A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,34
mentioned that the age of the canvas can often be deduced by examining it from the back. Take a look at this one.”
Oak had first turned the painting over to confirm his hunch regarding its recent origins. He took it down now and held it so the back faced Vera.
“The canvas is new,” she said. “I seldom heat the gallery, in part to protect the paintings from smoke, but that canvas can’t be ten years old.”
“I’d like your permission to take it out of the frame.”
“Of course you may, but why dismantle the frame?”
Oak rehung the painting. “Because the frame is another clue. It hasn’t been glued. If you take a close look at the corners, the frame is held together exclusively by hardware, and not much of it.”
“So taking it apart won’t be difficult.” Vera moved away, on to the next painting. “This one’s no better, is it?”
She peered at the landscape, an unremarkable rural scene with the requisite sheep, cows, undulating fields, and distant manor house. The only aspect of the composition to draw the eye was a pair of riders, a man and a woman, side by side on a lane in the bottom right corner of the frame. The lady’s habit—a flowing, scarlet ensemble—was the brightest element of the whole and thus placed awkwardly from a compositional standpoint.
“Nobody wears skirts that long anymore,” Vera said, “and I’ve never seen an entirely red habit, despite the fashion for women’s riding attire to mimic military styles. Let’s have a look at the back.”
“It’s new,” Oak said. “As new as the one next to it. Most of the paintings in here are new, and I believe they are framed so poorly because the frames were meant to be dismantled.”
Vera crossed her arms, regarding the room wall by wall. “Why do that? Dirk’s professional standing mattered to him. He had to know that I’d eventually resume entertaining, and people—the neighbors at least—would see this lot of tripe.”
“I can’t answer that. Perhaps he expected that his friends would raise the very questions I’m bringing up now. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly when he established this gallery. We might have more answers after I pry apart a frame or two.”
“Do as you wish. The paintings are apparently worthless.” Based on her grim expression, the lack of value bothered her exceedingly.
“You have some very nice old works in the attic, Vera. I can have them cleaned up and on their way to Town within a week. You’ll want to wait until the Little Season to auction them, though a sale next spring would bring better prices still.”
She crossed the room to perch on the bench before the window. “Because in spring, everybody is refurbishing the properties they let out for the Season proper, but the sooner I can invest funds for Catherine, the more she’ll have as a dower portion. A year or so ago, I tried sending three paintings to Mr. Longacre to sell in Town—that landscape,” she said, nodding in the direction of a trite rural scene, “and the two garden studies on either side of it. He couldn’t find buyers for any of them, and now you’re telling me to wait longer still to try again.”
She had picked the best of the lot to send to Longacre, but the best of this collection would be beneath Longacre’s notice.
“As soon as my supplies and equipment arrive,” Oak said, “I’ll get to work. Have you given any more thought to a portrait?”
While Vera gazed out at the bucolic countryside, Oak remained on his feet and found his attention drawn to the nape of her neck. Was there a more enticing aspect to a woman’s body than that delicate, vulnerable, pale, sweet…?
He wanted to taste her there, to sniff and nuzzle and nibble and kiss. He wanted to know the exact texture of her skin, the scent and warmth of her.
“How soon can you take apart that painting?” Vera asked.
“I can start on it in the morning.”
She rose. “Let me know what you find.”
The door was open, and Vera headed straight for it, only to be met by Bracken. “Madam, the mail has arrived. You have more correspondence from London, so I brought it to you straightaway.”
He sent Oak the kind of look Oak’s mother had reserved for Papa’s hounds when they presumed to accompany his lordship through the front door.
“Thank you, Bracken. Mr. Dorning, I’ll see you at dinner.” Vera hurried out, sorting the packet of letters.