Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Marjorie furrows her brow and zooms in on the face. “I’m sorry, no. Can I ask where you found this? If it is Dyce, I’m not aware of it.”
“I bought the painting from an estate sale. It was owned by the Tulley family in Surrey.”
“Yes, that would seem right.” She beckons me with a wave to follow her to yet another small room of portraits. “These two are Tulleys. Donated after their deaths to the museum. Prewar.”
My gaze eagerly sweeps over the paintings. These are the great-great-aunt and uncle of the three brothers. Great-aunt and uncle to the duke and duchess on the father’s side.
“Painted not long before their deaths, in fact. As I understand it, they weren’t particularly well-liked. Excellent artistic examples, however.”
Hence they were donated. It seems tossing out portraits is a Tulley tradition.
“Would it be possible to find out if this is an authentic Dyce painting?” I ask her.
“Certainly, yes. If you’d like to forward me any other photographs you have, I can get you an answer. If further verification is required, we’ll need to examine the painting itself. That is if you’re able to send it to my contacts in London.”
“Yes, for sure.”
We return to her desk at the front of the museum where she hands me a business card. Nate is still wandering on his own. She casts a suspicious glance in his direction as he disappears around a corner.
“If the painting is authentic,” she continues, “would you consider allowing the museum to display it? It likely isn’t terribly valuable, I’m afraid.”
“Picked it up for a hundred pounds,” I agree.
Marjorie shakes her head. “That family would sell their own offspring if they could make a quid. In this case, Dyce isn’t van Gogh, and the subject isn’t Queen Margaret. But the museum would be proud to hang it. We would credit you, of course. From the collection of Abbey Bly.”
I smile to myself. Right, as if I’m so sophisticated an art buyer as to have my own collection. Only if some IKEA and Anthropologie prints count as a collection.
“If you can help me, I suppose it’s the least I could do for your time,” I say.
I don’t need the painting itself for my research. Anyway, it’d be pretty cool knowing that when I leave England, my name is written on a wall in a small southern village, forever connected to an artist and his infamous patrons.
Next door, Nate and I order lunch to go before driving south along the river’s edge to a pebble beach where the river meets the ocean. There, a tiny black hut with a red roof stands alone on the shore.
The ocean here is breathtaking. Cool salt wind whips my hair around my face. Only the occasional seagull or lone pedestrian walking their dog interrupts the natural setting. On the concrete steps of the hut, we sit with our takeout containers of fish and chips.
“Find what you were looking for at the museum?” Nate asks.
“Maybe. The curator is authenticating the painting for me.
Doesn’t tell me who the woman is, but at least I’ll know if I’m on the right trail or if it’s back to square one. If it isn’t a real Dyce, then she might not be a Tulley at all.”
“Do you have any theories?”
“I do,” I admit. “But I don’t want to say just yet.”
It’s a bit weird, but I’ve become protective of her, this forgotten girl with no voice of her own. A man doesn’t get discarded for reasons women often are. He barely gets a finger wag for a scandal that would otherwise brand a woman for life. I don’t know yet what got her tossed outside on that table, but I don’t like the idea of anyone speaking ill of her.
“What about you?” I shift the focus to Nate.
“Do I have a theory?”
“No. I mean, I feel bad. You had plans today, and I hijacked them. Weren’t you supposed to visit your family?”
“If I’d wanted to, I would have.”
The bitterness in his voice sets me back.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, seeing my reaction. “That wasn’t at you.”
“I just thought, because Yvonne said…”
“It was Yvonne’s idea. My mum got to her.”
Nate stares out at the water. There’s this distance about him that comes and goes. A tidal force that ebbs only a moment before rushing back in.
“You don’t get along?” I ask.
He picks up a smooth bluish-black pebble and rubs it between his fingers. He’s got great hands. Big, masculine. Musician’s fingers. They’re sexy as hell.
“Mum and I are fine,” he finally says. “Most of the time.”
“Things not great with your dad then?”
“No, not great.” Letting out a long breath, he flicks the pebble away, then pops a fry into his mouth. He chews slowly before saying, “I’m not going to be good company if we stay on the topic.”