“But why a job restoring paintings?” Casriel asked, taking the wing chair behind the desk. “Oak is an artist. Artists create, particularly if they want the notice of the Royal Academy and the lucrative commissions that follow therefrom. This is good brandy.”
“Sycamore sent me a case as a wedding present,” Valerian said, getting comfortable on a window seat. “I passed along two bottles to the Hall.”
Casriel scowled and held his drink under the lordly beak. “Sycamore is a case in point. He wanted to be a man-about-town, so he acquired a club, and now his days are spent man-about-towning. If Oak is an artist, he ought to be artist-ing. Setting up his easel in Hyde Park, ingratiating himself with wealthy cits, advertising his skills. Not banishing himself to bedamned Hampshire so some crotchety old beldame can begrudge him his wages.”
“We don’t know if she’s a crotchety old beldame or a young merry widow, Casriel. A concerned patriarch might put pen to paper and inquire of his younger sibling through the post. Just a thought.”
Casriel took another sip of his brandy. “How did she learn of Oak’s skills? He’s never held himself out as one who restores cast-off attic portraits.”
This concern would be touching if it weren’t so belated. “I believe she wrote to a connection at the Academy, and he referred her to Oak.”
“Why not send her an Academy member?”
Ye gods, when had Casriel become so dunderheaded? “Because those good fellows are absorbed with painting lucrative portraits, as you noted. Oak is willing to spend a few weeks restoring the lady’s collection. He’s out from underfoot here at the Hall, a consummation you devoutly wished for, and he’s earning his keep, a goal he doubtless aspired to. What is this show of worry really about?”
Casriel set down his drink. “Beatitude is a widow.”
Beatitude being the present Countess of Casriel and a thoroughly lovely woman. “Your point?”
“Society is inordinately invested in supervising the conduct of widows, particularly widows of means. We ought to have heard something of this Mrs. Channing. Beatitude knows nothing of her, and yet, Mrs. Channing owns a sizable estate and an art collection.”
Laughing at Casriel’s concern would be unkind and might result in an attempted thrashing for old times’ sake.
“You say that as if only pirates and smugglers own art collections. Dorning Hall is full of portraits, landscapes, and still lifes, as are most country houses. The king himself sets great store by his art as well.” Valerian’s little estate, Abbotsford, had a few nice pieces, and Emily would doubtless acquire more over the years.
Emily, whom Valerian missed, though he’d parted from her not three hours previously. Married life was certainly a change. Valerian had never slept so well nor gone to bed so early or so happily.
“Oak wants to become a member of the Royal Academy some fine day,” Valerian went on. “Therefore, if an Academy member recommended him for a job, he was all but duty-bound to accept the work. Very likely, he can charm a commission or two out of the old dear, and she will happily write him a glowing character. Not all battles are won with an artillery barrage and a cavalry charge, Casriel. Some of us must resort to strategy, diplomacy, and patience.”
“Sycamore won his objective with boldness. Willow certainly didn’t shilly-shally in the shires when he realized where his future lay. Hawthorne was similarly direct about pursuing his dreams, and you stole a march on the lot of us, marrying an heiress who appears to adore you.”
A frowning perusal followed, with unspoken, well-intended, and unforgivably nosy questions hanging in the air.
“I adore her too,” Valerian said, smiling at his brandy, “and married life is off to a splendid start.”
“As it should be.” Said quite fiercely.
“Would you presume to lecture Emily if I said we were having to make some adjustments?” They were. A lot of adjustments, but nothing that laughter, consideration, and mutual devotion couldn’t surmount.
“Adjustments are part of the marital terrain, and just wait until fatherhood befalls you. There be dragons in that land, Valerian. Enormous, hungry dragons that cinder a man’s peace.” Casriel downed the rest of his drink. “Dear Oak has chosen the terrain of Hampshire, and we have no idea what adjustments he’s having to make.”
Valerian took a modest taste of his brandy. “When you hold Sycamore up as a good example, the realm is in peril. Think of it this way, Casriel: Hampshire is on the way to London. Oak wants to end up in London, a sought-after painter of portraits, and he’s thus moved closer to his goal. Stop fretting and write our brother a letter. Have Beatitude send a cordial note to the widow. Show some faith in Oak’s resourcefulness.”
