Oak could lecture the boy on the intrusiveness of asking about other people’s private feelings, he could make a joke, he could…
“I will soon have to leave Merlin Hall, Alexander. My work here is nearly done. I will miss you, and I will miss your family.”
Alexander squeezed him silently about the neck the whole way up to the terrace. When the boy’s grip eased up, Oak set him on his feet.
“You are in no danger of being late,” Oak said. “None at all.”
Such a thunderous, conflicted expression met Oak’s announcement. Alexander’s blue eyes were full of recrimination and consternation, and Oak knew in that moment what it was to betray a child’s trust.
“Mr. Forester said you’d never stay at a pokey little farm like Merlin Hall. Merlin Hall isn’t a pokey little farm. It’s a lovely place to live. Even I know that. You should stay here.”
Before Oak could offer consoling lies—I’ll write to you, I’ll visit, you must come see me in London—Alexander pelted into the house at a dead run. Oak hoped the boy slowed down before he reached the schoolroom, lest Forester lecture him about gentlemen never proceeding at more than a dignified stroll.
Rather than return to the studio, Oak perched again on the balustrade overlooking the back garden. The walk with Alexander had helped clarify at least one source of Oak’s low mood.
He’d asked Vera outright to come to London with him, and her reasons for refusing were many and sound. He’d been a fool—a selfish fool—to ask her. He was an equally selfish fool to expect her to ask him to tarry here at Merlin Hall. The Little Season wouldn’t start for weeks, and many families ruralized through the whole winter before returning to Town.
As the cold stone seat on the balustrade grew uncomfortable, Oak realized that he’d been watching Vera in hopes she’d issue an invitation for him to stay on at Merlin Hall, and no such invitation would be forthcoming.
By this time next week, he could be in London. Why wasn’t that cause for rejoicing?
When Oak retrieved his mail from Bracken, he found a letter from Richard Longacre. Longacre had recommended Oak as a portraitist to no less than three young mothers in search 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 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, exceptio
nally 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 my nerve.”
“I’m not suggesting you keep Forester on. I’m suggesting you consider the terms on which you let him go.”
“He bullies my son,” she said, stalking back across the carpet, “and worse, I’ve let it go on. I told myself Alexander had to adjust, that all boys mourn the loss of a dear governess when a proper tutor takes over. I did not want to offend Alexander by intimating that he wasn’t smart enough to work with a tutor. I’ve handled this all wrong.”
And that was an old, familiar feeling, of being inadequate, the wrong person for the job, wanting. Vera had felt that way as Dirk’s wife and as the only daughter in a family of boisterous and unruly brothers. The same sense of being inadequate plagued her as Oak’s lover.
He’d sought an intimate friendship, and here she was, in a welter of heartache over a man bound for London.
“Forester is not the right tutor for Alexander,” Oak said, “though you do yourself no favors if you make it plain the fault lies with Forester.”
“But it clearly does. Alexander is six years old. He’s not incorrigible or dull-witted. He simply lacks confidence.”
“Forester lacks skill,” Oak said, “though if you turn him off without a character, he will trot back to Town, pouting and smarting. He will intimate to Longacre and to all and sundry that you were an impossible employer and Alexander a spoiled brat.”
Vera sank into the chair before her desk. “I don’t want that. I want Forester gone, and Miss Diggory with him. Longacre meant well, but he chose poorly.”
“I will inquire of my family regarding replacements,” Oak said. “The countess in particular and my sister Jacaranda know everybody. By Michaelmas at the latest, you can have a new governess and tutor at Merlin Hall.”
“I want those two gone now, Oak.” Before Oak abandoned her for London, which was cowardly of her.
“Then you tell them that you’re planning a holiday for the children, perhaps a trip to the Lakes, and that both Tamsin and Jeremy are free to take holidays of their own. When they have left the household and some time has passed, you send them additional severance. You suggest to Jeremy that Alexander is benefiting from more time to mature before he resumes his studies, and you cannot in good conscience keep Jeremy from seeking another post. Wish him best of luck and enclose a character of sorts.”
