by Karen Ranney
“And you’ll not work any more today?”
“There will be days when I will stand in front of the canvas, McDermott, until I nearly faint from exhaustion. Today is not one of them. Do not concern yourself; you’ll get your money’s worth.”
She left him then, feeling amusement at his frown. Was it evil to take such delight in McDermott’s irritation? If so, then she was Satan’s minion indeed, because she smiled as she left the room.
Chapter 14
Margaret Dalrousie didn’t appear at nine o’clock as they’d agreed. Robert waited in Amelia’s sitting room, his irritation growing as the minutes ticked by, and she still didn’t appear. What was she doing that was so much more important than her new commission? Or was she simply indolent by nature? He hadn’t thought so, but he was capable of making an error in judgment.
At least he hadn’t paid her yet. He could still call back the instructions to his solicitor. She’d get no money from him if she proved to be too lazy to complete Amelia’s portrait.
Complete it? She’d not yet begun.
He strode to the corner where she’d draped the easel in cloth, and peered beneath it. All that was on the canvas was a series of unintelligible lines and circles. He wasn’t an artist, but this didn’t look like art.
Another fifteen minutes passed, and he finally left the sitting room for his office, intending to send Miss Dalrousie a tersely worded note. He was not used to being treated in such a fashion, and he was also a firm believer in the adage that a man’s habits reveal his character. If she was going to be habitually tardy, then they were going to clash from the beginning. Such actions revealed her as arrogant, careless, and uncaring for anyone’s time other than her own.
He had better things to do than sit and wait for her.
There were more than enough duties to occupy him, a wealth of correspondence that had not been forwarded to him in France. In addition, he’d received a letter from Delmont he’d not yet read. In turn, he needed to write letters to all of those people who’d been so kind to him during his long convalescence. There were some he didn’t know how he would ever begin to thank, but he should at least attempt to do so.
Were people really starving in the Highlands?
He’d been concerned enough about his mother’s words to begin an investigation, but he’d not yet received answers to his letters. If they were truly losing people because of sheep, then something needed to be done. He still had enough influence to call attention to the problem, and he’d begun by writing his own steward and inquiring as to whether any of the crofters farming Glengarrow land had been displaced.
If so, then their fate was his responsibility.
The idea of returning to Glengarrow had been anathema, but now he knew he should have come home long ago—not for his sake, but for the sake of the people who depended upon him.
He looked around his office. The chamber had always been a cozy one, and the intervening years had not changed that fact. He was surrounded by books and warmed by a fire, and if he wished to sit a while and think, the two leather straight-backed chairs in front of the fireplace provided a comfortable place to do so.
Right now, however, he was going to compose an invective to Margaret Dalrousie.
The path to his desk necessitated he pass a series of windows. A flash of color caught his eye, and it was so unexpected to see crimson on the landscape he halted, and then walked closer to the window, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Miss Dalrousie, attired in that red cape with her ridiculous fluffy hat, was seated on a branch of a tree near the edge of the forest, earnestly involved in some task or another. What was she doing? And why did she choose to do it outdoors? Was the fool woman trying to freeze to death?
He grabbed his greatcoat from the hook near the back door and left Glengarrow by the rear entrance. As he marched through the pristine snow, his boots sank in a good six inches. At the rate it was snowing this winter, he didn’t think the earth would ever warm. But here and there were shoots of green, as if nature itself refused to be daunted by cold and ice.
Robert headed in a straight path toward Miss Dalrousie. She didn’t look in his direction, even though he wasn’t quiet in his approach. Nor did she look distracted by the sound of the branches clicking together in the wind. Whatever she was doing was occupying her attention fully.
The forest around Glengarrow had been allowed to develop in its natural state. Trunks were not trained to grow in a certain way, and lower branches were not lopped off if they were displeasing to the sight. If lightning destroyed a tree, it wasn’t removed.
Margaret Dalrousie sat demurely on the low-lying limb of an ancient oak. She leaned forward, her concentration intent on a stump in front of her, for all the world as if she were taking tea with the queen.
Instead of a cup, however, she had a mortar and pestle between her hands. Gloved hands, he was pleased to note. Even though she was out in the frigid weather, she obviously had some common sense.
She had painted nobility, but she wasn’t noble. She had evidently associated with Russia’s elite, but he knew nothing of her past other than the fact she was born in Fife. She’d been honored by associations that did not often honor women, and yet, she never spoke of her laurels. At the same time, she was the most arrogant individual he’d ever met, as well as the most irritating. She was a mass of contradictions, not the least of which was her appearance.
She was as far from beautiful as silver was from tin, but she had a singular way of capturing attention. Perhaps it was her habit of looking at other people with a direct and unflinching gaze. He’d found himself drawn into her stillness more than once, as if she’d woven a web to ensnare him.
Her face was average, neither too long nor too wide. Her eyes were green, striking, and too intent for his comfort, shielded by brows as dark as her black hair. Her mouth was never still. Even now, as she worked, it twisted into a myriad of different expressions: a grimace, a self-deprecating smirk, genuine amusement. Her chin was squared, almost obstinate. Altogether, a face that should not have been as arresting as it was.
