Page 11 of Miss Devoted
Berthold’s one criticism had been that priced as it was, the print would not reach the hands of those who would most benefit from the image.
And the subjects were trivial, an exercise Psyche had set for herself out of artistic curiosity. “What would you know of fine renderings, Mr. Delancey?”
He studied his next slice of apple. “An old fellow in York gave me a few pointers in exchange for serving as his man-of-all-work once a week. I nominally called upon him as his curate, and he kindly reminisced about Paris back in the day while I refilled his coal chest and beat a few rugs. Other than that, I have what passes for a gentleman’s education and an interested eye.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch.He was just as worthy of sketching when he munched an apple as when he stretched out in all his naked splendor like a sleeping lion.
“Shame upon you,” she said. “You put into my mind’s eye the image of you swinging a broom at a rug, and I feel compelled to share something in return, a reminiscence, a little confidence. Is that a parson’s trick to inspire confessions?”
“I used a proper beater on the rug, thank you very much. Success in life is largely a matter of having the right tools. And I am no parson. I am a glorified correspondence clerk at Lambeth Palace.”
Another quasi-confidence. Psyche took a fortifying sip of sinfully rich hot chocolate and made a decision. “That was my flower girl. I have seven others, and I’m hoping to add four more and sell them as a set.” A humble experiment, a place to try on the notion of coin in exchange for art.
And an anonymous step toward the ultimate goal of portraiture commissions.
“Offering a set would increase the price and change the audience,” Mr. Delancey said, finishing with his apple. “You might consider collecting them into a calendar, which would present one image at a time rather than all twelve at once, and ensure the image remained before the purchaser for several weeks. You were careful to make those drawings simple to tint.”
“I was?”
“You could have given the girls riotously colorful bouquets, such as would make for a gorgeous painting, but you gave them one or two blossoms as compositional elements, so the focus stays on the girl rather than on the flora. Have another sandwich.”
Psyche wasn’t famished, but she suspected Mr. Delancey would deny himself more food unless she took another helping. She divided the sandwiches that remained on the tray between them.
“You should have some biscuits, sir. They’re made with sour cream, and I vow they nearly float in my belly they are so light.”
“One.” He set the smallest of the lot on his plate and took up another triangle of cheese toast.
“You’ve seen all eight prints?” she asked.
“The shopkeepers like to display them as a set. Offer a collection, and the customer will choose the one or two they like best. Offer only one or two, and you might well lose the sale. Within reason, people like to make up their own minds.”
Psyche took the second-smallest biscuit and held it beneath her nose. “Such a luscious scent. Purely lovely.”
Mr. Delancey regarded her across the little table, his expression bemused.
“What?” Psyche set down her biscuit, untasted. “Do young men never sniff a spicy treat?”
“I cannot speak for young men as a genus. Let’s leave it at that. What else are you working on besides the flower girls?”
Hazel might pose that question while idly perusing a fashion magazine. Then she’d ignore most of the reply.
Mr. Delancey would attend Psyche’s every word. “I have a few projects in progress, and I work on our assignments from Berthold, of course. I don’t suppose you’d allow me to make a sketch of you here and now? Dermot’s meddling ruined my interest in my first attempt.”
“I would happily sit to you here before class on Wednesday, but one grows curious about how you intend to get home,Henderson. The hour grows late, and you are without companions.”
“I’ll hail a cab. They drive blithely past women in need of safe transport, but there’s a cab stand two streets over. I’ll be perfectly safe as long as I’m wearing my top hat. What of you? If you’re walking the distance to Lambeth, you have farther to go and through some dodgy territory.”
He finished his chocolate, and without dipping his biscuit into it. “I’ll be safe enough.”
“You are big, bristling with muscle, and doubtless alert to your surroundings, but you are also well dressed and look as if you might be carrying a fat purse. Your boots alone would feed some families for a fortnight.”
He took one more apple slice from the tray. “I walk everywhere. I enjoy it, and the footpads leave me in peace.”
“You’d be safer in a cab.” Also warmer. What made a man wander cold, dangerous streets alone at night?
“I like the fresh air.”
Psyche glowered at him, as Aunt Hazel glowered at the pantry mouser when he dared venture abovestairs.
