Chapter 5 #2
While he goes to the boot, I climb the steps and open the front door, darting in to switch off the burglar alarm.
The house is cool and still with a faint scent of beeswax lingering on the air.
I move back outside and pause on the steps while he fiddles with something in the boot.
While I’m waiting, I sweep my gaze across the front of the house looking for my studio window.
To my surprise there’s a light on in the window, and as I watch, a shadow moves across the glass.
I narrow my eyes. Who’s in there when the house should be empty?
I wonder if Niall has someone working upstairs.
Maybe it’s the plumber. I feel a sinking in my spirits at the thought that my time staying with Niall might be drawing to a close.
“Everything okay?” Simeon shouts.
I look back at him. “Someone’s in the house,” I say. “Which is odd because the alarm was switched on.”
“Where?”
“There,” I gesture and stop dead because there’s no light at the window now and Chi an Mor appears cold and dark again as if it’s hibernating for the winter. I shake my head at my fanciful thoughts. “Never mind. I’m obviously seeing things.”
He pulls out two large packages wrapped in brown paper and when I grab one, I feel the copious layers of bubble wrap squeak under my fingers.
We cart them up the steps and through the Great Hall with me pausing every so often to switch the overhead lights on so we don’t bang into a stray suit of armour.
I’ve done that once and never again. The bloody things are impossible to put back together.
It had been like dismantling the LEGO Millennium Falcon and reassembling it, only for it to end up looking more like something the Wright Brothers had made as a first try.
Finally, after many stops and starts to get our breaths, we end up outside my studio.
“Wait here,” I say, opening the door. “I’ll clear the table.”
Actually, I just want a quick look at the room first because I know I saw something before.
However, there’s nothing. I look in puzzlement around the well-lit room.
Everything is in its place. The easel stands under the light like normal, the massive table hasn’t moved, and the racks and shelves with their bottles and small jars of jewel-coloured paint are all neat and tidy.
Then I inhale the scent of pipe tobacco and leather on the air, and when I look properly at the table I spy a few pictures on the far side. I walk over and see three of the small nude paintings I’ve been working on which have been placed carefully as though someone has been examining them.
“Lionel,” I breathe. “You dirty old bugger.”
“Everything okay, Milo?” Simeon calls with a note of concern in his voice.
I look over at him affectionately. He’s such a nice man , I think. So good-looking and concerned. At that moment the leather and tobacco smell intensifies and with a whoosh, the door slams shut in Simeon’s face.
“What the hell?” I mutter. “That’s naughty, Lionel. We don’t do that to guests. Especially paying ones who fancy me,” I whisper. The smell intensifies along with a sense of what feels very strongly like disapproval. Then the door opens again slowly.
“What the hell?” Simeon says, blinking.
“I’m so sorry,” I call. “It’s just Lionel.”
“Where is he?” he asks wildly, looking around.
“Sort of everywhere,” I mutter. “Especially if there’s a chance of him seeing something he shouldn’t.” I smile apologetically when he looks confused. “He’s one of the ghosts here.”
He looks at me as if trying to work out if I’m taking the piss. “ One of the ghosts?”
I heft my painting up and take it over to the wide table.
“Oh yes. There are a few. Lionel was an earl, so he mainly haunts this floor and the earl’s apartment.
Other than that, we’ve got a maid who does the main staircase.
Poor soul. When the visitors come, she gets quite upset if there’s any mess and bangs on the balustrade.
And then there’s the old butler. He mainly haunts the wine cellars, which from what I hear is just death imitating life. ”
“And you believe in them?” he asks carefully.
I roll my eyes, secure in the knowledge that he can’t see me with my back turned to him.
“Of course. So would you if you lived here. It’s okay.
They’re like part of the family, really.
Apart from the butler. He seems perpetually bad-tempered, so you can have things thrown across the cellar at you if he’s in a mood. ”
“ Okay. ” He says it slowly as if at any second I’m going to stick straws in my hair and start capering about the room. Careful, I tell myself. Keep it professional.
I turn to him and gesture for his picture.
“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” Between the two of us, we rip off the paper and tape and unfold the bubble wrap to reveal two very discoloured portraits.
In one a lady sits in a chair with a vase of flowers next to her.
