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Authors: Unknown
‘‘He loves my landscapes, but he’s not as enthusiastic about the portrait.’’
‘‘Well, that doesn’t signify, now, does it? My daughter painted wonderful landscapes. You should be happy enough to get a landscape into the Summer Exhibition.’’
Corinna wasn’t certain that would make her quite happy, but she didn’t say so. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful. She was thankful to Lady A for giving her the opportunity to meet all the committee members, even if things weren’t working out the best.
Besides, things weren’t looking all that dire, either. She needed only two more artists to love her work, and she had four more chances to find them.
‘‘I spoke with William Beechey,’’ Lady A added. ‘‘I’m sorry to tell you, my dear, that it doesn’t seem he approves of females painting portraits.’’
Corinna couldn’t say she was surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. A portrait painter himself, Mr. Beechey had painted the royal family and nearly all the most famous and fashionable people. A steady stream of very sober portraits. Obviously he took life seriously and wouldn’t be wanting competition from anyone, let alone from female artists. ‘‘Well, then, I don’t need to meet him. There are still three committee members I’ve yet to speak with.’’
Lady Balmforth threaded her way to them. ‘‘I talked to William Owen,’’ she reported. He was principal portrait painter to the Prince Regent.
‘‘And?’’ her sister asked.
Lady B just shook her head. Mournfully.
Another artist to cross off Corinna’s list. Now there were just two left . . . and her stomach felt as though rocks were collecting inside it.
‘‘How about Henry Fuseli?’’ she asked. ‘‘Or John James Chalon? Have either of you talked to either of them?’’
‘‘Our sister has one of Mr. Fuseli’s pictures in her bedroom,’’ Lady B said. ‘‘Let’s ask her if she’ll introduce you.’’
Lady A nodded. ‘‘That would be good. I’ll find Mr. Chalon in the meanwhile.’’
As Lady B took her to find Lady C, Corinna wondered what sort of picture the woman had in her bedroom. That she had one at all was rather intriguing. Mr. Fuseli painted weird, often sensual scenes, fantasies that were daringly inventive. His most acclaimed painting,
The Nightmare
, was an unforgettable image of a woman in the throes of a violently erotic dream.
The Nightmare
, was an unforgettable image of a woman in the throes of a violently erotic dream.
She was a bit nervous to meet Mr. Fuseli. He seemed attracted to the supernatural, and he was bound to hold strong opinions. She almost hoped Lady Cavanaugh would be too hard to find.
But she wasn’t, of course. The house simply wasn’t large enough to get lost in it. Lady B found her sister very easily, and Lady C was positively pleased to provide the introduction.
Mr. Fuseli had masses of curly white hair and a face that looked oddly like a lion’s. He’d already examined Corinna’s artwork on the walls.
‘‘Your paintings are very well-done,’’ he told her in a booming voice. ‘‘Very accurate, Lady Corinna.’’
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Fuseli. I admire your paintings, too. I’m inspired by your inventiveness. I find your work fascinating. Very visionary.’’
‘‘I do believe that a certain amount of exaggeration improves a picture.’’
Was that a criticism? He’d described her work as
well-done
and
very accurate
. She always did her best to portraythe truth or, as William Mulready had put it, to
capture the essence
. There was nothing exaggerated in her pictures at all.
well-done
and
very accurate
. She always did her best to portraythe truth or, as William Mulready had put it, to
capture the essence
. There was nothing exaggerated in her pictures at all.
‘‘Our ideas are the offspring of our senses,’’ he continued.
What was
that
supposed to mean?
that
supposed to mean?
‘‘It was lovely speaking with you, Lady Corinna,’’ he concluded. ‘‘I wish you the best of luck.’’
That was it? He was done? She hadn’t the barest idea what he’d been talking about, or whether he’d liked her pictures.
Her sisters appeared as if by magic—or perhaps as if they’d sprung from one of his strange paintings. ‘‘What did he say?’’ Juliana asked.
‘‘I don’t know, exactly. He didn’t quite make sense. But he did wish me the best of luck.’’
‘‘Then he goes in the ‘for’ column,’’ Juliana said firmly, being the type to always look on the bright side.
