The harder she tried, the worse it was going to get. She was going to stand here mute, unable to perform a child’s task, proving once and for all just how unworthy she was of the attention of a gentleman like Mr. Grenville, and of being in this gallery at all.
“What does it say?” he asked again, his brows creasing enquiringly.
Her stomach twisted. The letters weren’t any clearer. She was never going to be able to read the plaque. The back of her throat pricked with heat.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice tiny and raw.
Mr. Grenville stepped next to her, glanced from her miserable face to the printed sign, and burst into a belly laugh.
Nora wanted to die.
“Of course you cannot read it,” he said with a shake of his head. “I should never assume that anyone but myself had parents who subjected them to German tutors as well as French ones. It says, ‘Snow at dawn.’ Look at how he refracted the horizon in the frozen water. How do you think he did that?”
Nora stared back at him wordlessly, unable to theorize as to the artist’s technique because she was still shaking in her borrowed boots.
Mr. Grenville had already forgotten her awkwardness while reading the plaque, but Nora would never forget. His kindness made her feel even stupider than usual; she hadn’t realized the words weren’t in English. She fought the urge to run from the room and bury her flaming cheeks in her hands.
It wasn’t the first time Nora had been the least clever person in the room.
The local vicar had organized lessons for male school-aged children back home. Her grandparents had been thrilled about the opportunity and promised her she would learn just as much as Carter, even if she couldn’t attend personally.
But when her younger brother came home and attempted to explain the day’s lessons to her, Nora hadn’t been bright enough to follow along. Within a matter of weeks, her baby brother had quickly outpaced her in anything involving reading.
She had longed to fit in, pretended to control the dancing letters and numbers in a desperate attempt not to be different. Not to belesser.
All these years later, she was still doing the same thing: pretending she was just like all the other girls. Acting like she could read the titles of portraits. Pretending she belonged.
This was just more proof to the contrary.
She followed Mr. Grenville from one picture to the next, marveling at his complete and easy confidence. Of course he spoke Latin and German and French. Of course he could do sums and enjoyed literature and could recount relevant stories from history or fiction to accompany each painting. This was his element.
“You know everything about art,” she said in wonder when he surprised her yet again.
He gave her a crooked smile. “I know very little, but I know what I like. How about you? Do you see much here that you like?”
Nora swallowed, certain her face appeared as lovesick as she feared.
“Very much,” she managed. Her pulse raced just from his nearness. Every moment with him was better than the last.
He proffered his elbow. “Shall we try the next salon?”
Nora stared at his outstretched arm.
She knew she should not take it. This was a glimpse into the sort of life she might’ve had if she had been born into a different time, to a different family, in a different place. She was not his equal. She was a very out-of-her-depth young woman who very soon would be going back home where she belonged.
Perhaps that was why she took his arm and held on tight.
Obviously this could not go anywhere. It meant nothing. Friendship, flirtation, harmless fun. He was a future baron. She was an illiterate peasant girl dressed up like a debutante.
This wasn’t real life. They both knew the path would soon diverge when she went back home.
What harm could there be in living in the moment, when this moment was all they would ever have?
Chapter 14
Heath had been looking forward to visiting the Dulwich Picture Gallery ever since it opened, and was enjoying himself far more than he had anticipated.
He had expected to fall in love with the art. What he hadn’t expected… was Miss Winfield.
