Eager to see the art, she allowed Mr. Grenville to lead her deeper into the winding salons.
Some of the visitors around them marched through the gallery, glancing at each picture over their shoulders as if determined to race through every room within a prescribed amount of time.
To her delight, Mr. Grenville’s method mirrored her own preferences. He led her directly in front of the first picture and did not budge until they had both had the opportunity to fully observe it.
Nora ignored the little plaques with the dancing letters beneath each work of art, focusing instead on the artistry involved. The choices in perspective, in color, in light.
As they walked, the works she liked least fascinated her as much as the works she liked best due to the attention to detail on the parts of both the artists and the gallery’s curator. Someone hadchosenthese works of art. Chosen the order, the grouping into salons. Likely even chosen which works would be shown and which would not.
She could not help but wonder which pictures had not made the cut, and why. Her head was already overflowing with new techniques to try the moment she got back home.
Nothome, she reminded herself with a frown. When she returned to Lady Roundtree’s town house, she could devote herself to art. When she returnedhome, she would have to leave that nonsense behind. Nora’s grandparents would need her. Her brother would need her. The farm would need her. There would be little time for experimenting with light or color or perspective.
“I would have switched the last two,” Mr. Grenville murmured as they reached the end of a corridor. “And the third and fifth.”
Nora glanced at him with interest.
He had been so full of well-read commentary about the styles of art and the probable techniques used that it was hard to believe he was not an artist himself. This was the first time he had spoken critically of the order in which the art had been shown.
“Why?” she asked.
He cast his gaze at the other works in the room. “They sorted them chronologically. Displaying these works by the date painted was a mistake. They’re all the same mountain at different times of the year. They should be grouped by season and time of day to truly appreciate the changing nature of time, as the artist intended.”
In surprise, Nora swept her gaze about the salon anew.
She did not know where this mountain range might be located, but Mr. Grenville was right: it was the same mountain in different seasons, at different times, from different angles. Grouping them as if they represented a single year rather than the artist’s obvious many years of study would have given a far more accurate portrait of the changing nature of seasons.
“You are brilliant.” She stared at him in wonder. “They should have hired you to curate the exhibition.”
Although he did not respond aloud, Mr. Grenville appeared uncommonly pleased by her observation.
In the next salon, he squinted at each of the plaques and read them aloud, along with his best guess about why the artist had chosen this title for that picture.
Nora was as fascinated with Mr. Grenville as the art around them. Every tiny insight into him made him all the more marvelous. Since coming to London, this afternoon was by far her favorite moment.
“What about that one?” he asked, gesturing toward a picture on Nora’s other side.
“The perspective?” She stepped closer to the work he’d indicated.
“No, the title. Is it in the same series as this one?”
He smiled at her expectantly, patiently awaiting her answer.
Nora froze in sudden terror.
She could read some things. Shecould.
If the letters were big enough and the words were familiar and there wasn’t a witty and intelligent man she was desperately trying to impress standing a few feet from her.
Her fingers shook. She needed to concentrate without looking like she was concentrating.
She could lean forward a little bit perhaps, but not too much. He knew she wasn’t blind. If she could pick out differences in the colors of certain leaves in previous works, obviously she could perform the simple task of reading the picture’s title aloud.
Obviously.
Her palms grew clammy, and she wrapped her fingers into tight balls to hide the cold sweat. She could do this. One of the letters was a D, or possibly a B. She would figure it out just as soon as they stopped dancing.
But the more she stared at each letter, the more they seemed to shiver and move. Now she wasn’t sure that the wiggling letter was a D or a B at all. She wasn’t sure about any of the letters.
