She sent him a questioning look and he laughed. ‘Oh, all right. I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I can see you will have to educate me about art. In our forthcoming outings we will visit London’s art galleries, where you can expose me to the wonders of these Impressions.’
‘Impressionism, and yes, I’d enjoy that,’ she said with a smile which filled Jacob’s heart with unexpected pleasure. Despite their earlier disagreement—or was that disagreements?—he still found her company stimulating. As long as he kept off the subjects of love, courtship, marriage, the dearth of good men available each Season, infidelity, the way he lived his life, the people he mixed with and his unfortunate reputation, he was sure they were going to get along splendidly.
Chapter Six
Despite herself, the following day it was an excited Margaret who walked arm in arm with the Duke up the wide stone steps towards the grand entrance of the National Gallery. She loved to visit as many times as possible during each Season. It almost made the London Season worthwhile. Almost.
Usually, these visits were in the company of her mother, who, like an annoying child, would be constantly asking when they could leave and go shopping, or a distracted Molly, who would meander along slowly, doing little to hide her boredom.
Molly accompanied them today, once again following on behind, paying little heed to the couple she was supposed to be chaperoning, and Margaret would not be surprised if she soon managed to lose herself in the labyrinth of rooms.
‘So, where should my art education begin?’ the Duke asked, looking around the entrance hall and adopting the same lowered voice as everyone else, as if they were now inside a place of worship. That reaction was something she always found appropriate because, for her, being in the presence of so many masterful artworks was akin to a spiritual experience.
‘Education?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I know nothing about art and if you’re thinking of becoming an art teacher when you give me the old heave-ho then you should practice what you’re going to say to your pupils.’
‘If it’s an education you want then it’s an education you’ll get but you might come to regret saying that. This is a rather large gallery.’
‘Then it’s lucky for you that I am a wastrel duke with all the time in the world. Let’s get started.’
Still arm in arm, they crossed the high-ceilinged entranceway, their boots quietly echoing on the marble floor, towards the rooms housing the Renaissance artwork. The deep red-and-green walls, the soft light coming in through the large skylight and the religious nature of many of the works always filled Margaret with a sense of wonder, as if each artist was connecting directly with her soul.
She led him to her favourite paintings and explained why she loved each one, what she thought the artist was trying to achieve, the techniques used, and how the world in which each artist lived affected their subject matter and approach.
Showing none of Molly’s boredom or her mother’s impatience, he stood in front of each painting and listened attentively to what she had to say, and to her surprise even asked intelligent questions. They slowly strolled past each work, taking in their beauty, but when they walked past Raphael’sGarvagh Madonnathe Duke came to a sudden halt. Margaret stood beside him, saying nothing, knowing from his expression that the depiction of the loving mother and her child had touched him deeply on a level that went beyond just admiring an impressive painting.
As he continued to gaze, transfixed by the painting, Margaret remained silent. There was something about him in this moment, something touching and vulnerable, that made her heart ache for him in a way she would never have expected.
As if emerging from a trance he looked at her, his expression still soft and contemplative. She placed her hand lightly on his arm and was sure that gesture said more than her inadequate words ever could.
They slowly strolled through to the next room, featuring the Dutch masters, then on to the somewhat more modern British painters. The Duke continued to ask questions and listen attentively, but no other painting caused him to react the wayThe Garvagh Madonnahad. Something about that painting had touched his soul. It was apparent that Margaret would have to once again reassess her opinion of him. Did this suggest he was not just a dissolute rake, but a man who might be more complex and sensitive than she had previously imagined?
While the Duke never seemed to tire, eventually Margaret started to feel the effects of what was a long walk, and the beauty on the walls could not distract her from how hot her feet had become in her ankle boots.
She removed her pocket watch from her reticule and realised that several hours had passed, and the afternoon was all but over.
‘Shall we leave it there for today?’ the Duke said as they entered a room containing works by Spanish artists.
She nodded her thanks.
‘Although there’s still a lot to see and we haven’t come across any of those Impressionist paintings you were talking about,’ he added, looking around.
‘No, they’re all a bit too modern and controversial for a public gallery, I’m afraid. We’d have to go to private galleries to see them.’
‘Then we will add private galleries to the list of places to visit. I’m sure my art education will not be complete unless I see the very latest and most controversial of works.’
‘It will be my pleasure to show them to you,’ she said, knowing it would be.
They strolled back to the entranceway and found a bored Molly waiting for them, seated on a wooden bench.
‘At some stage you should visit my estate in Northumberland,’ he said as they walked back down the stone steps, followed by Molly. ‘Various ancestors have collected artworks over the years, usually while they were indulging themselves during their Grand Tours of Europe as young men.’
‘Oh, what works do you own?’ she asked, trying to focus on the discussion of art and not on the fact that he had just invited her to his home.
‘No idea. I spend as little time at that estate as I can, and I never looked at the paintings when I was a child. Although I remember a few that were dark and gloomy and rather scary.’
From what he’d said of his childhood, Margaret suspected it wasn’t just the paintings that were dark, gloomy and rather scary.
