Marchington Scandal (8 page)

The following morning, Katharine was once again in her studio, struggling unsuccessfully with a new canvas. She had just stepped back from it, with a disgusted sigh, put down her charcoal, and pushed an errant strand of hair back into the careless knot on top of her head when Tony Tillston burst into her studio once again, excitedly waving a newspaper. Katharine was in no mood to be interrupted. And she had no intention of allowing Tony to come upstairs whenever he liked; she would never be able to work at that rate. Thus, before he could speak, she said, “Tony, I cannot have this. I really cannot. If they tell you downstairs that I am not to be disturbed, you must go away and come back another time. Please promise me that you will.”

Her visitor seemed hardly to hear this. “Of course,” he replied distractedly. “But I had to come today. You can't think what has happened.”

“Something extraordinary is always happening to you, Tony. And I am happy to hear about it, but not here and now.”

“It isn't me. I have something to show you.” He held out the newspaper—it was the
Morning
Post
—and met her eyes with a very uncharacteristic anxiety in his own.

Automatically taking the paper, Katharine looked at him more closely. Indeed, Tony was very unlike himself. He had not even spared a smile for her bulky apron or cracked a single joke. “What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“You may say so. Look here.” He pointed to a column on the second page, which he had turned back.

“‘A Morning in the Master's Studio,'” Katharine read aloud. She looked up at Tony with puzzlement.

“Read it all, Katharine. And then you may say whatever you like to me.”

Mystified, she cast her eyes down the column. The article was a description of a gathering in an artist's home. As she read, a detail here and a scrap of repeated conversation there made her realize that it was a rendering of the scene in Lawrence's house yesterday. Some of the character sketches were wickedly amusing; she was particularly caught by one which had to be Lord Stonenden. The writer had captured his odious haughtiness to perfection, though he mentioned no names. She looked up, smiling. “What has so ruffled you in this, Tony? I think it is rather well done.”

He stared, then moved to point at a paragraph close to the bottom of the page. “You can't have seen this.”

Katharine read the heading, “‘A Lady Painter?'” and met Tony's eyes, startled.

“Read it,” he groaned.

Frowning, she continued aloud: “‘The artistic audience in London has in recent years become almost accustomed to the awful spectacle of lady novelists and poets. These literary females have increased to such an extent that one can hardly go out without being plagued by at least one, and more commonly three or four. But we have hitherto been spared the incursions of the “fair” sex in painting, some remnants of sense perhaps warning them that they were neither qualified nor constituted for the palette and brush. Now, however, it is my sad duty to inform you that this laudable reticence has been broken. Yesterday, the Master's inner sanctum was invaded by a pushing female who styles herself a painter.'” Katharine looked up, her amber eyes sparkling with anger. “Who wrote this nonsense?”

“Finish it,” replied Tony. “I want you to know the worst.”

Katharine now read aloud from scorn, rather than interest. “‘This sort of shameless exhibition would be distasteful at all times,'” the article continued, “‘but I regret to add that the sin was compounded by the falseness of the woman's claims. The paintings represented as her own, by herself and her male confederate, are obviously not her work. No female is capable of the application and concentration necessary to paint, and I must admit myself shocked and saddened by the vulgarity of the creature's attempted imposture. I will say no more, except to beg my female readers to confine themselves to those homely pursuits and surroundings which they so charmingly grace, and leave their better-qualified spouses to labor in the studios of the world.'”

For a moment after she finished, Katharine was speechless with rage. Then she sputtered, “Confederate…not capable…charmingly! I should like to show him charmingly.” She turned to Tony. “Who wrote this…this rot?”

Tony looked dejected. “Winstead. I am so terribly sorry, Katharine. It is all my fault for taking your paintings to Lawrence. You didn't want to, and you were right.”

“Winstead,” repeated the girl, “that…that worm.”

Tony nodded. “He is certainly that, and worse. He has done this sort of thing before. I cannot understand why Lawrence tolerates him.”

