I had been so caught up in my thoughts, I had momentarily forgotten to find them. “Oh, certainly.”
“I will fetch them.” Tabitha crossed to the opposite end of the room where a large easel stood. “I know where to look.” She rifled through the leather case on the tiled floor and pulled out three paintings tied in a pink ribbon. “Oh . . .”
“What is it?” I asked.
“They are not quite as I remember.” She slipped the ribbon off and peered at one and then another. “I suppose it has been three or so years since I’ve seen them. I cannot be expected to remember every detail.”
Her sheepish laugh left me uneasy. “I hardly remember them myself.” Ihadtried to tell everyone that she had exaggerated my talent. I wasn’t Girtin or Sandby, but at least I was decent enough not to be ashamed.
Tabitha crossed the room and handed me the paintings. I blinked several times. The one on top was clearly a house with two lines for outer walls and a black rectangular roof. The door was another rectangle and completely out of proportion—as if a toddler had painted it. I frowned and held it away from me. “I didn’t paint this.”
“Let me have a look,” Rowan said. “I have been just as anxious as Clodwick to see your hidden talent.” He took the simple watercolor house from my extended hand. “Ah, a . . . house.”
“A solid guess,” I bit out sarcastically.
“And look, your initials: A.D. How old do you suppose you were when you painted it? Four? Five?”
I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing, especially since I knew these were not my paintings. I reached for it, and as soon as I had it in my hand, Rowan grabbed the next in the pile. A stick figure girl lying underneath a tree. My eyes widened.
He clucked his tongue. “Did you paint someone who died, Miss Delafield?” Then he bent forward and whispered. “I am not sure that’s in good taste.”
I snatched that one back too, dropping the third in the process. “I am quite certain I did not paint any of these. Tabitha, look again inside the case. There has to be more.”
Mr. Clodwick picked up the third painting, and I grimaced. The moment of reckoning had come, and I couldn’t even say what the pictures were of. A series of vertical lines covered the bottom half, and the top was dots. Lots and lots of dots. Perhaps Ihaddone these as a toddler.
“What an interesting painting.” Mr. Clodwick turned and held it up to the window as if the natural light would improve it. “What is it?” he asked.
I barely withheld a groan. “I couldn’t say.”
“It’s flowers, obviously.” Rowan strode to Mr. Clodwick’s side and tapped it. “See, this is a rose.”
There was nothing obvious about it to me. Wait, how did he know the details of the painting? My eyes narrowed. Did he have something to do with this?
Tabitha returned to my side. “The only other art belongs to Mama.”
“Extraordinary,” Mr. Clodwick announced, his voice fluctuating in tone the barest degree. “I have never seen anything like it. We must have it framed.”
“Pardon?” I asked.
A small smile hovered on his lips—a generous smile if I might say. “I want to hang it over the drawing room mantel at Gravehurst.”
“You do?” The offer was unaccountably sweet. But then again, all the art hevaluedwas locked up in his gallery. Even so, I could tell in his eyes that this was costing him, and I was truly thankful to him. Beyond all that superstition and paranoia was a good heart.
Rowan coughed. “Did you say Gravehurst? That’s the name of your house?”
Mr. Clodwick nodded.
“Perhaps you should pick the painting of the dead girl then.”
I had to bite my tongue to stop the sudden desire to laugh. Even if it had been a good joke, it was in poor taste. I cleared my throat and forced a glare. “None of these are being framed. Once I find my actual paintings, Mr. Clodwick may have his choice of any of those.”
“At a price though, right?” Rowan asked. “Because if your talent is at all improved from this,” he tapped the page of lines and dots, “then they could be worth at least a shilling.”
“Very funny.” Mr. Clodwick’s praise was worth much more than a shilling to me. Not everyone could praise such a pathetic painting. His gentle kindness had been one of the reasons I had thought we had suited from the beginning. With Rowan around, I had nearly forgotten this desirable attribute, as it was often a quiet quality and outshone by others.
“Can I keep the one of the house?” Rowan asked, standing much too close. “That one is the best of three, I think. And if Clodwick gets to keep the roses, then it’s only fair I get the house.”
“Take it,” I said, thoroughly annoyed. “You likely know the real painter better than I do.”