“Only my sister would read three hundred pages of philosophy to understand a twenty-page poem,” Ophelia teased.
“I’m most interested in the Mariner’s journey.” Lady Colin Somerville, a woman with curling black hair tied back in an indigo oriental scarf, spoke softly. “He catalogues the horrors of travel; in the end, though, he’s a lonely survivor, irreparably damaged by his experiences.”
“Lady Colin came home from living on the Continent to discover her aunt had been murdered,” Constance whispered. Lena decided Lady Colin would be perfect as the heroine in George Gordon, Lord Byron’s The Bride of Abydos.
Judith patted Lady Colin’s shoulder comfortingly. “The poem does suggest that when one lives through horrific experiences, one can only tell the story at particular moments.”
Lena wanted to add, But telling one’s story never resolves anything. Even when the Mariner tells his, he remains alone.
“This is our chance. Come with me.” Constance stepped forward to the table. The women looked toward them, all curious. Lena forced herself to appear at ease. “Ladies, may I introduce my friend Miss Lena Frost. You know her as the artist who painted the frieze on the front wall. Lena, these are the ladies of the Muses’ Salon.”
Lady Wilmot gestured Lena to one of the empty chairs and introduced her friends, who welcomed Lena in one voice.
“I must say, Miss Frost, your frieze is quite delightful, particularly the decorative border that runs down both sides of the window frame.” Mrs. Mason gave a welcoming smile.
“My sister isn’t being particularly honest,” Kate interjected. “Herself a redhead, she likes most that Rapunzel has red hair.”
“It’s more than that.” Ophelia Mason ran her finger down an escaped wisp of auburn hair. “Have you noticed how Rapunzel’s curls at the top transform along the side of the window into the green tendrils that grow up from Jack’s beanstalk at the bottom? It’s a delightful expression of great skill.”
“I had excellent teachers.” Lena deflected the praise, having learned that for a woman to accept a compliment of her skill directly, even among other women, was often interpreted as an unbecoming pride. Lady Wilmot seemed an unlikely patron for the sort of painting Lena had done for Constance’s shop, unless she—like every other lady of the ton—wished for Lena to paint her nursery. In the past year, she had given up hope of gaining any but the most mundane commissions from the ton, and she had pinned all her hopes of fame and stability on the panorama.
“Though our Mariner’s lessons can only be learned through trial, excellent teachers can lead a student far, especially when a student already shows talent.” Lady Judith tapped Coleridge’s book.
“My only talent was persistence. If I drew a line wrong—and I drew a great many lines wrong—I practiced until I drew it right,” Lena offered with a smile. “But I was lucky in my teachers. They let me draw the line wrong as many times as I needed to, but guided me in how to do it better.”
“Then you had exceptional teachers.” Lady Wilmot leaned forward, giving Lena an appraising gaze.
“Any teacher is exceptional who can help a child see herself anew,” Lena corrected mildly.
“Then perhaps you might be willing to meet my daughter. She has an interest in drawing, and though I dabble in the art, I am not a good teacher for her.”
At the word daughter, Lena groaned inwardly. She knew all too well what “an interest in drawing” meant, and it wasn’t talent or skill. No, it meant—as Lady Wilmot described herself—a dabbler. Worse than a nursery painting! Every aristocrat wanted daughters to know the fundamentals of drawing, but few had any interest in a girl developing real skill. Typically, Lena refused such offers by setting her rates so impossibly high that she would be quickly replaced with another teacher, but she could hardly afford such scruples now. “Though I must confess that I lack the skill of my own teachers, it would be my pleasure to meet your daughter.”
“Then we must talk before I go.” Lady Wilmot smiled broadly.
Constance, knowing how Lena disliked private lessons, intervened. “I should have also mentioned that Miss Frost is the mastermind behind the panoramic painting at the Rotunda in Leicester Square.”
The women burst forth in animated conversation.
“It was a brilliant idea to advertise the subject of the panorama in weekly clues.” Ariel tucked her book in her reticule.
“My partner, Mr. Calder, thought it would generate interest in the exhibition,” Lena explained, willing to give Horatio credit for his idea.
