A Few Right Thinking Men by Sulari Gentill Read Free Book Online Page A

that it does actually look like her.”
    â€œYou should’ve painted her from behind,” Rowland grinned. “You could have said it was avant-garde—Lady McKenzie would have loved that.”
    â€œGet off!” Clyde snorted. “From the back, I would have had to paint her hump and bristles!”
    Rowland laughed. He was glad he didn’t have to take commissions. “If you make sure the frame is spectacular,” he advised, “and match the colour of her dress in the painting to the curtains in her drawing room…she’ll be more than happy.”
    â€œBut look at it!” Clyde was in despair. “It’s almost cruel to give it to her.”
    Rowland pondered the portrait. There was nothing wrong with it, except that it did depict Lady McKenzie in all her triple-chinned, buck-toothed squint-eyed glory. The woman had not one good feature that Clyde could highlight to distract the viewer from the bad ones. Indeed, having met the subject, Rowland thought that Clyde had, if anything, been kind. He remembered the hairy mole on Lady McKenzie’s cheek as a good deal more prominent.
    â€œI don’t know, Clyde. She owns a mirror…it shouldn’t be a great surprise.”
    Clyde grunted and turned back to the portrait.
    Rowland understood. He knew Clyde to be a truly decent man, more considerate than most artists. Clyde felt a responsibility to find the beauty in even cantankerous, vain Lady McKenzie. But nothing presented itself, and Clyde couldn’t escape the fact that a portrait did have to look at least vaguely like the sitter.
    Clyde picked up his palette. “I’ve put together some stretchers for you. I’ll stretch the canvases this evening.”
    â€œYou don’t have to do that,” Rowland replied, knowing it was useless to argue. Clyde insisted on doing odd jobs about Woodlands, and no amount of assurances that it was unnecessary would dissuade him.
    Clyde waved Rowland away as he went back to work.
    Rowland left the house for the old stables that now served as a garage. The Rolls was of course out, but he never drove that himself anyway. To do so would probably have offended Johnston.
    He climbed into his yellow Mercedes Benz, patting the bonnet affectionately as he did so. He had brought the supercharged tourer back with him from England. The car had once belonged to a Lord Lesley, with whom Rowland had played cards at Oxford. The Sinclairs meant very little to English society. There, they were looked down upon as colonial upstarts of dubious breeding. Lord Lesley had been no exception, and made no secret that playing poker with an Australian was akin to dining with savages. The evenings were regularly peppered with barbed witticisms about convicts and bushrangers.
    Rowland had found it grating, but he was playing poker. He kept his face closed.
    Perhaps it was because of this that the Englishman could not simply walk away as he started losing. By the time Lesley had bet his newly acquired motorcar on a single hand, a significant crowd had gathered to look on. The triumph of the colonial upstart was a public sensation. Rowland would probably have forgiven the wager to anyone else, particularly since the car in question was German. But it was too sweet a victory. He drove the Mercedes whenever opportunity allowed, even if the distance was short enough to stroll.
    The engine roared into life. Rowland smiled, satisfied, as he savoured the familiar vibrations. He pulled slowly out of the stables and into the street, and in all of three minutes he turned into the driveway of what had been his uncle’s home.
    Though smaller than Woodlands House, the residence was similar in style and grandeur. Its gardens were formal, framed with box hedge and kept in park-like condition by a permanent gardener. The door was opened before Rowland could knock. The Mercedes had announced his arrival. It was not a quiet car, and had penetrated even Mrs.