A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  He rose in one lithe movement, his smile mostly in his eyes. “Will you retire to your bedroom to have a short lie-down?”

  “I’m not tired, if that’s—”

  He leaned in, glossed a hand over Vera’s breast, and smiled. “Begone, please. I must compose myself, and with you looking adorable and very likely wearing nothing under those skirts, that I cannot do.”

  “You cannot?”

  He waved a hand toward the door. “Have mercy, Vera.”

  “I believe I will have a short lie-down,” she said, starting for the door. “And, Oak?”

  “Madam?”

  “In summer, I rarely wear more than a light petticoat under my skirts.” She slipped through the door, closing it softly behind her, the sound of Oak’s laughter following her down the winding steps.

  Oak enjoyed children. He enjoyed the breathtaking honesty of the very young, the brooding complexity and shifting moods of the adolescent. He liked the openheartedness of little children and the amazing wisdom that often flashed through youthful innocence. He also enjoyed the out of doors, which he considered to have been his first studio.

  He was not enjoying the company of Master Alexander Channing. The boy was an accomplished practitioner of the Grand Sulk and hadn’t a word to say unless a direct question was posed to him. Oak concluded a short lecture on the need to study a subject before putting pencil to paper, while Alexander kicked his legs against the bench and stared at the garden’s crushed-shell walk.

  “Have you any questions, Alexander?”

  He looked up to the corner of the manor where the nursery was housed. “What if I can’t draw?”

  “Life goes on,” Oak said, though the question took him somewhat aback. “Nobody must draw, but everybody who aspires to a life of gentility should have some appreciation for art.”

  “My papa could draw anything. He was brilliant.”

  Brilliant might be in a six-year-old’s vocabulary as an expostulation. Alexander wasn’t using the word in that sense.

  “My papa was brilliant at botany,” Oak said. “He knew every tree, shrub, and flower in Britain. Knew which ones like bogs, which ones like shade, which ones are fit only for the conservatory. I can draw them all, but I will never have the knowledge he had of plants. I am not my father.”

  Alexander peered over at Oak and ceased the infernal drumming of his heels against the bench. “Was your papa ashamed of you, sir?”

  The earl had despaired of his sons loudly and often, but Oak had never doubted that his father was proud of all his children.

  “My papa was pleased with me when I tried hard to better myself, and he was disappointed in me when I slacked.”

  A silence ensued while Alexander shot another furtive glance in the direction of the nursery.

  “We have a bog,” he said. “It’s in the woods, and it’s dangerous. A quaking bog is always dangerous. Mrs. Tansbury used to say that.”

  Some children expressed themselves more effectively with action than words. “Can you show me where the bog is?”

  “You want me to take you there?”

  “I like to work out of doors,” Oak said, rising from the bench. “I do better with landscapes when the vista is immediately before me. I would not want to ramble into this bog all unawares when I’m out searching for a pretty view to sketch.”

  “Mr. Forester will scold me if I go near the bog.”

  Good heavens, did this child have no natural confidence? “We’ll stay far back from the quaking part, and I will tell Mr. Forester that you were showing me the general direction only for the sake of my safety. A considerate host would do as much for any guest.” And someday, Merlin Hall and all its holdings would belong to this withdrawn, uncertain boy.

  “Very well.” Alexander quit the bench and trudged up the garden path. “We can go out the back gate. I must not get my shoes dirty or get any mud on my clothing.” The child sounded as prim as an aging maiden auntie.

  “If we reach muddy ground, I’ll carry you piggyback.”

  “What does that mean, sir?”

  “I’ll carry you on my back, like a knapsack.”

  They reached the gate, and rather than scramble over it or undo the latch himself, Alexander waited with the patience of a tired bullock while Oak unfastened the latch.

  “If you carry me through the muddy parts,” the boy said, “then your boots will get dirty, and Mr. Forester will blame me. The mess will be my fault because I did not keep you from the muddy path.”

