Page 36 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

chapter-seperator

Caught up in transcribing the narrative, Sophia finally glanced at Mrs. Digby when she continued to stare out the window. “Do you need to stop?”

“I wonder if this is worthwhile.” She turned her gaze on Sophia. “Does anyone truly need to know this?” She gestured at her journal that now lay closed on her lap.

Sophia tapped her pencil against her bottom lip.

“People need to know more than the glamorized account they read in the newspapers. Publishers sensationalize things to sell more copies. And the men who write history texts tend to discount or ignore any contribution from women since you’re not the person who was leading the charge into battle.

” She thought back to the textbooks they had used at the Academy, and the struggle to find any that did more than acknowledge that women existed, never mind their contributions to humanity.

“I think there is value in first-hand accounts of historic events from everyone who was present.”

Before Mrs. Digby could reply, Mrs. Nelson arrived with a tea tray, and by unspoken accord Mrs. Digby set aside her journal to fill a cup, and Sophia moved to the sofa.

“Cook remembered that your nephews are especially fond of the rout cakes,” the housekeeper said. “She made a double batch.”

Sophia had time to eat three of the tiny, delicious cakes between sips of tea before the door opened again, and Wallace and Mrs. Royston burst in.

“Gert, may we borrow Miss Walden for a bit? We’re having a disagreement and need someone impartial.” Mrs. Royston wore a canvas smock splashed with paint smears, and her dress sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

“I would be most appreciative,” Wallace added, with a bow and a charming smile aimed at Sophia. He also wore a paint-stained smock, no coat, and his shirtsleeves rolled up.

“I have no objections if you don’t,” Mrs. Digby said.

Sophia snagged two more cakes from the tray as she stood. “How may I be of assistance?”

“It’s this way,” Mrs. Royston said. Moving faster than Sophia expected of the septuagenarian, she led the way up the stairs, with Wallace following after Sophia.

They passed the landing for the floor with the bedchambers and kept going past the floor with the servants’ quarters until they reached the attic. Light spilled from an open door.

“I don’t think I’ve been up here before,” Sophia couldn’t help murmuring.

“When the light is good and my hands don’t ache too much, I could stay up here for days if Gert didn’t drag me down for meals and to sleep in my bed,” Mrs. Royston said as she crossed the threshold.

Sunlight streamed in from windows on three sides, lighting up an artist’s studio.

Unframed paintings on the floor rested against each other along the walls, while others sat on easels in various stages of completion.

A stack of fresh, blank canvases leaned against the leg of a table littered with jars of paint and dozens of brushes and other tools.

So many completed canvases hung on the walls, most without frames, that she could hardly tell if the room was painted or wallpapered.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about art,” Sophia said, struggling to take in the maelstrom of color from the collection of landscapes and portraits on display, in sizes ranging from the palm of her hand to bigger than a doorway.

“What kind of disagreement do you think I could I possibly help you settle?”

“It’s time to change which painting hangs above the fireplace in the drawing room,” Wallace said.

“Aunt Agnes wants to put up another seascape, and I think it should be a portrait.” He gestured at a row of six canvases lined up on the wall beside the door—three paintings of ships at sea in various weather conditions, and three portraits.

Sophia leaned in close. The first portrait was of a gentleman in full army uniform she recognized as Captain Horatio Digby. The second was a group of boys playing on a sandy beach. The third was a gentleman in uniform whom she guessed was Mrs. Royston’s husband, George.

“This is indeed a difficult decision. They’re all equally good.

” Sophia paused before each of the six canvases, admiring the brushstrokes, the colors, the subjects rendered in beautiful detail.

“Any of these would add grace to the drawing room.” She walked farther, tilting her head up and down to take in more of the art on display in the room, floor to ceiling.

“Perhaps it should be a different painting altogether.”

Behind her, she heard the clacking of frames as Wallace and Mrs. Royston sorted through stacks to peruse other canvases and discussed their choices.

Some paintings were of exotic locales. She recognized the cathedral above the Duoro River in Porto, Portugal; a cathedral and cantina in Carunna, Spain; Ponte Vecchio Bridge in Florence, Italy. But it was the people that most caught her attention.

