EPISODE THREE
Three mornings later, Ramsey stood before the small mirror above the washstand in his room, carefully drawing his razor along his cheek. As she usually did, Maude's maid had brought him warm water earlier and laid a fire in the grate, two comforts he'd come to appreciate. There was something decidedly agreeable about shaving in a warm room, particularly when a man had spent so many years making do with considerably less.
He tilted his chin toward the mirror, inspecting his handiwork before wiping the last traces of shaving soap from his face. He observed his reflection closely. Whatever else the day might bring, at least he could present himself respectably.
His gaze shifted to the suit hanging nearby. The poor thing had certainly seen better days. He'd brushed it carefully the previous evening, but no amount of attention could disguise the wear along the cuffs or restore the cloth to its former glory. Still, it was the best he owned, and a gentleman ought to make the most of what he had.
Ramsey slipped into his jacket and straightened his collar. Thus far, his efforts to secure painting commissions and attract pupils had produced precious little response. Even the advertisement he'd placed in the newspaper had failed to draw any interest.
And if his circumstances didn't improve?
He regarded his reflection for another moment before reaching for his comb. There was little sense in borrowing trouble before breakfast. He'd come to Whalerton to make something of himself, and a few days of disappointment were hardly sufficient reason to abandon the undertaking.
Once he'd combed his hair, Ramsey headed downstairs, where the inviting aroma of sausages and freshly brewed coffee greeted him before he reached the dining room.
The other boarders were already gathered around the dining table, enjoying their breakfast and exchanging bits of conversation. Ramsey had scarcely begun helping himself to eggs and sausages from the sideboard when Maude appeared beside him.
“You had a visitor this morning, Mr. Dalton,” she announced, holding out a calling card.
Ramsey paused, the serving spoon hovering above his plate. A visitor? For him? He hadn't been in Whalerton long enough to make anyone's acquaintance beyond those residing beneath this roof.
“Did he leave a message?”
“It's written on the back, dear.” Maude gave him an encouraging smile before returning to her duties.
Ramsey set down the serving spoon and examined the card. Mr. Patrick Sullivan. Beneath the name was an address, but nothing to indicate why the gentleman had called upon him.
He turned it over and read the message written in a neat, masculine hand.
Mr. Dalton,
I should like to discuss a matter of business with you. Kindly call upon me at the address provided once you have finished your breakfast.
Patrick Sullivan. The name meant nothing to him, but the fellow had evidently gone to some trouble to seek him out. And a matter of business?
Could it be that his advertisement was bearing fruit?
Anticipating the meeting with Mr. Sullivan, Ramsey slipped the card into his pocket, retrieved his plate, and took his place at the dining table. Perhaps his morning was about to become considerably more interesting than he'd expected.
The knot that had taken up residence in his stomach since his arrival began to loosen. If Sullivan was indeed seeking an instructor or wished to commission a painting, Ramsey might soon have an income. And if the gentleman was pleased with his work, perhaps he'd recommend him to others.
Cutting his meal short, Ramsey helped clear his place setting and returned to his room, where he set about preparing for the interview. He selected three of his finest paintings to demonstrate his abilities. Let the work speak on his behalf. His suit might be worn and his pockets nearly empty, but neither circumstance diminished his talent.
Ramsey patted his hair into place in front of the mirror, took a deep, fortifying breath, and picked up the paintings. One commission or pupil could lead to two, perhaps even half a dozen in very little time. With a little perseverance, he might establish himself among Whalerton's more prosperous families.
And wouldn't that be something? To make a respectable name for himself, one his mother's family could no longer dismiss with a contemptuous glance. They'd always been so quick to judge him by his father's shortcomings, as though laziness and irresponsibility were inherited along with a man's surname. Someday, perhaps they'd discover that Ebenezer Dalton's son was neither slothful nor worthless, but a man whose accomplishments ought to have made them proud.
Ramsey carefully arranged his three paintings in their carrying case and checked the clasps twice. It wouldn't do to have his finest work tumbling onto the pavement before he'd had the opportunity to impress anyone.
Outside, the sky threatened rain, so he took his umbrella along, swinging it rather jauntily as he walked. There was something satisfying about striding down the street with such a spring in his step, almost as though he were a gentleman of considerable means rather than a struggling artist with scarcely two pennies to rub together.
Before long, he caught himself whistling.
Things were looking up, indeed.
Four streets later, he arrived at the address printed on Sullivan's card and stopped to examine the building.
The building was considerably grander than Maude's boardinghouse. Ramsey stepped back a pace to admire its handsome brick exterior, the rows of tall windows and polished brass fittings lending it an air of considerable prosperity. A discreet sign beside the entrance identified it as a residence containing private suites.
