianoforte, of course, and he would admire my sketches of the garden. He knew Lucy borrows books from his library and that Melissa writes, but then, all young ladies do these things. As amateurs. Dabbling,’ she said with a suggestion of gritted teeth, ‘is encouraged, but Heaven forfend that we become serious.’
‘But you have left your remaining friends, and your tower of sanctuary, and are travelling to stay with a relative.’
‘Yes.’ She tore the bread roll in half with a vicious twist that made Ivo wince. ‘In disgrace.’
‘Might I ask for what reason? Not, I assume because of an unwise...er...friendship with a man, from what you have said about your views on marriage.’
‘Oh, it was a man,’ Jane said blithely. ‘Arnold the under-footman.’
Ivo froze, soup spoon halfway to his lips. ‘A footman?’
‘He has quite remarkable muscular development—apparently he boxes in his own time—and I wanted to draw him and he was perfectly willing to strip off for half a guinea.’
‘You were drawing him in the nu—? Nak—? Without clothes?’
‘Of course. That is, he was without clothes, I was not. But how else am I going to learn about male anatomy?’ she asked with sweet reasonableness.
Ivo dropped his spoon. Regrettably there was still soup in the bowl and the result was not helpful to his general appearance. ‘From books?’ he suggested, attempting to remedy matters with his napkin. ‘Prints of art works? Statues?’
‘It is not the same as real flesh and blood,’ Jane pointed out. ‘It was remarkably useful to see your back under tension, for example.’ His expression must have finally registered because she added, ‘Naturally, I will give you the drawing if you wish. I am aware that I was carried away by the opportunity and should have asked your permission first. But it was so useful to see your spine close to,’ she said wistfully.
Ivo reflected—inappropriately, given present company—that women had expressed appreciation of his body before now, but never in quite those terms and none of them had seemed remotely interested in his vertebrae. ‘Please, keep it,’ he said, dropping the napkin back into his lap. ‘Feel free.’
Jane looked up with such eagerness on her face that he was irrationally glad of the napkin’s coverage, even though there was the table between them. ‘I meant,’ he said repressively, as much for himself as for her, ‘feel free to keep the picture. Although not to draw any more of me.’ Her face fell. ‘Not in any absence of clothes, at any rate.’
The room was becoming remarkably hot and he wished he could mop his brow.
‘Thank you.’ Her smile was sudden, sunny, and he found himself smiling back despite the fact that she was going to prove a confounded nuisance and a worry he could well do without.
But she saved you from a much worse beating, his conscience reminded him.
The maid came in to clear the soup and Ivo changed the subject abruptly. Things were bad enough without informing the inn’s staff that his ‘sister’ drew men in the nude. ‘I suggest we stop at Newbury tomorrow night. That is about fifty miles. I imagine that you will not want to travel further in one day.’
A roast fowl and a carving knife were set in front of him along with a pie with a flaking golden crust. A dish with the rich aroma of cream and onions was placed in front of Jane. The maid deposited a bowl of vegetables in the middle of the table and made way for the cellarman with his bottles.
‘Fifty miles sounds quite far enough,’ Jane agreed. ‘We will be lucky to do it in six hours, I imagine, and with your injuries that is quite long enough to be bounced about in a chaise. Game pie or veal? They both look very good.’
‘Some of each, please. Would you care for some chicken?’
My goodness, we are both managing a very good appearance of gentility—me with my bruises and she with her scandalous intentions.