A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,8
put pen to paper and inquire of his younger sibling through the post. Just a thought.”
Casriel took another sip of his brandy. “How did she learn of Oak’s skills? He’s never held himself out as one who restores cast-off attic portraits.”
This concern would be touching if it weren’t so belated. “I believe she wrote to a connection at the Academy, and he referred her to Oak.”
“Why not send her an Academy member?”
Ye gods, when had Casriel become so dunderheaded? “Because those good fellows are absorbed with painting lucrative portraits, as you noted. Oak is willing to spend a few weeks restoring the lady’s collection. He’s out from underfoot here at the Hall, a consummation you devoutly wished for, and he’s earning his keep, a goal he doubtless aspired to. What is this show of worry really about?”
Casriel set down his drink. “Beatitude is a widow.”
Beatitude being the present Countess of Casriel and a thoroughly lovely woman. “Your point?”
“Society is inordinately invested in supervising the conduct of widows, particularly widows of means. We ought to have heard something of this Mrs. Channing. Beatitude knows nothing of her, and yet, Mrs. Channing owns a sizable estate and an art collection.”
Laughing at Casriel’s concern would be unkind and might result in an attempted thrashing for old times’ sake.
“You say that as if only pirates and smugglers own art collections. Dorning Hall is full of portraits, landscapes, and still lifes, as are most country houses. The king himself sets great store by his art as well.” Valerian’s little estate, Abbotsford, had a few nice pieces, and Emily would doubtless acquire more over the years.
Emily, whom Valerian missed, though he’d parted from her not three hours previously. Married life was certainly a change. Valerian had never slept so well nor gone to bed so early or so happily.
“Oak wants to become a member of the Royal Academy some fine day,” Valerian went on. “Therefore, if an Academy member recommended him for a job, he was all but duty-bound to accept the work. Very likely, he can charm a commission or two out of the old dear, and she will happily write him a glowing character. Not all battles are won with an artillery barrage and a cavalry charge, Casriel. Some of us must resort to strategy, diplomacy, and patience.”
“Sycamore won his objective with boldness. Willow certainly didn’t shilly-shally in the shires when he realized where his future lay. Hawthorne was similarly direct about pursuing his dreams, and you stole a march on the lot of us, marrying an heiress who appears to adore you.”
A frowning perusal followed, with unspoken, well-intended, and unforgivably nosy questions hanging in the air.
“I adore her too,” Valerian said, smiling at his brandy, “and married life is off to a splendid start.”
“As it should be.” Said quite fiercely.
“Would you presume to lecture Emily if I said we were having to make some adjustments?” They were. A lot of adjustments, but nothing that laughter, consideration, and mutual devotion couldn’t surmount.
“Adjustments are part of the marital terrain, and just wait until fatherhood befalls you. There be dragons in that land, Valerian. Enormous, hungry dragons that cinder a man’s peace.” Casriel downed the rest of his drink. “Dear Oak has chosen the terrain of Hampshire, and we have no idea what adjustments he’s having to make.”
Valerian took a modest taste of his brandy. “When you hold Sycamore up as a good example, the realm is in peril. Think of it this way, Casriel: Hampshire is on the way to London. Oak wants to end up in London, a sought-after painter of portraits, and he’s thus moved closer to his goal. Stop fretting and write our brother a letter. Have Beatitude send a cordial note to the widow. Show some faith in Oak’s resourcefulness.”
Casriel rose to return his glass to the sideboard. “Beatitude gives me the same sermon. Trust my brothers, she says. She hardly knows my brothers, but she admonishes me to trust the lot of you, wretches and scoundrels that you are. Oak likes to sit in trees sketching by the hour. He forgets to eat when a painting is going well and forgets his name when it’s going poorly. He will wander into a bog because he’s too taken with the colors of the sky to watch where his feet are going. He’ll forget to collect his wages.”
“No, he will not. Oak has more sense than most of us. He simply keeps his conclusions to himself, a habit foreign to your lordly