A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,30
gradual degrees, Oak drew the boy into the task of seeing. The lad was astute and noticed similarities and contrasts many others his age would not have spotted. Very likely, he had his father’s talent, though much hard work would be needed to turn talent into ability.
“You have a keen eye,” Oak said, ruffling the boy’s hair.
Alexander flinched at that presumption. “Thank you, sir. Must we return to the nursery now?”
“Do you have a pony?” Ponies could make inspiring subjects for a first attempt at a portrait.
“No, sir.”
“Then let’s return by way of the mare’s pasture. Equestrian art is a significant specialty, and some portraitists make a living painting only horseflesh.”
“Did you have a pony, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Even though you were slow at Latin?”
“What has that…?” Oak let the question remain incomplete. Perhaps Alexander did not have a pony because he was a slow scholar, but if the boy could look forward to his riding lessons, he’d be that much easier to motivate in the schoolroom.
How could Forester not grasp that?
“I did the best I could at Latin,” Oak said. “My brothers didn’t have my talent with art, but they had more ability with Latin. My parents asked us only to do our best. They did not expect perfection.”
Alexander stood beside the mare’s pasture fence, peering between the boards at the livestock corralled within.
“Mr. Forester says a smart boy doesn’t tolerate errors. I am not a smart boy.”
And Jeremy Forester was apparently not a smart man either. “You are a young boy,” Oak said. “You have years to learn what you need to know. Tomorrow, we’ll start sketching.”
“Yes, sir.”
Oak scrambled over the fence and hopped to the ground, leaving the boy on the other side.
“Shall I use the gate, sir?”
“Climb up,” Oak said. “I’ll set you on your feet.”
Alexander made an awkward business of clambering to the top of the fence, and when Oak caught him under the arms and lifted him to the ground, the boy felt too slight for his age.
Alexander made an anxious inspection of his sleeves and knees. “Did I get dirty?”
“Not in the least. How many different colors do you see among the mares and foals?”
Alexander applied himself to that task, his judgment astute enough to distinguish between the cream white of a chestnut mare’s stockings, the silver white of a filly’s blaze, and the pinkish white of an old pensioner’s muzzle.
When Oak returned Alexander to the nursery, he made it a point to tell Forester that his pupil had been obedient and attentive at all times and that their walk hadn’t taken them anywhere near boggy ground thanks to Alexander’s good sense.
“I look forward to tomorrow’s outing,” Oak said, though that was not exactly true. He would much rather be closeted with Vera among the castoffs and restorations than spend another hour in the company of an anxious, frail boy who never smiled.
Perhaps it wasn’t entirely a bad thing that a departure for London was only a few weeks off. A friendly liaison of limited duration wasn’t meant to create emotional entanglements, and wading into the challenges in Vera Channing’s nursery had entanglement painted all over it.
Chapter Five
Alexander fidgeted on the opposite wing chair, as if he’d rather be anywhere but perched on that cushion. He looked tired to Vera, but then, the afternoon was well advanced. Not that long ago, he’d taken occasional afternoon naps, an indulgence that would likely mortify him now.
“You used to take sugar in your tea,” she said. “When did that change?”
“Sweets are to be earned, Mama.”
She put a small lump of sugar into his cup anyway. The patient note of instruction in his voice, aimed at the female who’d given him life, grated on her nerves.
“Sweets are to be savored, Alexander. How did your first art lesson go?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
Clearly, the boy did not want to be in Vera’s private parlor, did not want to spend time with his mother, and did not care to discuss his art lesson—or anything.
“What did you and Mr. Dorning do?”
“We talked about colors and seeing what’s before one, and we talked about shapes.” He spared Vera a shy glance. “I climbed a fence.”
As a young girl, Vera had climbed fences without number. Also trees, haystacks—very dangerous, that—and many a hill. Her family hadn’t had tutors or governesses—her brothers had gone to the vicarage for a few Latin lessons in the colder months—and the whole business of managing a nursery was more fraught than she could have imagined.