Casriel rose to return his glass to the sideboard. “Beatitude gives me the same sermon. Trust my brothers, she says. She hardly knows my brothers, but she admonishes me to trust the lot of you, wretches and scoundrels that you are. Oak likes to sit in trees sketching by the hour. He forgets to eat when a painting is going well and forgets his name when it’s going poorly. He will wander into a bog because he’s too taken with the colors of the sky to watch where his feet are going. He’ll forget to collect his wages.”
“No, he will not. Oak has more sense than most of us. He simply keeps his conclusions to himself, a habit foreign to your lordly nature.”
Casriel approached, appropriated Valerian’s glass, took a sip, and handed it back. “What if she’s the bitter sort, a pinchpenny cheeseparer who will never write Oak a decent character? She’ll instead malign his best efforts and set him back rather than advance his cause. We know nothing about her except that she haggled over terms and demanded he abandon all of his loved ones for a summer in blasted Hampshire.”
“We know Oak,” Valerian replied, passing Casriel the last of his drink. “We know he haggled right back, that he’s merely on the other side of the New Forest rather than off to darkest Peru. We know that meddling in his affairs shows disrespect toward him. We also know that I am newly married and have much better things to do than pester our brother about the first artistic post he’s ever landed.”
“But you’ll be nipping up to London from time to time, won’t you?” Casriel asked, ever so casually. “I understand Emily’s papa has business responsibilities in Town that yet require attention.”
“You want me to spy on Oak?”
“Either you pay a passing call, or I’ve no doubt Sycamore will drop in on Oak when Cam next makes a raid on Dorning Hall. Ash could probably be persuaded to abandon Town in summer’s heat, but one doesn’t like to impose on Ash.”
“One doesn’t hesitate to impose on me, though? Emily and I are in our honey month, Casriel. Have you no shame?”
“Think about it,” Casriel said, appearing quite pleased with his latest scheme. “Oak hasn’t any allies in Hampshire, and I’m not suggesting you depart at first light.”
No, but Monday would probably suit the earl’s plans splendidly. Valerian rose from his window seat, escape having become imperative.
“Do you know something about Mrs. Channing, Casriel? Something you’re not telling me?”
Casriel studied his drink—Valerian’s drink. “Beatitude can’t be sure, but she has former in-laws in Hampshire, and she recalls some mention from them about unpleasant doings at Merlin Hall. Nothing recent, nothing detailed, but a bad taste. Whispers and innuendo.”
“I am not about to abandon my new wife for the sake of old whispers and innuendo, Casriel. Write to Oak and ask him how he’s going on. Brothers do, you know. Write to each other.”
Valerian bowed, intent on extricating himself from Casriel’s plotting, but whispers and innuendo surrounding a rural widow were not good. Not good at all.
A smart man, upon hearing heartbroken feminine sobbing, would execute a silent about-face and go back up the path without intruding. Such a retreat would bear no shame, but rather, be an exercise in gentlemanly consideration—or so Oak’s father had once declared.
The
damsel venting her tears was not in distress, she was in high dudgeon. How Oak knew that likely had to do with his sisters, and with his late mother’s penchant for dramatic displays. This female had also not quite attained damsel status. She was more a maiden of tender years.
Oak cleared his throat, which occasioned a pause in the lachrymosity.
“Go away, sir. You’re on Merlin Hall land, and you are not welcome.”
“You must be Miss Catherine.” She was also blotchy-faced, and her nose was an unbecoming shade of pink. If looks could kill, Oak would be greeting Saint Peter at any moment.
Oak passed her his handkerchief and appropriated a place about two feet from her on the fallen log where she was staging her tragedy.
“You are not to menace me,” she said, blowing her nose on his linen. “The stable boys will come running if I scream.”
“I would not dream of menacing a lady so clearly having a bad moment. I’m Oak Dorning. I’ve come to Merlin Hall to restore some paintings for Mrs. Channing.”
