The Barefoot Baroness

Chapter Twelve

Laura was free of Olivia for the afternoon, at least. Lord Talman took the baroness riding. His aim was to impress her with the extent of his future estate; hers to find a secluded spot to meet John Yarrow. She did enjoy riding for its own sake, however, especially on the prime goer supplied from the Castlefield stable. Olivia could be an amusing partner when things were going her way. She was more at home on horseback than in a polite saloon. Any little roughness in manner could be ascribed to the exigencies of riding. With an escort catering to her every whim, the ride was a success all around. Olivia found the very place for her tryst with John.

The Mole River wound its way through the duke's estate. Willows had been allowed to grow tall along the banks, enhancing the view and affording protection from the prying eyes of any laborer or rider who chanced by. At some distance from the house, the river was forded by a wooden bridge. In her note to John, she would ask him to meet her at the bridge.

"Let us return to Castlefield now," she suggested, as soon as she had found her spot.

"I was going to show you the tenant farms," Talman reminded her.

"I should adore to see them, but truth to tell, Lord Talman, I am fatigued. Perhaps another time…"

He immediately cropped out into apologies. "It was thoughtless of me to weary you after your trip, Baroness."

"I scarcely had a glimpse of your lovely gardens," she smiled, turning her mount back toward the house.

Talman was suitably impressed at her maidenly lack of stamina and set a sedate pace on the return trip.

Laura also enjoyed her afternoon. Hyatt took her to the library to show her the Country Life folio. Fine as it was and eager as she was to praise, admiring twelve engravings could not occupy an entire afternoon. They spent another hour going through the picture gallery. Hyatt sighed in envy before the masterpieces assembled there.

"Just look at how Titian has rendered the hair on his model," he said. "There is no one who can do red hair like Titian. It seems to melt the canvas with its flame, yet it is by no means garish. See how it fades around the edges to a mere suggestion of color. I feel like a drawer of rough cartoons when I look at such genius."

"He achieves a very soft effect," Laura said.

"It is the Italian light-a poor excuse for my inferior execution of color."

They moved along to some Dutch masters, where it was Vermeer's sharp technique that came under his admiration. "One could feel he was there, in the room, enjoying a glass of wine with those ladies," he said, shaking his head in envy.

"It does give an odd sensation, that wine forever trickling into a glass. So lifelike. I keep waiting to see the glass overflow."

"A moment caught in amber. I realize my lack of formal composition when I look at a Vermeer. How carefully he balances his forms and chiaroscuro." She frowned. "That is only a smart way of saying light and dark spots," he explained.

"But one artist cannot excel in everything, Hyatt. I daresay Titian and Vermeer spent months on a single painting. You work much more quickly."

"Too quickly! It is a lack of respect for art to dash them off as I do."

"Surely it depends on the subject. You do single characters, not formal compositions."

"I know my limits. One day-after I have got the bourgeoisie down on paper-I shall attempt something more ambitious. A group scene of some sort."

Laura nodded politely. "Do you always paint people, as opposed to landscapes or buildings or animals, I mean?"

"Yes, I cannot seem to work up the necessary enthusiasm for anything else but people. I can admire the work of others. Stubbs! How that man can paint a horse! I need to feel a-how shall I say it-a mental or emotional link with my subject."

"Aha! Now the truth comes out. So that is why you paint so many beautiful ladies."

He gave an impish smile and replied, "I never could work myself into a lather over a mount, or a tree. I require a lady to fire me."

"Or an old sailor," she said, undeceived by his bantering. She waited, thinking he might now mention painting her, but he only prattled on about art.

"I like to do physically unattractive people, too. One soon tires of painting beautiful ladies. A contrast is always interesting."

"Whom will you paint next?" she asked.

"I know whom I should like to paint," he said archly. His smile told her she was his next choice.

"As a contrast to the baroness? Is it youth and age you mean to contrast, sir?" she asked, feigning offense.

