A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  “How is the resident scholar?” he asked, draining the last of Alexander’s tea.

  “I hardly know,” Vera replied. “He’s grown quite serious. He was always a quiet child, perhaps overshadowed by his older sister, but in recent months, Alexander has become nearly withdrawn. My brothers had only enough schooling to do sums and read the Bible, so I must defer to Mr. Forester’s judgment regarding Alexander’s curriculum. I am very likely being the overprotective mother every boy dreads, but I am worried for him.”

  Vera refilled Alexander’s cup, though by rights everybody should have his own tea cup. To use Alexander’s cup for Oak Dorning was familial, more than simply informal.

  “He needs a dog,” Oak said. “My brother Willow could send you a runt or an old hound. Willow knows dogs the way some hostesses know Debrett’s.”

  “A dog? For Alexander?” Vera’s father had had hounds, working dogs such as most yeomen kept. Had those canines presumed to set a paw in Step-mama’s house, she would have shrieked down the heavens.

  “A dog will get him out of the house regularly,” Oak said, “give him somebody to talk to, and afford him a responsibility far more rewarding than memorizing the second Latin declension.”

  “I hadn’t thought of a dog, but I suppose… He said you’d asked him about a pony. How do you take your tea?”

  “A dash of honey will do. I ought not to have asked him about a pony. As a boy, I had a succession of trusty mounts, but I also had a herd of brothers. We thundered all over the countryside, playing Vikings and cavalry and brave explorers of the Nile, while some old groom sat on a cob nearby and napped. Alexander has no friends to ride with. Ergo, a dog comes to mind.”

  Alexander has no friends to ride with… “When you were a boy, how much time did you spend in the schoolroom?”

  She passed him his tea, and their fingers brushed. He appeared not to notice.

  “Mornings were spent in the schoolroom,” he said, “from breakfast until the midday meal, around one of the clock. After our nooning, we were free to entertain ourselves. In fact, we were expected to entertain ourselves.”

  “You had no lessons in the afternoon?”

  “No lessons in the afternoon, no lessons on Saturday, no lessons for much of the summer, and that was sufficient preparation for public school, even for me, and for university, and I am not particularly academic. Might I have a biscuit or two?”

  Vera set two on a plate and passed them over. His fingers brushed hers once more, and again Oak appeared to take no notice.

  “Mr. Forester keeps Alexander in the schoolroom the livelong day,” Vera said. “He claims Alexander is behind in his studies.”

  Oak dunked a biscuit in his tea. “The child is six years old. How can he be behind?”

  Vera rose because this conversation was not what she’d expected over a private cup of tea with a man she’d kissed passionately.

  “I was a girl once upon a time,” she said, pacing over to the window, “and therefore, I have some sense of how to go on with Catherine. More to the point, I was a girl who had a loving mother for my earliest years and then an unloving step-mother, so my judgment is informed by my experience. Alexander is a boy, and Mr. Forester seems quite confident regarding the proper course of a boy’s education.”

  “Mr. Forester seems quite confident of a lot of things.”

  “While I am not confident. I’ve never raised a boy, never been a boy. Mr. Forester came well recommended, and his confidence was one of the reasons I hired him, but Alexander is miserable.”

  Saying it aloud made the reality worse. The waning day was glorious as only the English countryside in summer could be glorious. Birdsong drifted through the open window, and the scent of roses wafted up from the garden.

  While Alexander had been positively gloomy for a child who ought not to have a care in the world.

  “Alexander does seem subdued,” Oak said. “What time of year did his father die?”

  Vera returned to her seat, the better to serve Mr. Dorning more biscuits. “Why do you ask?”

  “My mother was his lordship’s second wife. The first countess fell ill in early July, declined rapidly, and Papa was in mourning by the first of August. My older sister explained this to me, because I was mystified as to why Papa always traveled in high summer when Dorning Hall was at its most beautiful. He’d often take one of us children and disappear to the Lakes or go poking along the Devon coast. He pretended these were botanical excursions, and they were, but he was also dodging sad memories.”

