Anne Barbour (7 page)

"My expertise in the field of art is minimal," said Seth slowly, "but to me, your work is extraordinary." He turned to gaze at her, mystified. She was, as he had noted previously, an attractive woman, but in no way exceptional—except for those penetrating gray eyes. She was neat, unobtrusive, and altogether prosaic. Who would guess that beneath this unprepossessing exterior lay the soul of what he suspected was a true artist. "I wonder, might I see more of your work?"

He cursed himself immediately. It was Zoë Beckett on whom his attention should be focused. He did not wish to spend any longer at Clearsprings than necessary and had already avoided an opportunity to pursue his quarry. Was he now preparing to diverge farther from his path to investigate Zoë's older, completely nonessential sister?

Eden considered for a moment before she answered. At last, she said reluctantly, "Yes, I suppose so—if you wish. But, you have so little time. Are you not returning to London soon?"

"I planned to leave tomorrow morning, but it seems your mama has planned a dinner party, more or less in my honor, and—"

He stopped abruptly as Eden smiled. It was more of a grin, actually, and it lit her gray eyes like a warm fire on a winter evening. Seth swallowed suddenly.

"You must know, Mr. Lindow, that we do not often entertain dukes' sons, and when we do, we must make the most of it. Mama has all but posted signs on the front lawn."

"But, I'm not—"

"Your last name is Lindow, and that's what matters." Her face grew serious. "Mama is not socially ambitious—precisely—but I'm afraid when she heard you were coming, she could not resist showing you off—just a bit. And, I'm afraid Papa encouraged her." Her gaze dropped. "He does so wish to appear to advantage before his neighbors."

As though regretting her words, she whirled about and once again she gathered brushes and paints and tucked them into her satchel.

"I fear I shall disappoint when I am put on display," Seth said solemnly, "but I shall try to do my part. I didn't bring any ermine, and I left my satin breeches at home, but I do own a rather fine sapphire stickpin. Do you think that will be sufficient to impress the neighbors?"

Eden laughed. "I suppose it will have to do. You would not happen to have a coronet tucked in your luggage, would you?"

She reflected that Mr. Lindow scarcely needed external embellishment in order to command respect. His height, his rather forbidding features, and above all that assured stare combined to convey the certainty that here was a man to be reckoned with.

Seth joined in her laughter, and the thought occurred to him that his brief period of ruralization might not be so onerous after all. He observed that Miss Beckett had tucked away her equipment and was now preparing to mount her little mare.

"I hope I'm not driving you away from your work," he said diffidently. "I'll be leaving now."

"Oh, no. It's high time I returned home. In fact, it's a good thing you happened by. As so often occurs when I'm out here by myself, I tend to lose track of time."

Seth assisted her with the satchel, easel and stool, then, cupping his hands, tossed her lightly into her saddle. Astride his own horse, he accompanied Miss Beckett back to the house.

They conversed easily and companionably on the way, and when they reached the stable yard, Seth asked, "May I see your paintings now?"

Eden turned to him, startled. "Now? Oh, no. That is, I am promised to the vicar's wife for a meeting on an upcoming church fete. After luncheon perhaps."

"Very well, or—no, I'll be off then for a spot of fishing with your papa. When I return, perhaps?"

"That will be fine." Dismounting, Eden collected her paraphernalia and, with a smiling nod, returned to the house.

Her mood oddly unsettled, Eden went about the routine of her day in a fog of abstraction. She had been prepared to dislike Mr. Seth Lindow, sure that he was somehow up to no good with his clearly meretricious story of a horse-buying outing in the country. Yet, he seemed harmless enough, although harmless was the last word she would use to describe him. He could be charming, she mused. She had watched the hard gaze soften and the harsh features crinkle into laughter. And he liked her painting—certainly a point in his favor. Or perhaps he was merely trying to turn her up sweet. But why? Lord knew she had little influence with Zoë, or with her parents for that matter. Of course, even if he genuinely respected her art, that did not make his motives any less suspicious—but it certainly made it more difficult to keep her guard up.