"Let us say youth and maturity. I would like to do you in a civilized setting-a library, perhaps,

preferably with shoes."

"One would have thought books more appropriate.”

"Now you are being pedantic, Laura."

"No, just immature, despite my advanced years. When our youthful beauty fades, we must attempt to attract by wit."

"You cannot be much older than the baroness. And certainly not a shade less beautiful." He watched, bemused, as a flush crept into her cheeks.

"You must not forget to point out the insignificant difference between her forty thousand dot and my princely ten."

"One of us ought to mention the odium of 'caparisons' at this juncture."

"You're the one who started it," she said, with an expression dangerously close to a pout.

"I beg to differ! I said a contrast. One may contrast a violet and a wild rose without disparaging either. It is a matter of taste. De gustibus non disputandum, according to an old Latin proverb.”

"De Latinibis no comprehendum," she retorted.

"I see you caught the gist of it, at least. Do you study Latin?"

"On the contrary, I avoid it at every opportunity."

"That confirms my suspicion that you are wise beyond your years. All-how many of them is it?"

"If I were a gentleman, I would be considered to have attained the age of reason a year ago."

"I was afraid you were going to say if you were a gentleman, you would call me out for the impertinence of that question, but you are too young to be concerned over age. I feel ladies mature more quickly." His dark eyes glowed with pleasure as they bantered. Laura feared at every speech that she would make a fool of herself, but carried on gamely.

"Instead of studying dead languages, we study life."

He listened, not quite smiling, but well entertained. "Have you plumbed the depths of life's meaning, Laura?"

"Don't be absurd! I am not so conceited as to think I have succeeded where great minds have struggled in vain. But I think it has something to do with accepting our circumstances, whatever they may be, and of course trying to leave the world a better place than we found it, in some small way.”

"That is the hard part, is it not?"

She frowned. "I didn't mean anything deep-just helping the less fortunate when we can."

"I was taught a man-or woman, I suppose-ought to leave his mark. I took it personally, that I ought to change the world in some manner. Men are more inclined to egotism, I daresay."

"Some few Caesars or Napoleons do change the world," she said, thinking about it. She was always more comfortable discussing something other than herself. "Strange the names that come to mind- monsters of ambition, really."

"The true heroes are the men like Jenner, who invented the inoculation against cowpox, or James Watt, who is revolutionizing industry with his steam engine."

"Or even creative artists, who write beautiful music, or paint pictures," she added. "That is a compliment, Hyatt."

He bowed playfully. "I thank you on behalf of my colleagues, but cannot believe I am changing the world one iota."

"Your folios are capturing our era for the future, at least. Historians are important, too. And your portraits give pleasure."

They moved along the gallery to a Rembrandt. "Here is the giant of portrait painters," he said, gazing at a self-portrait of the artist. "How can a depiction of an ugly old man be so beautiful? The colors are dull; the background practically nonexistent. Age may have something to do with that-the pigments are overlaid with dirt. The duke doesn't take proper care of his artworks. But when all is said and done, what mesmerizes one with Rembrandt is those few square inches of the model's face."

"It is the eyes, I think. That old saw that the eyes are the mirror of the soul seems true here. Can't you see the sorrow in his eyes? One could almost think it was despair, yet surely Rembrandt had cause to be content. He was famous."

"This was done toward the end of his life. He was in despair. Bankrupt, his wife and son dead. And for all his genius, his austere style of painting was out of fashion." To lighten the mood, he said, "He ought to have had a sideline in fashionable portraits, like Hyatt. But enough of Hyatt, and art. Let us go out and enjoy the sunshine."

Hyatt borrowed a whiskey and took Laura for a tour of the estate, impressing her vastly with all the grandeur that Olivia had not bothered to look at. They drove past acres of pasture, where cattle grazed idly on rich grass; along the banks of the river, admiring the tenant houses; through the spinney and park, and dismounted at the orchard for a stroll.

