Chapter 12
Painting the Disaster
All winter long my garden was bare. The spring sunshine arrived, but of course there was a lot to grow yet, even the weeds.
So I was not in a very happy mood when I entered the salon this morning.
“Ah, Lady Beardley, bonjour,” said Monsieur Lambert, the painter, his cunning eyes watching me as I crossed the room.
I walked into the room, wishing that we could do this another day but he had told the baron, who in turn told me, he was ready to start. I was not looking forward to posing for hours just so the painting could join the other Lady Beardleys in the long hall, collecting dust.
If his lively talking was any indication of his skills, I was concerned of how my own painting would turn out. I loved to talk with him, especially because we did it in Fr