“Interest!” Kate laughed. “Your topic has its own entry in White’s betting book.”
“Does it?” Lena found the thought simultaneously thrilling and horrifying, a sign of the possible success of the panorama and a reminder of how much scandal failing to open would create.
“Until that last clue, everyone thought that it was the Battle of Waterloo,” Lady Colin added.
“And what do they imagine now?”
“No one can agree any longer,” Ariel explained. “Some cling to antiquity and argue for the Battle of Troy or Thermopylae. Others are convinced it’s the Battle of Hastings. A smaller group argue for the Battle of Bosworth Field, as described in Shakespeare. A few, and I am in this group, still believe your subject is the Battle of Waterloo, but others object, claiming no art can depict it.”
“Having been at Waterloo, I would agree.” Lady Colin shook her head. “A painting could replicate the scene of the battle, but none could depict it in all its horror. From the camp hospital, I didn’t see the battle, but even miles away we could feel the boom of the cannon—and none of us could forget its aftermath.” Her voice trailed off.
After a moment, Ophelia Mason filled the silence. “As for me, I haven’t any interest whatever in the subject. It’s the presentation, the theater of it, that interests me.”
During the discussion, Kate’s attention never left Lena’s face. “You are quite an actress, Miss Frost. You never gave any reaction to our suggestions. Either you are exceptionally good at concealing your emotions, or we haven’t yet discovered the subject for your exhibition.”
“I would say that each of your suppositions shares characteristics with the actual painting.” Lena chose her words carefully.
“A diplomatic answer, to be sure.” Ophelia rose as did her sisters. “It’s delightful to debate the merits of Coleridge’s poem and to predict the panorama’s subject, but we must be going. We must collect Mr. Mason at Whitehall.” She kissed the other women good-bye, then took Lena’s hand. “We will see you, I hope, at our family dinner on Saturday. Constance has promised to come, and you must come as well. We are in Kensington at Birch House.”
Lena hesitated, uncertain of what the appropriate response might be.
Kate began to laugh. “Our Miss Frost can maintain the most stoic face on the subject of her exhibition, but our Ophelia has stymied her. It’s the idea of inviting strangers to a family dinner, isn’t it, Miss Frost?”
“I must admit it is,” Lena acknowledged carefully.
“Ah, then you don’t yet know our Ophelia,” Judith explained gently. “She defines family quite idiosyncratically, but her instincts are infallible.”
At the front of the shop, the bell rang, and soon a handsome young man with hair the color of wheat in sunlight joined them. Lady Colin’s face, still clouded by thoughts of Waterloo, brightened immediately. “Miss Frost, may I present my husband, Lord Colin Somerville?”
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Frost.” Colin gave Lena a half bow. “I’ve come to collect my lovely bride and my terrifying sister.”
Judith batted at his shoulder. “My siblings pretend that I’m intimidating, but no one believes them.”
“I do,” Ariel whispered loudly to Lena’s left, and Judith shook her head, laughing. Ophelia and her sisters made their way to the door, followed by Lady Judith.
Lena regretted that the party was already breaking up. She had felt safer in the group of women.
Lord Colin Somerville, his wife on his arm, turned to Lady Wilmot. “Will you come with us, Sophie? We’ve promised to escort Great-aunt Agatha and one of her friends to a viewing of some Old Master paintings slated to be sold next week. As a result, we can return you to your house or to the duke’s, as you prefer.”
“No, your brother should arrive at any minute. We are going from here to Mr. Aldine’s. Besides I have business yet to discuss with Miss Frost.” Lady Wilmot embraced the couple good-bye, then returned to her seat at the table.
* * *
When the shop door finally shut behind the last member of the Muses’ Salon, the bookstore grew quiet.
“I love the bustle and noise of customers.” Constance stacked the books left on the table into neat piles by genre. “But when they are gone, I always find the silence restorative.”
“I often feel that way when my children walk in the park with their tutor.” Lady Wilmot smiled. “I love them madly. I just seem to love them more after a half hour’s respite.”
“I feel that way when my craftsmen return home in the evenings,” Lena contributed. The three laughed at the shared sentiment.
