A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  He’d scarpered, though at least he’d bolted in the direction of his lifelong ambitions.

  “Did you run away to Merlin Hall, Mr. Dorning?”

  “I am on my way to London. I stopped here because I love art and wanted to help your mama by restoring some of the older works your papa collected. I will sell them in London, because Merlin Hall doesn’t need them anymore.”

  “I will run away to London, then. Catherine says Papa knew everybody in London. Nobody will beat me in London.”

  Oak longed to hug the boy tight and never let him go. In London, a lone child would be snatched off the street and sold into a hell no one should endure.

  “Alexander, what problem are you trying to solve by running away?”

  “Mr. Forester.” Said with a universe of disgust. “He’s a big problem. He says I’m a slow top, but you were a slow top at Latin, and Mama doesn’t know any Latin at all.”

  “I agree with you that he’s a problem and that he has failed you as a tutor and as an example. You try hard to learn, and if your progress is slow, your tutor is partly responsible. Do you know who has the power to make Mr. Forester go away for good?”

  “God could send the Angel of Death to strike him down. Cook says Mrs. Tansbury could give him the bloody flux with one of her tisanes. He’d probably beat me for that too. Mr. Forester would, not God.”

  And when had Cook said that within a child’s hearing, and more to the point, why? “What else did Cook say?”

  “That if Mr. Forester kisses Catherine the way he kisses Miss Digg, Cook will do him an injury. Bracken told her to cease gabbling, but Mrs. Hepplewhite agreed.”

  This conversation, which had to have taken place in the servants’ hall, could have been overheard by only a stealthy little eavesdropper.

  “You sneaked into my room when I first arrived at the Hall, didn’t you?”

  Alexander turned to brace his back against the balcony railing, hands in his pockets, feet crossed at the ankles. The posture was strangely adult, doubtless one Forester had frequently adopted.

  “I had to make sure you were truly an artist. Merlin Hall belongs to me, and Mama and Catherine have nobody else to protect them. What if you were a bad man come to steal from us?”

  What a question and what a lot of responsibility for one small boy. “What did you find in my satchel?”

  “Sketch pads, pencils, erasers, drawings of people who look like you—good drawings. I wanted to study them. You have a seashell too.”

  So you came back and had another look. “I spied from time to time when I was a small boy, Alexander. I hid in trees and eavesdropped on the gardeners. I am ashamed of myself for that.”

  “A gentleman doesn’t spy?”

  “He seldom spies. Your justification—to protect your mother and sister—is noble, though you can’t protect them if you tear off to London. We need not discuss spying again if you understand that prying into people’s privacy is not nice. For me to eavesdrop on the gardeners was wrong.”

  Alexander met Oak’s gaze for the first time in this entire conversation. “Did you get a birching?”

  “I deserved punishment, but a guilty conscience was a heavier burden than a smarting backside. I suspect my papa knew that. Might we return to the topic of Mr. Forester?”

  “I hate him. I don’t care if that’s a sin. I can barely sit down to eat my porridge, and Mr. Forester thinks that’s funny. He offers me a pillow, and I want to hit him.”

  “So do I, and I’m not the person he’s been tormenting. Don’t hit him, though. He’d probably strike you back and make up some story about how you attacked him first. Bullies are like that. But bullies can be sacked, Alexander.”

  “He says I’ll never learn anything if I let Mama coddle me.”

  Oak propped his boots on the railing, and leaned back in his chair. The day was beautiful, his brothers were on hand to see him safely to London, and Vera might even make the trip with them. Life was good, truly it was. Or it should be, but at that moment, nothing in Oak wanted to decamp for London.

  “Mr. Forester was dishonest, Alexander.”

  “A gentleman never lies.” Alexander was grinning, the first truly happy expression Oak had seen from him.

