Page 5 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Four

JULIA

A s they had arranged, Julia met Mr Robertson the following day after the children had finished their morning lessons.

She set Selina and her friend to work on new drawings to show their painting master, and gave Annie the task of finding all the countries she could on the large globe, along with their major cities, while Miss Kingstone took the boys out to play near—but not in—the pond.

Now, with about an hour at their disposal, she and the newcomer could fight over which of them would command the bulk of their students’ time.

To her pleasant surprise, he was far more agreeable than he had been the previous day.

He agreed that the fundamentals to learning were essential and that they must take priority.

Every artist, he explained, must have a thorough knowledge of history and the ancient Greek and Roman myths, for these stories were often the subjects of great art.

Likewise, a solid understanding of mathematics was vital to many aspects of art.

Ratios, perspective, and the like, were the language in which the most basic descriptions of the world were written.

“How can I talk about the golden mean in art if they do not know the terminology or understand the concept? Teach it, and I shall applaud your efforts.”

Furthermore, he offered to supplement her own lessons, where suitable, with examples from his own area of proficiency.

“Educate them about plants and natural science, and I shall teach them to draw these very things. How much better will they learn of the minutiae of form when they render them on paper with their own hands. We shall work together.”

They settled on a scheme, wherein Mr Robertson would work with Selina and Harriet in the mornings—with Miss Kingstone or one of the other senior servants in attendance for propriety, of course—while Julia did her lessons with the younger children, and then after their luncheon, he would spend a half hour or so with each of the others while Julia did what work she must complete with the rest. Since the older girls—young ladies, really—needed less instruction than activity to keep them busy, this was more than acceptable.

Despite this seemingly productive meeting, Julia was uncomfortable. Every time she looked up from the notebook in which she was recording their plans, Mr Robertson’s eyes were on her. Nor was this the casual glance expected between people in a complicated discussion about a particular subject.

Rather, he seemed to be examining her somehow, staring at her hair, her nose, or watching her hands with an intensity that was quite unnerving.

She tried, surreptitiously, to put a hand to her head in case some lock of hair had somehow come unpinned from its usual tight knot, and then to check that there was not some strange stain on her cuffs or a piece of this morning’s eggs on her cheek.

Eventually, it became too much to bear.

“What is the matter?” she asked. “Is something amiss with my appearance? You seem to be staring at me.”

He threw a dramatic hand to his chest.

“I? Staring? Far from it. Although now that we have breached the silence, I do have a request.” He paused and was silent for three or four seconds before continuing.

“I wish, Miss Lyddon, to paint you.” He spoke as simply as if he stated a preference for riding over walking, or suggested strawberry preserves instead of apricot with his toast.

“What?” Her jaw dropped. Could she have misheard him? It was shocking. “That is quite out of the question.”

“But why?” He seemed genuinely confused.

Julia thrust her shoulders back in indignation.

“I am not some… some loose woman of dubious morals, to pose wantonly for an artist. I have heard what happens; I have seen some of those paintings. Unclad nymphs or reclining ladies with…” She took in a shuddering breath.

“With their bodies exposed! Even to have this suggested is an insult.”

To her horror, Mr Robertson began to laugh.

“Nymphs and reclining nudes? Heavens, no! I would not object to attempting such a work. You would be an admirable model, I am sure. But that is nothing like what I had in mind. Nothing of the sort. I am preparing for an exhibition, and I would like to add some portraits to my oeuvre of landscapes. All I require from you is some time and patience. You may remain fully clad the entire time.”

“All the same, I must refuse.”

The artist sighed and shook his head. “Have you any objection other than your concerns about propriety?”

“It is not seemly.” Surely that was all that needed to be said.

But the man would not accept her refusal.

“I cannot see that at all. Ladies of all the great families have portraits painted all the time. Countesses and duchesses, even the queen, frequently sit to have their likenesses captured on canvas.”

“But they are important; there is a merit in that, a need, even, to record their faces for their children and grandchildren. But I am nobody, a mere governess. To paint me would be vanity.” She took a breath. “Besides which, Mr Derriscott would hardly permit it. I cannot even ask him.”

“Ah,” Mr Robertson retorted, “but I can. Let us go now. He might be in his study. We shall ask him at once.” He leapt to his feet and was out the door before Julia could find the words to object. She gathered her skirts and set off after him.

Most unfortunately for her, Mr Derriscott was, indeed, in his study, sitting at his large desk examining a beautiful vase that Julia had not seen before.

“Come in,” he replied to Mr Robertson’s tap at the door.

What privilege this painting master had!

Julia would never dare to disturb her employer thus.

Her rule was to await a summons from him, or to consult with Mrs Derriscott when she was at home, or if absolutely necessary, send a note and wait for a reply.

But Mr Robertson simply knocked at the door and walked right into the gentleman’s lair.

“What a lovely piece,” Mr Robertson said, his eyes alighting on the vase. “May I?”

“I would appreciate your opinion,” came the response. “It arrived only this morning; something I had requested from an acquaintance in Town. Pretty little thing, is it not?”

The painting master turned his attention to the vase. He peered at it from this angle and that, holding it up to the sunlight that streamed through the window, and turning it in every direction.

“Lovely, indeed. It looks quite old. Fifteenth-century Italian, if my eyes do not deceive me.”

For a few minutes, the two men discussed the objet d’art , throwing about obscure terminology that Julia could not hope to understand.

“A very fine piece it is, sir,” Mr Robertson said at last, “and quite valuable, I imagine.”

“The estate is doing well,” came the reply, “and I am pleased to be able to invest in art. And,” Mr Derriscott added, gesturing to Mr Robertson, “in artists.”

“Well said, well said! I cannot disagree with that at all. Which brings us to the reason for our interruption.”

In a few words, he put forward his case, citing none of Julia’s objections. Mr Derriscott listened intently, his chin balanced on steepled fingers, and at last, nodded.

“A splendid idea. And a credit to Brookview Hall. I say, you will paint the house as well, will you not? There is a particularly charming vista from across the reflecting pool, with all the statuary. Shall I show you the place?”

“I have seen it, sir. It is beautiful.”

“I had that built only two years back. Dreary place this was when I came into it, but we have turned it around, eh? Yes, that will do nicely. You may start painting Miss Lyddon at your convenience.”

Julia had to interrupt now.

“But, Mr Derriscott, would it not be inappropriate? To have your children’s governess as the subject of a painting?”

“Not at all, Miss Lyddon. I can think of nothing better. How grand we shall all be, when the news comes out that the governess at Brookview Hall was painted by none other than Cornelius Robertson. What an achievement! What a grand thing for the estate. It is quite splendid!”

With that statement, as good as a command, there was nothing for Julia to do but agree.