“But as to my business with you, Miss Frost. Your frieze for Constance is quite lovely. I especially like the panel where the Red Cross Knight from Spenser’s Faerie Queene rides into battle with Don Quixote.”
Lena groaned inwardly. Private lessons and a nursery commission. What ancient gods had she offended? Perhaps, if she were lucky, this time she might be asked to paint something whimsical for a summer house.
“I should have realized earlier who you were.”
Lady Wilmot’s words twisted in Lena’s stomach. She studied Lady Wilmot’s face intently, wondering if they had met before and where. Suddenly, the thought that Lady Wilmot only wanted her to paint a nursery wasn’t so unappealing.
“I have had very few commissions in England,” Lena admitted carefully.
“But the scenes of the Italian countryside you painted for Lady Eremond are stunning. When my husband was alive, we lived outside Naples for many years, and your view of Vesuvius from the Fort of Granatello made me long for our palazzo there.” Lady Wilmot looked wistful. “Looking at your painting, I could almost smell the spice of a Neapolitan summer.”
Relieved, Lena felt the compliment deep in her chest. “Thank you, my lady. The view of the bay from the fort was one of my favorites.”
“Then we have that in common.” Lady Wilmot’s wishful expression turned animated. “If it were me, I would have been quite disappointed Lady Eremond chose to hang my paintings in her country house where few can see them.”
“Though any artist longs for people to see her work, Lady Eremond prefers the country, and I saw it as a compliment that she would wish to have the series near her. Besides, she was an easy patron.”
“What does that mean?” Lady Wilmot quizzed good-naturedly.
“She is knowledgeable about art. She knows what pleases her, and she seeks out artists whose style and media suit her taste. At the same time, she also trusts her artists to transform her wishes into something unexpected and pleasing.”
“That sounds more like a fruitful collaboration.”
“Fruitful collaborations are always preferable to the alternative.”
Sophia laughed. “Then perhaps we could see if a fruitful collaboration is in our future. I have a ceiling to be painted. I imagine something in the style and manner of Lady Eremond’s series, but with the cleverness of your frieze here.”
“A ceiling?” Lena hesitated, but kept her face neutral. “Perspective can be tricky in a ceiling just as it is in a panorama. If the space is large, it could take a month to erect the scaffolding, and the Rotunda will require my constant attention for some weeks yet.”
“Of course. To begin, could you complete one smallish piece—a portrait—as a surprise present for my fiancé’s birthday? I would need it in two months’ time. Finding a gift for a duke is difficult enough, but finding one for my fiancé is almost impossible. Lady Judith has resorted to giving him oddly shaped rocks for his curiosity case.”
The bell rang, and the mirrors showed a dark-haired man striding purposefully to the seating area.
“Ah, that should be him.” Lady Wilmot picked up paper and pencil, as the duke strode into the open space, his bearing decidedly aristocratic. Lena imagined him as a sixteenth-century Flemish aristocrat with stern features set off by a ruffled collar.
The duke surveyed the table. A plate of leftover tea cakes was surrounded by piles of books and empty teacups. “I see your muses have decimated Miss Equiano’s table.” He kissed Lady Wilmot’s cheek. “I hope you have recompensed our Constance for her patience.”
“Enjoying the lively debates of her ladyship’s salon requires no patience at all,” Constance objected genially. “I learn something new each time they meet.”
“Then I stand corrected.” The duke appropriated two of the tea cakes. He examined one intently, and Lena suddenly imagined him fifteen years younger, tossing biscuits in the air and catching them in his mouth. It was as if her baroque gentleman with the stiff collar caught her eye and winked.
“Darling, this is Miss Lena Frost.” Lady Wilmot emphasized Lena’s name, as if the duke would recognize it. “Miss Frost, meet my fiancé, Aidan Somerville, the Duke of Forster.”
“Ah, so you have found her.” The duke turned his attention fully on Lena, examining her as a natural scientist might an insect or a moss.
Lena straightened her shoulders under his gaze. “It is my pleasure, your grace.”
