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Mr. West was famous for his paintings of recent battles that depicted their heroes wearing modern dress rather than traditional, classical garb. Since Corinna thought it rather silly to paint contemporary men sporting flowing Roman robes, she heartily approved—and she hoped his willingness to take the less traveled road meant he was more open-minded than most.
‘‘It’s very nice, Lady . . . Corinna, is it?’’ he finally said in his disarming American accent. ‘‘Your basic techniques demonstrate fine skills. But I’m not certain your model’s form looks quite realistic.’’
‘‘His form?’’
‘‘His body, under his clothing. Not quite natural, I’m afraid.’’
Her heart turned to lead in her chest. She’d done her best, considering the Academy refused women access to anatomy lessons. Maybe she should point that out to him. As the Academy’s president, maybe he would see how unfair that was, how detrimental to a lady’s chances, and decide to change the Academy’s rules.
No, that would never happen. And he might consider such a request to be very bad form. She’d never get elected to the Academy if its president thought she was vulgar.
On the other hand, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Lord Lincolnshire’s form looked perfectly fine. West was known for painting all of his subjects with large almond-shaped eyes, so maybe he wasn’t one to judge. Although his portrait clients thought those eyes most dashing—and doubtless commissioned him for that reason—it wasn’t accurate, after all. Some of them had narrow, squinty eyes, or small round ones.
‘‘Thank you very much for your opinion,’’ she told him as sweetly as she could. ‘‘I surely appreciate it, and I shall take your thoughts under consideration.’’
Suppressing a sigh, she returned to Rachael after he took leave. ‘‘Well,
that
didn’t go well.’’
Rachael’s sisters came to join them. ‘‘Who was he?’’ Claire asked.
‘‘Benjamin West, the president of the Royal Academy. He said Lord Lincolnshire’s body doesn’t look natural beneath his clothing.’’
Elizabeth glanced over toward the painting and shrugged. ‘‘Looks fine to me. Rather impressive, in fact.’’
‘‘He did say my techniques demonstrate fine skills. And maybe he’s wrong about the other, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? Either way he won’t vote for my painting unless I change it.’’
‘‘His is just one opinion.’’ Rachael touched her arm. ‘‘There are other committee members, are there not? How many in total?’’
‘‘Nine. The president plus eight elected Academicians.’’
‘‘So you have eight more men to influence. Seven if you count Mr. Hamilton as being on your side. And he should be, considering you’ve become friends with him.’’
‘‘I’m not sure
friends
is an accurate description of our relationship.’’ But although Rachael didn’t know the truth, in a sense she was right. The real Mr. Hamilton
should
be on Corinna’s side, considering how hard she’d been working to keep his uncle happy. And he believed each work should stand on its own and not be judged by the gender of its creator. ‘‘However, I think he probably will vote for me,’’ she decided.
‘‘So you’ve already balanced Mr. West’s negative opinion with a positive.’’ Rachael smiled; then her brows drew together in a frown. ‘‘Why did you claim you didn’t see Mr. Hamilton at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday? That he was Sean Hamilton, not John? I’ve heard you
call
him Sean, and Lord Lincolnshire calls him that as well, but it’s just a nickname, after all.’’
‘‘Mr. West seems to think Mr. Hamilton is in Wales for some reason. I didn’t want to argue with the president of the Royal Academy. Better to go along with what he said, I was thinking.’’
Rachael exchanged puzzled glances with her sisters. ‘‘I don’t know about that.’’
Corinna gave what she hoped was a casual shrug, then smiled at Lady A, who was approaching with another man in tow.
‘‘I cannot understand why everyone thinks Mr. Hamilton is in Wales,’’ the older woman muttered darkly. And then more graciously as she drew near, ‘‘Mr. Mulready, I’d be pleased for you to meet Lady Corinna Chase. Corinna, William Mulready.’’
Mr. Mulready looked
much
younger than Mr. West, probably not a decade older than Corinna herself. ‘‘A pleasure to meet you, my dear,’’ he said in an accent that reminded her of Sean.
