of portraits of their offspring. Oak had only to express his acceptance of the commissions, and the work would be his upon his arrival in London.
More cause for rejoicing. For elation and ebullience, and happy letters sent to all siblings.
Oak instead went back to his studio and asked Bracken to send up a bottle of brandy.
Vera was weary, despite getting adequate sleep. The predawn conversation with Oak weighed on her soul, and the thought of bidding him farewell put a constant lump in her throat.
The effort of pretending that Oak Dorning was simply an artistic fellow biding for a few weeks at the Hall to do some restoration work took another sort of toll. Vera listened for his tread outside her parlor door while she tried to focus on her accounts. She took her weekly cup of tea with the housekeeper and pretended an enthusiasm for menus she barely glanced at.
She joined Catherine and Miss Diggory in a session of choosing fabric for Catherine’s first full-length dresses and barely contributed to the undertaking other than to suggest that Catherine avoid yellow, no matter how enthusiastically Miss Diggory rhapsodized about buttercups and daffodils.
This painful, yearning quality had never characterized her life with Dirk Channing, though Dirk had been moody, impulsive, self-absorbed, and occasionally petulant.
Oak was none of those things. He was simply intent on pursuing his profession in the location where he was most likely to succeed. As an earl’s son, with family in Town, he’d thrive in London, and Vera would become a fond, distant memory to him.
She slit open the top letter in the stack of correspondence she’d been ignoring for the past half hour. Richard Longacre politely inquired regarding her health and asked for her impressions of Mr. Dorning’s talents. He finished up with some reminiscence about Dirk and a drinking contest in Venice and added the usual postscript: Should Vera be of a mind to visit London, Longacre would happily arrange lodgings for her and serve as her host. Lady Montclair’s reception was simply not to be missed this year, and all of Vera’s old friends would be there.
Longacre had been making that offer since a year after Dirk’s death. A second postscript followed the first: Longacre hoped that Miss Diggory and Mr. Forester were proving adequate to the positions they’d taken on.
They were not, if Vera were honest. She struggled to say exactly why—her concerns were only that, not outright objections—but neither Jeremy nor Tamsin was quite what she wanted for her children. If she sacked either the tutor or the governess, would Longacre be offended?
A tap on the parlor’s open door had her looking up and expecting to see Bracken with a tea tray.
Oak stood in the doorway, a bit tousled and tired.
“May I have a moment of your time?” he asked.
“Of course.” She took up another unopened letter, mostly to occupy her hands. “Have a seat.”
“I have begun a painting,” he said, taking the chair opposite Vera’s desk. “I didn’t plan on starting it, and I’m here to offer my excuses for dinner. Forester cast aspersion on Merlin Hall in Alexander’s hearing, and I realized you have no landscape on the premises that includes the Hall.”
“You are painting Merlin Hall?”
“Consider it a present to Alexander, whose home this is. I haven’t painted anything for some time, and this project seemed…”
He fell silent, staring at his hands. Brown paint ringed his left thumb, and a pink streak crossed the back of his left hand.
“Is this a farewell gift?” Vera said, slitting open the letter she held.
“Something like that. Alexander and Catherine are wroth with me for leaving.”
I am wroth with you for leaving. Though that wasn’t exactly true. Vera was wroth with herself for falling in love with him and wroth with him for being so dear—and so determined on his objectives.
“People leave, Oak. The children need to learn that lesson and need to learn that they can carry on despite the sorrow.” A miserable lesson to inflict on Catherine and Alexander, both of whom had lost a parent much too early in life.
Vera scanned the note and set it aside.
“Is something wrong?” Oak asked.
“That.” Vera nodded at the epistle. “Hera McIntrye, who believes herself to be the last word on the proper artistic rendering of flowers in all media, has reminded me that Lady Montclair’s exhibit should feature a posthumous work of Dirk’s. Miss McIntrye’s father is an Academy associate, and when they visited here, she was a difficult guest.”
Oak rose and picked up