A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,15
I have a strawberry?”
Oak liked strawberries, but not enough to arm-wrestle for them. He dumped half the contents of the bowl onto his plate and passed the rest to Jeremy.
“I doubt Mrs. Channing wants me working on her late husband’s paintings. They are too new to need restoration and of too much sentimental value to be for sale. I haven’t inspected the library yet. I’m assuming some of the older works are in there?”
“A half-dozen grim, dark fellows in ruffed collars and odd hats scowl down from the walls. Some ladies in outmoded fashion smile at them, and there’s a little boy with a dog. The terror occasionally whines for a dog. Might I have another sandwich?”
“You had your own lunch, Forester. Have you been in the attics?”
Forester produced a mock shudder. “Not even to track down the terror when he’s in a rebellious mood would I venture into Merlin Hall’s attics. The footmen have a dormitory on the attic floor—the maids’ dormitory is across from the housekeeper’s apartment belowstairs, by the by—but the attics are mostly full of covered furniture and such.”
Meaning Forester had stolen at least a peek.
Oak started on a second sandwich. “Will Miss Diggory join us for supper?”
“She and Catherine usually do. Catherine drives the poor woman to distraction. The Channing offspring have more than the usual complement of stubbornness. Suppose they get it from their father. Catherine has the Channing name, but she’s from the wrong side of the blanket. I mention that not because I am the judgmental sort who holds the sins of the mother against the child, but because one wants to know where to step lightly.”
“Or not step at all. What of Miss Diggory?” And what of the father’s sins?
“Miss Diggory is a good egg. She’d have to be, else she’d have strangled Catherine. She and I would both be eternally in your debt if you’d offer our charges some rudimentary drawing lessons. You can’t be cataloging paintings the livelong day, after all.”
Actually, Oak could, easily, but he considered a small boy trapped indoors behind an unforgiving wall of Deuteronomy, and a very young lady feuding with her own body.
“I like the role of drawing master,” he said, picking up the tankard of ale mostly so Jeremy wouldn’t help himself again. Public school bonhomie was one thing, unwarranted presumption another. “If Mrs. Channing has no objection, I’ll spend some time instructing the children.”
“Splendid,” Jeremy said, rising and thumping Oak on the back, which resulted in ale sloshing over Oak’s hand. “I’ll tell Miss Diggory, and you will be remembered fondly in our prayers.” He snatched up the remaining half a sandwich and went munching on his way.
Oak took his time finishing his meal, and may the kitchen be eternally blessed, somebody had included two generous squares of shortbread with the repast. He wrapped one in a linen table napkin and took the other and the last of his ale with him on a circuit of the gallery.
Dirk Channing had assembled these paintings for reasons, and displayed them knowing how unimpressive several were. The collection made no sense, the house having plenty of other rooms where a professional artist could have displayed works of more sentimental worth than aesthetic quality.
Wherever Channing’s treasures were, they weren’t in the gallery.
Oak took his ale back to the bench by the window, set down his tankard, and gave in to the urge to do a little sketching. The light was wrong, the pencil wasn’t as sharp as he preferred, and he hadn’t proper paper to work with, but the compulsion to capture Verity Channing’s likeness would not be denied.
Vera’s afternoon had gone completely awry, though she had enjoyed the time spent with Catherine. For once, they hadn’t been arguing or trading veiled barbs. Catherine had claimed to be seeking fresh air to combat a megrim, a plausible excuse for truancy. When Vera had suggested they experiment with upswept coiffures, no more mention had been made of the headache.
Or of playing truant.
“You simply walk into the dining room as if it’s another family dinner,” Vera said, passing Catherine a paisley silk shawl of blue and gold. “If anybody comments on your appearance, they will do so to offer a compliment.”
In the cheval mirror, Catherine’s expression was doubtful. “Mr. Forester might tease me.”
“Then I will turn him off without a character.” Vera meant that, oddly enough. A man who made his living instructing young people either exercised some tact where those young people were concerned or found a