Well, well! Whoever this Patrick Sullivan fellow was, he certainly appeared to be doing rather well for himself.
And that was encouraging.
A gentleman who could afford such accommodations ought to have little difficulty paying a respectable fee for painting lessons or commissioning a portrait. Ramsey had no intention of undervaluing his abilities merely because he was new to Whalerton.
He entered the building and was greeted by a neatly dressed attendant standing behind a small reception desk.
“Good morning, sir. May I be of assistance?”
“Good morning. I'm here to see Mr. Patrick Sullivan.”
“Mr. Sullivan, yes, sir. You'll find his suite on the second floor, at the end of the corridor.”
“Thank you.”
Ramsey crossed the foyer, his artist's eye taking in the graceful cabriole legs of a polished mahogany table standing between two upholstered armchairs. A cut-glass ashtray rested upon its polished surface, while a richly patterned carpet covered much of the freshly waxed hardwood floor.
The surroundings reminded him of the few occasions he'd visited his mother's relatives. Their homes had possessed much the same air of refinement, although he'd never felt particularly welcome within their walls.
He pushed the unpleasant recollection aside. There was no sense allowing memories of his relatives to spoil what might prove to be a most profitable morning.
Upon reaching the second floor, Ramsey followed the corridor to the last door and gave it a firm knock.
A moment later, the door opened to reveal a gentleman who appeared to be in his late thirties. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, the quality of which suggested he was accustomed to considerably finer things than Ramsey could presently afford.
His face, however, told a different story. Beneath neatly combed dark hair, the man's rugged features included a square jaw, prominent cheekbones, and a nose that had evidently suffered more than one unfortunate encounter with someone's fist.
“Good morning,” Ramsey said. “I'm Ramsey Dalton. A gentleman by the name of Patrick Sullivan left his card for me at my lodgings.”
“Ah, Mr. Dalton.” The gentleman extended his hand. “Patrick Sullivan. I'm pleased you could come.”
“Do come in, Mr. Dalton.” Sullivan stepped aside to admit him, then closed the door and led the way into a spacious parlour. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, its warmth particularly welcome after the chill of the October morning. A pair of comfortable armchairs stood near the hearth, with a small table between them.
“May I offer you a cup of tea?” Sullivan asked.
“No, thank you. I've only just finished breakfast.”
Ramsey would have preferred to come directly to the business at hand, but he supposed a gentleman was entitled to observe the usual courtesies before discussing a prospective engagement.
“Please, have a seat.”
Ramsey accepted the invitation, carefully setting his carrying case beside his chair. Sullivan took the opposite armchair and regarded him with an expression of pleasant expectancy.
“Will your wife be joining us, Mr. Sullivan?” Ramsey asked.
Sullivan raised an eyebrow. “My wife?”
“I thought perhaps she was interested in painting lessons.”
A faint smile touched Sullivan's mouth. “No, Mr. Dalton. My wife has no need of painting lessons. I'm making inquiries on behalf of someone else.”
Sullivan was acting on someone else's behalf? Ramsey supposed the gentleman would reveal his client's identity in due course.
“I came across your advertisement in the newspaper this morning,” Sullivan continued. “You're newly arrived in Whalerton, I understand?”
“Yes, sir. I've only been here a few days.”
“And what can you tell me about yourself, Mr. Dalton?”
A perfectly reasonable question, and one Ramsey had expected. Anyone considering engaging an art instructor would naturally wish to know something of the fellow's background. The difficulty lay in deciding just how much of that background ought to be shared.
Ramsey began by telling Sullivan where he'd been born and raised, then spoke briefly of his mother's family and their respectable standing in their community. Of his father's relations, he said nothing. There was little sense in bringing Ebenezer Dalton into the conversation.
He wanted Mr. Sullivan to judge him on his own merits rather than the shortcomings of his father. A gentleman was hardly obliged to recount every disagreeable circumstance of his upbringing to a man he'd only just met.
His gaze dropped briefly to his suit. Ramsey straightened his shoulders. Whatever Sullivan might think of his clothing, there was no reason to be ashamed of earning an honest living.
“Where are your parents now?” Sullivan asked.
“My mother passed away last month,” he explained, “and my father has seen fit to—” Ramsey cleared his throat, “—absent himself.”
Sullivan gave a slight nod, his expression revealing nothing of what he thought.
“Where did you learn your art?” Sullivan asked.
“I've had some instruction,” Ramsey replied, “though I daresay most of my ability comes from my mother's side of the family.”
