Page 77 of Oddity of the Ton
To Eleanor’s horror, the black-clad woman rose and glided across the carpet toward her. Had Eleanor felt herself snatched up by pincers, then dragged into a lair in the cellar, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Y-yes—at Lady Francis’s ball.”
“Lady Francis, eh?” The dowager let out a snort. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—unless you’re making mischief.”
“Miss Howard doesn’t make mischief, Mother,” Whitcombe said.
“But she claims to be an authority on art.”
“Oh, no, Your—I mean—Duchess,” Eleanor said. “But I have a particular interest in George Stubbs.” She turned to the painting, which depicted a horse standing proudly beside a groom, a rich myriad of browns and reds in the pelt, bringing the animal to life, such that Eleanor wouldn’t have been surprised had the animal leaped out of the painting. Then she cast her gaze over the inscription at the bottom.
Geo. Stubbs pinxit 1762
“Pinxit!” Whitcombe said. “Just like you said that night.”
“What night?” the dowager asked sharply. “Montague, explain.”
“Miss Howard told me why she knew Lady Francis’s painting was a fake.”
“And will Miss Howard bestow her wisdom onourpainting, and concede that it’s genuine?”
Eleanor glanced at the painting once more, following the outline of the horse. Then her gaze settled on the animal’s hind section, and she leaned closer. One of the back legs didn’t look right—from the joint halfway up the leg, down to the hoof—and nor did the shadow it cast on the ground.
“Itseemsgenuine,” she said, then hesitated. Was now one of those times to suppress the truth?
“But?” the dowager demanded. “I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming on.”
“Mother!” Whitcombe sighed.
“No, Montague, I’m sure we’re all eager to hear what Miss Howard has to say.”
Eleanor shrank at the emphasis of her name—Miss Howard—delivered as an insult, as if the old woman objected to having a meremissin her home. But, given that whatever she said would offend the woman further, she might as well speak the truth.
“There’s something wrong with one of the back legs,” Eleanor said. “It’s as if”—she pointed to the hind leg—“this section was painted by another.”
“What do you mean?” the dowager asked, a little less frost in her tone.
Eleanor ran her fingertip along the hind leg. “It’s not discernible from a distance, but on close inspection, it’s more obvious.”
“Obvious?”
Eleanor pointed to the leg. “See the color? It’s a good likeness to the rest of the horse, but the reds are a little too bright. And the way the light lands on the leg is all wrong—the tendons beneath the skin are far less prominent than those in the other hind leg, yet they’re positioned the same. Then there’s the hoof.”
“What about the hoof?” Whitcombe asked, leaning forward to inspect the picture.
“The color is too cool,” Eleanor said. “It’s as if the artist mixed a little too much blue on his palette. Gray is a more complex color to mix—most artists think it easy, but because it’s formed by mixing all colors together, the chances of getting the tone right are very small. And look at the base of the hoof—the shadow is cast in the wrong direction. And it’s the wrong color. A shadow takes on the color of that on which it’s cast. See where it hits the grass? It should be dark green there, not gray.”
The party fell silent.
Oh dear—have I just insulted the whole room?
“Well!” the dowager cried.
Yes—shehadinsulted the room or, at least, the most imposing person in it.
“Mother,” Whitcombe said, a warning in his voice. “There’s no need to be angry. Miss Howard meant no offense.”
“Oh, be quiet, Montague!” the dowager said. “I’m not angry—though I admit to feeling a little insulted, given how much the thing cost me.”
