“Well done. What do you think, shall we continue?” she asked.
“I suppose we should.”
* * *
The tension between Veronica and Joshua melted away as they worked together. The clues tended to be found within close proximity to the painting or object described, tucked under the edge of a rug or taped to the underside of nearby furniture, and the next several hours were surprisingly enjoyable, if at times frustrating, as not all of the clues were as obvious as the ones for Lady Hamilton or the Rembrandt. Joshua was an able guide, and whenever he figured out the answer to a riddle, his eyes grew wide with excitement. Studying the paintings and sculptures in the soft glow of the lamplight made them even more intriguing, as if the figures were moving slightly in their frames, as if they were alive. They took a quick break to eat when they were hungry before eagerly carrying on.
The nineteenth clue directed them back to the art gallery, to a work by Goya called The Forge. The painting depicted three blacksmiths arranged around a sheet of red-hot steel, and stood out from the others around it—which tended toward passive-looking aristocrats or pretty landscapes—with its rawness. Muscular arms, a sledgehammer caught in mid-raise: it spoke of man’s power.
“This one is so different from the others,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“It’s not as pretty, I guess.”
“Henry Frick was a steel magnate, that’s how he got his riches,” said Joshua. “Maybe this reminded him of those early days.”
Veronica looked closer. One of the smiths—the one holding the sheet of metal—had gray hair and was stooped almost all the way over, his face precariously close to the fire. “I wonder if he identified with the young men or that older one.”
“It might have changed as he aged. Paintings tend to do that.”
“Like books.”
“That’s right.” He glanced over at her with a look of surprise.
“Models can read, you know.” She threw him a crooked grin. “Hey, you could write a paper on these clues and how they connect to the artwork here. I bet you’d get high marks.”
“You know, that’s a great idea.”
After his early disapproval of her, it was nice to hear praise. A pleasant silence hung between them as they regarded the painting. “Do you like working here?” she asked.
“I like the research part of the job. Although at times I feel like I’m out of my element, surrounded by all these paintings of rich white folks, purchased by rich white folks. My father says it’s a good place to start, and he’s right. He’s always right.”
“You mentioned your mother is an artist. What does she think?”
“She understands my irritability—I guess that’s the word I’d use, though it’s not quite right. Impatience is better. But I’ve always been destined to work in the arts, I suppose. When I was born, she insisted I be named after the first documented Black artist in America, Joshua Johnson.”
“What’s his story?”
“He lived in Baltimore around the late 1700s and early 1800s. Made his living by painting portraits of affluent whites. He was most likely self-taught.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s it exactly.” His nose wrinkled as he waved his hands in the air. “Why not? I mean, other than the fact that you’re from England. But still, that’s no excuse.”
“I don’t know if I could recognize many other artworks, to be honest. It’s not like I go to museums often. I like Van Gogh.”
From the curve to Joshua’s lips, that was not something to brag about. Veronica didn’t know this world, and had no idea how to talk about it, other than listing the things she liked （the Renoir in the hallway, of the little girls in fur） and the ones that she didn’t （Goya’s Forge）。 For the second time in two days, she was made to feel like a fool, and she resented it. “I take it from your silence you don’t like Van Gogh. Too mainstream for you?”
“No. I love him, I consider him one of the top Postimpressionists. It’s just the way you say it, makes me laugh. Van Goff.” He stressed the last word. “In America, we say Van Go.”
She grinned with relief that he wasn’t making fun of her. At least he didn’t think she was an idiot. “Right, sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“That’s just what we do.”
“Who?”
“The British. We apologize. But usually we don’t mean it, it’s more of a way to keep the conversation going.”