Keeping the Castle - By Patrice Kindl Page 0,43

good.

He nodded. I could have shaken him for not finding voice to reassure her more fully, but she seemed satisfied. She sighed with relief, and her plain features glowed. “I know,” she said, “that few women could ever be considered great painters, and I do not mean to put myself on a level with Miss Mary Moser or Miss Angelica Kauffmann, but I hope that this painting, with this sitter—” she suddenly seemed to recollect that the sitter was in the room, and smiled at me—“will establish me at least as a competent—”

“Oh, don’t talk nonsense,” Mr. Fredericks said.

Apparently unoffended by this piece of blatant rudeness, Miss Vincy turned to me and said, “I hope you will allow me to submit the picture to the Royal Academy. Mr. Fredericks, you do think it worthy?”

“It’s worthy. Oh, they’ll sky it, of course, but they’ll have to show it. It’s a damned fine piece of work. I’ll submit it myself, if you like.”

“The Royal Academy!” I exclaimed. “But, what do you mean, ‘sky it’?”

Miss Vincy explained, “At the Academy exhibition hall the best-known painters’ works are hung in rows at eye level, then the lesser known above that, and then the newcomers, those whose names are entirely unknown, are hung up near the ceiling—the sky, you see. Do you think that your mother would object to it being exhibited? If you wished, I could call it Portrait of a Lady, without identifying you by name.”

“I do not think she would have any objection,” I said slowly. “But . . . what about your mother and father? Will they allow your work to be displayed in public?”

I was very sorry to see the glow of happiness snuffed out like a candle. Her whole being appeared to droop; her gaze fell. “I do not know. But I suspect . . . I fear—”

Even Mr. Fredericks appeared somewhat crestfallen. “Old Vincy’s a good sort,” he said, “but he’s ruled in these matters by that mutton-headed woman, your mother.”

“Mr. Fredericks!” I protested.

Miss Vincy endeavored to hide a smile. “Really, Mr. Fredericks, I’d not think of calling my mother a sheep, precisely.”

“Well, a rhinoceros, then, barging about and trampling people.”

“Mr.—!”

“Oh, do hush, Miss Crawley,” he said irritably, “and let me think what is to be done. It will have to be submitted anonymously: Portrait of a Lady, by a Lady, sort of thing. Your mother need never know.”

“I couldn’t go behind her back,” said Miss Vincy, shaking her head.

I smiled. I knew the perfect solution to Miss Vincy’s dilemma. It was not one I could propose to either at this exact moment, but it would meet all difficulties with perfect propriety.

Mr. Fredericks eyed me suspiciously. “Why do you smile, Miss Crawley? You’ve some idea in that head of yours, I can tell.”

“No, indeed, not I!” I said. “I cannot imagine why you would think so.” But I could not help smiling again.

“Oh, Mr. Fredericks,” said Miss Vincy, coaxed out of her despondency by our banter, “when Miss Crawley gets that look on her face, I tremble. She is planning something, that is certain!”

And after all, I found I must just drop a hint. As we moved to join the rest of the company I said, “I suggest you both ask yourselves, what circumstances would allow Miss Vincy to exhibit the painting without fearing opposition from her parents?”

For of course, the answer to that was quite simple. If Miss Vincy were to become Mrs. Fredericks, her parents would no longer be in a position to raise any objections.

My companions turned questioning looks on me, but I would not enlighten them. Let them find out the solution themselves. With a little assistance from me, of course.

My plan of action was this: now that the portrait was completed I would reclaim my rightful share of Lord Boring’s attention—poor man, I would rescue him from Charity’s private little tête-à-têtes—and, once Mrs. Vincy saw that the Baron would never be a match for her daughter, she would cast about for another man to wed Miss Vincy. And who better than Mr. Fredericks?

Well . . . that is to say, there might be many better choices, could one scour all of England, but they were not here, on the spot, and Mr. Fredericks was. And in truth, I had rather revised my opinion of Mr. Fredericks of late.

The fact that I had been unjust to him at the Screaming Stones helped to prepare my mind for the realization that everyone I loved, everyone