  A sense approaching vertigo assailed Vera, though she was on a comfy cushion in her own sunny parlor. “Dirk died in midsummer. He wasn’t ill for long, and like your father’s first wife, he declined rapidly. Would a boy who lost his father at the age of three even grasp what time of year the death occurred?”

  “Of course, though the child might not be able to tell you why he’s in a brown study at that same time of year. Get him a dog,” Oak said, holding up his plate for more biscuits. “A pup will take him out of the house and possibly get him out of the doldrums.”

  This time, Vera didn’t let her fingers touch his. “A dog, not a pony?”

  “A pony would necessitate more instruction, and I gather Alexander is getting a bellyful of that just now. Will Mr. Forester take a holiday at any point?”

  “Not until Yuletide, when he calls upon his uncle in London.”

  Oak stole a biscuit off Vera’s plate, though she’d served him two more on his own plate. “My riding horse should arrive when my supplies do, tomorrow or the next day. I’ll take Alexander up before me a time or two, and you’ll know if he has an aptitude for the saddle. Most children seem to, given a decent mount.”

  “That is kind of you.” Vera regarded her empty plate, then regarded the man who’d purloined her biscuit. “Why did you steal my sweet?”

  He took a bite of that biscuit, and watching him devour it stirred an odd feeling in Vera’s belly.

  “Because, Vera Channing, you’ve ignored my every touch and smile. I’d descend to winking and ribald innuendo, except that you’re worried for your son, and I am not a randy youth.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m a randy adult male.” He finished the biscuit and dusted his hands over his plate. “At least, I seem to be prone to randy-ness around you.”

  And now Vera was fascinated with his hands, which would never do. She took one of his biscuits and broke it in half, then brushed at her bodice as if to dust the crumbs away.

  “Randy-ness can be a sore affliction,” she said, smiling blandly. “Tell me what you think of the paintings to be restored.”

  A pause followed, a bit goggling on his part, pleased on Vera’s. Alexander’s situation was troubling, but Oak Dorning had provided a reasonable explanation for that.

  “Come with me to the gallery,” he said, rising. “I’ll show you what I’ve found.”

  “Did you find treasures, Mr. Dorning?”

  “Possibly, or a clue to where the treasures might be hiding.”

  Artists, for all they might live a life ruled by creativity, had to develop a sense of composition if they were to paint successfully. Within any one frame, colors, shapes, intensities of light, themes, and symbols all had to balance, to come together in a pleasing, well-thought-out impression. The whole had to work as an image, as a message.

  Oak had fallen asleep struggling to solve the riddle of the composition that was Dirk Channing’s personal gallery. Whatever Dirk’s message had been, Oak could not divine it. The paintings made no sense as a grouping, and many of them made little sense as individual renderings.

  Channing had been noted for always creating his works in series, but his gallery was a hodgepodge, no two paintings belonging together.

  “I went back to our young mother,” he said, coming to a halt before the frame. “I asked myself why Dirk Channing, who was an exceptionally sophisticated producer and consumer of art, would have a painting like this in his col
lection. The image is historically inaccurate, the subjects are mundane, the brushwork pedestrian. Nothing about this work impresses, except as a painting that in every way falls short.”

  Vera stood beside him, frowning at the lady and her two children. “You’re saying an amateur could have done this?”

  “Exactly. Why would Dirk not only keep a work this unimpressive, but also display it?”

  “Because they look happy?”

  Well, hell and damnation. Vera sounded so wistful as she posed that suggestion.

  “I’ll paint you all the happy parlor pieces you want, madam, but I suspect Dirk hung this work because it is such a clearly inferior effort. I’ve mentioned that the age of the canvas can often be deduced by examining it from the back. Take a look at this one.”

  Oak had first turned the painting over to confirm his hunch regarding its recent origins. He took it down now and held it so the back faced Vera.

  “The canvas is new,” she said. “I seldom heat the gallery, in part to protect the paintings from smoke, but that canvas can’t be ten years old.”