That thought made her smile. ‘‘Oh, Mr. Mulready, your painting in last year’s Summer Exhibition was my absolute favorite!’’
She wasn’t making that up; the enthusiasm in her voice was genuine. And judging from the man’s expression, he rather liked hearing it. ‘‘Which one, my dear?’’ he asked.
Academicians were allowed to display six paintings each—works that were hung without question, without being judged by the committee. ‘‘
The Fight Interrupted
. I adore the seventeenth-century Dutch masters, and it reminded me of their work. An updated version, if you will.’’
‘‘I too admire the Dutch masters,’’ he said, sounding like he also admired her for admiring them. ‘‘Their work inspired
The Fight Interrupted
.’’
Encouraged by how much better this was going than her last conversation, Corinna started inching Mr. Mulready toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire. ‘‘I also much admire your wife’s landscapes, Mr. Mulready.’’
‘‘Elizabeth does lovely work.’’
‘‘Since you married a female artist, may I assume you don’t disapprove of us?’’
He laughed, apparently enjoying the saucy question. ‘‘A valid assumption. I’ve had a look at your paintings, my dear. Your own landscapes are quite remarkable.’’
Oh, this was going
astoundingly
better. ‘‘Here is my latest portrait. What do you think?’’
‘‘Lord Lincolnshire, is it not?’’ Cocking his head, he perused the picture. ‘‘I think, Lady Corinna, that you’ve truly captured the essence of the man.’’
Corinna couldn’t help but grin. She couldn’t think of a more wonderful compliment than hearing she’d
captured the essence
. That was exactly what she tried to accomplish, not only with this portrait but with all of her paintings.
And the score was now two to one. Mulready and Hamilton on her side, and only Benjamin West on the other. Clearly her chances were good.
She
loved
William Mulready.
Until she heard the next words out of his mouth. ‘‘But he seems a wee bit . . . stiff.’’
‘‘Stiff?’’
‘‘Yes, stiff. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Lord Lincolnshire—quite the art collector, isn’t he?—and he struck me as a relaxed sort of fellow. It’s something about this fellow’s frame beneath his clothing that looks stiff, I think. . . .’’ Smiling, he patted her on the shoulder. ‘‘Not to fret, Lady Corinna. Your landscapes are brilliant. I’m sure the committee will be more than pleased to choose one of them.’’
She didn’t want them to choose a landscape. She was no longer sure she even wanted to submit any. She was going to have to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.
‘‘How is it going?’’ Alexandra came and asked when Mr. Mulready had walked away.
‘‘He likes my landscapes.’’
‘‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’’
‘‘He’s not nearly as impressed with my portrait. He thinks Lord Lincolnshire looks unnatural beneath his clothes. And Benjamin West said the same thing.’’
‘‘Oh, my. I think you need a rout cake.’’
Alexandra fetched one from the platter and handed it over. Corinna bit into it morosely, thinking she could use their luck.
No matter that she disbelieved such nonsense.
‘‘How many works will be chosen?’’ Alexandra asked.
‘‘There were almost a thousand in last summer’s Exhibition.’’
‘‘Well, then, I should think your chances will be good.’’
‘‘But there were more than
eight
thousand submitted. And there are eighty Academicians who get to show six pieces each, which leaves only five hundred twenty for the rest of us.’’
‘‘
Only
five hundred twenty,’’ Juliana said with a laugh as she joined them. ‘‘I should think there’d be room for one of yours in all of that. And I cannot believe you did that calculation that fast.’’
Juliana never had been very quick with numbers, but that was beside the point. ‘‘I’ve done that calculation a hundred times,’’ Corinna admitted. ‘‘At the very least.’’
‘‘How are the pieces chosen?’’ Juliana asked.
Corinna was about to confess ignorance when a man stepped up and gave a little bow. ‘‘I’d be pleased to explain to such fine ladies.’’ Although he wasn’t as handsome as Sean, he, too, had a similar lilting accent. She’d had no idea so many Academicians were Irish. ‘‘Martin Archer Shee, at your service,’’ he added.
