Page 101 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“Mr. Archer and I are expecting,” Laura said. “And happily so, thank you. But it’s your happy news I’m interested in. I understand that congratulations are due to you, as well?”

Stella didn’t answer. She felt, for an instant, at a complete loss for words. “I-I don’t know what Mr. Hayes has told you, but—”

“He told me, and all of us last night after dinner, that he proposed to you and that you’ve accepted. He hasn’t mischaracterized things, has he? I’d be surprised if he had. Teddy rarely lets even the smallest details escape him. And an engagement is rather more than a small detail, wouldn’t you say?”

The bell on the front door of the tea shop tinkled, announcing the entry of another couple. A lady and gentleman passed within inches of Stella and Laura, choosing a table nearby.

Stella cast them a wary glance. She lowered her voice. “He did propose,” she admitted, conscious of their lack of privacy. “And I did say yes.”

“May I ask why?”

Why?

Stella had no great desire to share her reasons. Not in such a public setting. And not when she hadn’t yet discerned Laura’s intentions. “Why does any lady say yes to a proposal?” she answered vaguely.

“For security. For money. For love.” Laura searched Stella’s face. “Do you love my brother?”

Stella’s mask of composure briefly slipped, thinking again of the kisses she and Teddy had shared. Of the way her pulse fizzed to see him. To talk with him. To share their mutual interest in art and drawing. “I don’t know that I—”

“You needn’t tell me,” Laura said before Stella could stammer out another vague reply. “Not if you haven’t yet told him. Nor are you obligated to confess it to me if you’ve accepted his proposal for more mercenary reasons. Marriages are complex arrangements, I realize. Even ones entered into for love are also entered into for other reasons. Most gentlemen understand that. They know there’s more to marriage than a moment’s passion.” She paused. “But my brother isn’t like most gentlemen.”

Stella frowned, temporarily forgetting their lack of privacy. “Because of his condition, do you mean?”

“Yes, because of that, but also because he doesn’t think the way other people do. His art is the whole world to him. When he has a passion for a certain piece he’s working on, it consumes his every thought. During those times, he doesn’t exercise the best judgment.”

At last, Stella began to comprehend where Laura was headed. It wasn’t a very flattering direction.

“I know he wants to paint you,” Laura said. “I’ve so far encouraged his obsession, even helping him in writing to you this winter. I’m sorry if that strikes you as contradictory, given what I’m about to tell you.”

Stella stiffened slightly in her chair. “You’re going to say that he didn’t mean it when he proposed to me. That it was only about art.”

Laura smiled gently. “Not at all.”

“What, then?” Stella asked. “You clearly don’t approve of us getting married.”

“It’s not disapproval you hear in my voice. It’s concern.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the shop’s proprietor, a heavily whiskered older man in an apron. He brought them a pot of tea, two teacups, and a plate of freshly baked currant buns. A jug of milk and a bowl of sugar followed.

After he’d gone, Laura lifted the round china pot to fill each of their cups. Her expression was unusually grave.

“My brother wasn’t always as vigorous as you see him now,” she said. “When the fever came to our village, we lost my father to it. I contracted it as well, leaving me with an unfortunate affliction of the lungs. But Teddy had it worse than either of us. He was too strong to die, but too weakened to fully fight the fever. It took root in his spine, ultimately affecting his legs.”

“He mentioned something of the sort,” Stella said.

“Did he?” Laura set down the teapot. “Did he tell you how the loss of his legs affected him in the immediate years that followed?”

“Not specifically, no.” Given Teddy’s strength of will, Stella had assumed he’d promptly accepted his limitations and set himself to learning how to get about in his wheeled chair. He was extraordinarily adept at doing so.

“Teddy and I were already in a precarious position after my father died. Our perfumery had temporarily shuttered, and our inheritance was tied up for a time. We struggled to make ends meet as it was. But for a young man of Teddy’s age to suddenly lose the ability to walk—to be sentenced to his bed, made dependent on his family and servants for the smallest thing—” Laura stared pensively into her tea. “My brother fell into a deep melancholy. He refused assistance from his room. He rarely ate. He only drew and painted—subjects he observed from his chamber window. By the time my husband entered our lives, Teddy had wasted away to a shadow.”

Stella’s teacup stilled halfway to her lips. Her brows notched in confusion. “But I’d thought—”

“That he’s always been this energetic and determined? No, indeed. It was my husband who encouraged Teddy in that, initially. Mr. Archer has a way about him. He can generally manage people without putting their back up. And, of course, a young man always takes the advice of another gentleman better than he does from a mother or a sister.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Stella asked.

“Because I want you to have no illusions about my brother. Just because he’s confident in his work, and precocious in most other respects, don’t imagine he’s incapable of being hurt. All that life in him, the sensitivity in his art and his ability to see things in all their light and shadow, stems from his own vulnerability. He’s not so far removed from those days of melancholy in his room. Indeed, there are times when he still struggles mightily with his condition.”