  “Exactly. A gentleman is kind and honest, no matter how inconvenient that might be. Being a highwayman is much easier. I want you to understand something, though. Just as Mr. Forester tried to make you feel stupid, he tried to make your mother feel like she had no authority in the schoolroom. But here’s the thing: Mr. Forester was wrong about you being stupid—you’re quite bright—and he’s even more wrong about your mother’s lack of authority. He never told her he used the birch rod on you, and she will be furious with him for both the harsh discipline and the lying.”

  “Mama is never furious.”

  “Yes, she is. She simply doesn’t show it.” Or sometimes, she didn’t admit to herself that she was angry. “You must tell her what you’ve told me.”

  Alexander whipped around, giving Oak his back. “She’ll say I’m whining.”

  “You are not whining. You’ve been brave and uncomplaining—the opposite of whining. Your mother can toss Forester out on his ear. She deserves the opportunity to do that before you abandon her for any misguided flights.”

  Alexander gave him a puzzled look over his shoulder.

  “Before you run away,” Oak said, “and leave Merlin Hall without your protection.” The words hurt. No small child should be made to feel as if an entire estate depended on him, but neither should Alexander go on believing he lacked all consequence.

  “Will you come with me to talk to Mama?”

  That Alexander would ask mattered in ways Oak was reluctant to examine. “Yes, I will come with you. We’d best be about it now, before Forester starts looking for you and tries to air his version of events first.”

  “He’s with Miss Digg. I was supposed to be copying my verses, and they are supposed to be discussing Catherine’s mathematics lessons, but Miss Digg locked her sitting room door. Catherine says I’m not to ask why. She seemed angry about it.”

  I am angry about it. “Let’s find your mother.” Oak rose and bent to gently hug the boy before Alexander could scuttle back into the studio. “You are a wonderful little fellow, and on whatever heavenly cloud is reserved for great artists, your father is very proud of you. I am proud of you.”

  Alexander, for the briefest and most precious of moments, hugged Oak back, then scampered away.

  “Alexander and I have something to discuss with you.” Oak sounded more serious than Vera had ever heard him. “The matter is somewhat pressing.”

  Everything was pressing lately. If Vera was to leave for London, she’d best give the order for the maids to start packing, but she hadn’t. Tamsin and Jeremy had to be dealt with, and she hadn’t decided on a strategy for those hurdles either. The household hadn’t been without family in residence for years, and instructions should be left for Cook and Mrs. Hepplewhite, and how would Bracken feel about a remove to London?

  In the middle of all those questions loomed the real problem: How to part from Oak Dorning?

  Alexander clutched Oak’s hand, and Oak stood beside Vera’s son as if that was normal, as if Alexander had every right to cling to his hand.

  Would that he did. “Please have a seat,” Vera said. “My lists can wait.” Not that she’d started on them.

  “I would rather stand, Mama, if you please.”

  Oak was trying to convey some message to Vera, about forbearance or urgency. She could not tell which.

  “Then you may stand,” Vera said, “and you have my complete attention.”

  Alexander sent Oak an unreadable look and dropped his hand. “Can’t you tell her, sir?”

  Oak shook his head. “Courage, lad. Your mother has loved you since before you drew breath. She will love you when she’s wearing wings and playing a harp.”

  That was true. That was absolutely true, and even as that thought went fl
itting through Vera’s mind, another more ominous truth chased it off.

  “Alexander, is there a reason you are reluctant to sit?”

  Another glance at Oak, then a nod. “A gentleman doesn’t… That is, Mr. Forester… My bum…” Alexander knuckled his eyes. “He birches me all the time. For nothing. For forgetting things he never taught me, for a sum being off by one. He birches me for crying when he birches me. I hate sums. I hate Latin.” A shuddery breath followed. “I hate everything, and I’m going to run away, but Mr. Dorning said I must speak to you first. I must not leave you without my protection, but, Mama, I cannot stay if you are leaving Merlin Hall.”

  Of all the reasons Alexander might have had for interrupting Vera’s morning, she hadn’t seen this one lurking among them—or had she? Vera’s belly became a pit of sick foreboding, while Oak sent her that steady, searching look.