There was certainly no shortage of artistic talent on his mother's side. It was a comforting thought, particularly when he considered how little he'd inherited from his father that was worth boasting about.
“Would you care to see some examples of my work?” he asked.
“By all means.”
Ramsey reached for the carrying case beside his chair and carefully opened it. He'd selected three of his finest paintings for the occasion: a portrait, a landscape, and a still life. Between them, they ought to give Sullivan a fair idea of his abilities.
He withdrew the first painting, taking care not to damage its edges.
Ramsey presented the paintings to Sullivan, watching as the gentleman examined each one in turn. He'd chosen his finest work, but that didn't prevent a certain apprehension from creeping in. What if Sullivan knew little about art and failed to appreciate their merits? Or worse, what if he knew a great deal and discovered some fault Ramsey himself had overlooked?
Sullivan studied the paintings without comment, taking considerably longer than Ramsey had anticipated. Ramsey resisted the temptation to fill the silence with explanations. His work ought to speak for itself.
At last, Sullivan nodded.
“These are good,” he said.
Well, it wasn't exactly extravagant praise, but it was praise nonetheless. Ramsey felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
Sullivan handed the paintings back to him and settled into his armchair.
“Now,” Sullivan said, crossing one leg over the other, “where do you stand on marriage?”
Ramsey blinked. Marriage? Whatever did matrimony have to do with teaching someone to paint?
“I am not married,” he replied, taking care to keep his expression composed. “Though I am by no means opposed to the institution.”
“What's the hindrance?”
Ramsey regarded him with growing bewilderment. Was the fellow interviewing him for a position as an art instructor or seeking a husband for some eligible young lady?
Sullivan brought his fingertips together beneath his chin and studied him with the same thoroughness he'd given the paintings. Only this time, Ramsey hadn't the faintest notion what qualities the gentleman hoped to discover.
He shifted in his chair. It was an extraordinarily personal question to put to a man he'd only just met. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have considered it impertinent. Unfortunately, Sullivan represented the possibility of employment, and Ramsey could scarcely afford to take offence before he'd even secured the position.
“I'll be frank with you, Mr. Sullivan. My mother came from a respectable family, but she married beneath her station and lived to regret it. I won't trouble you with the particulars, except to say that my father did not treat her as he ought.”
Ramsey paused, considering how much more he ought to reveal. He had no desire to parade his family's misfortunes before a stranger, but neither would he pretend his father's conduct had been anything less than disgraceful.
“I've taken my father's example as a warning,” he continued. “Whatever else may be said of me, I intend to be a better husband than he was, should I ever marry.”
“How do you propose to accomplish that?” Sullivan asked.
Ramsey studied the man across from him. What an extraordinary line of questioning! He'd come expecting to discuss painting lessons, yet Sullivan seemed determined to investigate his matrimonial prospects. Was this some peculiar test of character? If so, he wished the gentleman would explain what bearing it had upon his qualifications as an art instructor.
Nevertheless, Sullivan had sought him out, and the fellow's manner suggested he was accustomed to having his questions answered. Whatever his reasons for conducting such an unusual interview, Ramsey wasn't about to jeopardize a promising opportunity by refusing to cooperate. Perhaps a little more candour was in order.
“Mr. Sullivan, I have no intention of subjecting a wife of mine to the hardships my mother endured. Before I even consider marriage, I mean to establish myself financially. A man ought to be able to provide a secure home for his family, and I intend to see that I can.”
Sullivan regarded him for a moment, his expression giving little indication of whether Ramsey's answer had satisfied him.
“Have you ever instructed anyone in painting before, Mr. Dalton?”
At last! A question concerning the position he'd come to discuss.
“No, sir, I haven't had that opportunity.”
“What was your previous occupation?”
“I worked in a factory,” Ramsey replied. “Painting was something I pursued in my own time. I occasionally sold a piece when I could find a buyer.” And when it wasn't stolen from him.
There was no shame in having worked in a factory, and Ramsey refused to speak of it as though there were. Honest labour had kept food on the table, even if it had left him precious little time to develop his artistic abilities.
As for Ebenezer Dalton's habit of pocketing his son's earnings, that particular humiliation was Ramsey's own affair. He had no intention of sharing it with a stranger.
Sullivan appeared to consider his answer before putting another question to him.
“And have you ever been involved in a scandal, Mr. Dalton? Anything that might bring your character into question?”
Ramsey stared at him. “Certainly not!”
“Not so much as an indiscretion involving a young lady?”
Really, this was becoming altogether too much! What sort of fellow questioned a prospective painting instructor about his dealings with the fairer sex?
