Page 72 of The Seaside Homecoming
Regarding her with mounting concern, he said, “I did not mean to upset you. If I’ve done wrong, or these are the wrong things, I can take them back....”
“No, they are perfect. Truly.”
“Good.” He crossed his arms. “You know, I’ve had a thought. Mr. Filonov is an artist. Perhaps he might give you a lesson or two. I’m not saying you need it. But as he’s here, you might gain some benefit, or at least enjoy seeing his work.”
“I have no pretensions of becoming a bona fide artist,” Claire replied. “I began drawing and painting the occasional watercolor for the simple pleasure of it. Even so, I would enjoy seeing his work.”
“I will mention it to him. I am sure he would be pleased to show you.”
That evening after dinner, he asked Mr. Filonov to bring his coffee into the morning room and join them there.
“Why don’t you tell us something of your background, how you came to be an artist.”
Their guest nodded and sat down, and Claire refilled his cup.
“Sank you.” He sipped, then began, “I was student at Imperial Academy of Arts in Sankt Petersburg, and earn scholarship to study in Europe: Rome,Napoli, Capri....” He kissed his fingertips and said something that sounded like “Ochen harasho.”
“When scholarship ends, I return to Russia. Stay for many years. Now I come to England. Paint seascapes and landscapes. Sell some too.” He grinned at her. “So don’t worry—I pay my bill.”
Claire assured him she was not worried and went on to ask several questions about his travels and favored mediums.
Then, taking advantage of the opportunity, she asked, “And how did you meet Mr. Hammond?”
“Ah. We met at...”
He looked to William, who supplied, “A party for the British ambassador.”
“Da.” The man nodded. “I was honored to be invited but also ... intimidated—is right word? I am not good at parties. Many people. My English, not so good.”
“I think it’s excellent,” Claire said sincerely.
“I improve since then. Mr. Hammond showed me great kindness. He spoke French and a little Russian, and I was grateful. Less like, what is saying, fish outside de water.”
She nodded, and with a glance at Mr. Hammond, noticed him shift uncomfortably.
“He came to Russia for special project. Training new attachés—is correct?”
Mr. Hammond winced. “Something like that. Enoughabout me. I believe Miss Summers would rather see some of your work, if you are willing.”
“Of course, of course!” He rose. “Most welcome.”
She and Mr. Hammond followed him up the stairs to his room.
Inside, they lit lamps and Claire looked through Mr. Filonov’s sketches in pencil, pen, and chalk. Then he showed her several oil paintings propped against the walls: moody, muted seascapes and landscapes of the surrounding area. One was a view of Sidmouth from a height east of town.
“Where did you paint this?” she asked.
Mr. Hammond peered over her shoulder. “That is from Salcombe Hill.”
The artist nodded. “Mr. Hammond take me there.”
“Lovely,” Claire murmured.
Mr. Hammond’s gaze shifted to her. “Indeed.”
Claire thought back. “I vaguely recall walking there with one of my sisters. Though that’s years ago now.”
“Then you shall have to see it again sometime.”
