A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,82
the note. “‘I understand London can be overwhelming to those raised in less sophisticated surrounds, but the duty to preserve Dirk Channing’s legacy should transcend our petty insecurities, don’t you agree?’ She’s been sending you this kind of sanctimonious rubbish for three years?”
“She’s worse about the Summer Exhibition. Her father was among those who disrespected me, and I suspect that she and he laughed about that all the way back to London.”
Oak returned the letter to Vera’s desk. “I don’t like this. I don’t like that Forester insults Alexander’s home while carping at the boy ceaselessly over gentlemanly deportment. I don’t like that Miss Diggory has done nothing to encourage Catherine’s artistic talent. I don’t like that I’m leaving you here alone to deal with nasty letters, but Longacre has promised me three commissions as soon as I can make my way to London. The subjects are children, and I’d be a very poor talent if I could not do artistic justice to children.”
“Three commissions?”
Oak resumed his seat, looking miserable. “Longacre has done much for me, Vera. He’s the reason I’m here at Merlin Hall. I owe him, now more than ever. He’s arranged for me to lodge with another portraitist, a fellow I know from the Academy classes. I get on well with de Beauharnais. He’s serious about his art, exceptionally talented, and not given to dramatics.”
“I thought you’d stay with your brothers, Ash and what’s the other one’s name?”
“Sycamore. Cam, though he’d answer to Beelzebub in a certain mood. I love my brothers, and I miss them, but to become their free lodger, using their parlor for my studio… Longacre’s plan is better.”
Despite the miasma of her own misery, Vera admitted the enormity of the challenges facing Oak. Dirk had never bided in London for twelve consecutive months, simply because sunlight was at a premium in the metropolis. Coal smoke, river fog, tall buildings, gloomy weather in every season… All of these factors and more meant rooms with adequate light and proper exposures were few and dear.
Oak needed not only commissions, he needed a studio, a store of supplies, introductions, and means to subsist through the winter before polite society returned to London in the spring.
“Longacre apparently enjoys helping others find a path in life,” Vera said. “I would not have thought that of him, given how testy he and Dirk could be with one another, but Longacre recommended both Tamsin and Jeremy.”
Oak looked around at the parlor’s appointments, his gaze settling on an oil painting of flowers above the hearth.
“Neither Miss Diggory nor Mr. Forester is well suited to their duties, and that painting is not a Dirk Channing.”
Vera glanced over her shoulder at the painting of a bouquet of irises beginning to wilt. “Longacre did this, though he claims rheumatism has stolen most of his talent. He sent it as a gift after Dirk’s death, and I felt obligated to display it. Last year I prevailed upon Longacre to make an initial attempt to sell some of the gallery’s lesser specimens. He was unable to find buyers for the first three paintings I sent him, and you’ve helped explain why.”
Oak rose and moved closer to the painting. “His hands must truly be afflicted. The whites are too flat, the shadows inconsistent with the light source.” He brushed a finger over a rendering of a rose petal. “Here, here, and here, where the open window to the left of the flowers should result in light on this side and shadow on the other…”
He fell silent, apparently lost in the assessment of qualities only he could see.
“Oak?”
“Hmm.”
“I’d like to sack Jeremy and Tamsin.” Vera had come to that conclusion in the past five minutes, and only because Oak, too, found both parties lacking.
Oak perched a hip on a corner of her desk. “Then sack them. Alexander positively loathes Forester, and I gather Catherine isn’t that impressed with Miss Diggory. Forester intimidates the boy, and Alexander clearly grasps the difference between a bully and competent tutor.”
A bully. That single word illuminated much that Vera had been pushing into her mental shadows.
“I was bullied. By my step-mother, by Dirk’s so-called friends.” Vera rose and headed for the door. “You’ve put your finger on the problem. Jeremy hasn’t the knack of inspiring respect. I don’t respect him, and I gather he has little respect for me.”
Oak stood, but did not follow after her. “Vera, wait.”
She halted two steps short of the door. “If I don’t do this now, I will lose