Feeling on edge, I hovered in the background as Dorian flipped through a pile of unframed canvases leaning against the wall. I was impressed despite myself. He had always been a good sketcher, but his oil portraits were excellent. I could see why he was making good money from them.
‘What do you think, Felicity?’ Dorian asked, seeing I was eyeing them curiously.
‘I don’t profess to be an art critic, but these are wonderful,’ I commented, remembering what Max had said and trying to be courteous.
‘Thank you,’ said Dorian, sounding pleased at the compliment. He always did like it when I admired his art. ‘I hope you will be as appreciative of your own painting.’
‘I’m sure we shall,’ said Max.
As we resumed our pose, I muttered to Max, ‘There were quite a few portraits of lovely ladies in his collection, so I don’t think he has beenthatlonely.’
Max snorted.
‘Please be quiet, thank you’ came the artist’s voice from behind the easel. ‘I need complete silence when I am creating.’
God, give me strength!
***
A few weeks later, we were back in Derbyshire; and one fine spring afternoon, our framed portrait arrived by private coach from London. It was of a reasonable size and carefully wrapped in layers of brown paper andtied securely with twine.
Max and I had a private unveiling in the parlour, where it was to be hung. He had planned exactly where it should go—above the fireplace.
I handed him a small sharp knife. ‘Do you want to do the honours?’
Apprehensively, I watched as Max cut the twine and started stripping away the paper. It was nerve-racking to have oneself displayed in a portrait. After all, family and friends were going to see it every time they sat in the parlour. I hoped Dorian had done me justice.
The last shred of paper fell away, and Max stepped back beside me so as to view it properly.
We stared at it in silence. A feeling, not unlike hysteria, began welling inside me until I could contain it no longer. I let out a volley of high-pitched hiccuping giggles.
‘It is not funny, Fliss!’ said Max, sounding royally peeved.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. But oh, it was funny!
There I was in the portrait with an adorable Freddie on my lap. I looked a tad haughty, but that was forgivable. What was not forgivable was the fact that Dorian hadn’t painted Max standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder—he had paintedhimselflooking every inch theproud father!
‘Two thousand pounds and posing for him for hours, and he sends us this! Is it supposed to be humorous? If so, I am not amused!’ Max fumed.
‘That’s what you get when you do business with a rogue, dearest,’ I said mildly. ‘I am not surprised in the slightest that he has hoodwinked us. Now do you want to hang it in the parlour or—’
‘Over my dead body!’
***
Who knows what will become of Dorian’s painting? Will future generations of our family look at it and wonder what on earth it is all about? Perhaps Freddie will want it for his own home when he is older and has learned the story of his true parentage. But I doubt Max will let him have it—he’d burn it first.
For now, we have a two-thousand-pound painting we can’t hang in the parlour, dining room, or any other public-facing room. And I certainly do not want it in our bedroom as it will be like Royden Hart staring at me every night. No, even though I’m sure Dorian thought it was a huge joke and laughed himself silly over it, the lastlaugh is on us.
Max took the painting out to the stable that night and propped it on a hay bale. The only audience it will have for the near future are Apollo and George; and unfortunately, for Dorian, our horses are not very discerning when it comes to art.
Chapter 20
Life returned to normal after the portrait fiasco and all thoughts of Dorian faded into the background. Without the threat of him hanging over our heads, I began to look forward to the future and not dread it.
But I still wondered about Mrs Busby’s prediction. Did I choose the right path? Or was I on the one that would lead to certain death?
One night, having been worrying about it during the day, I mentioned the Mrs Busby saga to Max when we were in bed together. He laughed so much when I told him that I had pushed her over that tears ran down his cheeks. His laughter was infectious, and I couldn’t help giggling too.