  Oak might have dismissed Alexander’s whining as the imagined martyrdom of a schoolboy with little aptitude for his lessons, except that Alexander sounded as if he was stating facts, not complaining of his lot.

  “I was raised in the country, lad. I know how to clean my own boots.”

  Alexander puffed along at Oak’s side as they headed off on a worn dirt trail. “Would you teach me how to clean my boots, sir? Mr. Forester gets ever so unhappy with me when my boots are dirty.”

  Since when was a tutor in charge of a boy’s wardrobe? “Life in the country means boots occasionally get dirty. I’ll be happy to show you how I tend to my footwear. Which way is the bog?”

  “This way.” He tromped off in the direction of the stream, his gait again putting Oak in mind of the elderly.

  This child had no mischief. He had little wind, in fact, huffing and puffing though he wasn’t at all stout. He had his father’s fair coloring, and English children tended to be pale, but Alexander’s pallor was more marked than that, and summer was well under way.

  “I am probably not very good at drawing,” Alexander said, pausing as they reached the stream. “I am a slow top.”

  “I am a slow top at Latin. I never understood why, if nobody speaks the language, so much time must be spent learning it. Why bother studying a dead language when there are living languages that are so much more useful?”

  Oak wanted to linger for a moment by the stream. Water and sunlight were always an interesting combination, and the summer verdure was reaching its zenith. In a few weeks, the undergrowth would begin to yellow and die back, the birds would sing less exuberantly. A few weeks after that, he would head off to London.

  “You mustn’t say that about the Latin to Mr. Forester, sir. He says Latin separates the gentlemen from the heathens. I could help you with the Latin, if you like. Mr. Forester says I’m passably good at memorizing when I make an effort.”

  “That is very kind of you, Alexander.” And not all children were kind. Not all people were kind. “Your mother would be proud of you for your generous spirit.”

  “She’s not.” Alexander stared at the dark water flowing sluggishly past. “She says she is, but Mr. Forester says she’s ashamed of me. I must try harder.”

  Those words were not a ploy to gain pity; they were weary determination at the age of six. “Mr. Forester is sometimes mistaken, Alexander.” More than that, Oak could not say when he had no idea whether the boy applied himself to his studies or reserved all of his mulish tendencies for the schoolroom.

  Alexander trooped down the path. “We’ve almost reached the bog. When there’s been a lot of rain, you must be even more careful, because it’s not a bog you can always see. It’s underground in places.”

  Something lurked underground with this child. Losing a father had to have been difficult, and the transition from a governess to a tutor might have added to Alexander’s challenges. He was an unhappy child, and unhappy children did not make enthusiastic scholars. Surely Forester grasped that?

  “We’re not drawing, sir,” Alexander said. “Mr. Forester told me you were to be my drawing teacher.”

  If Oak put pencil to paper, he’d draw Vera Channing peering at old, indifferently done canvases. He’d draw her plain brown dress draping around the curve of her hips. He’d draw her smile as she’d patted his falls, and he’d draw her luscious, perfect mouth rosy with his kisses.

  Perhaps a sortie to the fleshpots of Mayfair should have preceded this ass
ignment in Hampshire.

  “Before we can draw well, Alexander, we must learn to see. Let’s take a moment here and compare what we see.”

  “I see the woods, sir. I see the bog up ahead, where the ground is all bracken and dead ferns. I see trees and the sky.”

  “That’s a very good start, Alexander. How many different colors can you count in the scene before us?”

  By gradual degrees, Oak drew the boy into the task of seeing. The lad was astute and noticed similarities and contrasts many others his age would not have spotted. Very likely, he had his father’s talent, though much hard work would be needed to turn talent into ability.

  “You have a keen eye,” Oak said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

  Alexander flinched at that presumption. “Thank you, sir. Must we return to the nursery now?”

  “Do you have a pony?” Ponies could make inspiring subjects for a first attempt at a portrait.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then let’s return by way of the mare’s pasture. Equestrian art is a significant specialty, and some portraitists make a living painting only horseflesh.”

