tales of Miss Bemelman. The horrific stories had prevented her from objecting too strenuously to her new job. Eliza might prefer office work, but she was tenderhearted, too. She was grateful that Lady Raeburn had found a wonderful qualified governess who was settling into the Hurst household nicely, for the children had become dear to her, even Jonathan with all his pranks. âAre you thirsty? Dr. Samuelson said I should make sure you are hydrated.â
âI donât suppose heâd allow me any Raeburnâs Special Reserve.â
âAbsolutely not,â Eliza said. âNow get on with this project before I fall asleep myself.â
Chapter 6
Well, she certainly wasnât very deferential. Somehow Nick could not see her speaking to her KC like that.
There had been something about her voice as sheâd spoken of her old job that made him suspect there was more to Miss Lawrenceâs history than heâd thought. But if she paraded around in her former employerâs home in that elephant sack, it was no wonder the man didnât notice her.
However, Nick was a noticing sort of fellow. As an artist, he had to be. He was always finding the miracle in a rain puddle or a curling leaf. Despite the hideous robe and the braids and the virginal white nightgown up to her chin, she was a pretty girl. He wondered exactly how old she was. Nick suspected sheâd been old-headed even as a child.
After pouring him a tumbler full of water, she sat absolutely still, staring at the chimneypiece. There were quite a few good Chinese vases lined up to catch the eye. Really, the entire house was a treasure trove. Why Daniel had not chosen to divest himself of some of his collection was a mystery. Surely his creditors could have been fobbed off for a while. But Nick supposed there hadnât been time and was delighted his friend had not, for he never would have had the opportunity to pick up so many exquisite things unless he lived a few more decades.
At the present, he wasnât sure heâd make it to noon today. His head was pounding, and his skin felt clammy. The pencil nearly slipped from his fingers. He hoped Sunny and the rest of them would be all rightâit was completely beyond him to turn nurse and try to spoon broth into anyoneâs mouth, his hand shook so. How could he do Miss Lawrence justice?
Nick was a good enough journeyman portraitist, though his current style was far from conventional. Heâd become fascinated with Art Nouveau, and Gustav Klimt in particular. Klimtâs dazzling colors and patterns had liberated himâhe now saw in the most ordinary objects what wasnât there to see. Nick was a true believer in the Thoreau quote:
Itâs not what you look at that matters, itâs what you see.
His work was shocking and controversial. Happily lucrative. It was a heady time to be an artist, closing the door on the stuffy Great Masters and running into the twentieth century, paint spattering.
Those random spatters would make neat Miss Lawrence frown. She looked like a color-within-the-lines person. That would never do for Sunny in the long term. Nick wanted his daughter to be raised free, secure in the knowledge that rules were meant to be broken, and broken frequently. Yes, there would be consequences, but wasnât risk its own reward?
âAre you done?â Miss Lawrence barely moved her lips. She reminded Nick of the ventriloquist heâd seen in a nightclub in Paris attempting to throw his voice.
âI havenât even really started. You donât have to be a statue, Miss Lawrence. Breathe. You look uncomfortable.â
A blush slowly stained her cheeks. Nick wished he had his pastels handy. Miss Lawrence would benefit from peach and rose and cream chalk. Robinâs egg blue for her eyes, a little touch of pale gold for the ends of her eyelashes. In general, he preferred brighter colors, and Italian or French women with their dark eyes and
âI donât suppose heâd allow me any Raeburnâs Special Reserve.â
âAbsolutely not,â Eliza said. âNow get on with this project before I fall asleep myself.â
Chapter 6
Well, she certainly wasnât very deferential. Somehow Nick could not see her speaking to her KC like that.
There had been something about her voice as sheâd spoken of her old job that made him suspect there was more to Miss Lawrenceâs history than heâd thought. But if she paraded around in her former employerâs home in that elephant sack, it was no wonder the man didnât notice her.
However, Nick was a noticing sort of fellow. As an artist, he had to be. He was always finding the miracle in a rain puddle or a curling leaf. Despite the hideous robe and the braids and the virginal white nightgown up to her chin, she was a pretty girl. He wondered exactly how old she was. Nick suspected sheâd been old-headed even as a child.
After pouring him a tumbler full of water, she sat absolutely still, staring at the chimneypiece. There were quite a few good Chinese vases lined up to catch the eye. Really, the entire house was a treasure trove. Why Daniel had not chosen to divest himself of some of his collection was a mystery. Surely his creditors could have been fobbed off for a while. But Nick supposed there hadnât been time and was delighted his friend had not, for he never would have had the opportunity to pick up so many exquisite things unless he lived a few more decades.
At the present, he wasnât sure heâd make it to noon today. His head was pounding, and his skin felt clammy. The pencil nearly slipped from his fingers. He hoped Sunny and the rest of them would be all rightâit was completely beyond him to turn nurse and try to spoon broth into anyoneâs mouth, his hand shook so. How could he do Miss Lawrence justice?
Nick was a good enough journeyman portraitist, though his current style was far from conventional. Heâd become fascinated with Art Nouveau, and Gustav Klimt in particular. Klimtâs dazzling colors and patterns had liberated himâhe now saw in the most ordinary objects what wasnât there to see. Nick was a true believer in the Thoreau quote:
Itâs not what you look at that matters, itâs what you see.
His work was shocking and controversial. Happily lucrative. It was a heady time to be an artist, closing the door on the stuffy Great Masters and running into the twentieth century, paint spattering.
Those random spatters would make neat Miss Lawrence frown. She looked like a color-within-the-lines person. That would never do for Sunny in the long term. Nick wanted his daughter to be raised free, secure in the knowledge that rules were meant to be broken, and broken frequently. Yes, there would be consequences, but wasnât risk its own reward?
âAre you done?â Miss Lawrence barely moved her lips. She reminded Nick of the ventriloquist heâd seen in a nightclub in Paris attempting to throw his voice.
âI havenât even really started. You donât have to be a statue, Miss Lawrence. Breathe. You look uncomfortable.â
A blush slowly stained her cheeks. Nick wished he had his pastels handy. Miss Lawrence would benefit from peach and rose and cream chalk. Robinâs egg blue for her eyes, a little touch of pale gold for the ends of her eyelashes. In general, he preferred brighter colors, and Italian or French women with their dark eyes and
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