  Alexander’s dignity must be protected every bit as fiercely as his safety, and Vera must effect that miracle without dissolving into rage or tears herself.

  “Is your bum sore?” she asked.

  Alexander nodded. “I sleep on my belly, but I don’t like that. Mr. Forester keeps asking me if I want a pillow. He’s not being nice, he’s being mean when he asks.”

  “He will soon be unemployed,” Vera said, rising and coming around the desk to take a chair beside Alexander. “I never gave him permission to physically discipline you. It never occurred to me that he’d use a birch rod on a six-year-old.”

  Alexander bristled. “I’m almost grown up.”

  Oh dear. “True, but because you are almost grown up, how would Mr. Forester’s means of chiding you work next year, when you are even taller and stronger than you are now? One of these days, you might have planted him a facer, and because you are faster than he, he would soon be unable to best you. Is the schoolroom merely a place to demonstrate pugilism?”

  “You mean I could birch him right back?”

  No, no, no. Fisticuffs and violence were no way to resolve anything, but Vera again caught Oak’s eye, and he seemed marginally less stern.

  “Mr. Forester would never see it coming,” Vera said, brushing Alexander’s bangs from his forehead. “The poor man would be smarting into next week if you gave him a birching. I’m glad you told me about this, Alexander.”

  Alexander bore her touch easily for once. “I’m not peaching?”

  “Of course not. You are telling the truth. I hope you will always tell me the truth. And I am being absolutely honest when I tell you Mr. Forester was wrong to beat you. I was wrong to trust him with your education.”

  And good God, what if Alexander hadn’t had Oak Dorning to confide in?

  “You were wrong, Mama?”

  “Yes, I was wrong, and I am sorry. Mr. Forester is no longer your tutor. You will help me select his successor when we are in London.”

  Alexander’s smile was painfully hesitant. “We are going to London? Will Catherine come, too, and Bracken and Mr. Dorning?”

  “Mr. Dorning is making his home in London, and he and his brothers will escort us there for a visit. We shall leave tomorrow.”

  Oak’s smile was subtle. “Will we, now?”

  “We shall, and Mr. Forester will take himself off elsewhere at first light.”

  Alexander looked from one adult to the other. “Do I have to go back to the schoolroom now?”

  “No,” Vera said, rising. “I must have a discussion with Mr. Forester, and you and Mr. Dorning will take your art lesson.”

  Oak touched her arm. “I would rather be with you when you talk to Forester.”

  Vera would rather not be alone with Jeremy Forester either, but after tomorrow, she’d be back to fighting her domestic battles without Oak at her side.

  “How hard can sacking one arrogant puppy be?” she asked. “His pride will be less affronted if I speak with him privately.” The dread Vera felt at that prospect was probably nothing compared to the dread Alexander had hidden every day for months.

  She would rage and sob about that later.

  “Not hard, but not pleasant,” Oak said. “Forester will be easier to deal with if his disgrace has no audience, you’re right about that, but make him heed your summons, Vera. Don’t accost him in the schoolroom. Let Bracken and your biggest footman know what’s afoot and station them right outside the door. Have a bank draft for the total sum of his wages and severance in hand when you confront him.”

  “Carry the birch rod too, Mama. Swing it around right near him before you actually swat him on the arse with it.”

  Oak ruffled Alexander’s hair. “Language, lad.”

  “Should I have said on the bum?”

  “Better,” Vera said, though tears were threatening. “Away with you both. Enjoy the lovely day, and please don’t say anything to Catherine about London. I want to tell her myself.”

  “Yes, Mama. Come along, Mr. Dorning. We can sketch Charlie.”

  They left the room, though Oak paused long enough to toss Vera a wink and a salute. Her son did not offer her a stiff little bow, and that—that—finally inspired Vera to tears.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving Town?” Oak asked. “Longacre gave me to understand we were to share these quarters.”

  A pair of porters brought Oak’s trunk in from the baggage coach and continued up the steps. Endymion De Beauharnais waited until they were out of earshot to reply.