“No, the pleasure is mine, Miss Frost. At the encouragement of Miss Equiano, I have purchased tickets to your exhibition for my siblings, their families, and the whole lot of my London servants.”
“He’s also bought tickets to the opening night gala for ourselves and all the members of my salon,” Lady Wilmot added.
Lena’s gratitude was balanced by a dose of nausea. To have gained the attention of a duke—for good or for ill—was a considerable thing.
“I’d like to know one thing: did you or Mr. Calder choose the exhibition’s subject matter?” The duke spoke in a rich baritone.
Lena paused, uncertain of the import of his question. “Mr. Calder tends to be the public face of the operation, rather than its hands or feet.”
“A diplomatic answer.” Lady Wilmot smiled knowingly. “Many women of my acquaintance describe their marriages in the same way.” The women laughed, as Forster shook his head in mock disapproval. “You needn’t worry about the duke’s questions, Miss Frost. He is merely trying to gain the advantage in a bet.” Lady Wilmot turned to the duke, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Darling, now that I’ve found her, I’ve been trying to convince Miss Frost to come see my ceiling.” Lady Wilmot scribbled a note and handed it to Lena.
“Found me?” Lena examined the pair carefully, remembering Horatio’s warning.
“Lady Eremond gave me your name, but in its French version. I’d quite despaired of finding you until Ariel realized my mistake when she was reading the advertisements for your panorama: Horatio Calder and Lena Frost, proprietors. We visited your Rotunda the very next day, but your partner refused to tell us where we might find you. ‘No, no, no, my lady, Miss Frost takes no commissions. She is entirely devoted to the panorama.’” Lady Wilmot mimicked Horatio perfectly. “I almost had to resort to bribery.”
“You did bribe him.” The duke’s face was forbidding, but his voice was kind.
“No money changed hands.” Lady Wilmot waved a dismissive hand, looking for a moment entirely like a woman who had lived for a decade in Naples. “Therefore, it can’t be a bribe.”
“Odd. I distinctly remember that the second time we visited his office, your footman strained under the weight of a large basket of Cook’s best productions. In legal circles, that would constitute a bribe, especially given the glee with which Mr. Calder fell on the roasted duck.”
“Mr. Calder was too hungry
to recall Miss Frost’s address, and we have a moral obligation to feed the hungry.” Lady Wilmot raised her chin with a look of righteous indignation. But when the duke raised a single eyebrow, Lady Wilmot broke into laughter.
“The second time?” Lena watched their interaction with interest and suspicion: might Lady Wilmot or the duke have been the reason that Horatio had warned her to run?
“Yes, we were there just yesterday.”
Lena’s stomach clenched.
“I believe you are frightening your painter, my dear.” Forster smiled at Lena, and his face lost its aloofness. “Miss Frost, it is my ceiling, though my fiancée thinks it is hers already.”
“As I remember, the duke gave it to me on my birthday.” Lady Wilmot raised her chin for mock emphasis.
“I gave you the room for your salon,” the duke corrected.
“Well, then, when I am done with it, I shall give it back to you,” Lady Wilmot teased.
Forster turned to Lena, putting his hand over his heart. “I had no idea that she was going to remove the paintings. All quite fine, late-Renaissance Italian and French, some quite valuable. The whole lot relegated to the attic. Some day we will go up to the attic together, and I will show you my poor ancestors. Perhaps you can plead their cause with her ladyship.”
Lena, knowing her place as neither servant nor equal, merely nodded.
“The duke is in a teasing mood, Miss Frost, so pay him no mind. He won his house and all its horrid paintings in a bet. His ancestors hang in the ducal residence in Grosvenor Square, which he shares with his siblings when they are in town. It is currently occupied by three of his brothers and his termagant great-aunt with her five cats.”
“Four. The orange tabby discovered that nine lives was less a promise than a general estimate,” the duke observed with mock solemnity.
“Cats aside.” Lady Wilmot touched the duke’s arm. “Like much of the house, the paintings were in terrible disrepair, though we salvaged as many as were worth the trouble. But more to the point, every image in the room was of a man, every one.” She shrugged. “As a result, all were unsuitable decorations for my salon.”
Reckless in Red Page 4