“No, indeed. But why should he attack me in this way? I did nothing to him.”

“Well, he was publicly humiliated because of you, though of course it wasn't your fault. And Winstead is infernally jealous of anyone Lawrence distinguishes. Sir Thomas is his only link with society, you see. He clings to him like a limpet.”

Katharine was calmer now, though she felt a flash of annoyance at Lord Stonenden. “Well, I have never heard of anything so infamous.” She threw the newspaper onto a chair. “His opinions are pernicious, but if he is despised, as you say, I suppose the article doesn't matter.” She shrugged. “No one will know whom he means in any case.”

Tony grimaced. “Well, uh, Katharine, I'm not sure they won't, you know.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“There were a good many people present that morning. Someone will more than likely connect you with the article.”

Katharine frowned. “Well, let them. It will be annoying, I daresay, to have it talked of. But it can do no real harm.”

“No.” Tony looked uneasy. “Only, well, people are likely to wonder about your paintings.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's not very important, I daresay,” continued the other hurriedly. “It won't stop you painting or anything like that, but people are likely to ask if you really did paint the things we took to Lawrence's, you know. I…I just wanted to warn you before someone mentioned it.”

Katharine frowned. “But I understood that this Winstead was not received. Surely no one will believe his ridiculous accusations?”

“They shouldn't, of course. But you know the gossips. They are always eager for new tidbits, and Winstead has provided some juicy ones before now. The
ton
doesn't invite him, but it talks about him.”

“I see.” Katharine walked a little up and down the room. Her painting had always been a very private thing with her, and she had cherished this solitary pleasure. When it was exposed to a few interested spectators at Sir Thomas's, she had winced, then thought no more about it, believing that the sensation would die out at once. Now it appeared that she had been wrong. Moreover, she now faced a much larger notoriety than she had bargained for. She had a momentary urge to stay shut up in her studio until this thing should pass.

Watching her face, Tony grimaced. “You can't think how sorry I am about this, Katharine. It is all my fault.” He struck his palms together. “I am always doing some heedless thing without thinking of the consequences.”

“It's all right, Tony. You couldn't know how this Winstead creature would react.”

“But I might have thought more of your feelings before stealing your paintings.”

Katharine waved this aside. It was done now. She looked down at the folded newspaper on her chair, and a spark of anger returned. The article really was intolerable, less so for her, she now saw, than for other women who were perhaps trying to earn their way by writing or by some other artistic pursuit. She would continue to do just as she pleased; fortunately, there was no obstacle to that. But to others, this offensive article might actually be harmful. A feeling akin to that aroused when Elinor begged for her help suddenly filled her. Men like Winstead should not go unscathed. Katharine's jaw hardened as a plan began to form in her mind. She looked up abruptly, meeting Tony's worried gaze. “It's all right,” she repeated. “In fact, it may be better than that. Perhaps I can give Mr. Winstead a bit of his own again, Tony.”

Her visitor's expression did not lighten. If anything, he looked more concerned.

Katharine smiled. “Wait and see.”

Soon afterward, she sent Tony away, still fidgeting over the article and what she meant to do about it. But instead of returning to her painting when he was gone, she took off her apron and went downstairs to her bedchamber. She spent the two hours before luncheon closeted there, very uncharacteristically, and when Mary came to look for her just before the meal, she commented on this unusual behavior. “Here you are,” she said when bade to come in. “I could not imagine what had become of you. I looked in the studio and the drawing room. Are you feeling well?”

“Very well,” replied Katharine from the corner of the room. She still wore her old painting gown, and her hair was twisted in the same careless knot, but the writing desk at which she sat was adorned with a tidy stack of written-over sheets, and there was an ink stain on her finger.

“Have you been writing letters?” exclaimed Mary Daltry. Though she was not usually inquisitive, the sight of these pages was unexpected enough to draw the question from her. Katharine hated writing letters of any sort.