“I’m Catherine Channing.” She peered at the flowers stitched onto the corner of the handkerchief. “This is very fine embroidery. Please don’t show it to Miss Diggory, or I’ll be walled into the nursery until I can duplicate the pattern.”
“You may keep it,” Oak said. “Duplicate the needlework in your spare time and impress Miss Diggory with your ingenuity when you’ve completed the project. Bracken suggested I might enjoy sketching along this path.” He brandished his sketch pad and pencil and considered the setting.
The little copse lay about a quarter mile behind Merlin Hall, a former patch of hedgerow grown into a spinney. A stream meandered several yards away, the dark water suggesting drainage from a peat bog or fen. Ferns grew in abundance, giving the air a mossy scent.
Pretty, though well short of fascinating for a man who’d spent many a long hour sketching botanical specimens for his father. Today, Oak’s objective had been some fresh air and perhaps a drawing of Merlin Hall itself to send back to his brothers in Dorset. On a sunny summer morning, the Channing abode showed to good advantage. A handsome country manor in a verdant bucolic setting.
“Stay on the path if you must go for a walk,” Catherine said. “Do you know what a quaking bog is? It looks solid, but in a quaking bog you’re not walking on earth. You’re walking on a mat of plants and dirt, and if you jump up and down, you can make the ground ripple—or you can break through the mat and ruin your boots or even die.”
Hence the dark water and peaty scent. “A thick mat of moss, Sphagnaceae, according to Linnaeus.”
“Who?”
“Linnaeus. A Swedish fellow who knew a lot about a lot of things. Ask Miss Diggory who he was. What had you so upset?”
Oak began to sketch Catherine out of habit—and because she was a perfect example of the human female with one foot in adulthood and one in childhood. Her shorter skirts still showed trim ankles and slender calves, but her figure had left behind the coltish angles of girlhood. Her honey-blond hair was pulled back and allowed to cascade over narrow shoulders, while her profile was a cameo-perfect landscape of young female pulchritude.
Her chin tended to a point, her nose tilted slightly. A piquant face, and Oak could see traces of Dirk Channing around the girl’s blue eyes.
“I was crying because of everything,” she said, heaving a sigh that ought to have set the whole earth to quaking. “I’m suffering the regular inconvenience to which my gender is condemned. Do you know what that means?”
Oak tried to capture the blend of fierce indignation and dismay in her expression. “Is this an inconvenience a man with sisters ought to comprehend?”
“Yes, if he is not a complete lackwit. It’s not fair. I had hoped the pain was simply a first-time thing, but here I am, a month later, and completely out of sorts and uncomfortable. I hate it.”
Boggy ground, indeed. Six months from now, she’d be mortified to have had this conversation with him at all. Hell, he was mortified, but also a little touched. Was there nobody in whom this girl could confide her miseries? Nobody who could suggest she curl up with a hot water bottle, a drop of the poppy, and a lurid novel?
“What does Mrs. Channing suggest for your discomfort?”
“Her.”
Nobody conveyed disdain as effectively as an upset adolescent. “I take it your step-mother is among your many afflictions?”
Catherine pooched out her lips, which made her look about four years old. “I like Alexander well enough, though he’s only a boy. He’s had a hard time of it since Mr. Forester joined the household. I wish I could trade Alexander the use of Diggory for Mr. Forester’s instruction, I truly do. Step-mama, though… She took advantage of Papa’s grief. My mama, my real mama, was his muse. His work was never as good after Mama died. Everybody says.”
Such hope colored that declaration, such sadness. “Everybody?”
“My aunt Winters, who is quite knowledgeable about art. What are you drawing?”
“I draw what I see. Is your step-mother a gorgon, forcing you to memorize entire books of the Bible or live on bread and water?”
“No, but she’s always busy, and she’s beautiful. Even Papa said she was beautiful. He was lonely, I know, but mightn’t he have settled for a woman people don’t gawk at?”
Oak had no answer for that query. He’d thought only to have a short ramble, then meet Mrs. Channing in the gallery. Still, he did not want to take an abrupt leave of Miss Catherine, as if her concerns were inconsequential.
