There was no way Nanny Wilkes was going to allow George to mix his paints in her schoolroom. She was very sensitive to odors, and she reacted even to old paintings where the paint had dried a long time ago.

He had no other space of his own to set up his painting, as his mother would immediately recognize the smell of the linseed oil and bring her wrath down upon him for painting if he used his rooms.

“Come with me,” George said, conspiratorially to Lucy, one afternoon after the schoolwork was done and there was still plenty of afternoon light and no one watching over them.

George led her to the stables, up a flight of stairs, and along a hallway to an unused attic room where there was a large window, ample light, and the sounds and smells of stamping horses wafting up from the stalls below.

“Here. What do you think of this place as a studio?” George asked.

“What is a studio?” Lucy asked as she went to the window and peered out as though looking for the answer outside.

“It is where an artist does his painting.”

“Why?”

“Because he needs an uninterrupted time away from others and an inspiring environment. Is this not a splendid space?”

“It looks like a dirty old attic to me,” Lucy said with absolutely no enthusiasm.

“But I can fix it up. Will you help me?” he asked as he began moving boxes, crates, harnesses, and bags of feed away from the window to create a workspace for himself.

“Are you going to sleep up here too?” she asked, picking up a dusty, cobwebbed harness with two fingers and gingerly removing it from its nail by the window.

“No-o-o. Why would I do that?”

“Because it might be the kind of thing you would do.”

George had brought a box with him to the attic, and when he had created enough space to work in for the moment, he moved a small table near the window, set the box on it, and opened it up.

Lucy went over and peeked inside. “Those are the colors we collected,” she exclaimed, happy to have helped with that.

“And linseed oil. And I am going to mix my first colors now.”

“Can I help?”

“If you like. If you do not think this place is too filthy for you.”

“I can make do,” she said reaching inside the box and taking out some dried blue flowers. “I want to make blue.”

“Try it,” he said, handing her a mortar and pestle, some small jars, and the linseed oil.

They spent the whole afternoon trying to mix paints. Some were successful and produced lively vivid colors, and others just turned into a muddy brown or produced no color at all and were lumpy and unusable.

At the end of their efforts, they assessed their paints and had assembled only a few useful ones. George was disappointed. “We have more work to do. The soil and ground rock samples made the best colors. Might we go looking for more?”

“We can try. But it would seem to me your best solution would be to persuade some adult to buy you some readymade paints in a proper art store—if such a thing exists.”

“In London perhaps,” George mused. “But I have an idea. I believe paints can be ordered by mail. And if I can get some cash in hand, I might be able to find the address of a store in an art periodical and order them myself.”

“What a splendid idea!” Lucy exclaimed.

They spent the rest of the afternoon working on the studio—well, George did. Lucy was not able to do much lifting, so she let her friend manage the heavy pieces while she gazed dreamily out the window.

Finally, the space was to George’s liking, and he stood in the middle of his studio, looked around and said, “You know what I am missing?

“I have no idea.”

“An easel and canvasses to paint on,” he said thoughtfully.

“What about the art store where you are going to get your paints?”

George waggled his head. “We are talking about a substantial sum of money for all of these things. I do not have that.”

“Maybe you could make an easel. And what about using pieces of wood to paint on,” she asked. “And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“Where is my desk?”

“Why would you want a desk?”

“I am thinking I might want to write. I keep imagining stories I would like to tell. And with all the reading I have been doing, I do not see why I should not give it a try.”

“You want a desk up here?”

“I could write while you paint. Besides, you are going to need something to paint. You could paint me while I work.”

“Hmm. Not a bad idea. Come, I have an idea for the easel, and I think I know where there is a spare table. It would not be a proper desk, but I do not see why it would not work for you.”

“What are your mother and father going to say when they find out what you are doing out here?” she asked thoughtfully.

“I am not going to tell them.”

“And you think they will not find out?”

George gave her a big smile, saying, “This is my secret weapon.”

Lucy looked at him expecting more. “What? What is the secret weapon?”

He gave her a large grin again. “This,” he said pointing to his face. “No one can resist this gorgeous smile. I will always get my way.”

Lucy guffawed. “Just you wait.”

Betsy and Lucy were in the blue parlor sitting at a table by the window working together on a jigsaw puzzle. Lucy was on her knees on a chair leaning on the table and pointing to a piece with one finger, and then directing Betsy to where the piece fitted.

“Will you go swinging with me later?” Betsy asked. “I will push you if you will push me.”

“But it is such a hot day,” Lucy commented. “Maybe after supper when it is cooler.”

“But if we are swinging that will cool us off.”

“Very well. I believe the swing is in the shade.”

