Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [39]
Miss Priscilla Rodney commented on the excellence of the chutney that was served with one of the pies but blushed when Verity thanked her, because they both knew that Priscilla made infinitely better herself. It was not the cook’s strength; she was far more skilled with soups and sauces. She always put too much pepper in pickles, and they bit like a cornered rat.
Lady Cumming-Gould seemed satisfied merely to observe. It was Virgil Smith who rescued them with the only viable conversation. He was staring at a portrait of Alicia over the fireplace, a large, rather formal study set against a brown background which did not flatter her. It was one of a long succession of family portraits going back over two hundred years. The old lady’s hung in the hallway, looking very young, like a memory from a history book, in an empire dress from the days just after Napoleon’s fall.
“I surely like that picture, ma’am,” he said, staring up at it. “It’s a good likeness, but I guess it don’t flatter you with that color behind it. I sort of see you inside, with all green and the like behind you, trees and grass, and maybe flowers.”
“You cannot expect Alicia to trail out to some countryside to sit for a portrait!” the old lady snapped. “You may spend your days in the wilderness where you come from, Mr. Smith, but we do not do so here!”
“I didn’t exactly have the wilderness in mind, ma’am.” He smiled at her, completely ignoring her tone. “I was thinking more of a garden, an English country garden, with willow trees with all of those long, lacy leaves blowing in the wind.”
“You cannot paint something blowing!” she said tartly.
“I reckon a real good artist could.” He was not to be cowed. “Or he could paint it so as you could feel as though it was.”
“Have you ever tried to paint?” She glared at him. It would have been more effective had she not been forced to stare upwards, but she was nearly a foot shorter than he, and even her voluminous bulk could not make up for the difference.
“No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “Do you paint, yourself?”
“Of course!” Her eyebrows shot up. “All ladies of good breeding paint.”
A sudden thought flashed into his face. “Did you paint that picture, ma’am?”
She froze to glacial rigidity. “Certainly not! We do not paint commercially, Mr. Smith!” She invested the idea with the same disgust she might have had he suggested she took in laundry.
“All the same, you know”—Somerset Carlisle eyed the picture critically—“I think Virgil is right. It would have been a great deal better against green. That brown is quite muddy and deadens the complexion. All the tones are spoiled.”
The old lady looked from him to Alicia, then back at the picture. Her opinion of Alicia’s complexion was plain.
“No doubt he did the best he could!” she snapped.
Miss Mary Ann joined in the conversation, her voice lifting helpfully.
“Why don’t you have it done again, my dear? I am sure in the summer it would be quite delightful to sit in the garden and have one’s portrait painted. You could ask Mr. Jones; I am told he is quite excellent.”
“He is expensive,” the old lady said witheringly. “That is not the same thing. Anyway, if we get any more pictures done, it ought to be of Verity.” She turned to look at Verity. “You probably are as good-looking now as you will ever be. Some women improve a little as they get older, but most don’t!” She flashed a glance back at Alicia, then away again. “We’ll see this man Jones—what is his name?”
“Godolphin Jones,” Miss Mary Ann offered.
“Ridiculous!” the old lady muttered. “Godolphin! Whatever was his father thinking of? But I am not paying an exorbitant price, I warn you.”
“You don’t need to pay at all,” Alicia finally responded. “I shall pay for it, if Verity would like a portrait. And if she would prefer someone other than Godolphin Jones, then we will get someone else.”
The old lady was momentarily silenced.
“Godolphin Jones seems to be away at the moment, anyway,” Vespasia observed.