In the cheval mirror, Catherine’s expression was doubtful. “Mr. Forester might tease me.”
“Then I will turn him off without a character.” Vera meant that, oddly enough. A man who made his living instructing young people either exercised some tact where those young people were concerned or found a different profession.
“You mustn’t be harsh with Mr. Forester, Step-mama. He claims he’s making great strides with the terror.”
The silk shawl shimmered in the early evening sunlight, setting off the highlights in Catherine’s tidy chignon. She looked like a young lady—a very young lady—rather than like a girl adopting womanly airs. Oak Dorning had seen the young lady yearning to put up her hair, while Vera had seen only the difficult adolescent.
“Mr. Forester offers himself compliments easily enough, doesn’t he?” Vera said, adjusting the drape of the shawl. “I wish he would not refer to Alexander in such disparaging terms.”
“He means no harm.” Catherine turned this way and that, considering her reflection. “Does this gold make my eyes look pale?”
“That shawl brings out the highlights in your lovely hair. As for your eyes… Come with me.”
Catherine trailed along behind Vera as they made their way from the nursery suite to Vera’s apartment on the floor below.
“Will that artist fellow be at dinner?” Catherine asked ever so casually.
“Mr. Dorning? He should be. He’s a polite sort, and he won’t know that you’re trying something a little different with your hair. Ladies try different coiffures from time to time, even widowed ladies.”
“You don’t.”
“I’ve been too busy lately to tarry at my vanity. Come along.” Vera led the way into her bedroom, the one place in the entire house she’d made over to suit her own tastes. She opened her jewelry box and withdrew a mother-of-pearl brooch rimmed in gold. “Your father would want you to have this.”
Catherine looked at the brooch then at Vera. “I couldn’t. Papa gave it to you.” And oh, what a conflict that roused in Catherine’s eyes.
“He gave me many such trinkets, Catherine, but you were too young for him to dote on in that regard. We will go through my collection of mementos and divide up the pieces according to whose coloring is flattered by each piece. This one, for example, is better suited to your fair complexion and light hair. Hold still.”
Catherine stood docilely as Vera affixed the brooch to the shawl, creating a graceful gathering of the silk around slender shoulders and an accent to balance the knot of pale hair at Catherine’s nape.
“That does nicely, doesn’t it?” Vera said, stepping back. “Brings out the blue of your eyes. We must find you some combs too.” And ribbons and all the accoutrements of fashion to which a young lady was entitled.
Next, they’d be shopping for the fabric to make Catherine’s first full-length dresses, and heaven knew that was an expensive undertaking. A riding habit would likely require the services of a London tailor, and that would entail another tidy sum…
Catherine stood before the cheval mirror. “I do like the brooch, Step-mama. It’s not too much. I don’t want to look foolish, like I’m a little girl playing dress-up.”
“You haven’t been a little girl for some time, Catherine. Let’s go down to dinner.”
“Already?”
“You can admire yourself at endless length later. I, for one, am hungry.”
Catherine looked down at her house slippers, plain buff footwear, no buckles or bows. “You’re sure I don’t look silly?”
Vera wanted to hug the girl hard, to tell her that she was beautiful—for she was, without regard to silk shawls or gold brooches. Catherine had a forthright courage, a sturdy intellect, and a good sense of humor. She strived to be fair, and she was protective of her brother.
Next to those qualities, what mattered the length of a young lady’s nose or the curve of her damned eyebrows?
“You look splendid,” Vera said. “You might feel nervous or shy, but I assure you, Catherine, nobody can see that. They will see the shawl and the brooch, and perhaps notice your coiffure in passing. If you take the attitude that a few small changes to your dress and appearance are of no moment, nobody else will dare make an issue of them.”
And if they did, Vera would deal with them summarily.
“Miss Diggory might.”
“She had best not. By day, you can continue to adopt the less complicated wardrobe suitable for the schoolroom, but if you prefer to trouble a bit about your appearance for dinner, that is your prerogative.”