  “I’d like your permission to take it out of the frame.”

  “Of course you may, but why dismantle the frame?”

  Oak rehung the painting. “Because the frame is another clue. It hasn’t been glued. If you take a close look at the corners, the frame is held together exclusively by hardware, and not much of it.”

  “So taking it apart won’t be difficult.” Vera moved away, on to the next painting. “This one’s no better, is it?”

  She peered at the landscape, an unremarkable rural scene with the requisite sheep, cows, undulating fields, and distant manor house. The only aspect of the composition to draw the eye was a pair of riders, a man and a woman, side by side on a lane in the bottom right corner of the frame. The lady’s habit—a flowing, scarlet ensemble—was the brightest element of the whole and thus placed awkwardly from a compositional standpoint.

  “Nobody wears skirts that long anymore,” Vera said, “and I’ve never seen an entirely red habit, despite the fashion for women’s riding attire to mimic military styles. Let’s have a look at the back.”

  “It’s new,” Oak said. “As new as the one next to it. Most of the paintings in here are new, and I believe they are framed so poorly because the frames were meant to be dismantled.”

  Vera crossed her arms, regarding the room wall by wall. “Why do that? Dirk’s professional standing mattered to him. He had to know that I’d eventually resume entertaining, and people—the neighbors at least—would see this lot of tripe.”

  “I can’t answer that. Perhaps he expected that his friends would raise the very questions I’m bringing up now. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly when he established this gallery. We might have more answers after I pry apart a frame or two.”

  “Do as you wish. The paintings are apparently worthless.” Based on her grim expression, the lack of value bothered her exceedingly.

  “You have some very nice old works in the attic, Vera. I can have them cleaned up and on their way to Town within a week. You’ll want to wait until the Little Season to auction them, though a sale next spring would bring better prices still.”

  She crossed the room to perch on the bench before the window. “Because in spring, everybody is refurbishing the properties they let out for the Season proper, but the sooner I can invest funds for Catherine, the more she’ll have as a dower portion. A year or so ago, I tried sending three paintings to Mr. Longacre to sell in Town—that landscape,” she said, nodding in the direction of a trite rural scene, “and the two garden studies on either side of it. He couldn’t find buyers for any of them, and now you’re telling me to wait longer still to try again.”

  She had picked the best of the lot to send to Longacre, but the best of this collection would be beneath Longacre’s notice.

  “As soon as my supplies and equipment arrive,” Oak said, “I’ll get to work. Have you given any more thought to a portrait?”

  While Vera gazed out at the bucolic countryside, Oak remained on his feet and found his attention drawn to the nape of her neck. Was there a more enticing aspect to a woman’s body than that delicate, vulnerable, pale, sweet…?

  He wanted to taste her there, to sniff and nuzzle and nibble and kiss. He wanted to know the exact texture of her skin, the scent and warmth of her.

  “How soon can you take apart that painting?” Vera asked.

  “I can start on it in the morning.”

  She rose. “Let me know what you find.”

  The door was open, and Vera headed straight for it, only to be met by Bracken. “Madam, the mail has arrived. You have more correspondence from London, so I brought it to you straightaway.”

  He sent Oak the kind of look Oak’s mother had reserved for Papa’s hounds when they presumed to accompany his lordship through the front door.

  “Thank you, Bracken. Mr. Dorning, I’ll see you at dinner.” Vera hurried out, sorting the packet of letters.

  Bracken remained, and Oak braced himself to be scolded by the senior-most member of Vera’s staff. Gawping at a lady’s neck with the door wide open was badly done, but then, Oak had never before harbored an attraction to a woman with whom he shared a dwelling.

  Greater discretion was in order—much greater.

  “Your trunks have arrived in Bathboro, Mr. Dorning,” Bracken said, “as has your horse. I can send a groom with a cart to fetch both.”

  I can send, not I have sent. “Would you rather I handle this errand myself?” The day was sunny, the track would be dry and as navigable as cart tracks ever were.