Corinna wished she were half so certain. But maybe Mr. Fuseli did like her paintings. And there was still John James Chalon.
The crowd seemed to be thinning out. Spotting Lady A, who was looking rather flustered, Corinna made her way over to see her.
Her sisters followed in her wake.
‘‘Did you talk to Mr. Chalon? Did he say he was willing to meet me?’’
‘‘I couldn’t find him,’’ Lady A said. ‘‘It seems he’s left.’’
‘‘Oh, no. He was the last committee member.’’ Her final opportunity to convince herself she still had a chance. ‘‘Now I won’t know if he liked my portrait.’’
‘‘It’s all right, dear.’’ The sweet lady smiled. ‘‘Everyone loved your landscapes. This all went brilliantly, don’t you think?’’
Corinna nodded. It was all she could manage. Her only other options were to scream or to cry.
‘‘Have another rout cake,’’ Alexandra said.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The earl’s health was failing fast.
Lord Lincolnshire hadn’t left his bedroom in two days . . . two days during which he wanted his nephew nearby. Stuck in the house for hour upon hour, Sean was at his wit’s end. He had so much to accomplish, so much that wasn’t getting done.
And he missed Corinna.
For a solid week she’d spent long days painting in the salon. Morning to evening, she’d been there. Though he hadn’t been there much himself, he’d liked seeing her portrait every night, checking her progress. He’d liked thinking that if he wanted to see her, he knew exactly where to find her.
She’d been a fixture. A comfort. A temptation.
But since she’d finished the portrait, all her time had been spent with her aunt or Lady Avonleigh. Now that he was here, she was gone. He didn’t know when he might see her next, and the house felt empty.
Fearing the situation would drag on, yesterday Sean had asked Higginbotham to have his art supplies fetched from the studio on Piccadilly Street. Thinking it was what Hamilton would do himself, he’d set everything up in the drawing room that had Hamilton’s pictures all over the walls. Then he’d summoned his secretary, Mr. Sykes.
Sykes had been in Sean’s employ for almost eight years. He was a short, dark man with round gold spectacles, a quick, precise mind, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Sean’s many and varied enterprises. During the hours the earl slept—which, fortunately, were many— the two of them worked quietly behind closed doors in the drawing room. The staff had been told that Sykes was Sean’s ‘‘assistant,’’ there to mix paint for him and such. In reality, they were allocating positions for all of Lincolnshire’s many servants.
Sean was thankful that was now done. He’d begun notifying each member of the staff of his final decisions. Were it not for the sadness of Lincolnshire’s impending demise, he suspected some of them might be singing as they worked. They were obviously looking forward to what lay ahead. And very relieved overall.
But Sean was not.
In deference to Lincolnshire’s wishes, he was neglecting his own concerns. In defiance of Hamilton’s plans, he’d been introduced as the man in public. And other than the last few days—and despite knowing what was best—he was kissing Corinna too often and growing much more attached to her than was prudent.
Nothing was working out the way it was supposed to. And lately he’d found himself wondering if maybe he could stay with her. Marry her. He kept thinking about how her brother reportedly thought him a fine man, and attaching way too much significance to that.
This had to stop.
When she showed up unexpectedly Thursday morning, he was entirely too happy to see her.
‘‘How is he?’’ she asked quietly, poking her head into the earl’s room.
‘‘The same.’’ Sean waved her to the chair next to him beside the towering bed, where the earl slumbered almost upright against a dozen pillows. ‘‘Sleeping as comfortably as I expect we can hope.’’ It seemed the only way the man could sleep these days, the only way he could breathe.
‘‘You look upset.’’
‘‘It’s not pleasant,’’ he said with a shrug, ‘‘but it cannot last much longer.’’ He looked closer at her, noticing her tense jaw, a certain wildness in her eyes. Or maybe panic. ‘‘You look upset, too.’’
She lowered herself to the chair and sighed. ‘‘Lady Avonleigh’s reception did not go well.’’
‘‘Didn’t it?’’
‘‘She kept asking why you weren’t there,’’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘‘Or rather, why Mr. Hamilton wasn’t there.’’ She winced and flicked a wary glance at Lincolnshire, apparently worried he might have overheard. ‘‘Sorry.’’
‘‘He’s asleep. Though we should be careful.’’