After her visit with Mrs. Genther, the vicar's wife, Eden returned home to pursue another favorite hobby, gardening. She was inordinately proud of her roses, and, although at this time of year, her rose garden was bare, there was still much work to be done to assure future blooms of acceptable quality. She did not enter the house again until much later in the day, thus did not see Mr. Lindow until his return from the fishing expedition.

"Yes, we were reasonably successful," replied Seth in answer to her question. "Your papa owns every kind of fly known to man, and he was most generous. When the Jock Coachman failed to produce results, he provided me with a Black-tail Viper and a Wee Grubbie after that. How could I miss? Your cook promised us a fine feast of trout for dinner. Good God, where
is
this studio of yours? We seem to have been climbing forever."

Eden, hurrying to the drawing room after being summoned by a footman, had led Seth to the rear of the house and then up three flights of stairs to a warren of corridors, each more dark and deserted than the one before. At last, she paused before a door and threw it open. Seth blinked in the sudden shaft of light that assaulted him. The room lay across the back of the house, facing north, and it smelled of oil and turpentine. A large easel was set up in the center, catching light from the windows that spread across the chamber. Along the walls stood a number of canvases, stacked one against the other.

"This is part of the nursery wing, which of course hasn't been used for ages. This particular chamber lies just off the school room and was used for games and reading on rainy days. Since it is large and provides a good exposure, it is perfect for my purpose. No one comes up here anymore—in fact, I think Mama and Papa have forgotten its existence—so I can creep up here, and it's as though I've escaped to a hidden lair."

Seth moved into the room and, glancing at Eden, raised his brows in an unspoken request. Eden waved her hand permissively. As he lifted the canvases to examine them, she sat down before the easel, pretending to make minute corrections to an almost-completed work.

Seth's progress was slow, for he became increasingly mesmerized with the perusal of each painting. Most were watercolors, but there were some oils. None of the paintings were large, no grand landscapes or mythological panoramas. Although most of them were outdoor subjects, they portrayed small delights, like the budding tree in the wood. Eden apparently liked to paint flowers, but her subjects were not pretty bouquets of daffodils or formally arranged roses. Eden's flowers cascaded in riots of colors that seemed to spill from the canvas into the viewer's hands. Her daffodils were a glorious burst of gold and green that almost assaulted one with their sensuous beauty. They were formed of strong, almost violent brush strokes, and they suggested rather than took the true shape of the blossoms depicted. Her roses were full and vibrant in their blazing reds and pinks and yellows, and swollen with an almost suggestive passion.

He came across a portrait of Zoë, and almost gasped. It had been painted at night, and the sole source of lighting was a candle, from which the viewer was shielded by a sweep of drapery. Zoë's face was bathed in the warmth of the candlelight, glowing against the darkness behind her. The contrast of light and shadow was dramatic, creating a lush, almost shocking sense of intimacy. Eden had captured Zoë's freshness and the innocence of her youth as well as the mystery of her awakening sensuality. The effect was stunning.

"My God!" whispered Seth. "These are like nothing I have ever seen. Have you considered offering any of them for sale?"

Eden uttered a high laugh. "Oh, no." She dropped her gaze. "At least, not seriously. I have given away some as gifts—although not many people really want them. I have done a few portraits of my friends' children. Those turned out rather well. Papa and Mama and my sisters think my pictures are quite dreadful. They don't understand why I must paint with such ... ferocity. They complain that my flowers and trees and whatever else I choose are hardly recognizable—and I daresay they're right. But I must paint things as I see them. In any event. Papa would not for a minute countenance my offering my work for sale. It would smell of trade, don't you see?"

Seth grunted. Yes, he did see. On the other hand, though he was by no means an expert on art, he could feel the talent fairly boiling forth from the canvas. He knew only that in these paintings he beheld a vitality, a sureness, a pure virtuosity.

Seth touched one finger to a particularly explosive chrysanthemum. "Your style is ... quite original," he murmured.

Eden laughed. "My family would agree—although they would not put it so tactfully."

"I meant it as a compliment," Seth said hastily. He glanced at the stack of paintings. "Have you any more portraits?"

"Y-yes—or no, they are not formal portraits. I do have one or two studies, and a few sketches."