  “Did you have a pony, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even though you were slow at Latin?”

  “What has that…?” Oak let the question remain incomplete. Perhaps Alexander did not have a pony because he was a slow scholar, but if the boy could look forward to his riding lessons, he’d be that much easier to motivate in the schoolroom.

  How could Forester not grasp that?

  “I did the best I could at Latin,” Oak said. “My brothers didn’t have my talent with art, but they had more ability with Latin. My parents asked us only to do our best. They did not expect perfection.”

  Alexander stood beside the mare’s pasture fence, peering between the boards at the livestock corralled within.

  “Mr. Forester says a smart boy doesn’t tolerate errors. I am not a smart boy.”

  And Jeremy Forester was apparently not a smart man either. “You are a young boy,” Oak said. “You have years to learn what you need to know. Tomorrow, we’ll start sketching.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oak scrambled over the fence and hopped to the ground, leaving the boy on the other side.

  “Shall I use the gate, sir?”

  “Climb up,” Oak said. “I’ll set you on your feet.”

  Alexander made an awkward business of clambering to the top of the fence, and when Oak caught him under the arms and lifted him to the ground, the boy felt too slight for his age.

  Alexander made an anxious inspection of his sleeves and knees. “Did I get dirty?”

  “Not in the least. How many different colors do you see among the mares and foals?”

  Alexander applied himself to that task, his judgment astute enough to distinguish between the cream white of a chestnut mare’s stockings, the silver white of a filly’s blaze, and the pinkish white of an old pensioner’s muzzle.

  When Oak returned Alexander to the nursery, he made it a point to tell Forester that his pupil had been obedient and attentive at all times and that their walk hadn’t taken them anywhere near boggy ground thanks to Alexander’s good sense.

  “I look forward to tomorrow’s outing,” Oak said, though that was not exactly true. He would much rather be closeted with Vera among the castoffs and restorations than spend another hour in the company of an anxious, frail boy who never smiled.

  Perhaps it wasn’t entirely a bad thing that a departure for London was only a few weeks off. A friendly liaison of limited duration wasn’t meant to create emotional entanglements, and wading into the challenges in Vera Channing’s nursery had entanglement painted all over it.

  Chapter Five

  Alexander fidgeted on the opposite wing chair, as if he’d rather be anywhere but perched on that cushion. He looked tired to Vera, but then, the afternoon was well advanced. Not that long ago, he’d taken occasional afternoon naps, an indulgence that would likely mortify him now.

  “You used to take sugar in your tea,” she said. “When did that change?”

  “Sweets are to be earned, Mama.”

  She put a small lump of sugar into his cup anyway. The patient note of instruction in his voice, aimed at the female who’d given him life, grated on her nerves.

  “Sweets are to be savored, Alexander. How did your first art lesson go?”

  “Quite well, thank you.”

  Clearly, the boy did not want to be in Vera’s private parlor, did not want to spend time with his mother, and did not care to discuss his art lesson—or anything.

  “What did you and Mr. Dorning do?”

  “We talked about colors and seeing what’s before one, and we talked about shapes.” He spared Vera a shy glance. “I climbed a fence.”

  As a young girl, Vera had climbed fences without number. Also trees, haystacks—very dangerous, that—and many a hill. Her family hadn’t had tutors or governesses—her brothers had gone to the vicarage for a few Latin lessons in the colder months—and the whole business of managing a nursery was more fraught than she could have imagined.

  “Did you climb any particular fence?”

  “We walked across the mare’s pasture. Did you know there are many different shades of white, Mama? There is white with pink, white with silver, and white with blue or yellow. All kinds of white.” He took a slurp of his tea. “And sunlight can be white, when it lands on water or glass. Mr. Dorning used to sit for hours staring at sunlight and trees and clouds. He asked if I had a pony.”

