by Fiona Hill
The girls returned to the house in Albemarle Street exceedingly pleased with themselves and even more exceedingly famished, only to learn from Alexander that no one in London dined before eight.
“Eight!” cried Emily, scandalised. “But we shall die!”
“It does seem a bit late,” said Honoria seriously.
“A bit late!” exclaimed the other. “It is positively barbaric! And what, pray, are we to do with our hunger?”
Alexander looked amused. “You might take a nuncheon,” he suggested, “but I do think you ought to adjust your appetites to new hours as soon as possible. Otherwise you will be starved indeed at a ball.”
“And why, pray tell?”
“Because supper is not served till past mid-night,” he replied, delighting in the indignant reaction he knew this would provoke.
It came, and did not disappoint him. Emily stated flatly that in her opinion, a group of people who could find no better hours than those for the taking of their meals deserved to starve, and to die of it.
“No doubt we shall soon become reconciled to it,” Honoria soothed her.
“No doubt,” said Miss Blackwood sarcastically. “I am told prisoners become reconciled to bread and water, too, if it is all they receive.”
“I shall have the cook fetch us a collation of some sort,” Honoria said, ringing the bell.
“Of a large sort, please,” Emily insisted.
“And after your nuncheon,” Alexander interrupted, “I prescribe bed. A nap will be necessary if you are to keep awake through the opera.”
“On our first day in London!” Emily protested.
Alexander shrugged. “As you like. But I am going to rest, whether you choose to or no.”
With this he sauntered out of the room, his stomach apparently indifferent to its altered schedule. Honoria had hardly seen him in such good spirits, and she lay down upon her bed a little time later feeling contented, indeed. Lady Jane had promised to procure them invitations to some balls or other (as she phrased it), or at least a rout or two. The girls—particularly Emily—ought properly to be presented before they indulged in such amusements; but Lady Jane did not think it would matter much. Besides, she was bent upon giving a come-out for Miss Blackwood at her own house in Berkeley Square: she had been counting on it since Honoria’s letter arrived, and had even chosen a date.
“It is to be Thursday week,” she had informed them. “Just a dinner, you know, and perhaps some whist afterwards. Too tedious, I am afraid; but if we are not to do it up completely with a ball, I think it will be best to go it mildly. Very dull, you know, which is another way of saying very proper.”
Such tidings as these could not but delight young Mrs. Blackwood, and Emily consented to submit to the ritual, since she had promised her father she would seek a husband earnestly. It was a promise made under duress, and with less than half a will, but she liked to keep her word and did not regard it lightly. For her own part, she was nearly dead with anxiety to go to Somerset Place, where the pictures of the Royal Academy were hung, and had much rather have passed her time there than fretting about a come-out, but there would be time for both things, as Honor assured her, and the pictures must wait a bit longer. The exhibition in which her own painting was to hang would not take place for weeks and weeks, so she had no choice but to wait for that.
Chapter XI
The opera in no way disappointed the young ladies, nor did the rout party they attended later in the week. The theatre that was the scene of the first event proved properly large and brilliant; their party was made cheerful enough by the presence of Lady Jane (though they were obliged to agree with her, afterwards, that Lord Strougham’s sister was a rather wearisome rattle); the supper of which they partook at the close of the performance was most elegant—and most satisfying to Emily, who was famished. The latter festivity, Lady Drayton’s rout, was as uncomfortably over-crowded as anybody might possibly desire: through the good offices of Lady Jane, the Blackwood party made the acquaintance of so many ladies and gentlemen as to make it utterly inconceivable that they should remember the name of any one of them; and in fact, a lengthy discussion took place among the three at breakfast the next morning, as to whether or not they had ever been presented to the hostess. This, their patroness informed them, was precisely as it should be: a rout that was not a hopeless squeeze was no rout at all, and she should have been most distressed to find her friends from Pittering otherwise than confused about the evening.