  “I’m leaving London at the end of the week for home,” he said. “I’ve missed my family. You’re here to keep an eye on the place. Don’t fret about the rent. I’ve paid my share through the end of the quarter.”

  De Beauharnais was something of a dandy, always dressed with a touch of flamboyance, as if he feared that his impressive talent and great good looks weren’t enough to get him noticed. His penchant for style was not merely a matter of public display, though. If he lounged by the fire in the evening, he did so wearing a pair of fantastically embroidered slippers. At the breakfast table, he wore a silk banyan of the richest, most vivid blue.

  He was a splendid specimen with an eye for beauty, but today he was attired from head to toe in chocolate brown, and even his waistcoat was a subdued creation of beige with mere dashes of red and gold embroidery.

  “But why leave now?” Oak asked as the porters trooped back down the stairs and out the door.

  “You have a nose,” de Beauharnais replied. “Town in summer is an assault upon the olfactory senses. Most anybody who can has decamped for the shires, and I haven’t seen my parents for months. They write the most plaintive letters, as if I’m off to war rather than kicking my heels in Town.”

  The porters returned with the last of the trunks, this one holding Oak’s easels and supplies.

  “To the top floor with that one,” Oak said, for the jewel in the crown of these bachelor quarters was a garret with north-facing windows that did excellent service as a studio.

  “What of Lady Montclair’s reception?” Oak asked. “Will you miss the summer’s premier gathering of patrons and artists just as your star is rising? Longacre speaks of you most enthusiastically, and I’m surprised he sent me any commissions at all when you’re on hand.”

  De Beauharnais wandered into the front parlor that opened off the foyer. The furnishings were comfortable without descending into bachelor-shabbiness, another reason to like the place.

  “Longacre is sending you commissions already?”

  “Three. Children’s portraits, which I will enjoy, but which you are also quite capable of painting.”

  De Beauharnais watched the scene beyond the window, a pleasant London side street in a not-too-expensive neighborhood that was nonetheless an easy walk to both Mayfair’s mansions and the hum and bustle of the Strand.

  “Do you have letters of engagement for these commissions, Dorning?”

  “Only for the one.”

  The porters tromped down the steps, the older of the two stopping in the doorway to the parlor. “That’s th
e last of it, guv. We’ll be off to The Coventry, and good day to ye.”

  Oak tossed him a coin. “My thanks, and regards to my brothers if you should see them.”

  Sycamore, may he be damned to the circle of hell reserved for scheming siblings, had insisted on escorting Vera and the children to their temporary lodgings, and Ash had abetted him. Run along to your studio. Surely you have some painting to do.

  Only Vera’s understanding smile had allowed Oak to make a civil exit.

  When the porters had closed the front door, de Beauharnais sent Oak a brooding look over his shoulder.

  “Dorning, don’t take this the wrong way, but be careful where Longacre is concerned.”

  “He likes to manage matters,” Oak said, “for which God be thanked, because the Academy’s more tedious business doesn’t see to itself. I feel sorry for an artist whose health makes painting impossible, but Longacre seems to deal with that challenge philosophically.”

  De Beauharnais had modeled for his classmates, and Oak had occasion to know the man was as exquisite without his clothes as he was wearing them. The Creator had fashioned in Endymion a male ideal, one who could have easily made his way as a model, art instructor to wealthy young ladies, or ornament at large. He was that stunning and had that much ability.

  And yet, he was leaving London just as his talent was gaining notice. “De Beauharnais, are you well?”

  De Beauharnais tossed himself into a wing chair. “I am quite in the pink. Why?”

  “Because your usual taciturn nature has taken a turn for the melancholy. I am overjoyed to be back in London at last, prepared to make my mark here professionally, and delighted to renew old friendships, while you are nearly gloomy. What is this about?”

  De Beauharnais fiddled with the undone bottom button of his waistcoat—ivory from the look of it. How did an artist of limited means afford ivory buttons?