From a cupboard she pulled several sheets of vellum. There were watercolors and pencil and charcoal sketches, mostly of children and mostly in preliminary stages. Seth chose one of the more or less finished products, a charcoal sketch of Zoë seated at the piano. It seemed to Seth that she had caught Zoë's personality in a few bold strokes. Her impatient verve, as she attacked the keyboard, her enjoyment of the music thus produced, and the willful mischief that proclaimed itself in the very curve' of her body over the instrument.

"This is marvelous!" Seth exclaimed involuntarily. Again, Eden blushed as though unaccustomed to compliments on her work. "It seems a shame that all this should remain hidden here, unseen. It should be shared with the world."

Eden blinked. "That is very kind of you, Mr. Lindow, but as I have explained, very unlikely to come to pass."

She stood and moved toward the door, where she turned to gaze at him. The viewing was evidently over. As they emerged into the musty corridor outside the studio, a muted sound floated up from the distance below them.

"Goodness, there is the dressing gong already!" exclaimed Eden. "I had no idea we had spent so much time up here." She hurried down the stairs ahead of him, and when they reached the floor below, she set off toward the family wing. Seth placed his hand on her arm, and she whirled to face him, seemingly as startled as though she had forgotten his presence.

"Thank you for showing me your work. Miss Beckett."

"Why... yes, yes of course." Her smile was strained. "And thank you for your kind words. You were most... encouraging. I'll see you at dinner."

With that, she hurried down the corridor, leaving Seth to stare after her, mystified.

What the devil was the matter with her? What had there been in his tone to indicate anything but the most sincere admiration of her work? Why was she behaving as though she did not believe a word of it? If he was not mistaken, she resented the interest he had displayed in seeing her paintings at all—as though he had inveigled his way into her studio under false pretenses, and once having got there, had hurled insults at her. He frowned. Perhaps she was so accustomed to ridicule that she could not recognize honest admiration.

In any event, he reflected prosaically, he had satisfied his curiosity, and that would be an end to it. Turning, he strode toward his own chambers.

Good Lord, Eden chastised herself, standing in the midst of her bed chamber. What was the matter with her? The man had merely commented that her style was unusual, and she had flown into the boughs as though he had hurled a paint pot at her. She was pleased, of course, that he seemed to like her work. At least, she thought so. Although he hadn't actually said that, had he? She could only remember the words "astonishing" and "unusual" and ... and "original." Certainly not high praise. One might say the same thing about a newly discovered species of lizard. Yet, she had sensed a real admiration, and—

Oh, for heaven's sake. What difference did it make to her if he liked her work, or considered her the merest dabbler?

She halted suddenly, in the process of ringing for her maid. But... it did make a difference to her, didn't it? His good opinion of her painting mattered. Or was it his good opinion of her that she sought?

She shook herself. What nonsense. She had yet to meet the man whose opinion, well or ill, mattered one whit to her. Not that gentlemen tended to form opinions of her one way or another, at least not once they caught a glimpse of Zoë.

Ringing for Timmons, her maid, she began the laborious process of unhooking the back of her gown.

Chapter Six

Dinner that evening was not so pleasant as it had been the night before. Zoë, perhaps unwisely, aired further plans for the upcoming visit to London. These, apparently, included a whole new wardrobe. Her fond papa saw no reason to expand the superfluity of gowns she already owned, and the discussion quickly grew acrimonious.

"Devil take it, Zoë, you have enough clothes to outfit a sizable village. You wore most of them only once, and when you returned here to Clearsprings, you ordered a pile more just because the London garb was not—you said—fit for country wear. So there they all are taking space in your wardrobe and providing food for the moths. You can very well make do with those. Now, let us hear no more about it." Lord Beckett took a large gulp of wine.

"Papa, everyone has seen those gowns." Zoë's voice rose to an indignant squeal. "You cannot wish me to appear in last year's ensembles. I would be a laughing stock." She drew a deep breath. "I cannot believe you are being so ... so parsimonious about this. Do you not wish me to make you proud? How do you expect me to attract the most eligible young men if I'm dressed in rags?" She lifted wide, angry eyes to Eden as though for support.