Suitors and Sabotage(17)
“Your father may not understand your talent, but he has certainly provided you with a haven. This room is amazing—especially this!” Ben made a beeline for the Elizabethan chimneypiece in the center of the far wall.
Imogene snorted a laugh. “This was originally my grandmother’s studio. She had the fireplace moved here—draws far better than the small one that it replaced. Before she passed away, Grandmamma insisted that the room, in its entirety, be mine. She also provided an allowance to purchase any supplies I might need. She knew Father would not support any costs associated with art.”
Ben nodded and sighed in understanding. Turning back to the shallow hearth, he examined, and marveled at, the engravings on the mantel. Though somewhat worn with age, it was a fine example. He ran his fingers across the grooves, noting the depth, assessed the weight ratio of the pilasters, and admired the angle of the chimney to provide a strong draft. After a while, Ben pried his gaze away from the stone and glanced around, focusing on the artistry of the canvases around him.
The paintings were in various states of completion. On closer examination, there was little doubt of two artists. Their styles and subjects were very different. One preferred big sky landscapes—and were often half-finished—while the other offered intimate scenes of plants, vistas of the castle, and various manors. He stopped in front of one painting to admire the architectural details, marveling at the talent and ability to render a mansard roof with such precision.
If only he could do as much—half as much—he would no longer have to worry about Lord Penton. He could sleep through the night secure in his apprenticeship, comfortable with his future—a future that slipped out of his grasp every time Lord Penton suggested that a drawing would serve better than notes. What would the old gentleman do when he discovered that Ben could not draw? What use is an architect who can’t render his designs?
“That’s Shackleford Park,” Imogene said as she came to stand beside him. “Emily’s country home. Newly built—I believe just a decade or so old.”
“It is quite impressive. You can see where the architect has tried to provide balance and function—the mullions, the intricate brickwork … more than a hint of a French chateau. The square towers are perfect foils against the central round entrance. Yes, very impressive.”
“The Beeswangers are very proud. Love to take guests around, pointing out the details. I’m quite certain that they would be more than happy to show it to you. Give you a full tour. We go to Shackleford en masse in a few weeks.… You and Ernest could join us.”
“We could not impose.”
“I doubt it would be an imposition. Though you might wish to be shed of us by then.”
Ben shifted so that he could face Imogene and offered her an amused smile. “Most unlikely.” It was more probable that Ernest would be inordinately pleased to continue the acquaintance, if he knew his brother. Glancing back at the painting, Ben felt the tug of envy again. “Your talent for perspective and detail is remarkable.”
“Thank you—”
“I’m here!” a voice gleefully called from the doorway. “Good day, Mr. Ben.”
“Good day, Hardly Harriet,” he said with a broad grin, pleased when his greeting brought out a smile and giggle from the little girl.
“Funny, I like it when you say it. Emily always sounds—”
“Are those your sketches?” Imogene asked.
Harriet Beeswanger walked deeper into the room and dropped the pile of papers, which she had been hugging to her bodice, on the table. “Yes. I did just as you told me, Imogene. I spent the whole time you were in London drawing. Come see.” Looking up, Harriet nodded at Ben. “And you, too, Mr. Ben.” Searching through the pile, she pulled out a piece of paper—a depiction of a cat-shaped doorstop. “Look. This is my favorite.” She passed it to Imogene with pride.
It was a black-and-white pencil sketch that, though simple, showed definition and shape.
“Well done, Harriet. Your shadows are perfect. Now do you believe me?”
“Yes, I suppose … but when can I use color?”
Imogene laughed in a freer manner than she had as yet within Ben’s hearing, and he quite enjoyed the sound. It was infectious—though Ben refrained from joining the merriment as he did not know the context.
“I started teaching Harriet to draw last summer,” Imogene explained as she smiled down at the girl and then continued leafing through the sketches. “She wanted to paint horses right away, but I told her she needed to start with something less complicated. Pencil sketches, concentrating on shadows to make an object stand out.”
“And I have done it, haven’t I?”
“You have indeed. You have done an exemplary job. I think it is time to work on perspective.”
“Not color … or horses?”
“Not quite yet.”
Harriet sighed but readily pulled out the chair. She sat wiggling with anticipation, her eyes shining.
“And I think it is time for me to leave you two ladies alone.” Ben bowed formally, eliciting another giggle from Harriet and a gentle smile from Imogene. “Thank you for showing me the chimneypiece.”
At the door, he looked back and watched for a moment as the two put their heads together while Imogene explained the next lesson. Drawing what you see, not what you know. Frowning, Ben recalled all the drawing masters that he had had over the years. None had explained the process so simply … or so clearly … as Imogene was doing for Harriet.