Ann appeared in the archway, leaned against the side of the arch, fanning herself with a palm frond fan.

“Where is everyone? I cannot find a single living soul to get me a cool drink.”

Betsy looked up at her sister. “Then get it yourself. Are you incapacitated?”

Ann frowned. “That is what our servants are for. I know nothing about the kitchen and how it works. What if I burn myself? Or get cut with a knife?”

Betsy looked at her sister with annoyance. “It is only a cold drink—you are not making a feast for twenty. I think you will survive.”

Ann continued leaning in the archway and fanning herself, lazily gazing off into space.

“Lucy, you can fetch the drink for me. And do not dawdle.”

“We are engaged, Ann,” Betsy said, not even looking at her sister.

“But it is only a stupid old puzzle. And I need a drink right now. Lucy, bring it to my room.”

Betsy turned to her sister and said, “She is not your personal servant, Ann.”

“But she should be. After all, she has to earn her keep somehow in this household. What is she but a peasant pretending to be a peacock?”

As a rule, older sisters usually had their way, and it was particularly true with Ann who reigned under the protection of the Duchess.

Betsy reached over and took hold of Lucy’s hand and pulled her away from the table and led her past Ann and toward the kitchen.

“What a princess…” Betsy exclaimed under her breath as she passed by Ann. “I swear…”

They giggled, linked arms, and found only one kitchen maid asleep in a chair by the pantry. She had not heard Lucy ringing the call bell and would surely be reprimanded if Mrs. Mead found out.

Betsy went to her and shook her awake.

“Oh, oh,” the girl said looking around the kitchen seeming not to know where she was.

“Ann has been ringing for you. She wants a cold drink. Can you take that to her in her room?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Betsy. Right away.”

And the flustered maid scurried to take care of the matter.

“What will Ann say when I do not deliver the drink,” Lucy asked apprehensively as they returned to their puzzle.

“As long as she gets her drink she will not care. She has the attention span of a fly. And do not pay any heed to what she said before about you needing to earn your keep. That is complete nonsense. You are one of us—a part of this family. At least for me, you are. And I suspect for George, as well.”

When Father paced, George knew there was trouble ahead. His father did not even look at him when George entered his father’s office and saw his mother seated prim and upright on a chair next to the desk. Double trouble, he thought.

“What?” He asked outright.

His father threw several jars of paint and a handful of brushes on top of his desk.

“And what is this all about?” he asked harshly.

George lowered his head for a moment to prepare his defense. So, this is what it is about. Then he looked up and faced his father.

“I have started painting. Drawing is not enough. I need to express myself with color now.”

“Express yourself… express yourself… what are you a prima donna?

“That is dance, Father.”

“Do not be smart with me, young man. You are not too old to get a royal hiding with my riding crop if you do not watch yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” George turned to his mother to gauge her temperament. It was not much better. She had her sour, pouty look which definitely meant disapproval.

“When did you set up that workspace in the stable?” Mother asked.

“Some months ago.”

“And where did you get the money for these art supplies? There are paints, brushes, stretched canvasses and I do not know what all…” Father pushed.

“I saved my allowance and I borrowed a few pounds from Nanny Wilkes.”

His parents looked horrified.

“But I made the canvasses myself. I constructed my own easel and even made some of the paints myself—with Lucy’s help. She knows where to find materials to make some of my paints. I do my best not to spend too much.”

Father turned away. “How is this possible? A son of mine… painting! You know you have a responsibility to run this estate when I am gone. Do you think your mother is going to do that for you… or your sisters?”

“Why can I not do both?” George asked.

That seemed to stump his father for a moment.

Then his mother, turning to his father, said, “Matthew, remember he will be going to university first. He must have a first-class Oxford education.”

Matthew turned and scowled at her. “We shall see about that. I am thinking it is not too early for him to learn how things run around here. He is ten now and needs to accompany me around the estate. He needs to meet with the tenants. He needs to go with me to market. He needs to get his hands dirty.”

“But my studies? What about them?” George asked.

His father seemed to wrestle with that question. “Mornings studying… afternoons with me.”

“But I study in the afternoon; the girls study in the morning.”

“Then you will be with me in the morning. Enough of this backtalk.”

George took a deep breath and stood straighter. “But I am not giving up my painting. Even if I have to work in the dark, you will not deprive me of that.”

“You would defy me and your mother?”

“If I must. Yes.”

His father became calm and smiled faintly. “My son has spunk. Very well, but think of it as a hobby, and nothing more. If we allow this, you must promise never to abandon your duty to your family and your patrimony.”

“I promise. Now, I need five guineas for art supplies.”