A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,11
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 bowed 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.
“I am certain,” Mr. Dorning said, “if we were to turn this work over and examine the canvas, we’d find it nearly pristine, suggesting that what you have is a recent work intended to look venerable. Notice her headwear, called a fontange. They became fashionable in the 1680s, but Louis XIV took them into dislike when they grew ridiculously large and ornate. By 1700, they were no longer worn.”
“Perhaps the lady wasn’t a slave to fashion?”
“Perhaps she was an independent spirit, but consider her beauty patch. When the Duchesse du Maine brought beauty patches back into fashion, the custom became to wear several,