“Your come-out, however,” she continued to Emily, “is a different matter. I am sorry to inform you that it will be your duty, on that occasion, to commit as much to memory as you possibly may. Some of London’s first hostesses will be attending, and several of the ton’s most important gentlemen: without the patronage of these personages—or a few of them at least—your entrée into society will be very difficult to contrive. So do endeavour, my dear, to learn all their names, and a little about their interests if you can. Do not be afraid to flatter them, either; they dote on it, I assure you.”
“Flattery has never been my forte,” said Emily diffidently, “but I promise to make shift somehow or other.” She was listening to Lady Jane with only half an ear, anyway; the chief of her attention was focussed upon the visit she and Honoria were to make that morning. This was to the academy, for they had naturally written to that establishment as soon as ever they had reached London, and the director there had been kind enough to send a note in return, expressing his desire to meet with the gifted Mr. Cedric Blackwood at his earliest convenience. “Do you think I look plain enough?” Miss Blackwood now demanded of her sister-in-law for the three ladies were situated in Emily’s bed-chamber and were supervising her toilette.
“Perhaps you might expose your ears entirely,” Honor suggested, surveying her friend’s image in the looking-glass. It had been agreed among them that Emily must look as severe as possible for her interview, in order that the director should not think her frivolous.
Miss Blackwood adjusted her coiffure accordingly, and nodded with satisfaction at her reflection. “That is most unattractive,” she remarked.
“My goodness, so it is indeed!” said Lady Jane. “My dear Emily, what you have been hiding from us all this time!”—for Emily’s ears, generally invisible under curls and bonnets, were genuinely disfiguring when revealed. “How very kind of Providence to provide you with such convenient features—and particularly, with the means to cover them up.”
Miss Blackwood, who had no trace of vanity anywhere in her character, took not the least offence at these observations, but instead was quite pleased that Lady Jane should think her so ugly. “I thank you, ma’am,” said she. “You give me confidence that no gentleman—no matter how lacking in discernment—could consider me a pretty, foolish dilettante. And I thank you, dear Honor, for your inspired suggestion. I had quite forgot how startlingly hideous my ears are.”
Garments correspondingly unappealing having been chosen and donned by Miss Blackwood, the young ladies judged themselves ready to depart. Alexander, who was to accompany them for the sake of greater propriety, was summoned and appeared presently; naturally he noticed neither his sister’s uncommon homeliness, nor his wife’s enhanced beauty (for she wore a newly purchased walking dress of bleu celeste velour, lace-trimmed and with a bonnet of the same material, which set off the sweetness of her countenance quite to perfection); but then, he never was expected to notice such things, and no one was especially disappointed. Lady Jane wished Miss Blackwood much good fortune, embraced her fondly, and drove off in her carriage only a few moments before the Blackwoods themselves departed. Alexander, ever absent-minded, politely wished Lady Jane equal good fortune, and handed his wife and sister into their coach.
Happily, the situation of the academy did not oblige the Blackwoods to drive to any undesirable quarter of town. On the contrary, the directors’ offices and the studios both were located nearby in a large town-house in Bond Street. Thither they drove, Emily�
�s excitement mounting at each moment, and there they descended. A butler met them at the great front door—which was painted black, with brass handles, and was consequently very imposing—received Mr. Blackwood’s card, and begged the party to wait an instant in a small, elegant parlour. They had barely time to observe the many paintings with which that apartment was hung when the butler returned to lead the trio up the stairs and into a spacious, well-proportioned room. This chamber had evidently been meant for a study or library of sorts, but was now converted into an office. It was, they soon learned, the place of business of the chief director of the academy, Sir Geoffrey Penningdon. That gentleman, who had been seated behind a mahogany desk of quite mammoth proportions, rose hastily on the entrance of the little party and began chattering furiously at once.
