A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,36
art. I find art interesting. I am drawn to artistic pursuits. All so much dithering that implied, Please don’t disapprove of me because I love my art.
For he did. He absolutely did. Surely the Royal Academy would see that.
“Take the boy, then,” Forester said, huffing out another sigh. “Corrupt him to your heart’s content, but don’t be surprised if he’s so fidgety tomorrow that I’m compelled to take the birch rod to his hopeless little backside.”
“He’s six years old, Forester. You don’t actually use that thing on him, do you?”
Forester smiled. “Mostly as a threat, and thank God it’s effective in that capacity. The boy has a stubborn streak.”
Mostly as a threat. Oak disliked the sound of that, but then, he wasn’t a tutor combatting the unscholarly impulses of a little boy. He was an artist.
“I will have your pupil back in two or three hours,” Oak said, pausing at the schoolroom door, “but might you consider addressing him as Master Alexander? You insist on proper deportment from him, you should at least show him the courtesy of proper address, shouldn’t you? Children learn by example.”
Forester picked up the old birch rod in the corner and whipped it through the air a few times. “Master Alexander. When he masters something—anything—I’ll happily refer to him as such. How’s that?” Whip, whip.
That was an infantile display of contrariness, but Oak had made his point. Alexander met him in the corridor, and it was all Oak could do not to put the little fellow on the polished bannister and show him what long staircases were truly meant for when a small boy’s day needed some excitement.
Perhaps another time.
“Mr. Dorning has taken Master Alexander with him into Bathboro,” Bracken said, setting a tea tray at Vera’s elbow.
“He has?” Vera occasionally took Alexander to the village, though not since Jeremy had joined the household.
“Mr. Dorning’s effects have arrived from Dorset, and he was eager to retrieve them. I gave him to understand that you would support this plan.” Bracken stepped back. “I hope I did not misguide the artist in residence?”
Yesterday, Oak had taken Alexander for a walk without asking anybody’s permission. Why shouldn’t he take the child into the village?
“I can’t imagine Mr. Forester was pleased with this development.” Vera did not particularly want any tea, but rather than hurt Bracken’s feelings, she poured herself a cup and dutifully sipped.
Bracken withdrew a wilting pink rose from among a bouquet on the mantel. “Mr. Forester predicted that the end times would soon be upon us if Master Alexander was permitted fresh air for an entire summer afternoon. This calamity is not to be confused with the apocalypse that will occur if the boy fails to translate Caesar’s Gallic letters by Yuletide.”
“Were you eavesdropping, Bracken?”
“Checking the oil in the lamps in the nursery corridor, ma’am.” He tossed the fading rose into the dustbin and peered at the full coal bucket, though the day was too mild for a fire to have been lit in the parlor’s hearth. His next dilatory tactic was to fuss with the folds of the drapes pulled back to let in the afternoon sun.
Vera was very much aware of the stack of letters in the middle of the blotter and equally aware that Bracken was hovering.
“You don’t think much of Mr. Forester, do you, Bracken?”
He moved to another set of drapes. “I believe it more the case that Mr. Forester doesn’t think much of me. His opinion of a butler is of no moment, but he had best remain respectful toward you, madam, or to quote a particularly dull-witted pedant, there will be consequences.”
Vera had no idea who the pedant—oh. That pedant. “Exactly what kind of consequences does the pedant refer to?”
“That’s a matter for discussion between you and Mr. Forester, madam. Please do have a sandwich or two, lest Cook be offended.” He bowed and withdrew after a pointed glance at the tray.
Vera nibbled on an egg sandwich while she went through the correspondence. A single invitation, much to her relief. Only one invoice, from the thatchers who’d repaired a tenant’s sheep byre. Vera unlocked her strong box and counted out the requisite coin, for skilled laborers preferred cash to bank drafts.
And—predictably—Richard Longacre expressed hopes that she might journey to London for Lady Montclair’s summer reception. Vera would just as predictably decline and took out a sheet of paper preparing to pen her reply.
“Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Channing.” Tamsin Diggory stood in the doorway. “I hadn’t realized you were in here.