Hyatt offered his arm to assist her over the rough grass. When his fingers slid down and grasped her fingers, she did not say anything, but she was surprised at the intimacy. It was a novelty for her to walk hand-in-hand with a gentleman, and such a dasher as Hyatt had never come her way before. She even thought he might try to kiss her in the privacy of the orchard, and wondered what she would do. But when they reached the end, they just turned around and went back to the whiskey, thence back to the house.

And she was just a little disappointed that he had continued to behave so properly. But really he had never behaved with anything but perfect propriety when she was with him. Flirtation between ladies and gentlemen was hardly improper. Where had he got his dashing reputation? He seemed not only sensible but modest, despite his fame and wealth.

Olivia and Talman had returned some time before. Olivia was bored from looking at the roses, and fast falling into a fit of the sulks.

"Where have you been all afternoon?" she demanded, when Laura and Hyatt joined them.

"Driving, and walking," Laura replied. "Did you have a good ride?"

"The baroness soon tired," Talman said. "I have been trying to convince her to have a lie-down. Travel is so wearing." He was still enamored and trying to find excuses for the baroness's ill temper.

Her alleged fatigue did not prevent her suggesting a new outing. "Let us all drive into the village," she said. "Gatwick must be close by."

"Crawley is closer, and larger," Talman said. "But it is a little late to set out now."

"Crawley?" Olivia said, frowning. It was Gatwick that she had arranged as their meeting place. They were not to meet until the morning, however, so she did not press for the trip now. "I should particularly like to see Gatwick.”

"There is an interesting old church there," Talman mentioned.

"Then we shall go tomorrow morning. What shall we do now? Could we play shuttlecock?"

"I thought you were tired," Talman reminded her.

"I am rested now, after looking at the roses for so long."

"Croquet would be less strenuous," Talman decided, and sent for the mallets and balls and hoops.

For the remainder of the afternoon, the four played croquet, which amused Olivia sufficiently that she tolerated the game without much ill humor.

The duchess had no strenuous entertainment planned for the evening. Castlefield was returning from London in time for dinner. One of the guests, a Miss Anderson, was a singer of some note, and entertained the guests after dinner with a few songs. Olivia became restless during the third one. She fiddled with her skirt, plaited the fringe of her shawl, whispered to Talman, and finally excused herself on the grounds of fatigue.

Not quite trusting her cousin, Laura left with her to make sure she did go to bed. She wondered about that request to go to Gatwick. Was the chit up to something? There was no point asking her outright. She must get at it by indirection.

"Did you enjoy your day?" she asked, as they mounted the grand staircase.

Olivia yawned. "A dead bore, but tomorrow I shall have a decent ride."

"Your mount was satisfactory then?"

She was roused to some enthusiasm by this question. "A sweet goer! She is called Briar. I'm sure she could give me a bruising ride, but Talman kept to a canter. He wanted to show me all his father's cattle and things.”

"Castlefield is a magnificent estate."

"Yes, but who wants to live in a museum, cousin?"

They had reached Laura's room. "What time shall we go to the village tomorrow?" she asked.

"Oh, are you going, too?" Olivia said.

"I thought it might be amusing."

"It seemed to me you were pretty well amused by Hyatt. Mr. Meadows's nose will be out of joint."

"He is not my beau."

"Hyatt is much more amusing," Olivia said, as though she had no interest whatsoever in Meadows herself. "You were right to say I could do better than Mr. Meadows."

"Lord Talman is certainly a good deal better, so far as eligibility goes."

"If you mean he is richer, I cannot disagree, but they are both dead bores. Good night, cousin."

There was indeed no disputing taste, if Olivia preferred that jackanapes of Yarrow to Lord Talman or even Mr. Meadows. Laura spared a thought for Meadows, wishing he were there to accompany the party to Gatwick tomorrow. Perhaps Hyatt would join them… On this happy thought, she slept.