She turned at that moment, regarded him, then immediately went back to what she was doing as if his approach was of no interest to her.
“You didn’t come to the sitting room,” he said as he neared her. “May I ask why?”
“You aren’t allowed to ask,” she said, neither looking up or otherwise acknowledging his presence.
Was she always so insufferably rude?
“I cannot even question your absence?”
She glanced at him finally. “I had other tasks to attend to,” she said.
“You haven’t painted anything. Only a few scrawls in charcoal.”
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him.
“Did you remove the cloth from the canvas?” she asked, her voice even.
Her eyes, however, were not so placid. They flashed at him, reminding him of the darkness before a storm, when lightning races from cloud to cloud. Except this lightning was green, and very irritated.
He couldn’t help but feel a little pleased by that fact.
“I didn’t remove it,” he said. “But I did look beneath it.”
“Then I cannot work with you,” she said very calmly, releasing her grip on the pestle. She slapped her hands together as if done with the chore and him.
“If you don’t want this commission, Miss Dalrousie, I can seek out another artist.”
She looked up at that comment. “You are more than welcome to do so,” she said. “But you must understand the next artist would spend the same time doing what I’m doing. We cannot simply wave a brush in the air and the canvas becomes tinted with color, McDermott. A great deal of effort goes into making the paints I will use.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked, interested despite himself. “Why didn’t you prepare a supply before the first session?”
She sighed deeply as if he were an ignorant and stubborn student. Becau
se of that gesture, he was determined not to leave. Or to allow her to annoy him further.
“Because I didn’t know what colors I was going to use,” she said. “Every composition is different, every portrait is unique. I am not going to paint a white silk gown, so I have no use for Bismuth White. Nor is this painting going to be a partial landscape, so my use of Egyptian Brown will be less than if it were.”
“You’ve decided now?”
She glanced at him again, a look filled with irritation.
“Yes.”
“But you’re not going to tell me,” he said. “Does no one ever question you, Miss Dalrousie?”
She didn’t even take a moment to consider the question. “No,” she said tartly. “Not about my painting. Not about the technique, or my practices, or anything regarding the entire execution of the portrait from beginning to end. That is not your province, McDermott, and I will not tolerate it.” She frowned at him. “I thought I made that point perfectly clear.”
“Even for the amount of money I’m willing to pay you?” he asked, a little startled at the fierceness of her expression.
“You are paying for the portrait, not my talent. Nor my time. Granted, the portrait I’ll give you at the end is a result of my talent, but how I achieve it is my concern, not yours. You have no part of the process, McDermott. You only care for the end result.”
She began to close up the jars on the stump. “But it no longer matters. You looked at the canvas, so our agreement is over. Find yourself another artist.”
Had he ever felt that passionate about anything he’d created? Of course he had. He’d been known as rash, perhaps even improvident in Parliament, when a bill from the House of Commons irritated him or pleased him. He’d felt the same the day Penelope was born, when he’d held her in his arms, seeing the future in his daughter’s tiny face.
However, it had been some time since he’d felt that sort of passion, or since enthusiasm strummed through his blood. He could only look at her now, envy her and because he envied her, he disliked her more than a little.
“Very well,” he said. “Do as you will.”
He turned to walk away, and she spoke, the words out of place for the rather brisk Margaret Dalrousie he’d come to know.
“Perhaps you are buying part of my soul, McDermott. If that’s the case, am I not allowed to decide exactly how I deliver it?”
He turned back to address her. “I do not know much about art, Margaret,” he said. “But I know my share about souls. When you give a piece of it away, it doesn’t regenerate itself. The soul is an object one should guard with due diligence, lest you find yourself without one.”
“You called me Margaret,” she said.
“Was that not our agreement?”
“You hold some agreements, then, McDermott? Only yours and no one else’s?”
“What do you want? An apology? A vow never again to look at your painting? If so, I’ll give it to you. I erred.”
He fully expected her to gloat over his admission, but she only nodded.
“If you do it again, McDermott, I will cease. I will never finish.”
She turned back to the mortar and pestle and continued grinding up the yellow paste in the bottom of the bowl.
“Were you as imperious in the Russian court?”
“I had to be,” she said. “Otherwise, I would have been treated with contempt. The Russian nobles are not an understanding breed. They have no patience for weakness, and they can scent it like a wolf.”
“Is that why you’re sitting here on one of the coldest mornings I can remember? Because you miss Russia?”
Her face changed, very subtly. “I don’t miss Russia. I shall never go there again.”
“Will you not come inside for a cup of tea or chocolate? Your lips are beginning to turn blue.”
She stood abruptly, tucking her gloved hands into her cape. “It is safer for all concerned I do this out of doors,” she said. “But I thank you for the invitation.”
“Safer?”
She looked down at the mortar and pestle. “Some of these pigments are poisonous, McDermott. More than one artist has died because of contact with Kings Yellow, and Red Orpiment. I find that hideous. A man is expected to put his soul”—she glanced at him and corrected herself—“a piece of his soul on canvas. Most of the time, instead of recognition for his talent, he will die because of it.”
