Free The Painted Lady by Bárbara Metzger Page B

squirrel that requires a blanket?”
    “I doubt even a mouse would use your jumble for bedding. Think of the wool as reins, Your Grace, and do try for a steadier touch.”
    The needles clacked, Sir Osgood read, Lady Edgecombe snored softly. Kasey was content, concentrating on his stitches, actually making a strip of fabric lengthen as he worked. He was not thinking about painting, not even thinking about how he was going to get some paints. He was not trying to memorize either female’s features for a later composition, and he had not worried about the creature on canvas in hours. Perhaps Sir Osgood had the right idea, and he’d been right to come.
    Soon after, one of the servants wheeled in a tea cart. Lady Edgecombe awoke at the sound, but Kasey had to wonder why, since the teacakes consisted of pale slices of toast with a tiny dab of fruit preserves atop each finger. No one bothered to ask Kasey how he took his tea, for neither cream nor sugar appeared on the tray. The tea was not any of the usual China blends, but consisted of some herbal concoction in which Kasey thought he recognized chamomile and a few others. It smelled more of wildflowers than medicine, at any rate, so he drank some. The brew was not half bad, since the cook had added honey to cover any bitterness. He had another cup, missing his evening brandy, well aware he would not find a bottle of wine by his bedside.
    “How did you enjoy our reading?” Sir Osgood asked,
    Kasey had not heard a word.
    “Did you get any benefit out of it, any insights?”
    No, but he had learned to knit. How many gentlemen could claim such an accomplishment? Perhaps tomorrow night Kasey would ask the Bannister chit to teach him to spin.
    Sir Osgood declared that it was bedtime, and the ladies picked up their candles to light their way upstairs. Kasey thought he and the doctor would now discuss his vision problem at length, but Bannister believed that a weary mind was a troubled mind. Kasey thought he might stay below stairs reading, if Sir Osgood did not mind lending him a book; the physician believed reading into the night strained the eyes, leading to headaches and mental strain.
    As the duke made his way to the bedchamber assigned him, he decided that it was amazing anyone whatsoever was sane, if half of Bannister’s theories were true. It also appeared that anything Kasey felt made life worth living—good food, good wine, good conversation, literature, or painting, Sir Osgood felt added to the risk of lunacy. If a week of such boredom did not cure him of his fantasies, Kasey feared, it might have him talking to the walls instead of to a picture hanging on them. He also could not help wondering if Bannister himself was short a sheet in the upper works. Wouldn’t that be perfect, putting himself into the hands of a foggy-headed fanatic?
    Sir Osgood’s valet Cosgrove was waiting to help the duke out of his coat. A borrowed nightshirt was laid out on the bed—Bannister did not believe in nudity under any conditions except a bath, and then only as necessary—and a warming pan had been passed over the sheets. The quietly efficient gentleman’s gentleman left, taking Kasey’s boots with him to polish, leaving His Grace wondering what he was going to do for the rest of the night. In Town he would be dressing to begin the evening, not undressing to end it. He looked around the room again, and found no diversions except a Bible, which was not Kasey’s favorite bedtime story. Besides, his eyes were feeling somewhat scratchy, perhaps from the dust of the road he’d traveled to get here.
    His Grace opened the drawers of the chest, looking for writing implements, anything he might draw with to pass an hour or so, despite Sir Osgood’s injunctions. His own few shirts and drawers and neckcloths had been neatly laid out, but unless he was willing to prick his finger and use the blood to paint on starched linen, he was out of luck again. Besides, there was no pin handy, either.