That part of the painting is very dark so it’s impossible to tell what sort of flowers they are, but the delicacy of the painting is still charming.
In the other, a man in Georgian dress stands next to a huge globe.
Again this is yellowed and nasty-looking.
“What do you think?” Simeon asks as I run a gentle finger down the old gilt frame.
“I can’t tell you yet.” I bend to peer at the surface. “I’ll need to take it out of the frame and look at it under the microscope and also make sure the panel support isn’t cracked. Then I’ll do some tests.”
“What sort of tests?”
“I need to know the composition of the varnish first, so I’ll send a sample to the labs. Once I know that, I’ll test the solubility of the varnish in various solvents.”
“Will that damage the painting?”
I can’t help feeling that he already knows the answer to these questions, but I answer anyway.
“No, of course not. I’ll test at the edge of the painting under the frame.
Once I get the tests back, I can start to remove the varnish.
” I smile at him. “That’s the exciting bit but it’s also the most perilous because you run the risk of removing the paint colours. ”
He shrugs as if unconcerned by my warning, but why would he be? From the sound of it, these aren’t personal or even very valuable portraits to him. That makes me feel a bit sad, like the lady and man in the portraits have been abandoned in some way.
“Should we remove it?” he asks, leaning against the table like he’s at a party, relaxed and with one corner of his mouth tilted.
I look at him in query. “Well, wouldn’t people say we should leave it?
That the patina of ages adds to the attraction and history of the painting and therefore its value? ”
I smile at him. “I don’t think you need to worry,” I say bluntly.
It’s never wise to get a client’s hopes up.
“These are definitely not Vermeers.” He laughs and I shake my head.
“I suppose it comes down to whether you want the artist’s version of the picture.
I don’t think many artists put varnish on their paintings with any intention other than to make it look attractive at the time.
They wouldn’t have given much thought to its appearance in hundreds of years.
” I shrug. “I’ve been a struggling artist. I can tell you they’d be more concerned about being able to eat that night. ”
He laughs again. “No long-held desire to be an artist now?”
“No.” I smile down at the portraits. “I prefer this. It’s a bit like being Indiana Jones but not so much running around and sweating and, thank God, no fedora. I’ve got far too much hair to keep that hat on for any length of time.”
He chuckles and shifts close. I want to immediately back up but I don’t, staying still and smelling the faint trace of lemon and bergamot of his aftershave. “So any preliminary thoughts? I know you have some.”
I shake my head. “At first glance, I’d say that the artist used Dammar varnish which was a mix of dammar gum and turpentine.
It was introduced in the early nineteenth century and was a common varnish for painting, and it’s fairly easy to get off.
The paintings don’t have huge amounts of accumulated grime on them like tobacco and soot, which is good.
” I look down at the two portraits. “There is a lot of red and green in the man’s portrait, though, so I’ll take a very light hand with that as those colours are more fugitive or vulnerable than blues and white. ”
I look up and he’s staring at me with something moving over his face. “Claudia Fenwick told me you were good.”
I smile. “I am good.” It feels amazing to say that and own it. I look at him. “I am surprised she had a good word to say for me, though.”
He shrugs. “She said you were the best student she ever had but had terrible judgment in men.”
I shoot an involuntary glance in the direction of Niall’s house and then look back at him and shrug. “She’s not wrong.” Loyalty compels me to add, “That’s in the past though. I think I’m a little better now.”
He smiles and I wonder what he sees. He settles his back against the wall and stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’d like to take you out to dinner, Milo. Is that something you’d be interested in?”
I’m startled, even though I’ve known from the beginning that he liked me. I hesitate and his eyes sharpen.
“Of course, it’s fine if you don’t want to. If you’re interested in someone else, like Mr. Fawcett for example?”
“Oh, I’m not interested in Niall,” I say quickly. “Not like that, I mean. We’re friends,” I finish somewhat lamely.
He cocks his head to one side, his gaze steady and his expression warm.
Without any input from my brain, my head spins to look at the door as if Niall’s going to appear to save me from the situation. That need angers me enough to tear my eyes away. There’s nothing to be rescued from. It’s a dinner with a nice man and I don’t need rescuing or saving.