“And Tamsin?”
Oak again propped a hip against a corner of the desk. “The same basic approach. Turn her loose, then follow up with a letter indicating that Catherine has benefited from a pause in her studies. You are researching finishing schools, and Miss Diggory must consider herself free to pursue other opportunities. Send along enough severance, and they will both recall you fondly.”
“And how can I write characters for a pair who honestly aren’t well suited to instructing children?”
“Damn with faint praise. Forester performed his duties conscientiously, which means with a complete lack of imagination. Miss Diggory was patient with an adolescent’s temperament, which means little education occurred. Give it some thought, and the words will come. I have faith in you.”
He leaned down, kissed her cheek, and headed for the door.
“Oak?”
“Mrs. Channing?”
“Thank you.”
He ran a paint-stained hand through his hair. “It’s the least I can do.”
Then he left Vera alone with Longacre’s letter and much to think about.
Chapter Eleven
The bedamned traveling coach arrived, not from Dorset, but from London. When the matched grays trotted up the Merlin Hall drive, who should descend but both Ash and Sycamore.
Oak was so glad to see his brothers, he didn’t even pummel them for spying on him. Sycamore had become an elegant man-about-town—the transformation was obvious before he’d set his booted foot over Merlin’s Hall’s threshold—while Ash was still Ash: quiet, faintly amused, hard to read. Both brothers set about charming Vera, and that was…
That was what Vera deserved. To be flirted with and flattered, entertained and appreciated. The decision was made that Ash and Cam would bide at Merlin Hall for two days, giving the coachy, grooms, and horses a chance to rest. Then Oak would depart with his brothers for Town.
Finally. At last.
“So why,” Cam asked, when the ladies had left the supper table for a pot of tea in the parlor, “don’t you look ebullient to be storming the great citadel of art and culture?”
“London is not a citadel,” Oak retorted, glad that Forester had pleaded fatigue rather than join the Dorning brothers for a round of port.
“The heart is a citadel,” Ash said, “and Mrs. Channing has captured yours.”
Oak stared at his drink, idly noting the garnet, amber, and gold highlights created by the candlelight.
“Wh
y did I ever think I missed my siblings?” he mused. “For weeks, nobody has presumed to announce my inmost thoughts to the world, nobody has insulted my attire, nobody has joked about my calling. You are under this roof a mere six hours, and already you declare me lovesick.”
“Five hours,” Cam said, glancing at the clock on the dining room mantel, “and you don’t deny the accusation. The widow is damned pretty, but you’ve been sketching the damned pretty ones since you went up to university. I like her.”
Ash sat back, crossing an ankle over one knee. “Oak likes Mrs. Channing, too, and she likes Oak. She doesn’t want him to hare off to the big city. Why isn’t marriage under discussion?”
That Cam let the question hang in the air, rather than heaping his unhelpful observations on top of Ash’s query, meant Oak would have to answer.
“I am an artist,” he said. “I’ve bent my entire being, from boyhood on, to achieving artistic success. Am I to throw it all away now, without testing my mettle in the only arena that matters?”
“A paintbrush-wielding gladiator,” Cam murmured. “I’m having trouble picturing it.”
So was Oak, truth be told. “If I take your club away from you, Cam, what’s left? Who are you?”
Cam sent Ash a look. “I am your tired brother, that’s who I am, and I’m a damned fine-looking fellow with pots of money and all the best connections. You should invite Mrs. Channing to Town. She’s welcome to the use of my rental on Hillman Street. This time of year, nobody seeks a house in London, but one doesn’t want to let the servants go, because they need their wages.”
“Vera doesn’t exactly have pots of money,” Oak replied, sipping his port. “You’d have to make it plain she was a guest, not a renter.”
Another look passed between his brothers, and Oak realized his mistake. He should have scoffed at the notion of Vera traveling to Town, should have snorted with disdain. Vera did not want to travel to Town, had no reason to travel to Town. None at all. She’d been very clear about that.
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