She suspected the young boys playing on the seashore were Fairfax and his brothers, though they could be any boys on any beach.

Mrs. Digby probably would not appreciate the painting of her dozing in her armchair with Henry asleep on her lap being in the drawing room for every guest to see, but Sophia thought it darling.

Immortalized on another canvas, she recognized Mr. Bickford, the coachman, leaning in to buss his wife, the cook, on the cheek as she stirred a pot on the hearth.

A family portrait caught her eye. The father, obviously a gentleman of means by his dress, stood with his hand resting on his wife’s shoulder.

She sat beside him with a boy of about three on her lap.

Another boy, perhaps five, leaned against her knee.

A third boy, about seven, mimicked the adult male’s stance.

Sophia bent for a closer look, then compared the painting to Wallace, who currently had his head tilted back, looking at a painting hung close to the ceiling.

The father in the portrait bore a striking resemblance to how she imagined Wallace would look a few years from now.

The middle boy and the father shared the same curly light brown hair and blue eyes.

The mother also had blue eyes, her hair the color of champagne, as did the toddler she was holding.

That must be Xavier perched on the woman’s lap.

Could the third boy be Fairfax? He looked so different from the rest of the family, with straight black hair and brown eyes that seemed to see right through her, even at such a young age, from a two-dimensional canvas.

Sophia couldn’t help looking at Wallace again, and back to the painting.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Royston said reverently. “I haven’t looked at these in years.

” She pulled a canvas out of a crate. The lid rested against the side, a pry bar at her feet.

“I’d forgotten I even had them shipped here.

” She leaned the painting of majestic, snow-capped mountains against the crate and pulled out another.

“My, look how young Gert is here!” She propped it on an easel, setting aside an unfinished portrait of Henry rolling in a flowerbed to make room.

Sophia drifted over to look at it in the sunlight.

This portrait must have memorialized a wedding, as a young man and woman in clothing from fifty years ago held hands on the steps of a cathedral, flanked by what she guessed was family.

The groom’s light brown hair was tied back with a black ribbon in a neat bow, revealing the same facial features as Wallace and his father.

Next to him were two women, one of whom looked to be his mother.

With a gasp, Sophia realized the other was the image of a young Mrs. Digby.

But the bride! Sophia couldn’t take her eyes off the bride.

Nearly as tall as her husband, she wore a floral silk gown, lavishly decorated with ribbon rosettes and flounces displayed to advantage over panniers, in colors that flattered her onyx black hair and olive complexion.

Her brown eyes seemed to look directly at Sophia.

They sat above her aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and full lips set in a teasing smile that seemed familiar even though Sophia would wager she’d never seen this woman before, at any age.

Except…

Sophia gasped.

“Vincenza was eighteen when she married Gert’s elder brother,” Mrs. Royston quietly said beside Sophia.

“Her mother, the Contessa, was too ill to travel to England so we converged upon Rome. Horatio and George were both able to get leave, so we were all there.” She cocked her head to one side, studying the painting.

“I only had time to make a quick sketch before the festivities were in full swing. Months went by before I could actually paint this. The Army transferred us as soon as George returned to duty after the wedding.”

Sophia couldn’t help reaching out a finger to trace the features, though she stopped short of actually touching the painting.

Mrs. Royston dropped her voice to a whisper and winked at her. “Now you know why he’s named Vincenzo.”

“Is this the one you think we should hang in the drawing room?” Wallace had come up beside them.

Sophia flicked her gaze to the family portrait with seven-year-old Fairfax. Wallace followed her gaze and flinched.

Hmm.

She pointed at the wedding portrait. “As you are seeking my opinion, I would like to learn more about your grandparents and let them preside over the drawing room.”

Wallace bowed. “Then this is the one we shall hang above the fireplace.” He was all smiles and affability, betraying no hint of whatever bothered him about the family portrait that captured him and his brothers as children.

They all trooped downstairs. While Wallace arranged with Marshall to have the paintings swapped and Sophia paused to listen to the music she heard coming from the drawing room—a violin and the harpsichord now joined the pianoforte in a tune she’d never heard before—Kendall answered a knock at the front door.