Martin Archer Shee had studied with the late, great Sir Joshua Reynolds. Corinna was awed that such a man would bother to introduce himself, let alone take time to explain a mysterious procedure. ‘‘I’d adore hearing all about it.’’
‘‘ ’Tis a simple process, if a wee bit tedious. The works are marched past the Committee by a chain of human art handlers. The first round cuts the mass of submissionsto about two thousand, and the next round is much more rigorous. From the Academy’s earliest days, two metal wands have been used to stamp labels attached to each painting. One wand is surmounted by a letter D, the other by a more ominous X. A work that receives the vote of three or more Academicians is awarded a D for ‘Doubtful’ and passes to the next round of selection. Works that get an X are eliminated. The rounds are repeated until the paintings that remain are reduced to a reasonable number. Beef tea is served to keep the Academicians’ spirits up during the ordeal.’’ His eyes twinkled. ‘‘Which isn’t really very much of one, in reality. Hanging the exhibition is a much more arduous affair.’’
‘‘That takes days,’’ Corinna told her sisters. ‘‘More than a week.’’
‘‘With much politics involved regarding whose picture goes where. All done in a veil of secrecy, to protect the Hanging Committee from being hanged ourselves.’’
Mr. Shee smiled at his own joke; a quite engaging grin, Corinna thought. ‘‘Thank you kindly for the explanation.’’
‘‘I’m much impressed by your work, Lady Corinna. Your textures are quite admirable. I wish you the best of luck in the selection process,’’ he added before taking his leave.
Corinna turned to her sisters. ‘‘He likes my work,’’ she breathed. Maybe her chances weren’t so dire, after all. ‘‘Martin Archer Shee likes my work. And he studied with none other than Reynolds.’’
‘‘Ah, but
I
wrote
Life of Reynolds
,’’ another man said, rivalry evident in his tone.
He stepped up to take Shee’s place. Though she’d never seen him before in her life, Corinna knew who he was immediately. ‘‘James Northcote, I’m honored to meet you. I read your book four years ago, when it first came out, and I found your recollections of your old master to be quite enlightening.’’
‘‘He was an enlightening man,’’ Northcote said. ‘‘And a discerning one. He’d have been impressed, as I am, with your portrait of Lord Lincolnshire. The man’s suit looks like real velvet, his lace truly handmade, the trees in the background wet and glistening. An admirable endeavor, Lady Corinna. Not perfect, of course. The underlying anatomy seems a mite off, and—’’
‘‘I’m so pleased you think well of it,’’ Corinna interrupted before she was forced to hear that complaint again. ‘‘I realize it’s not usual for a female to paint portraits.’’
‘‘Half the things that people do not succeed in are through fear of making an attempt,’’ he told her solemnly. ‘‘You’ve an excellent start. I wish you well in proceeding with your portrait career.’’
‘‘I think you have a good chance,’’ Juliana said as he walked away. ‘‘He sounded very impressed with your realism.’’
Corinna smiled at her sister’s use of one of the newest terms in art. But then she sighed. ‘‘He didn’t think the underlying anatomy looked very real.’’
‘‘He said you have an excellent start.’’
‘‘Exactly. One doesn’t submit a painting that looks like a
start
, does one? Clearly he was implying I need more practice.’’
She mentally counted her votes. Against: Benjamin West and James Northcote. For: John Hamilton and Martin Archer Shee. William Mulready would vote for a landscape but not for a portrait.
She wanted to submit a portrait.
Well, maybe Mr. Mulready or Mr. Northcote would vote for her portrait if she fixed it. And there were still four other committee members. With either Mulready or Northcote on her side, she needed only two of them to swing the vote.
‘‘How are things going?’’ Lady A asked, joining their little circle.
‘‘All right,’’ Corinna said. ‘‘Mr. West was lukewarm, but Mr. Shee said he was impressed by my work, and so did James Northcote.’’ She wouldn’t mention that Mr. Northcote had also said she needed improvement in portraying anatomy.
‘‘Mr. Hamilton will certainly vote for you, although I’m still miffed with him for not attending. He could have influenced the others positively. What did William Mulready have to say, my dear?’’

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