Eleanor took the proffered arm with an inward sigh. Thomas Lawrence was one of her favorite painters, and she’d particularly wanted to see his portraits, but now instead of rational artistic observations, she’d be compelled to feign ignorance. Whatever would she find say about the Duke of York’s portrait? Perhaps she could pretend to mistake him for Prinny . . .
A small hand cupped her elbow. Startled, Eleanor looked down to find Amelia grinning up at her. “Is Mr. Lawrence a fine artist, Lady Eleanor?”
Eleanor gave Camden West a sidelong glance. “He’s said to be by those who know such things, yes.”
“Oh.” Amelia nodded, but before Eleanor could congratulate herself on her vague answer, the child spoke again. “Doyouthink he’s a fine artist?”
Eleanor looked down into Amelia’s trusting face.For pity’s sake. Was she to be made to lie to this sweet child now? Or, worse, fill her head with ridiculous untruths about Mr. Lawrence’s paintings? She hated to mislead a young artist, yet at the same time she was aware of Mr. West to her left, listening to her every word.
She pressed her lips together.Very well. She’d find a way to get rid of Camden West for long enough to give Amelia an abbreviated lesson on Thomas Lawrence. “Shall we see what we think when we view his paintings?”
Amelia, satisfied with this answer, nodded and walked along at Eleanor’s side. When they arrived at the part of the exhibit featuring Mr. Lawrence’s work, Eleanor kept hold of Amelia, but released Mr. West’s arm. “There’s the Duke.” She nodded at the Duke of York’s portrait. “I believe you wished to see it?”
Mr. West raised an eyebrow. “You don’t wish to see it?”
“Ididsee it. It’s just there.”
Before he could reply, she turned back to Amelia. “Shall we go to the other end of the hall to see the portrait of Lady Leicester? Look, Mr. Lawrence has painted her as Hope, and her gown is a lovely shade of russet.”
She led the child down to the other end of the hall, careful to natter on about the gown until she was out of earshot of both Mr. Wests, who stayed where they were to admire the Duke.
“You know, Miss West,” she said, as soon as they were alone, “now we’ve had a chance to see his work, I believe I do think Mr. Lawrence a very fine artist. Do you like this picture of Lady Leicester?”
Amelia gazed at the painting for a moment. “Yes. Her face is peaceful, and she looks as if she’s floating, rather like an angel.”
“She does, indeed. Now, won’t you open your box and see if you can sketch Lady Leicester’s likeness from her portrait? Mr. Lawrence learned to paint by copying other artist’s portraits when he was young, too.”
“He did?” Amelia looked impressed with this information. She opened her box and pulled out a sketching pencil and some blank sheets of paper.
Eleanor nodded. “Oh, yes. He practiced and practiced, and when he was a young man he painted a portrait of Queen Charlotte, and it was such a true likeness he became quite famous for it, and now he’s considered one of England’s finest Romantic painters. Do you know what it means to be a Romantic painter?”
Amelia turned back to Lady Leicester. “Well, the word romantic has to do with love, but with painting it doesn’t mean the same thing, does it?”
“Not quite, no. It means an artist like Mr. Lawrence is skilled at expressing emotion through his paintings. What kind of feeling do you get when you look at the portrait of Lady Leicester?”
Amelia cocked her head to the side and considered the painting. “Not a happy one, exactly, but something like it. Perhaps it’s more like the feeling I get right before I fall asleep.”
“Yes, I know just what you mean. My, you’re clever. It feels peaceful, doesn’t it? The way the light shines on the white part of her dress makes me feel as if I would have sweet dreams once I did fall asleep. Do you think you can copy it?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d like to try.” Amelia made some tentative lines on her sketchpad while Eleanor watched over her shoulder, flushed with success. Oh, she didn’t expect a child to be able to sketch Lady Leicester with much accuracy, but an aspiring artist had to start somewhere. An interest in art was a good place to begin, and she could see by the intent look on Amelia’s face she was interested.
She leaned over Amelia’s shoulder and traced a line on the sketchpad with her finger. “Is this her hand, holding the branch?”
“Yes. Does it look right, do you think? Perhaps it needs to be a bit longer.” Amelia looked over her shoulder at Eleanor, then they both looked up at Lady Leicester.
Eleanor smiled. “It looks perfect.”
* * *
“Well, how do you and Lady Frost get on?” Julian abandoned his study of Lawrence’s Duke of York to sweep a critical eye over Cam. “I don’t see any gaping wounds, so she hasn’t resorted to the letter opener yet.”
Cam glanced toward Amelia and Lady Eleanor, drew in a long, deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out in a pained sigh. “No, but at this point I’d prefer a stabbing. At least it would be quick.”
Julian chuckled. “Means to kill you slowly, does she?”
“Slowly and tortuously, with ceaseless, inane chatter.”
“Oh, come now, it can’t be that bad.”