“I am so pleased to meet you. You must be Mr. Blackwood—and these ladies I trust are your wife—or perhaps—? Our committee was quite delighted with your painting, we are aching to show it to London, and have no doubt of its most brilliant reception in all quarters; although the taste of the public has its vagaries, it is to be admitted, and perhaps—However, only time can tell what will come of it; the principal point is to cultivate even further your tremendous abilities, if they may be cultivated further! and to introduce you to these established masters whom the academy has the honour of …” And so he rattled on for a good ten minutes, all the time mistaking Alexander for the imaginary Mr. Cedric, and behaving as ingratiatingly and excitedly as possible. He was a smallish man, of middle age, entirely bald for some time now, but with such generous, unaffected manners as made him instantly likeable. The poor fellow, who had not a trace of talent of any sort to call his own, was yet such an avid admirer of ability in others that he stood almost in awe of the very people whose patron he was. He bobbed up and down unceasingly as he talked, in a sort of incidental half-bow, and wiped his quizzing-glass ever and anon, though he never used it. As chief administrator of the academy, Sir Geoffrey wielded considerable power over the lives of his beneficiaries, but an uninformed observer could not possibly have guessed this, so obliging—almost obsequious, indeed—was his address.
After a very great deal of inconsequent prattle, the director checked himself at last, resumed his seat at the desk, invited his visitors to sit also, and consented to listen to them. “Sir Geoffrey,” Alexander began, evidently labouring to keep his mind on the business at hand, “I must beg to disabuse you of a misapprehension you have apparently formed—quite understandably, of course—yet still a misapprehension. I am not Mr. Cedric Blackwood; I am Mr. Alexander Blackwood. This lady” (indicating Honor) “is my wife, Mrs. Blackwood, and this lady is—ah, my sister. My sister, ah—Mr. Cedric Blackwood.”
Sir Geoffrey very naturally did not understand.
“My sister’s name is not really Cedric, you see; in fact, it is Emily. However, it is she who painted the portrait—” Alexander said, but Emily interrupted him here and explained the entire matter herself. In the frankest and most lucid terms, she described the deception she had perpetrated on the judges of the competition, enlarged a bit on why she had done so, and implored Sir Geoffrey to consider the reasons of her behaviour and not to act rashly.
Sir Geoffrey was very much taken aback. “I do not recollect such a thing ever to have happened before,” said he. “No woman has ever studied under the auspices of the academy; it is most irregular. Of course, since you are the painter of the portrait—this is most upsetting!—of course, I must consult with the other directors. However, I do not think—you see, it would be most surprising, most unnatural—and yet, it seems hardly fair. On the other hand, the directors of the academy cannot be expected to—a most astonishing deception—we are not in a position to risk the censure—however,” said Sir Geoffrey, and continued in this vein above a quarter of an hour, giving his listeners to understand that while Miss Blackwood might be accepted, it seemed extremely doubtful.
This was better, in truth, than any of them had expected, and though to Emily it seemed insufferably cruel to be obliged to wait yet longer for a verdict, she felt at least that there was still some hope. Sir Geoffrey was sufficiently good, before they quitted Bond Street, to give them a brief tour of the academy, the different branches of which were mainly situated within the capacious town-house. In one wing were the offices of the directors, among them Sir Geoffrey’s; in another were a gallery and an extensive library comprised entirely of works and treatises on art. The top story of the house consisted of two gigantic apartments, the studios where instruction took place. The garrets that would normally have been found above these had been demolished in order to make the two stories into one. As a result, the studios were enormously lofty, and well provided with natural light, which streamed in through windows in the ceiling as well as the walls. Poor Emily, who had frequently been obliged either to restrict her painting to the briefest hours, or to work by lamp-light, was in raptures at this, so much so that she squeezed Honoria’s hand quite painfully.