“Mr. Sullivan, I assure you, I've never conducted myself in a manner that would bring disgrace upon my mother or myself.”
For the first time since Ramsey had entered the room, Sullivan's agreeable expression vanished. He leaned forward in his chair, fixing Ramsey with a stare that bore little resemblance to the cordial gentleman who'd welcomed him earlier.
“I trust you're telling me the truth, Dalton.”
Ramsey straightened in his chair. There was no mistaking the warning in Sullivan's voice, nor the deliberate omission of Mister from his name. Whatever this interview was about, it had suddenly taken a decidedly unpleasant turn.
“Because should my employer decide to engage your services, and I discover you've been less than truthful with me, you'll find there are consequences for deceiving him. Very unpleasant consequences. Am I understood?”
A prickle of indignation rose in Ramsey's chest. He'd come here seeking honest employment, not to have his integrity questioned by a man who knew nothing about him. And what, precisely, did Sullivan mean by unpleasant consequences?
His gaze flickered to the gentleman's battered nose. Judging by its appearance alone, Sullivan was no stranger to settling disagreements with his fists. Well, Ramsey had no intention of facing unpleasant consequences.
“You have my word, Mr. Sullivan,” he replied, meeting the man's gaze without flinching. “I've told you the truth.”
For several uncomfortable seconds, Sullivan studied him. Ramsey held his gaze, determined not to appear intimidated. He had nothing to conceal and certainly no reason to apologize for his conduct.
At last, Sullivan leaned back in his chair, his former composure returning as though nothing untoward had passed between them.
Sullivan gave a slight nod, and Ramsey thought he detected a measure of approval in the man's expression. Apparently, his answers had satisfied whatever concerns had prompted such an extraordinary line of questioning.
“I'll put your name before my employer, Mr. Dalton,” Sullivan said. “He'll make the final decision. Should he wish to engage your services, you'll hear from me.”
So there was to be no definite offer after all. Ramsey concealed his disappointment. He'd rather hoped to leave with an arrangement settled, or at least some indication of what remuneration he might expect.
And who was Mr. Sullivan's as-yet-unnamed employer? Whoever he was, the gentleman evidently placed considerable importance upon the character of those he employed.
Ramsey couldn't help wondering what sort of man required such an extensive examination of a prospective painting instructor's character. The questions about marriage had been peculiar enough, but that warning about scandal! One would think he was applying for a position of considerable responsibility rather than offering lessons in portraiture and landscapes.
Nevertheless, Sullivan had given him reason to hope, and Ramsey had no intention of allowing the fellow's peculiar manner to discourage him. If the gentleman's employer was prepared to pay a respectable fee for his services, he could certainly overlook a few unusual questions.
Before Ramsey could inquire further, Sullivan rose from his armchair. Evidently, the interview was at an end.
Ramsey stood as well, gathering his paintings and carefully securing them in their carrying case. He would have preferred a firmer commitment, particularly after submitting to such an extraordinary examination of his character, but pressing the matter might do more harm than good.
Sullivan accompanied him to the door and offered his hand. “Good day, Mr. Dalton.”
“Good day, Mr. Sullivan. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Ramsey shook his hand, then stepped into the corridor. A moment later, the door closed behind him.
Well, that had certainly been an interview unlike any he'd imagined. Sullivan's threat of unpleasant consequences continued to trouble him as he descended the elegant staircase.
With no other appointments to occupy his morning, Ramsey set off toward the boardinghouse, his carrying case clasped securely in one hand, the umbrella tucked under his arm. Gone was his earlier jaunty stroll. In its place, his feet kept a slower pace.
Sullivan's questions still troubled him, particularly those concerning his thoughts on holy matrimony. Whatever sort of employer required such information?
He gave a quick shake of his head. Dwelling upon the interview wasn't going to put money in his pocket. He'd presented his finest work, answered every question truthfully, and conducted himself as a gentleman ought. For the present, there was nothing more to be done.
As he approached Rosewick Hall, his attention turned to the magnificent Stover residence beyond its wrought-iron fence. It was every bit as impressive as he remembered. He paused to study the imposing structure, allowing his artist's eye to wander over its handsome architectural details.
Only the previous evening, he'd begun a painting of the mansion from memory, and the work was progressing rather well. He'd captured its grandeur to his satisfaction, but there were certain details he wanted to get just right. The proportions of the windows, the ornamentation above the entrance, the arrangement of the stonework—such things could make all the difference between a respectable painting and a truly fine one.
He lingered. A few more minutes of observation ought to serve him nicely. And if a certain young lady should happen to appear again, as she had before, well, he certainly wasn't standing there in hopes of seeing her.
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