Catherine squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I like having a prerogative.” She smiled, and a pretty girl was transformed into a lovely young woman. “I am hungry, too, though. Let’s be off, shall we?”
That smile… that smile was a revelation. Dirk had done portraits of Catherine’s mother, and clearly the woman had been beautiful. She’d also been warmhearted and willing to bear censure in exchange for a place in the household of the man she loved.
When Catherine smiled like that, she exuded charm and good humor, and an attractiveness that was perilously adult. Fortunately, she had time to learn how and when to use that smile and what effect it could have on others.
Vera went first into the dining room, where—predictably—Jeremy was hovering by the sideboard, while Miss Diggory was sipping a glass of wine by the hearth. Mr. Dorning stood near her, suggesting Jeremy had handled the introductions.
“Let’s do sit down,” Vera said. “Mr. Dorning, I don’t believe you’ve met my step-daughter. Miss Catherine Channing, may I make known to you Mr. Oak Dorning. Mr. Dorning, Miss Channing.”
Vera had never formally introduced Catherine to anybody, much less to a gentleman of some station in life. Oak Dorning was an earl’s son, and while he was the proverbial younger son, well away from any pretensions to the title, men of even his standing were a rarity in rural Hampshire.
Miss Diggory’s eyes lit with veiled amusement, while at the sideboard, Jeremy looked ready to offer one of his signature humorous and not entirely kind quips.
Mr. Dorning, however, caught the hand Catherine had raised uncertainly toward her gold brooch.
“Miss Channing.” He bowed politely. “A pleasure and an honor. May I be so bold as to observe that you have your father’s keen blue eyes? Do you share his interest in art?”
“Mr. Dorning.” Catherine dipped an easy curtsey. “The pleasure is mine. I do like to draw, and I understand you are here to restore some of our older paintings.”
Oh, well done, Catherine. Well done, Mr. Dorning.
Mr. Dorning held Catherine’s chair for her, leaving an apparently flummoxed Jeremy to do the honors for Miss Diggory. Mr. Dorning assisted Vera when he’d seen Catherine seated halfway down the table.
“Thank you,” Vera murmured. “Thank you very much.”
He took his place at Vera’s right, which put Catherine to his right along the middle of the table. He and Catherine launched into a discussion of Spanish versus Italian Renaissance painters, during which Catherine showed herself to be surprisingly knowledgeable and witty. Miss Diggory offered an occasional opinion, while Jeremy remained mostly silent.
Vera held her peace as well, enjoying her wine and enjoying the sense that in Oak Dorning she had acquired an ally. Not in all regards, of course, and not for more than the short time he’d be with them at Merlin Hall.
But at this difficult moment, when being a step-mother to an orphaned girl on the verge of young womanhood could have gone terribly awry, Oak Dorning had proved to be an unlikely and perceptive ally.
Vera caught his eye and smiled, and he ever so subtly smiled back.
To Oak’s relief, the entire table withdrew to the family parlor. The men sipped port, and the ladies gathered around a pot of gunpowder. A book of fashion plates came out, and Oak sought refuge on the piano bench.
“Do you play?” Forester asked, draping himself over the piano, glass of port in his hand.
“Enough not to embarrass myself. You?”
“Haven’t for years. Suppose I ought to practice while I’m immured here in the shires, but that would require finding time away from the terror.”
Oak was increasingly offended by the nickname Jeremy insisted on using for his only pupil. “Why call the lad that?”
“You haven’t met him, though I will remedy that oversight tomorrow directly after luncheon, if that suits. He can’t draw worth a farthing, mostly because sitting still is beyond him. He seems to have inherited his papa’s mercurial temper, but none of the family talent.”
Oak began a little minuet in the key of G, a parlor piece, not grand enough for the dance floor. “In my experience,” he said, “children, boys especially, tend to live down to our expectations. If we berate them and criticize them at every turn, their attention wanders, they fidget, and their memory fails them. If we praise whatever constructive impulses they exhibit, they try harder.”
