A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(3)
Lady Bearsden accepted it with a nod of thanks. “I told Kiera I was surprised she’d not brought her sketchbook with her, as I’ve scarcely seen her without it the past three days.”
She had, indeed, already remarked such just before dozing off and apparently missing my answer.
“There are many interesting sights to capture at Barbreck,” I replied. “But I suspected it would be much too blustery on this hill to fumble with paper and charcoals, and I was correct.”
“All the same, that view must be beckoning to you,” Charlotte interjected, admiring the aspect before us.
“Yes and no.”
This admission was met by a quizzical glance.
“Kiera is only curious about people.” A twinkle lit Morven’s eyes as she sat beside me again. “Landscapes are much too dull and less prone to foibles.”
I laughed. “I suppose that’s partly true. But portraits are definitely where my talents lie. I wish I could paint a landscape half so well as Gainsborough or Constable,” I added wistfully.
My cousin made a derisive sound at the back of her throat. “Well, I wish I could paint more than a blob with arms and legs. You happen to be one of the most gifted portrait artists in all of Britain, so don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”
I smiled at her taunting tone, hearing the pride behind it. Though she had been exaggerating, at least a little. It was true that, second only to my family, my art was my greatest passion. But while my portrait paintings had recently become all the rage, that was more due to my scandalous reputation than my talent. And my decision some months past to stop accepting portrait commissions had only seen the demand for them rise. In the past three weeks alone, I had turned down two outrageous offers from one of the highest-ranking peers of the realm and a wealthy industrialist. Had money been my chief consideration, I might have been sorely tempted, but Gage’s fortune was more than adequate, and I was much more interested in pursuing my own portrait projects.
“I’ve two Gainsboroughs up at the hall,” the Marquess of Barbreck declared, shuffling over to rejoin us with the aid of his walking stick. “A few Van Dycks, Titian, Reynolds, Zoffany . . .” he continued rattling off artists’ names, some of whom made my ears perk up with interest. I had already spied a pair of portraits by Thomas Lawrence and a delightful watercolor by Thomas Girtin, but I’d not yet had time to explore the rest of the manor, what with the demands of motherhood and preparations for the wedding to be completed.
“Yes, Barbreck is quite proud of his art collection,” my Aunt Cait said, breaking into this litany as she herded Morven’s youngest child toward his mother. As always, dressed in the first stare of fashion, my late mother’s younger sister appeared elegant and unruffled even after chasing a toddler and his ball about.
“Rightfully so,” Barbreck trumpeted in his deep brogue as he settled in the other chair. “?’Tis one o’ the finest private collections in all o’ Scotland. Nay, all o’ Britain!” He gestured upward with his walking stick before lowering it to point at me, his scraggly white eyebrows arching. “I’ll take you for a tour myself one o’ these days.” He thumped the stick down between his legs, leaning against the silver filigreed head. Between his and Lady Bearsden’s canes, I expected someone’s head or knuckles to be rapped at any moment. “At least I ken you’ll appreciate it.”
“We appreciate it,” Aunt Cait assured him. “But I gather you’re eager for a more captivated audience.”
Given the fact that I could spend hours studying the paint strokes in a masterfully rendered painting, that would most certainly describe me.
“Yes, I’m sure Kiera would love to hear all about Great-Uncle Alisdair’s expeditions and savvy bartering skills,” Morven added cheerily, before leaning toward me to mutter under her breath. “For the rest of us have already heard his tales no less than two dozen times.”
Emma began to fuss, and I reached down to set her on my lap, using the movement to conceal my amusement. I knew full well how much Morven adored Barbreck despite his cantankerous nature. Her grandfather and grandmother had died before she was born, and for all intents and purposes, Barbreck had assumed the role. It was a natural fit given the fact he’d remained a crusty old bachelor, and Morven’s father—my Uncle Dunstan—was now his heir.
“Aye, Alisdair had quite the eye for artistic treasures,” he proclaimed with relish, leaning toward me as if he were imparting a secret even though the entire party could hear him. “?’Twas quite the artist himself, as weel.” He straightened, shaking his head. “Though, sadly, no’ o’ your caliber, try as he might.”
I was trying to decide how to politely respond to this comment when Aunt Cait interceded. “There’ll be time enough to show her your collection and share all these tales later.” She glanced toward the west. “Right now, I think we need to begin making our way back toward the manor, lest we get caught in that rainstorm.”
I followed her gaze, noting for the first time the dark gray clouds forming on the horizon. They were still some distance off, but the manor was not a short stroll away, and while Lady Bearsden, Lord Barbreck, and the younger children could ride in the cart used to transport the items for our picnic, we couldn’t all fit.
She called her granddaughters over and sent them across the field to interrupt the cricket match, before nodding for the pair of footmen hovering at the edges of our gathering to begin packing up. Five or ten minutes later we set off across the glen, following the cart as it rocked side to side down the grassy track. Though I could have claimed a seat in the conveyance, I elected to stretch my legs since I’d been sitting most of the afternoon. Emma snuggled into my shoulder, rolling her head back and forth in a manner that told me she was sleepy. Eventually she settled, clutching my tartan shawl in one of her little fists.