Chapter Eleven #2
"You're very talented." Jeannie glanced around the suite of rooms. "And these rooms are extraordinary—so different from any other part of the castle."
He gave a very French shrug that managed to combine modesty with smugness.
"One craves some semblance of civilization in these grim gray surrounds.
If one cannot be in Versailles . . . " He pouted.
"I would have transformed the whole castle thusly, had my nephew not rushed off so intemperately and—" He broke off, remembering who he was talking to.
"But where are my manners? Please be seated.
Gustave, tea for madame." He snapped his fingers and his manservant brought forward a silver tray bearing a dainty tea service, and a plate of pretty cakes and biscuits.
Jeannie seated herself on a spindly, gilt-trimmed, crimson-cushioned chair and received her cup from the manservant.
Charles Sinclair sipped his tea. "I had planned to enliven that big barren hall with silk hangings from Paris, made to my own design, but it is not to be. My nephew cancelled the order and that was that."
"Yes, he mentioned the hangings," Jeannie murmured.
He sniffed. "I suppose he was gloating."
"Not at all. But he intimated that money was scarce and he had more urgent matters to attend to," she said diplomatically.
Charles Sinclair sniffed again. "Roofs. For peasants."
She sipped her tea and said nothing. She agreed with her husband's priorities, but there was no point in arguing.
"My hangings would have made all the difference in the world to that great gloomy barn downstairs." He put his teacup down. "Would you care to see my designs for them?" He didn't wait for her response, but snapped his fingers at Gustave and rapped out an order in French.
A moment later the manservant brought out a folio and laid it out for Jeannie to view. Charles Sinclair leaned forward. "Well? What do you think?"
"They're very elegant and very beautiful," she said. "Very French."
He sat back, pleased with her response.
It wasn't flattery. The designs were beautiful.
But the hangings would have looked quite out of place in the hall, she decided, a bit like a bird of paradise in a flock of grouse.
They were dainty and pretty. The hall was a little grim, but it was also magnificent.
It called for something more dramatic and .
. . and Scottish. But she didn't say so.
She'd dreaded this meeting with her husband's uncle, and had come braced for hostility. Instead she'd found a man very much out of his element, a lonely, cultured man who felt unappreciated. She nibbled on a cake and tried to think of something to say.
"You have an eye for art," he said. "I admit to some surprise, given your background."
She stifled a sigh. No doubt she'd always be described as the shepherdess bride who was hauled from a bog. "I don't know much about it, but my father had several friends who were artists."
He raised a brow. "Your father, was he an artist too?"
"No, he was a poet."
He frowned. "His name?"
"Alexander McLeay."
He gave her an arrested look, then snapped his fingers at his manservant. "The slender blue volume on the third shelf."
Gustave fetched the book and made to hand it to his master, who waved him away. "To the lady, imbécile."
Jeannie took the little book, a pretty thing bound in blue leather. She opened it. "Oh! It's Da's book! Imagine you having it." She examined it carefully, marveling at seeing it here, of all places.
She glanced up at Charles Sinclair watching her. "You must think I'm a little odd, but the thing is I've never seen the properly bound version. Da couldn't afford to have many done, and they all went to be sold. My only copy was bound with a simple cardboard cover." Handmade by Mam.
"Indeed?"
She nodded. "Mam and Da quarreled over this binding. Mam said we couldn't afford leather—poets don't make very much money, you see. But Da not only ignored her, he chose the blue leather, which was the most expensive. Mam was so cross with him—at first."
The elderly man raised a brow. "At first?"
"Yes. Da's explanation to my mother was, 'Of course it had to be blue. Blue to match my beloved's eyes.' Naturally Mam couldn't stay cross with him after that." She gave a misty smile, remembering. "Da was a romantic."
"Of course he was," Charles Sinclair declared. "He was an artist, a poet." There was a short silence, then he added, "You said your only copy was cardboard. Was?"
She nodded. "It was . . . destroyed." Grandad had lost his temper with her one day and had hurled it into the fire.
"Then you must keep this copy."
"Oh, but I couldn't—"
"No, no. I insist. Call it a bride gift."
She swallowed, deeply touched by his unexpected generosity. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. It's very kind of you. I will treasure it always, and not only because of my father."
He gave her an approving little nod. "Against all expectations, my nephew seems to have chosen well. Welcome to the family, my dear. I am delighted to be related by marriage to the daughter of Alexander McLeay. You must call me Uncle Charles."
He gave her a long considering look and added imperiously, "I will paint your portrait. I doubt my nephew will appreciate it—he cares only for such things as roofs and the needs of peasants—but you will admire it, I know, sensitive poet's daughter that you are."
Jeannie thanked him again. She didn't consider herself to be particularly sensitive—she'd had to be quite tough to survive life with Grandad—but she was grateful for the approval and acceptance of this gentle, eccentric old man.
"Thank you for coming to take tea with me, my dear. Come and visit me any time. Now I find myself fatigued." He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and to all appearances went instantly to sleep. His manservant edged forward, silently indicating to Jeannie that the interview was over.
Amused and a little bemused, she rose and tiptoed out, clutching the precious blue book to her bosom. The interview she'd dreaded had resulted in an entirely unexpected outcome. Instead of resentment and enmity she'd been given a warm welcome and a precious memento. Da's book. Imagine that.