She nodded. ‘‘The committee members were mystified, since they believe Mr. Hamilton to be in Wales. Lady A and her sisters and my cousins and others all kept saying he’d been seen at various social events, and the artists kept saying that was impossible. . . . It was a mess, Sean.’’
‘‘ ’Tis sorry I am about that.’’ Not that there was anything he could have done. ‘‘How about the rest? Did the committee members like your new painting?’’
She sighed again. ‘‘For the most part, they didn’t seem enthralled with my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire.’’
‘‘Why not?’’ He was outraged. These artists were obviously idiots. Temperamental idiots, one and all— with the exception of Corinna, of course. ‘‘It’s brilliant.’’
‘‘It isn’t.’’ When he might have protested further, she laid a hand on his arm. ‘‘They liked Lord Lincolnshire’s expression well enough. One said I captured the essence of the man.’’ A hint of a smile transformed her face; she’d obviously liked hearing that. ‘‘And they admired the textures overall. They thought his suit looked like real velvet, his lace truly handmade, the trees wet and glistening.’’
‘‘But . . . ?’’ All of that sounded grand. There had to be a
but
.
but
.
‘‘But they claimed Lord Lincolnshire’s form doesn’t seem real beneath his clothes. He looks stiff and unnatural.’’
‘‘Did they?’’ Sean hadn’t looked for such a thing. Hadn’t known to look for such a thing. He’d been impressed with the way she’d rendered Lincolnshire’s face, and aye, his clothes and the background. Even color-blind, he could see that. But he’d paid no attention whatsoever to the man’s body.
Well, another man wouldn’t, would he? Unless he were an artist.
Hurting for her, he tried to point out the positive. ‘‘It doesn’t sound all that bad. They had lots of good things to say.’’
‘‘One of them really loved my work—’’
‘‘One?’’
‘‘Yes, one. Or rather, only one had no reservations about it. Martin Archer Shee, that was.’’
‘‘How about the rest?’’
‘‘Benjamin West liked my basic technique but didn’t have anything else good to say. William Mulready and James Northcote both think I paint excellent landscapes, but they weren’t so enthusiastic about my portrait.’’
He didn’t know any of those names, but this was not the time to tell her. ‘‘That’s four out of how many?’’
‘‘Eight, not counting Mr. Hamilton. Two were hopeless. William Owen and William Beechey. They simply don’t approve of women painting portraits. I have no idea what the last two thought. I found Henry Fuseli’s comments completely indecipherable, and John James Chalon left before I could hear his opinion.’’
‘‘They might approve, then, the both of them.’’
‘‘They might. But they might not. Or they might, like some of the others, like my landscapes but not my portrait.’’
‘‘You can submit landscapes, then, can you not? Or landscapes along with your portrait? How many paintings are you allowed to turn in?’’
‘‘Three. Non-Academicians are allowed to submit three. . . .’’ She trailed off with yet another sigh.
She looked tortured, which made his heart seem to squeeze in his chest. He wanted to gather her into his arms, but he couldn’t do that in Lincolnshire’s bedroom. He fisted his hands to keep from reaching for her. ‘‘What is it,
cuisle mo chroí
?’’
cuisle mo chroí
?’’
For a moment, she looked puzzled instead of distressed. ‘‘Cooshla-macree? Whatever does that mean?’’
‘‘Nothing,’’ he said quickly. ‘‘It just slipped out. The language of my childhood . . . sometimes it just slides off my tongue.’’
He shouldn’t be calling her that. Not as a slip of the tongue or anything else.
The tortured look was in her eyes again. ‘‘What is it?’’ he repeated, without the Gaelic this time. ‘‘What has you so troubled?’’
‘‘I don’t know how to explain it,’’ she said slowly, her gaze focused on the canopy above the earl’s bed. ‘‘I don’t quite understand it myself. As the reception wore on, it became more and more obvious that one of my landscapes would surely be accepted. Which has been my goal all these years, hasn’t it? Yet it seemed the more they said they liked my landscapes, the more I wanted to submit a portrait. Only a portrait.’’ She lowered her gaze, finally meeting his eyes. ‘‘I want to be known as a portrait painter, Sean. I think I’m going to try to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.’’
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