  “Would you like a pony?” Catherine had a mare, a sweet old thing who only cantered in the direction of the barn and then never for more than a dozen yards.

  The momentary gust of enthusiasm—over the color white, of all things—dropped from Alexander’s sails. “I must earn my rewards, Mama.”

  Another small scold aimed at an adult too silly to grasp a basic tenet of childhood. “Did Mr. Forester tell you that?”

  Alexander nodded.

  Whatever Mr. Forester was accomplishing, he certainly hadn’t taught Alexander anything about polite conversation.

  “Would you like a biscuit, Alexander?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  Good God, when had her company become such a tribulation to her son? “Would you like to be excused?”

  The kicking resumed. “Yes, please, Mama. Thank you for the tea.”

  “One more question, Alexander. Did you enjoy the time spent with Mr. Dorning?”

  Alexander looked at his tea cup, sitting half empty on the saucer on the tray. He looked at the door and at his hands. Then his gaze went to the window, where late afternoon sunshine slanted through the glass, sending dust motes dancing on warm, golden beams.

  “Can Mr. Dorning be my tutor?”

  “For art, while he’s here, he can be. Mr. Forester will continue to instruct you in other subjects.” Vera broke a biscuit in half and passed the larger portion to her son. “What did you enjoy about your time with Mr. Dorning?”

  Alexander took the half-portion. “Mr. Dorning explains things. He isn’t mean. He doesn’t walk too fast for me to keep up, and he doesn’t call me boy. I don’t feel stupid because he knows more than I do. He said you are proud of me.”

  “I absolutely am.”

  The vehemence in Vera’s tone must have surprised Alexander, because for the first time since this interview had begun, he looked her straight in the eye.

  “You are proud of me?”

  “Of course I am. You work hard at your studies, day after day. You are making progress, as I said this morning. You do not give up, and you never complain. Of course I’m proud of such a son.”

  The half biscuit disappeared into his pocket. “I’m a slow top, but Mr. Dorning said he was a slow top at Latin.”

  “I haven’t a word of Latin, so you aren’t as slow at it as I am.”

  “You’re a girl, Mama. You needn’t trouble over Latin.” Another jarring touch of condescension colored
that explanation. “May I be excused now?”

  “You may, though I will continue to monitor your progress with Mr. Dorning.”

  He bowed like a little automaton. “Good day, ma’am. Thank you for the tea.”

  Alexander didn’t exactly scamper from the room, but he certainly didn’t dawdle either. When he opened the door, Oak Dorning was standing on the other side, his hand upraised as if to knock.

  “I told Mama about all the colors of white, Mr. Dorning.” This was offered somewhat nervously, for no reason Vera could discern. “I explained about what you said.”

  “We had a thorough discussion of undertones, didn’t we?” Mr. Dorning replied. “We also had a nice ramble by the stream, and I hope tomorrow we can continue our conversation about seeing what’s before us.”

  “You didn’t go near the bog, did you, Alexander?” That bog had occasioned some enormous nightmares for Vera.

  “We did not,” Mr. Dorning said. “Alexander described its location, the better to ensure my safety, and we ventured nowhere near it, nor will we ever. I’ll see you tomorrow after lunch, Alexander.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alexander flung a bow at Mr. Dorning and scuttled through the door.

  “The tea is still hot,” Vera said. “Perhaps you’d like a cup?”

  Oak left the door open, which meant he wasn’t planning on taking liberties—alas—but the open door also meant he wouldn’t risk starting talk among the staff, which Vera appreciated.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the chair Alexander had vacated. “A cup of tea and a biscuit can right most of the ills of the world.”

  What a contrast between the pale, diffident boy and the handsome, muscular man. The child was fair, Oak Dorning was dark-haired. Alexander’s eyes were the blue of a bachelor button, Oak Dorning’s eyes were nearly the color of blooming myrtle, an unusual shade indeed. More to the point, the child had been uneasy, anxious, and ready to bolt. The man was relaxed, subtly confident, and ready to do justice to the tray.