Forester took a sip of his port. “You’re an expert on naughty little boys now? Do we conclude you were one, or perhaps you’ve sired one or two?” He wiggled his eyebrows on the word sired.
“I easily could have been a naughty boy. I was not the oldest, nor the spare. I hadn’t my brother Hawthorne’s affinity for livestock and farming, nor my brother Willow’s genius with canines. I wasn’t clever with sums and legal whatnot like Ash, or naturally sociable like Valerian. I was entirely devoid of my brother Sycamore’s charm and guile. The role of brat was ever available to me, and I regret to report that on occasion I fulfilled it.”
But upon reflection, Oak hadn’t fulfilled that role so very often, a testament to his parents’ and tutors’ fundamental decency toward a lot of rowdy fellows.
“Perhaps I should call the boy brat.”
“You might try calling him Master Alexander.”
Across the parlor, the ladies laughed, and Oak once again wished he’d secured Mrs. Channing’s agreement to sit to him for a portrait. Her humor was subtle, but never far from the surface, and her affection for her step-daughter was probably plain to all save the girl herself.
Families were messy and complicated. Thank heavens painting was a straightforward undertaking.
Forester settled onto the end of the piano bench, his hip subtly pushing Oak off-center. The last time another male had tried to arse-shove Oak from his seat, he’d barely been breeched.
“So, Dorning, what do you make of our Young Miss? I haven’t seen her with her hair up before. Makes quite a difference.”
“I think she is sweet, smart, and lucky to have Mrs. Channing for a step-mother. Somebody has seen to her education and ensured she has some confidence, which is always a lovely quality in a young lady.”
“You don’t mention that she’s pretty. Not gorgeous like her step-mama, of course, but she’ll turn heads. Her mother was apparently a beauty too.”
A note of speculation had crept into Forester’s gaze as he regarded the three females sipping tea and comparing fashion plates.
“Drink your port, Forester, and find yourself some practice pieces to work on when Alexander and I are off sketching tomorrow.”
Jeremy finished his drink and set his glass on the music rack, then picked up a pile of sheet music sitting on a stand beside the piano.
“I’ll look for duets,” he said. “Music is much more fun when it’s a social occasion too. I prefer to play the top parts. What about you?”
The question was vaguely challenging and slightly sexual, also stupid in the manner of much male banter.
“Either part suits me well enough, provided I have a chance to look over the music before I’m called upon to perform it.” Oak brought his minuet to a quiet cadence and rose. “I will leave you to your practice.”
“Fetch a fellow another drop of the grape, would you?” Jeremy said, passing Oak his empty glass. “I will endeavor not to wreck anybody’s hearing.”
Another small ploy, putting Oak in the role of servant. His brothers had mercifully outgrown all but the most endearing of boyish traits. A cuff on the back of the head from a sibling meant I love you. An elbow on the ribs was a gesture of affection.
Nothing sly or mean about any of it.
Oak brought Jeremy half a glass of port, then made a polite good-night to the ladies. Traveling had, as it turned out, sapped some of his energy, and he wanted the peace and quiet of his rooms to consider the day’s developments.
And to write a letter to Casriel, not that Oak missed Dorning Hall or his oldest brother.
“I’ll light you up,” Mrs. Channing said. “I want to ensure your rooms are properly kitted out and that we’ve remembered to fill your coal bucket.” She gave Catherine a quick squeeze about the shoulders, which seemed to surprise the girl, then lit a lantern and followed Oak to the corridor.
“I must thank you, Mr. Dorning,” she said as soon as the parlor door was closed behind them. “Catherine was nervous of her reception this evening. She’s never put up her hair before, and you were a perfect gentleman to her.”
“I was merely polite. She’s an accomplished conversationalist.”
“She gets that from Dirk. That man could charm anybody.” Mrs. Channing started up the steps, her lantern cutting through the gloom of an old house after sunset. “If you’re to take on art instruction for the children, we ought to adjust your wages accordingly.”
“I like teaching young people to sketch and paint. I’m happy to add it to my duties.”