“What does Miss Diggory say about your discomfort?”
“That pain is normal, the price all women must pay for Eve’s betrayal. That I’m not to indulge in hysterics. That only little girls try to win pity by whining. You should see her when she has a megrim. We all tiptoe about, and heaven help the maid who closes a door firmly.”
“I don’t agree with Miss Diggory, if I can say that without sounding disrespectful. Turn your face a bit,”—he touched her chin—“like that, so you aren’t in shade. Miss Diggory likely means well, and in her way she might be trying to jolly you away from thinking about the hurt, but there’s no ignoring a bodily misery, in my experience.”
“Exactly. It’s misery. Worse than a silly old megrim, though Diggory treats a megrim as if she’s been delivered a mortal blow.”
Ah, there was the hint of humor, the hint of womanly self-possession. “Then tell her you have a megrim. Some ladies find the two symptoms overlap, the megrim and the other. And as for your step-mama…”
Catherine scowled at him. “The megrim bit is a good idea, but Step-mama is a different matter entirely. Mr. Forester says she’s exquisite.”
When had Jeremy said that, and had his words been meant for Catherine’s ears? Was the girl, in the tradition of youngsters the world over, given to spying on her elders? Sneaking into guest rooms, perhaps?
“Some people are physically attractive,” Oak said. “They can’t help it, any more than you can help having blond hair that puts me in mind of gold sovereigns or eyes the color of polished blue john.”
“What’s blue john?”
“A semiprecious stone mined only in one corner of Derbyshire. Don’t judge your step-mother too harshly for her beauty.” He tore loose his sketch and passed it to Catherine. “I ought to have asked your permission before I drew that, so I will offer the drawing to you by way of apology for my lapse. My subject is rather pretty, don’t you think? I’d hate for anybody to hold that against her, as I suspect the condition is likely to grow more apparent as she matures.”
He left Catherine gaping at the sketch, but stopped and turned before the path curved around a sizable yew.
“Did I meet you out here, Miss Catherine, or does discretion suggest I make no mention of this delightful encounter?”
She grinned, the mischief adding an adorable aspect to her features. “Alas, no delightful encounter for you today, Mr. Dorning. I’m in my room reading quietly. Thank you for the sketch.”
He bo
wed and left the young lady to contemplate her likeness. She’d been smiling, an improvement over the tearful state in which he’d found her. That a sketch could bring good cheer to an unhappy heart pleased him, though it would take much more than good cheer to gain admittance to the Royal Academy.
Vera occasionally caught Jeremy Forester studying her with a less than respectful gaze. She didn’t blame him for that. He was a young man isolated in a rural household, while she was the closest thing to an available female, merry widows being a fixture in popular novels, if not in actual Society. He likely regarded Miss Diggory in a similar fashion from time to time and turned the same speculative consideration on the older housemaids.
He would be let go without a character if he trifled with the help. Vera had made sure he knew that. She did not feel the need to deliver the same warning to Oak Dorning, who hadn’t so much as glanced at her since they’d entered the gallery.
“You’re quiet,” she said. “I realize you’re only gathering first impressions, but have you an opinion you can share?”
Dirk had been more of a collector than a creator toward the end of his life, and his tastes had been eclectic. Some pieces Vera liked, others she would be only too happy to sell.
Mr. Dorning left off peering at the signature in the corner of a French portrait of a wealthy young mother with her two smiling children.
“My preliminary opinion is that your situation is complicated, Mrs. Channing.”
Not at all what she wanted to hear. “Cleaning paintings is complicated?”
“The challenge is not simply one of restoration. Take a look at this painting, for example. How old would you say it is?”
“Based on the fashions, perhaps… Fifty years? Seventy?” The lady wore an ensemble Vera associated with Louis XV, colorful and graceful with wide panniers that showed off exquisite fabrics. Her hair was powdered and sported a sort of crownpiece, not quite a cap, and she had a beauty patch near the corner of her mouth.
A Lady's Dream Come True Page 3
