“Schoolboys can be perfectly beastly! I daresay once your bruises have faded, you will look quite distinguished.Do say you will let me take down your silhouette. I assure you, it will not take long, no matter what Philip may say!”
The smile accompanying this appeal was almost blinding in its brilliance. James was not proof against such persuasion. With much stammering and many protestations of his own unworthiness, he at last abandoned the unequal struggle, and agreed to sit for Miss Amanda.
It was a very merry group that set about rearranging the room. The artist, her eyes sparkling in anticipation, busied herself in stretching a sheet of thin paper across a vertical wooden frame, while Aunt Hattie and Philip debated the best placement of a lamp for throwing the shadow of Mr. Fanshawe’s distinctive profile onto the makeshift canvas. As for Mr. Fanshawe himself, he had little to do but sit where he was instructed and follow the often-contradictory advice of the various Darringtons.
The only person who did not seem to enjoy the proceedings was the eldest of the three siblings, who watched with a thoughtful frown creasing her forehead. Long experience had taught her that Amanda was at her most fetching when in the grip of her muse, but the bedazzled tutor, unfamiliar with her sister’s idiosyncrasies, might well mistake her animation as a sign of partiality. She took what comfort she could in the realization that these were hardly the ideal circumstances under which to conduct a courtship, as James’s infrequent attempts at conversation were met with scolding reminders that he must remain perfectly still.
Alas, even this small comfort was short-lived. At last Amanda laid aside her brush and pronounced her creation finished.
“There you are, Mr. Fanshawe,” she declared, removing the paper from its frame and surrendering the painting to its subject for his inspection. “And quite distinguished, too, as I predicted.”
Thus dismissed, James rose somewhat stiffly from his seat. “I fear any credit must go to the artist, rather than the subject.”
Amanda turned quite pink with pleasure. “You are too kind, Mr. Fanshawe. Handle it carefully, for the paint is still quite wet in the middle, and may smear.”
In fact, it had already done so, for a streak of black paint now adorned the corner of Amanda’s mouth. The effect should have been ridiculous, but Margaret acknowledged that it was all too likely to inspire a susceptible male with a sudden urge to kiss it away.
“It’s lovely, Miss Amanda,” James said, although in fact he was not looking at the silhouette at all, but at the dab of paint on her cheek, and his thoughts were running along lines very similar to those imagined by Margaret. “May I keep it?”
“Of course you may! And someday, when Philip is quite grown up and no longer requires your services, you can look at it and remember your time with us.”
James regarded it with awe and wonder. “I shall treasure it forever.”
Margaret turned away from this touching scene with a sinking heart. For all the good her frank speaking had done, she might as well have saved her breath.
Chapter 5
The weather was indeed fine the following day, with a gusty breeze that hinted at the approaching autumn. At half past two, James and his pupil laid aside their Greek and Latin texts and set out to explore the neighborhood on foot, pausing on their way downstairs to invite the ladies of the household to join them. Aunt Hattie declined, citing an earlier promise to assist Cook in preserving the last of the summer peaches, and so James turned his attention to Margaret, laboring at a massive mahogany desk in the room that had once been her father’s study.
Margaret was not quite certain why she succumbed, when there were accounts to be paid and ledgers to be balanced. To be sure, it could not have been Mr. Fanshawe’s beaux yeux— not when one of his eyes was swollen almost shut and beginning to turn
The smile accompanying this appeal was almost blinding in its brilliance. James was not proof against such persuasion. With much stammering and many protestations of his own unworthiness, he at last abandoned the unequal struggle, and agreed to sit for Miss Amanda.
It was a very merry group that set about rearranging the room. The artist, her eyes sparkling in anticipation, busied herself in stretching a sheet of thin paper across a vertical wooden frame, while Aunt Hattie and Philip debated the best placement of a lamp for throwing the shadow of Mr. Fanshawe’s distinctive profile onto the makeshift canvas. As for Mr. Fanshawe himself, he had little to do but sit where he was instructed and follow the often-contradictory advice of the various Darringtons.
The only person who did not seem to enjoy the proceedings was the eldest of the three siblings, who watched with a thoughtful frown creasing her forehead. Long experience had taught her that Amanda was at her most fetching when in the grip of her muse, but the bedazzled tutor, unfamiliar with her sister’s idiosyncrasies, might well mistake her animation as a sign of partiality. She took what comfort she could in the realization that these were hardly the ideal circumstances under which to conduct a courtship, as James’s infrequent attempts at conversation were met with scolding reminders that he must remain perfectly still.
Alas, even this small comfort was short-lived. At last Amanda laid aside her brush and pronounced her creation finished.
“There you are, Mr. Fanshawe,” she declared, removing the paper from its frame and surrendering the painting to its subject for his inspection. “And quite distinguished, too, as I predicted.”
Thus dismissed, James rose somewhat stiffly from his seat. “I fear any credit must go to the artist, rather than the subject.”
Amanda turned quite pink with pleasure. “You are too kind, Mr. Fanshawe. Handle it carefully, for the paint is still quite wet in the middle, and may smear.”
In fact, it had already done so, for a streak of black paint now adorned the corner of Amanda’s mouth. The effect should have been ridiculous, but Margaret acknowledged that it was all too likely to inspire a susceptible male with a sudden urge to kiss it away.
“It’s lovely, Miss Amanda,” James said, although in fact he was not looking at the silhouette at all, but at the dab of paint on her cheek, and his thoughts were running along lines very similar to those imagined by Margaret. “May I keep it?”
“Of course you may! And someday, when Philip is quite grown up and no longer requires your services, you can look at it and remember your time with us.”
James regarded it with awe and wonder. “I shall treasure it forever.”
Margaret turned away from this touching scene with a sinking heart. For all the good her frank speaking had done, she might as well have saved her breath.
Chapter 5
The weather was indeed fine the following day, with a gusty breeze that hinted at the approaching autumn. At half past two, James and his pupil laid aside their Greek and Latin texts and set out to explore the neighborhood on foot, pausing on their way downstairs to invite the ladies of the household to join them. Aunt Hattie declined, citing an earlier promise to assist Cook in preserving the last of the summer peaches, and so James turned his attention to Margaret, laboring at a massive mahogany desk in the room that had once been her father’s study.
Margaret was not quite certain why she succumbed, when there were accounts to be paid and ledgers to be balanced. To be sure, it could not have been Mr. Fanshawe’s beaux yeux— not when one of his eyes was swollen almost shut and beginning to turn
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