“Also north facing. Now this is much more promising. Good light, plenty of space and a suitably imposing setting, so— Oh!”
He stopped, arrested by the portraits on the walls.
“The three duchesses,” Charlotte said. “The duke’s present duchess, her predecessor and, over there, his first duchess, Lady Caroline Bucknell.”
“But that is remarkable!” he cried, crossing with quick steps to stand before the Lady Caroline. “Mrs Richard Merrington is—”
“The image of her, yes. Rowena is the granddaughter of Lady Rosalind Bucknell, twin sister to Lady Caroline. You may imagine the shock when Rowena arrived here, completely unexpectedly, brought by Mr Goodenough.”
“And now she is to be the next duchess.”
“And you are to paint her,” Charlotte said happily. “I imagine she will hang on the wall just in that gap there, next to her great aunt. Shall we continue? Through this door is the duke’s study.”
“Which also faces north, but is full of desks and shelves and books and…?” He smiled benignly at the people within.
“Mr James Hammond and Mrs Henry Hastings,” Charlotte said, as the two rose from either side of a large table.
Lance bowed. “Your pardon for interrupting your work. We will not disrupt you a moment longer.”
They moved on, the sequence of rooms now taking them back in the opposite direction towards the centre of the house, one room leading into another in the same arrangement as before, but in reverse.
“Symmetry, Miss Charlotte, symmetry. To the architect, symmetry is all. Through here is a parlour of some sort, and the next door leads to— Oh, that is unexpected.”
Charlotte giggled. “Not at symmetrical as all that, Mr Chamberlain. This is the Music Room, my favourite room in the whole house.”
She turned slowly round as she spoke. The room was elaborately decorated in shades of lightest gold and green, with a painted ceiling of delicate beauty, covered with pale flowers and leaves in a thousand shades of green.
“It is very lovely,” he said, but his eyes were on the revolving Charlotte. He had an excellent view of her trim figure from all angles. No one would describe her as a great beauty, but her features were pleasantly arranged, and her simple style of dress enhanced her attractiveness.
Her eyes narrowed as she saw him looking at her, rather than the room. “What of the ceiling, sir? You are an artist, so you will know whether it is to be admired or not.”
“Do you admire it, Miss Charlotte?”
“I do, very much, but what is that to the point? I know nothing about art. Is it well executed? Does it achieve its purpose? Is it a work of merit?”
“As to that, if it satisfies you, if it inspires admiration in you, then it has achieved its purpose, for what is art but the means to arouse some emotion in the observer?”
“But there must be some intrinsic merit, surely? Art is not merely to be liked… is it?”
“Let us say, rather, that it must please, and the principal person who must be pleased is the man who pays the artist for it. If I paint a man’s wife, then the husband must be pleased by the likeness or he might refuse my fee, and that would not suit me at all.”
“But that is horrid!” she cried. “Art is surely more than a commercial transaction — must you paint whatever is asked of you in order to be paid? Is there not some higher value in art?”
“One hopes that one’s efforts will last to be admired for generations to come, naturally, but initially it is indeed no more than a monetary transaction. It must be, for how else would I make a living? No man would paint if there were no money to be made from it.”
“Women paint without thought of reward.”
“Women of your class do not need to earn their bread.”
“How true!” She laughed suddenly, and it was such a merry sound that he smiled too.
“Miss Charlotte…” he began, then stopped. “No, I cannot think that Charlotte is the right name for you. A Charlotte is a stuffy creature, hide-bound and dull, and you are not in the least dull. You are… not a Charlie… no… you are a Lottie, I think. Yes, you are definitely a Lottie. That is a much livelier name for a lady who pretends to be a dull Charlotte, but beneath the surface is a much more interesting Lottie.”
The eyes narrowed again. “Are you flirting with me, Mr Chamberlain? I would very much hope that an engaged man would not do such a thing.”
“Flirting? I?” he said, in a tone which he hoped conveyed the proper degree of injured innocence. “I am a portraitist, and therefore I see a great deal that is beneath the surface of my subjects.”
“Am I your subject, sir?”