  Bracken was not the cheery, affable sort of butler Oak had grown up with at Dorning Hall. Nor was he the dignified, slightly aloof creature guarding the doors of most Mayfair establishments. He was more fierce and didn’t care who remarked that quality.

  “I understand that your early afternoons are spoken for,” Bracken said. “Mr. Channing often took Alexander with him for trips into the village.”

  Oak was not Mr. Channing, nor did he wish to step into Mr. Channing’s shoes. He did, however, want to get his hands on his supplies as soon as possible.

  “Mr. Forester might disapprove of my kidnapping his pupil for such an outing.”

  “Mr. Forester will rejoice to have the time free, though he will pretend otherwise.”

  Ah, well. At least Oak wasn’t alone in earning Bracken’s disdain. “Mrs. Channing will permit the outing?”

  Bracken’s scowl became one degree less thunderous. “I shall inform her that you decided to extend Master Alexander’s first art lesson into two sessions. She will not object.”

  She would not be given a chance to object, in other words.

  “Then you have my thanks for your suggestion, Bracken. I am eager to retrieve my supplies and my horse, but I would not want to shirk my responsibility to Master Alexander.”

  The scowl faded into a mere frown. “Of course not, sir. You will be sure that Master Alexander wears his jacket, of course.”

  “Of course. And his cap, at least as far as the bottom of the drive.”

  “Very good, sir.” Bracken nodded—he did not bow—and withdrew.

  Oak sent word around to the stable to hitch up a stout cart and went to the nursery to collect his charge.

  “This is most irregular,” Forester muttered when Oak informed him of his plans. “The boy needs routine if he’s to learn discipline. I can understand a ramble in the garden—landscapes and all that—but Bathboro is hardly worthy of artistic study.”

  “Alexander,” Oak said, “please fetch your jacket and cap.”

  The boy remained unmoving beside his desk.

  Forester waved a hand toward the door. “Do as Mr. Dorning says, boy. And if I hear that you gave Mr. Dorning the slightest trouble, that you so much as gazed longingly at a mud puddle, there will be consequences.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alexander scampered for the door with more energy than Oak had seen him display previously.


  “Boy!” Forester barked.

  Alexander came to an abrupt halt and turned slowly. “Sir?”

  “Make your bow, Alexander. You bow before taking leave of other gentlemen.”

  Alexander bowed correctly to Oak and to Forester. “May I fetch my jacket now, sir?”

  “You may.” As Alexander disappeared into the corridor, Forester heaved up a sigh. “That child has all the scholastic aptitude of a turtle and the memory of a gnat. You do him a disservice by introducing an element of frolic to his day, Dorning.”

  Oak wanted to like Jeremy Forester. He and Forester were of an age, of a similar station, both trying to find a way forward in life and not particularly succeeding. But Alexander did not like Forester, and most children were good judges of character.

  “Do I tell you how to teach Master Alexander his sums?” Oak asked.

  “Any fool can teach sums, Dorning. One plunks an abacus down before the pupil, moves some beads around, drills the basic concept, and it’s taught. What’s your point?”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “God spare me from such a fate.”

  “I am an artist, and I well know how to teach my craft. If Master Alexander is to develop artistic skill, he must learn to see his world with fresh eyes, to notice, to visually analyze what others see but ignore. The best way to teach that lesson is to put him in situations where he is keenly interested in novel surroundings. When he has exercised his powers of attention naturally, I can use that experience to encourage him to the same end for artistic purposes.”

  I am an artist. Oak had never said those words before, not as a bald statement of fact. I enjoy art. I find art interesting. I am drawn to artistic pursuits. All so much dithering that implied, Please don’t disapprove of me because I love my art.

  For he did. He absolutely did. Surely the Royal Academy would see that.

  “Take the boy, then,” Forester said, huffing out another sigh. “Corrupt him to your heart’s content, but don’t be surprised if he’s so fidgety tomorrow that I’m compelled to take the birch rod to his hopeless little backside.”