Finally, Crosby dropped his arms and stood straighter, clearing his throat. Hugh tensed, waiting with damp palms and a constricted throat to hear what the man he respected above all others thought of his latest work.
“True to form, you’ve displayed a keen sense of color, shadow and light, and movement. The piece almost seems to be in motion, as if its subjects are ready to leap off the canvas.”
The praise would have made him happy, if not for the gravity of Crosby’s voice. Hugh knew that tone well. It meant the man was offering a compliment before delivering an ego-crushing blow of criticism. He prayed it would turn out to be something he could fix, as opposed to something that would make him want to hurl the entire canvas through the window and out into the street.
“But?” he prodded.
With a sigh, Crosby turned to face him. “There is nothing fundamentally wrong with it. It displays your talent as well as your command of technical principles. It is fit to hang in any gallery in Europe.”
Hugh fought down his impatience without success. “But?”
“But...it feels detached,” Crosby finally said. “You, the viewer of this tableau, are removed from it...you are a spectator.”
Hugh looked back at the canvas and frowned. He hadn’t thought of the piece as lacking any sort of attachment on his part. In truth, it spoke to his disdain for hypocrisy, for the way the members of the beau monde could act in all manner of unseemly ways without being cast from within its ranks. But, God forbid a man have aspirations that were deemed ‘bad ton’, such as wanting to become an artist or go into trade, or do something useful with his privileged life. That, apparently, was a good enough reason to cast him out. No, he was not part of such a world anymore, and in truth didn’t want to be.
“Are you saying that it lacks emotion?” he prodded.
“That is exactly what I am saying. Looking at this, I get no sense of your connection to the scene or the people in it. This woman for example—”
He pointed toward the lady Hugh had placed at the center of the piece. Dancing in the arms of a lord with her rouged lips stretched into a smile, she wore the resplendent white dress reminiscent of a Greek goddess with a silver demi-mask cloaking the upper half of her face. Her eyes shone through the slits, glazed as if she were drunk off the revelry, hypnotized by the glamor of the masquerade while heedless to the goblin lurking in the shadows with its sights trained upon her.
“She is beautiful, the quintessential debutante,” Crosby went on. “But your point of view puts her out of my reach. I cannot sympathize with her, because I do not know her. I cannot love or hate her, because you’ve told me nothing about her beneath the facade of her beauty. And perhaps the vanity of her is purposeful, but the depiction of every face in this painting gives me nothing more than a surface-level view.”
Hugh bit his lip, seeing for himself that Crosby was right. His distance from the ton now made him nothing more than a spectator and this scene proved that.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned, running a hand over his weary face.
Crosby chuckled and squeezed his shoulder. “Try not to take it too hard. If I did not think highly of you, I would not be so honest.”
“I know, and I thank you for it.”
“I am not saying that it isn’t a worthy piece, or that it isn’t good enough to be selected for the Exhibition. Truly, it is some of your best work. However, I have noticed a lack of poignancy in your pieces, and it is the one thing you need to stand head and shoulders above the others. If you are to become a portraitist, you must learn to capture the truth of a person on the canvas, you must paint not only their face and form, but their soul as well.”
Hugh wanted to assure Crosby he could do that, especially with a live subject to work with. But that would mean nothing when it came to this painting or the Exhibition. It meant nothing if he could not even manage to inject life into this particular piece.
“All is not lost,” Crosby assured him. “You’ve months until the Exhibition, time enough to ponder what you might do to give this painting what it needs to be more than good, more than technically perfect. Find something personal in it...find the thing that speaks to you and put it on this canvas for all the world to see.”
Determination gripped Hugh as his gaze wandered across his studio, to the pots of pigment and linseed oil, the freshly washed brushes just waiting to be used. He wanted to get back to this painting right away, work at it until he got it right. He would not go another year as an unrecognized student of art, unseen and unworthy. If it killed him, he would paint the perfect piece and it would change the course of his life forever.
But Crosby’s words required a time of reflection, so he would not touch Virtue and Vice again until he figured out what it was missing. Until then, he would work on other paintings and sketches.
And draw another fifty sets of hands that looked as though a bloody child of three executed them, he added to himself.
Thus far, the people in Virtue and Vice resembled Biblical thieves, all their forearms ending in bald stumps. Those accursed hands were the last detail to add. Perhaps that was something he could work on while thinking over how to proceed.
“Thank you so much for coming and for your honesty.”
Crosby patted his round belly and smiled. “Dinner was delightful. Haven’t eaten a thing since morning, you know. When art and teaching begin to consume me, I can think of little else.”
It was the same for Hugh, who itched to paint even after he’d just told himself he must take the time to think. For now, he would find some other way to distract himself. Tomorrow night, he would enjoy the diversion of Evelyn and hope he would come to like her enough that being her courtesan would be more of a pleasure than a trial. If she were going to be his last, he’d want the experience to be enjoyable for them both.
Because, once his painting was displayed in the Exhibition, he’d have no reason to take another keeper, no reason to go on acting as a high-paid whore draped in satins and silks.