“Can you imagine?” she breathed; “All day to work in—all day!” One of the studios was empty at the time they visited it; the other, however, was the scene of a class in progress. A still-life made up of a silver bowl of fruit, an engraved silver pitcher, and a gleaming knife had been arranged on a table at the centre of the room. Four or five young gentlemen, of various ages and types, stood painting it at easels set up round the room, while a middle-aged gentleman (evidently the master) visited each of them and inspected their efforts. Other than these, there was no one in the great hall except a very young servant girl, whose business it was, apparently, to see that no one wanted colours, or brushes, or rags, and to perform whatever other menial duties the gentlemen required. This girl would not have attracted the attention of any of the visitors, had it not been for an incident that chanced to take place just as they were about to depart. One of the young artists had murmured something to her, apparently sending her on an errand that took her to the other end of the room, her thin arms full of brushes and soiled cloths. The unfortunate girl, being something confused by the urgency of her instructions—and not very clever to begin with—crossed through the middle of the room, instead of skirting round its edges. An instant cry went up of “Out of the way! Blast the wench! Mary, what are you about?” in excessively impatient voices. This naturally only increased her perturbation, and she contrived somehow, as she neared the table on which the still-life was arranged, to trip on her own skirts and knock over both pitcher and fruit. Oranges and apples rolled about; the brushes she carried fell to the floor, leaving coloured patches everywhere; the pitcher fell with a clang that almost certainly heralded the present discovery of a sizable dent in its side. Mary’s distress was now immeasurable: the poor girl broke into sobs at once, and could hardly contrive to regain her feet. Her pitiful predicament, however, aroused no tenderness in the breasts of the artists, but only wrath.
“Mary!” shouted the master. “This is the end! I have told you repeatedly, never go near the centre of the room—never cross before the students—never never never! Here is what comes of it!” He read her quite a lecture, all of which was witnessed by the Blackwoods, and finished (alas for Mary) by turning her away. “And without a reference!” he closed stormily, and sent the poor girl weeping out of the studio, away from the academy for ever.
Sir Geoffrey was, of course, all apology. He was devastated that such a scene had imposed itself upon his guests; he assured them such explosions were not ordinary in the academy; he expatiated lengthily on the difficulty of finding girls intelligent enough to wait upon the artists, and yet willing to perform such dreary labour. This was the fourth wench turned away this twelvemonth, and he did not know where to find another. The visitors (when they could get a word in) prayed he would not be anxious on their account, rapidly completed their inspection of the house in Bond Street, and were soon in the carriage on their way home. Sir Geoffrey had engaged to confer with his colleagues in a day or two at most, and to inform Miss Blackwoo
d of their decision the moment it was taken.
The reader may easily imagine, that during the next eight-and-forty hours, Miss Emily Blackwood talked, dreamed, and thought of nothing but her education. Lady Jane Sperling sought in vain to acquaint her with the guest list for her come-out; Honoria tired, after some two or three hours of obliging speculation, of wondering how the committee might decide, but she could not persuade her sister to take up any other topic: now that her fate was so soon to be determined, nothing else could interest Emily.
The answer came on the morning of the third day, in the form of a letter from Sir Geoffrey. The directors were very sorry. The committee had discussed Miss Blackwood’s case from every vantage point. The rules of the academy had been examined thoroughly, and interpreted in every conceivable light; even the notion of casting them aside had been pondered. It was most lamentable; Sir Geoffrey did not know how to express his desolation; but there was no possibility of Miss Blackwood’s being accepted into the institute. It was all he could do to persuade the judges to permit her prize picture to hang in the exhibit—and even that, he was obliged to inform her, could only be done under the pseudonym she had devised. As for the development of her considerable abilities, Sir Geoffrey sincerely hoped she would find some private instructor—perhaps some established artist who would take her in—to give her that assistance without which her gift might remain but half-discovered.
Miss Emily Blackwood read this and said absolutely nothing. Her face went white, her hands clenched angrily, she turned on her heel and marched wordlessly to her bed-chamber, whence she did not emerge until nearly three hours later. When she did come out, it was not to accept the lavish comfort proffered by her sister-in-law, but rather to exchange a series of the tersest and most businesslike remarks. “I am going out,” said she, “alone. You must not ask me why, nor mention my absence to Alex. You must not accompany or even seek to observe me. I have an errand that I must accomplish, and I earnestly entreat you to grant these conditions.”