Mrs. Channing paused at the top of the steps. “Do not give away your talent, Mr. Dorning. Unless you also have independent means and can afford to regard art as a charitable undertaking, you deserve to be paid for the exercise of your abilities. You’ve worked for years to develop the skill you have. Don’t squander it on every widow who tosses her children at you.”
“You feel strongly about this.”
She resumed walking, the corridor darker than the lower floor had been. “Dirk felt strongly about it. People were forever asking him to do a little sketch or render a quick impression, as if his art were a parlor trick. His charm was useful then. He’d gently point out that even as a boy doing tavern caricatures, he’d expected to be paid for his work.”
“I am not much of one for charm.”
“Yes, you are.” She stopped before the door to his apartment. “You charmed Catherine. She needs to know that not all men are as flippant and glib as Jeremy. He’s quite bright in some ways, but a complete dunderhead at times.”
Oak opened the door. “Aren’t we all a bit foolish, at times?” He was, in fact, feeling a trifle dunderheaded himself where his hostess was concerned. He liked being able to nudge aside her sheer physical beauty to see the devoted step-mother and loyal widow, the pragmatic head of Merlin Hall’s household.
And Forester was a bit of a dunderhead. Miss Diggory seemed to be of the same opinion, if her faint smiles and patient silences were any indication.
“What did you make of Dirk’s gallery pieces?” Mrs. Channing set the lamp down on the desk and poked some air into the fire burning low in the hearth. The task was both entirely mundane and—when she did it—the epitome of domestic grace.
“Dirk Channing was well known for painting in series,” Oak replied, using the flame from the lantern to light a branch of three candles. “I cannot for the life of me organize what’s in that gallery into groups of series or even a coherent collection. It’s an interesting conundrum.” He set the candelabra on the mantel and turned to find Mrs. Channing regarding him.
“Interesting, as in why would a successful artist collect such trash?”
“Not trash, but not great works either. I spent most of today simply cataloging the gallery’s contents, trying to find common threads or themes—and seeing none. Your late husband’s tastes were varied and broad.”
Oak had closed the door out of habit. Conserving heat was a priority in most households, and Mrs. Channing was a widow, not a sheltered young lady whose reputation d
etermined her fate. Then too, she had mentioned wages, and that discussion ought to be conducted privately.
“Most of Dirk’s friends considered me an example of his eclectic tastes in action,” Mrs. Channing said, rearranging the decanters on the sideboard in order of how full they were. “I was neither a highly regarded courtesan, as Catherine’s mother was, nor an heiress, nor connected to a titled or artistic family. I had little understanding of art, in fact, though Dirk addressed that lack. I don’t know what he saw in me, and his friends were surely puzzled as well.”
She spoke not as a woman who desperately missed her husband, but as somebody frustrated with a puzzle that should have a simple solution.
“On all sides,” Oak said, “Dirk Channing was treated as the great artist, the visionary who shed light on the struggles that inspired the Irish Rebellion. He was the brilliant mind that held the Americans up as standing for John Bull’s values more effectively than we English have ourselves. He did this amid controversy, of course, amid both criticism and acclaim. To have the honest regard of a woman who wasn’t distracted by all that noise was likely a precious boon.” A relief, even.
“He married me because I was a pretty girl and easily overawed.” Mrs. Channing spoke with more asperity than Oak had heard from her previously. “More than one of his acquaintances made sure I knew that.”
Oak crossed the sitting room to face her directly. “You are wrong, Mrs. Channing, and his friends were jealous of you. I promise you that Dirk Channing had the company of as many pretty women as he chose. Some of those ladies had the means to pay him to paint their portraits. Others were happy to remove all of their clothing for his artistic pleasure—or so the tale usually begins. Successful painters are besieged with the female form in all its glory and fascination. Dirk needn’t have married beauty to have it on hand every waking and sleeping hour.”
Had she never considered how much time the average artist spent in the company of models and actresses? Never wondered why most studios were equipped with at least a chaise?
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