River Of Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

using the historical tale of Horatius as a parallel with Britain standing alone against the French. A more obvious painter might have used Napoleon's face on the leader of the charging enemies, but you gave only a hint of Bonaparte—just enough to make a viewer think of the French without knowing why."
    "They say more prints of this painting have been sold than any other British picture in history." Sir Anthony stared broodingly at his work. "Historical paintings are the finest flower of art. They are uplifting. Educational. An inspiration to the viewer. I wish to God I could spend all my time on such pictures, but if I did, I would starve."
    The artist spun on his heel and stalked back into his studio. "All the average Englishman wants is portraits and landscapes. It's a disgrace."
    He led the way to an easel in the corner of the room and flipped back the covering doth to reveal an almost completed family portrait of a handsome, hawk-faced man and his lovely golden-haired wife. Between them stood a small boy, one hand clutching his mother's hand and the other curled into the fur of a spaniel. "What do you think of this, Captain Wilding? I'm the finest painter England has ever produced, yet in order to keep myself and my daughter from poverty, I must prostitute my talent on rubbishy pictures of dukes and duchesses."
    In spite of his words, it was obvious that Seaton expected praise for his work. Taking a calculated risk, Kenneth said, "I think you are a fraud, Sir Anthony."
    Seaton's jaw dropped. "How dare you, sir!"
    "Oh?" Kenneth indicated the portrait. "You call this rubbish, yet look at the quality. It isn't only that the drawing and colors are superb—one can feel the tenderness between the people, the protectiveness of the man for his wife and son. No one could paint with such sensitivity and power if he truly despised what he was doing. I think you have a secret fondness for portrait work, but you don't wish to admit it because it's an article of faith among your fellow artists that only historical paintings are worthy."
    Sir Anthony looked as if he had been hit by a club. Then he gave a slow, crooked smile. "Caught out, by God. Even my daughter has not guessed that, I think. You have passed the test, Captain—almost too well."
    Kenneth knew he had made an impression, and his flattering remarks were all the more powerful for coming from an unexpected direction. But in the pleasure of talking art, he was in danger of going too far. He blanked his expression and said, "Forgive my insolence, Sir Anthony. I should not have spoken as I did."
    The painter gave him a keen glance. "Don't overdo the humility, Captain. It's not convincing."
    Clearly the observational powers that made Seaton such a fine portrait artist made him difficult to deceive. Making a mental note to watch his tongue, Kenneth replied, "I'll admit I'm not good at humility, sir, but I usually try to avoid rudeness."
    "Good. I'm the only one in this house who is allowed to be rude." Seaton covered the portrait again. "I dislike domestic chaos—it interferes with my work. Since I've never found a butler or housekeeper capable of managing my household, my secretary must do that as well as the usual business matters. Not to mention exercising my horse when I'm too busy to ride. For all these reasons, you must live in. The salary is two hundred pounds a year. When can you begin?"
    Glad that the matter had been settled without references or other delays, Kenneth said, "As soon as I've collected my belongings from the inn where I spent last night."
    "Send a footman for your bags." Sir Anthony yanked at one of the two heavy bellpulls. "My daughter, Rebecca, will instruct you in your duties. When possible, ask questions of her rather than me. However, she dislikes interruptions almost as much as I do, so the sooner you master the work, the better. Every morning, I will spend an hour with you going over business and dictating letters. After that, I do not wish to