Indeed, her cousin often had to beg her to compose the merest notes, and the idea that Katharine had written the pile of manuscript on the desk was astonishing.

Katharine laughed. “Not letters. But you are right to be surprised. I have been writing. I shall tell you all about it over luncheon, but I must change first or I expect they won't serve me.”

“Yes, of course, dear,” murmured Mary, eyeing the younger girl warily. She had heard that note in Katharine's voice before, and it boded mischief.

The girl grinned at her. “Have you seen today's
Morning
Post
?” she asked.

“No, I have been too busy to read.”

“Well, I recommend it to you. Go down and look at it while I change. I particularly suggest the article on the second page, right column.”

“Katharine, are you up to something?”

Her charge turned wide amber eyes on her and murmured, “I?”

Mary shook her head and turned to go. “I will look at this article, but I expect a full explanation at lunch.”

“You shall have it.”

When Katharine came downstairs, her hair newly brushed and falling in ringlets over her ears and her old gown changed for a crisp white muslin morning dress, her cousin was sitting on the drawing-room sofa and frowning, the
Morning
Post
lying on her knees. She looked up at once. “This is about you, isn't it?”

“I fear it is.”

“Well, it is a great piece of impertinence, and I am sorry for it. But, Katharine…” She paused and looked earnestly up into the younger girl's face. “Are you planning some retaliation? I must say I think it unwise. One should never respond to this sort of thing.”

“That is what I thought at first,” agreed Katharine. “But after a while, I changed my mind.” She explained her earlier reasoning to her cousin. “So you see,” she finished, “this could be a truly hurtful piece of mischief. I must prevent that.”

Mary was frowning. “Yes, I see what you mean. But, Katharine, what do you intend to
do
? I really don't think…”

Katharine dimpled and started to reply, and the maid came in to announce that luncheon was served.

Throughout the meal, Mary eyed her uneasily. Katharine ate heartily, her morning's exertions having given her an appetite, and occasionally chuckled at her cousin's expression. Finally, when the maid had left the fruit and departed, Katharine said, “Poor Mary, I mustn't keep you in suspense any longer. You look so apprehensive. Here.” She pulled a folded manuscript from the pocket of her gown and handed it to her cousin. “This is what I mean to do.”

Mary took the papers gingerly, as if she thought they might bite, and began to read. Katharine watched her with a smile. A variety of expressions passed across the older woman's face—startlement, concern, amusement—but she did not speak again until she had read the pages through. When she came to the end, she refolded them carefully and put them down beside her plate. Raising her eyes to Katharine's, she sternly repressed a smile and said, “My dear, you cannot. You simply cannot.”

“No?”

Mary shook her head firmly. “It is very amusing, Katharine, but…”

“Isn't it? I had such fun writing it.”

“I'm sure you did, but—”

“And I should think it will amuse the people who read Winstead's article in the
Morning
Post
.”

“Katharine!”

She burst out laughing. “Oh, Mary, if you could see your face. I understand your feelings; I truly do. But I must publish it.”

“Why?” wailed the other.

“I have told you.” Katharine rose and took up the papers. “I shall send it off at once. There will be no problem in getting it printed, I'm sure. The paper will be overjoyed at such a controversy.”

“You won't, at least, let them know who you are?” begged Mary.

“Of course not. Don't worry so.” And she strode out of the room.

The Daltrys had been engaged to accompany Elinor to the opera that evening, but Katharine cried off, and when Elinor objected, told her that it was just as well for them all to avoid the public eye. “It will deprive the gossips of the opportunity of staring at us,” she finished. “And we do go to the Laytons' tomorrow, Elinor.”

Elinor was forced to be satisfied with this, but she spent a great part of the evening at the Daltrys' bemoaning her fate and wondering what Tom was doing. So despairing was her conversation, in fact, that she quite tried Katharine's patience. Katharine had great sympathy for her cousin's plight, but she could not bear whining. She sent Elinor home early and declared that she was going to bed.