Page 3 of Must Love Dukes
“I believe I can navigate the inn without help, Mother Nora. There is only one other coach here.” Muriel gestured to a rather fine vehicle drawn by four matched coal-black horses, a crest emblazoned in gold on the door, though she was too far away to make it out clearly. Not that it would matter even if she could. Memorizing the crests of every titled family in London was more Nora’s purview than her own.
“Do not dither about, Muriel.” Father nodded to the sketchbook clutched in her hand. “And leave that in the coach. No wandering about the grass daydreaming. Or examining plums searching for an image of the prime minister’s face, for instance.”
Muriel frowned as she exited the coach, deftly sidestepping two stable boys who’d run out to help with the horses. “It is a sketchbook, Father. I am an artist. A student of?—”
“That Italian who painted such disturbing images. Mashing a person with fruit.” He made a disgruntled sound. “Or potatoes. Olives and the like.”
“Guiseppe Arcimboldo,” Muriel said with a lift of her chin. “His work is considered inventive. Imaginative.” She hoped to develop only a small bit of Arcimboldo’s vision so that she could create her own works of art. Some of his paintings were strange but also highly regarded, even if he wasn’t as well-known as, say…Michelangelo. “It is my passion.”
“Passion? I liken it more to a great waste of time.” Father snorted. “Painting portraits and using a bit of celery for a jaw. Or a cabbage in place of an ear. Disturbing. Mildly offensive. Nor doI care to have my daughter dabbling in such a hobby. Why can’t you paint…a tree? Or a bowl of fruit?”
“It isn’t a merely a hobby,” Muriel whispered. “I want to be an artist. A unique one.”
“Then you would do better to study more classic artists instead of some obscure Italian. While we are guests at the Savorton estate, I beg you, keep your strange drawings to yourself. Lord Elmhurst was horrified to see the painting of himself with a crown of blackberries. Thank goodness he is family and did not take too great offense.”
One of Muriel’s best portraits. She was rather proud of the painting of Nora’s older brother, Lord Elmhurst, and the gentleman in question, if not effusive in regarding the likeness, at least found his portrait to be interesting. But there was no use in debating the issue with Father. He lacked appreciation for artistic pursuits, having none of his own. Arcimboldo was a genius. Revered. True, he wasn’t the most popular artist of the Renaissance period, but that did not make him unimportant. Muriel found his paintings, especiallyThe Four Seasonsto be wonderfully inspired.
“Lord Elmhurst thought my portrait…uncommon.”
“Uncommon isnota compliment, Muriel. Uncommon means odd, unusual and strange.” Father took Nora’s arm.
With a huff, Muriel tossed her sketchbook back into the coach before stomping in the direction of the inn. Father would never understand, nor did he wish to.
Arcimboldo wasn’t Raphael, Titian or Botticelli, but Muriel thought his work far more interesting. She was fascinated by Arcimboldo’s use of vegetables, fruit, and sometime books or other inanimate objects to create portraits of his contemporaries. Every work held a message. Cherries might represent great wealth, for instance, when decorating someone’s chin.
“He created a feast for the eyes,” she muttered to herself, careful to avoid a puddle.
Muriel’s attempts at imitating his work had so far been trivial at best, but that was only because she was still refining her technique. She required more practice. New faces. Every servant at the Allred home had already been used in one of her paintings. The courtyard of the coaching inn, for instance, provided several good subjects, making her fingers itch for a piece of charcoal.
A lad darted about, racing through a small flock of chickens, his ears so large, they may as well be cabbages. An older man leaned against the edge of the stables, pipe clenched in his teeth. His head was approximately the shape of a turnip. She might use the pipe for his jaw. And the young woman whistling to herself as she passed Muriel possessed a towering mass of hair.
Dandelion fluff. Her neck might be the stem.
Muriel tapped the edge of her chin, studying all the interesting faces milling about—faces she would never get to draw because her sketchbook remained in the coach. But perhaps she could draw discreetly at the Savorton house party.
Picking up her skirts, she stepped inside the inn to inquire where she might take care of her needs. An older woman greeted Muriel, introducing herself as the proprietor’s wife, Mrs. Catterby.
Muriel only half listened, her attention on Mrs. Catterby’s nose, which resembled the cap of a mushroom, with those flared nostrils.
“Miss?” The woman said. “That way.”
She jerked her attention from Mrs. Catterby’s nose and nodded. Striding down the hall in the direction indicated, Muriel savored the respite from Father and Nora.
Father had promised Muriel she would have a choice in her husband, but the suspicion increased that was no longer the case. It was hardly her fault the gentlemen presented to herby Nora had not been to Muriel’s taste. Marriage for the sake of marriage was not appealing. The prospect of a lifetime with someone like Habersham, for instance, was appalling. Muriel wanted to study the great artists, particularly Arcimboldo, preferably in Florence. But she would have settled for being taught in London, if Father would only agree. She wanted…a purpose. To create something and send it out into the world. Not to spend her life embroidering handkerchiefs, sitting by the fire with someone like Habersham.
Perhaps if she would only meet the right sort of gentleman, the idea of marriage wouldn’t seem so…stifling. At times, when she daydreamed of painting in the dappled sunshine of Florence, she imagined a man beside her. One who would press a kiss to her cheek and encourage her art. Sit beside her in the ruins. And he would definitely understand Arcimboldo.
She was so caught up in her thoughts, Muriel stumbled as she passed the taproom, nearly hitting the wall.
Another one of her faults, or so claimed Nora. Clumsiness. Brought on by an unnatural obsession with an obscure painter of the Renaissance.
“I did wonder if you would run straight into the wall,” came an amused rumble.
A lone gentleman sat at a table near the windows, sipping absently on a tankard of ale as he regarded her.
Goodness.
Definitely sketchable, though no vegetable or bit of fruit instantly came to mind. Broad forehead, prominent yet refined nose. Bold slash of cheekbones. The shape of his eyes slightly tilted at the ends. Strands of deep auburn in glorious disarray fell around his ears and teased at the collar of his coat, glowing a soft gold in the dim light. Broad shoulders and tall, if the length of leg encased in buff colored leather and stretched out beneath the table was any indication.