“People die, Miss Dalrousie. Regrettably, it is a part of life.”
“For beauty? A person should die for a cause, McDermott. Not by accident.”
She looked suddenly stricken.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I do know how to carry on a conversation without being insensitive.”
“Would it surprise you to know I agree with you, Miss Dalrousie? A person should not die by accident. Not without some sort of warning, at least. Life should not be so easily extinguished.”
He turned then, and to ease her discomfort more than his own, left her to her chore. Only once did he glance back to find that she was staring at him, a look on her face that he couldn’t decipher.
The young maid, the same one who’d caught the stove on fire, bundled up in a coat much too large for her, and made the journey from Glengarrow to Margaret’s perch on delicate steps, almost toe first in the snow. A green-wool scarf was wrapped around her throat and covered most of her face. All that appeared of Helen were two inquisitive eyes and a forehead covered with curly red hair.
“Miss,” the girl said, reaching Margaret. “I brought you chocolate.”
Because Helen had braved the elements no doubt at the earl’s bidding, Margaret didn’t have the heart to refuse. Nor was it prudent to do so. Freezing to death didn’t seem an entirely adequate response to the earl’s peeking at her canvas.
Very well, he’d broken the rules. But he’d apologized. She’d countered with a bit of accidental rudeness. They were, if not even, then certainly matched.
She placed the pestle back in the mortar and pulled off her gloves. Only then did she reach for the cup proffered by the young girl.
The chocolate was, of course, delicious. Anything Janet cooked or prepared was superior. It was so cold the chocolate didn’t stay hot for long. But by the time the liquid became chilled, it was gone.
“Oh,” she said, sighing when she emptied the cup. “That was delicious, Helen. Thank you.”
The young girl nodded. “I’m to ask you if you need any help, miss,” Helen said. “I am to tell you, also, I’m not a foolish chit.”
Margaret bit back a smile, hearing the echoes of Janet’s irritation in the girl’s speech.
“I can take orders well,” she added, but the eyes exposed beneath the emerald scarf looked decidedly worried. “I’ve a beau in Inverness, miss, so I’m not wanting to poison myself.”
“Did the earl tell you to say that?” she asked.
The girl shook her head rather vehemently. “He just said it was dangerous work. Mrs. Janet was the one who told me not to go and poison myself.”
“Are you truly not a foolish girl?”
This time, Helen nodded, then added a comment. “I’ve a level head on my shoulders, miss.”
“You haven’t caught the stove on fire again?”
The girl smiled and then the expression immediately vanished, as if she were chastising herself for amusement.
“Mrs. Janet is a wonder, that’s for sure. She makes one of the best bramble tarts I’ve ever eaten. Me, I’ve no talent whatsoever with food or stoves. But I can dust well, and I polish silver better than anyone I know.”
“You’ll have to have a level head about you now,” Margaret said. “And a good pair of gloves.”
To her surprise, the girl withdrew a pair of brown cotton gloves from her pocket. “Will these do?” she asked.
“As well as any, I suppose,” Margaret said.
In truth, she was getting tired of this chore, and it looked as if she had a good hour or so of work ahead of her. At this rate, s
he truly would freeze before all the pigments were mixed. There was a chance she would need one or two of them tomorrow.
Once she was committed to beginning a painting, she liked to have all of her supplies around her. The very last thing she wanted to do was to be limited in working on a certain part of the composition because she hadn’t prepared the right shade or tone for it.
Margaret showed Helen what she needed to do, demonstrating how to hold the end of the pestle as well as the proper twist and downward motion. The powder needed to be so finely ground that once linseed oil was added, no lumps would form.
She added two more teaspoonfuls of Egyptian Brown to the bottom of the mortar.
“Saints love us,” Helen said. “It sure has a smell to it, it does. Like dead chickens too long in the henhouse.”
“Try not to breathe of it,” Margaret cautioned. “You’ll begin coughing, and it will be weeks before you finish.” She decided not to tell the young girl Egyptian Brown was also called Mummy because it was the ground-up remains of dead humans. The compound, however, produced a dark brown shade that could not be matched by any other pigment.
While Helen was occupied grinding the Egyptian Brown, Margaret carefully opened the jar of Madder, extracting the cork with care so as not to breathe any of the compound. Once the linseed oil was mixed, the pigment would become less toxic.
He’d sent her chocolate. What a very surprising gesture. None of the nobles she’d known in Russia would have shown such consideration. But then, they would’ve been amused at her reaction to the cold.
Just when she was certain she didn’t like the Earl of Linnet at all, he’d surprised her. But then, it wasn’t the first time he’d done so. She’d invaded his privacy in the worst way possible, and he’d apologized for his brutality and offered her a commission.
“Do you like working here, Helen?”
The girl looked surprised at the question.
“I suppose I do, yes. It’s not a bad place to work. My knuckles don’t get rapped, and nobody yells.” She smiled. “Oh, Mrs. Janet gets annoyed from time to time, but she doesn’t really yell.”
