A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,13
Mrs. Channing?” His tone suggested there had better be.
“But neither child would be served by the scandal that attaches to forged art. Some former colleague of Dirk’s from the Royal Academy would make a disparaging remark, another former colleague would agree with him, and then I could be brought up on charges. Dirk’s memory would suffer from such a scandal, and thus I will not be a party to selling forgeries. Where the welfare of my children is concerned, I will be ruthlessly sensible.”
Mr. Dorning folded his arms, which caused fine wool to stretch across broad shoulders. “The paintings aren’t all forgeries. Dirk might have purchased the French painting on a whim, knowing it to be flawed, or out of pity, because the artist was a friend who needed funds. Many a painter works in the style of the more successful artists of the past, and those works are not considered forgeries.”
Now he was being kind. Vera preferred his shrewdness. “I had hoped you’d set foot in here and be awed by the number and quality of the artistic wonders you beheld. You needn’t loom over me.”
He joined her on the bench. “I’m sure you have plenty of good quality work here. I’ll do a thorough perusal while I’m waiting for my supplies to arrive. Is there more art elsewhere in the house?”
“Merlin Hall is awash in art, but good quality is not enough, Mr. Dorning. I need excellent quality art if I’m to see Catherine happily settled.”
“Did Dirk ever paint you, ma’am?”
The question caught Vera off guard, perhaps because she spied Catherine emerging from the copse of trees behind the stable. Her bright gold hair was a beacon at even this distance, though Miss Diggory had claimed Catherine was feeling indisposed.
“My husband sketched, drew, and painted by the hour, Mr. Dorning, and I have not paged through his every volume and stack of scribblings to know if he rendered my likeness. I assume he did. I see a truant, though, trying to sneak back to the house undetected. Feel free to linger here as long as you need to, and then we can attack the attic. I must have a word with my prodigal daughter.”
“Should the young lady be putting up her hair?” Mr. Dorning asked, gaze on Catherine as she stopped halfway across a paddock to pet a broodmare.
“Put up her hair? She’s only fourteen.”
“My sister Daisy started putting up her hair at fourteen. My mother bestowed that privilege in hopes of inspiring adult behavior.”
Catherine was growing up. Vera had been trying to deny that reality for months. “What sort of behavior?”
Mr. Dorning rose. “Mama thought Daisy should remain indoors memorizing poetry when a beautiful summer morning tempted a girl out of doors. Sitting patiently for hours behind a dreary old desk when Daisy longed to move. Listening to the third retelling of some dusty old lecture about deportment when native curiosity compelled her to explore the natural world.”
He bent low, as if he’d whisper in Vera’s ear. “I daresay you were not the sort of girl who passed up a beautiful day to remain closeted with a translation of Seneca.”
No, I was not, and look what became of me. “Why did you ask if my husband had ever done my portrait?”
He straightened. “Because you are an interesting subject, Dirk was a talented portraitist, and I have thus far seen no likenesses of you in Merlin Hall’s public rooms. I would enjoy attempting your portrait.”
Vera rose, the open, airy gallery abruptly feeling too private. “Sitting for a portrait takes hours I doubt I can spare, Mr. Dorning, and I did not retain you to create yet still more paintings to hang on Merlin Hall’s walls.”
If Vera knew one thing to be true, it was that allowing Oak Dorning to paint her portrait was a bad idea.
“I am considered quick,” he said. “A sitting or two might be sufficient. If you don’t want to hang the painting here, I could sell it for you in London.”
Worse and worse. “I must be going. I would like to apprehend Catherine before she adds use of the maids’ stairs to her list of charges. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“And you’ll think about allowing me to do a study of you?”
Had Jeremy Forester made that request, Vera would have known his objective to be thinly disguised flirtation. Mr. Dorning’s interest was expressed without a smile, without flattery. He was once again studying her features, probably deciding what to do about her too-strong nose.