Chapter 3
“Tonight’s fancy dress masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens promises to be quite the diversion. I suspect this writer will witness enough salacious happenings to fill the pages of this paper for weeks to come!”
-The London Gossip, 11 March 1819
* * *
Evelyn held Patience’s arm as they neared the entrance to Vauxhall Gardens through the proprietor’s house. She clung to her companion, trembling and fighting not to turn and flee—running as fast as her legs could carry her back to the bank of the Thames, where she would leap onto the first boat she encountered and beg to be taken back across. Hell, she might simply dive into the putrid waters and swim, not giving up until she trudged home, wet, panting, and sobbing like a lunatic.
But, if she turned around, she would find her way impeded by Joseph, who acted as their escort for the evening. Patience hadn’t offered much protest when Evelyn had insisted that it was not safe for them to attend the masquerade alone—no matter how easily propriety might fall to the wayside once they entered the gardens. She had heard horrid stories of murder, robbery, and all manner of crime taking place during these parties in the pleasure garden, but she felt comfort with the presence of Joseph as well as the pistol he concealed beneath his domino.
Though, once she had met Hugh, Evelyn supposed the two servants would wander off to enjoy the ball, leaving her alone with the man who would shortly become her lover. Based on the loaded glances being exchanged between Joseph and Patience, she’d wager they would disappear down the darkened paths at some point during the night. The two had tried to hide their blossoming romance from her, but Evelyn wasn’t blind. The staring, Joseph’s smiles and Patience’s giggles...they all pointed at what might become a full-fledged affair by the end of the night. The two made an adorable pair, with Joseph standing several inches taller than Patience, his dark hair a contrast to her fair locks.
Joseph seemed to take particular interest in Patience’s costume, which exposed h
er slender ankles as well as a good bit of bosom. They’d managed to find the only habit-warehouse in London whose supply of fancy dress and masks had not run completely dry. However, the pickings had been slim, forcing both women to settle for the best to be found amongst the leavings. The footman’s attire had been simple enough, as the typical uniform of hooded domino and mask proved enough to make him satisfactory. He looked quite dashing in it, the darkness of his hood and mask making his blue eyes stand out bright and clear.
Patience had been outfitted as a Dresden shepherdess, her waist tightly cinched into a corset beneath a stiff, burgundy brocade bodice, and her hips given added volume by the panniers she wore under a voluminous overskirt. The pink satin underskirt fell shorter than would be proper on any other night, with the ruffles of a white petticoat showing at the hem. Evelyn had helped her use curling tongs to create fat, sausage-like curls at her temples, which peeked out from behind the farcically large bonnet sitting atop her head, tied at her ear with a saucy pink ribbon. She held a staff with a crook at its end, adorned with more of the pink ribbon and a cluster of small flowers. A demi mask concealed the upper half of her face, with Patience’s rouged lips appeared fuller and more prominent beneath it.
She looked darling, and had giggled for several minutes upon looking at her reflection in the looking glass. They hadn’t even arrived at Vauxhall before Patience was declaring that this was, by far, the most fun she’d ever had in her life.
Evelyn scowled as she pulled her shawl tighter around her body, wishing she had been able to successfully talk Patience into letting her attend as the shepherdess. The two women proved similar in size and height, and there had only been two costumes left which would fit that were not utterly ridiculous. There had been the shepherdess, and a wholly scandalous Grecian goddess getup that had made Evelyn blush just looking at it.
Patience would hear nothing of allowing Evelyn to meet Hugh dressed as a shepherdess.
“The goddess is far more appropriate for an interlude with your courtesan,” her companion had insisted. “Just think of how enamored he will be when he sees you! He’ll be fit to take you to the ground and ravish you then and there.”
That was exactly the problem, but when she’d spoken her concerns aloud, Patience had waved her off. While Evelyn worried that the indecent gown and lack of any undergarment other than a thin chemise might mislead Hugh into thinking her an experienced seductress, Patience reminded her that he would know better. There was nothing to worry about, and she looked positively ravishing according to Patience.
So, Evelyn had donned the fancy dress and allowed Patience to style her hair but had insisted upon preserving at least some of her modesty. Patience had argued that the paisley shawl draped over her shoulders completely ruined the effect, but Evelyn had refused to leave home without it.
As they passed through the proprietor’s house, she took comfort in the shield the fabric offered between the world and her breasts, which spilled quite indecently from the gown’s flimsy bodice.
“Oh, I can hardly wait!” Patience chirped as the gardens loomed into view through the open doors, the noise of music, laughter, and conversation drifting through the air.
Evelyn swallowed and held tighter to her companion’s arm, unable to respond as her heart seemed to have lodged itself into her throat. But then, her trepidation quickly dissolved into awe as they entered the gardens on the Grand Walk and found themselves ensconced in what felt like another world entirely.
The soft, whimsical light of thousands of glass lanterns set the gardens aglow, kissing the night with a touch of magic. They hung from the trees, loomed from the top of tall lampposts, and gleamed from within the various stone archways and obelisks in the distance. To their left, the massive rotunda glowed with the light of its own lamps in variegated colors, amplifying the adornment of spring flowers festooning it in a festive display.
To their right, an open-air temple housed an orchestra sitting in an upper room enclosed by elegant arches, illuminated by a large chandelier hanging overhead. Beneath them, costumed revelers danced with a wild gaiety that would never have been permissible in any ballroom, their laughter punctuating each note of music.
More of the lanterns illuminated the walk, showing the way deeper into the gardens, where even more of the lights dotted the night like a multitude of stars.
Patience squealed with excitement as they took it all in, exclaiming over every little thing—the lights, the costumes, the music. Evelyn’s mouth fell open as she spotted entertainers dotting the crowd: jugglers in colorful habits and venetian masks, a tightrope walker delicately balanced on a cord between two large trees, acrobats climbing onto each other’s shoulders and flipping together through the air. Heat and light exploded right before their faces, and Evelyn yelped, retreating until she came up against Joseph, his hold the only thing keeping her on her feet.
Pressing a hand to her heaving chest, Evelyn blinked and glanced about, searching for the source of the ball of fire that had appeared from out of nowhere before disappearing into thin air. A man styled in the mode of the Middle East, with a turban and jeweled mask, was breathing fire, making large spheres of it explode from the torch he held in one hand. He grinned and gave her a nod before moving on, clearing a path through the crowd and performing the trick again, much to the delight of his spectators.
“I hardly know where to look,” Patience exclaimed, eyes darting about behind her mask.
Evelyn murmured an agreement, her own gaze roaming to take in the spectacle as they continued down the Grand Walk. Hugh had instructed her to meet him at the Cascade, which was straight down this path. With so many bodies clogging the walkway, and a number of entertainments catching their eye at every turn, it would be slow progress.
Patience took her arm once more, laughing as she pointed out the various beautiful, ironic, and downright ridiculous costumes. Amongst the sea of dancers, a nun shrieked with laughter between sips of arrack punch while being swung about in the arms of a man dressed as a large, yellow banana. A black-cloaked witch sported a mask with a long, skinny nose, which struck the side of a wood nymph’s head when she turned to greet a friend. A woman dressed as a rosebush, with hundreds of false blossoms covering her gown and creating an elaborate hairpiece, danced in the arms of a man outfitted as a bee, his long black stinger whipping about behind him.
“Oh, look, Miss!” Patience cried, pointing toward a woman holding court near the colonnade of supper boxes. “Isn’t she lovely? What do you suppose she’s meant to be?”
Evelyn observed the woman’s nearly transparent white tulle gown, which had false grass sewn to its bottom to appear like a green lawn. Her hair hung loose down her back in a pale blonde curtain, over which she wore a veil covered in tiny clear crystals. She was surrounded by men, all whom fought to capture and hold her attention as she giggled and flirted from behind a white mask.
She smiled as she realized what the witty, yet seductive costume was meant to convey.
“I believe she is the morning dew,” Evelyn said. “Covering the grass.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Patience agreed. “So very clever.”
They passed the long row of supper boxes, the occupants within toasting with glasses of champagne, voices raised to a volume that seemed only appropriate given the occasion and location.
They paused a few times along the path to take in some sight or another—fountains, manmade ruins meant to mimic those of Ancient Rome, small pavilions in which were displayed works of art to be studied by lamplight. People milled about sipping their spirits and conversing, while a group of men young enough to still be in university staggered along the gravel path, bumping and jostling one another while serenading anyone who would listen with an off-key rendition of “The Lusty Young Smith”. One of them called out to Patience with a wide smile, telling her how lovely her costume was, and how he’d always had an affinity for shepherdesses. Patience merely offered the man a playful curtsy before pulling Evelyn al
ong. She seemed determined for Evelyn not to be late for meeting Hugh, and they were nearly to the Cascade.
Evelyn’s heart began to pound as they entered a more heavily wooded area. Still well lit, it stood more removed from the revelry happening behind them, though music still wafted through the night. She could hardly concentrate on the revelers in their fancy dress, or the beauty of the gardens surrounding her; not when they drew closer and closer to the moment of truth. Her hands became numb, the fabric of her shawl falling to dangle from her useless fingers.
A crowd of people gathered before a large curtain hinted that they’d reached their destination: the spectacle of the Cascade, which had yet to begin. Her gaze flitted about, landing on a gentleman here or there, as she tried to determine which of them might be Hugh. She had sent him a short note accepting his invitation to the masquerade, along with a description of her costume. However, he had not sent a return missive, so she had no notion of what to look for. Was her courtesan tall or short? Was he dark-haired or towheaded? He might have at least told her what his fancy dress might consist of.
Agitation had her nearly in a fit, when she felt the heavy weight of eyes upon her. Evelyn stiffened and turned her head, seeking the person watching her so intently that she could feel it.
Her grip tightened on Patience when she found him. Her chest ached from the breath she held as he met her gaze and held it without wavering. Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against a tree with the glow of a dozen lamps illuminating him. Removed from the crowd, he made quite an impressive sight in the opulent trimmings of a Hungarian hussar.
Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1 Page 6
