Jubilee Bride

by Jane Peart

  She was pleased when, one afternoon while returning from an afternoon of calls, Lydia had squeezed Faith's hand impulsively and begun speaking quietly.

  "I feel so lucky to be a part of all this with you and Allison, dear. For years Edward and I prayed for children of our own and could not understand why God didn't answer our prayers. Now I know He has. You see, Faith, I found a verse in the Psalms that was God's own precious promise to me: "He maketh the barren woman . . . to be a joyful mother of children." And that's exactly what He did when he gave me you and Allison as if you were truly my daughters. And, of course, my darling Jeff, who has meant as much to me as any son born to me ever could."

  Remembering that declaration of love, Faith saw the evidence again in the tender gaze Lydia now turned on her niece, Lady Allison, who was radiant with excitement and anticipation.

  Dismally Faith wondered why she couldn't be like Allison and the other young women she had met during this year. Why did she have to feel so different, so rebellious, so indifferent to the things the others found enjoyable?

  The main reason, perhaps, was that she wasn't looking for a husband. Most of the debutantes, certainly their mamas, were willing to put up with the discomfort and tedium of events such as this in the interest of attracting suitable marriage prospects. It was hoped that this would lead to a fashionable wedding and a prestigious place in society. None of which Faith wanted.

  What do I want? she asked herself. Jeff, came the answer. Yes, I want Jeff and the kind of life I would have with him—a life of beauty, high ideals, romantic adventure—Oh, Jeff, where are you?

  Faith looked out the carriage window at the crowds milling along the sidewalks. They stared back, gawking at the mannequin-like creatures inside, arrayed like costume dolls on display.

  Faith closed her eyes for a moment to shut them out, thinking of the dark green wooded acres of Birchfields. She could be riding Bounty right now, the cool breeze off the lake blowing on her face, sending her hair out in streamers behind her.

  Just then the carriage jerked forward, wobbling slightly, and Mrs. Ainsley smiled at her reassuringly. "Ah, we're moving on, at last. I don't think it will be too much longer now, girls."

  Faith felt herself stiffen, reminding herself that once this was over, there would only be one more hurdle—the reception her parents were giving tonight in her honor. Actually, Faith thought with a stab of resentment, it is mare Mother's party to celebrate my successful launch into society. Then the season was almost over. Except for her ball to be held at Birchfields at the end of the summer. If Jeff could only be there, not wandering all over Europe—

  Her longing thoughts were brought to an end as the carriage came to a shaky stop.

  "Here we are, girls!" announced Mrs. Ainsley. "Are you ready to meet the Queen?"

  Late that night, too stimulated for sleep, Faith curled up in bed to write a letter to Jeff. She would mail it to the most recent address he had scribbled on a postcard—General Delivery, Post Office, Florence, Italy.

  Before starting the letter, she had taken out the small packet of battered picture postcards from Paris, Rome, and Verona that had arrived after long intervals from Jeff. On most of them he had scrawled only a few enigmatic remarks. But she had read them over and over, studying the pictures of the Coliseum, St. Peter's, the Tuileries Gardens, until she knew every word, every line by heart. Doggedly she had continued to write, never sure that he received her letters, since he never commented on anything she said. She poured out her heart to Jeff, telling him all the details of her summer, withholding only the secret of her love for him.

  Oh, Jeff, you could not imagine the crush! After we got out of the carriage, we were herded like sheep into a small room in the palace, where we had to wait again. It was hot and airless, and two of the girls fainted and had to be carried away. I don't know whether they missed their presentation time or what. If so, there are several mamas who went to bed with migraines tonight, you can be sure!

  When it finally came my turn, I was so dulled from boredom that I didn't hear my name called. Someone literally had to push me forward! Somehow I managed to meet the Queen without tripping over my feet or getting tangled in my train.

  I made my curtsy and took a quick look at Her Majesty, who is a small, fat old lady, dressed in black, with a rather sullen expression and heavy-lidded eyes. I wonder if she was even aware of all the trouble we had all gone through to be presented to her—or if she cared?

  Do you intend to come back soon? I wish I knew your plans. By fall I should be free of all this "debutante" rubbish, and if you come down to Birchfields, we'll go riding and have some good times just like we used to!

  Faith paused, her pen poised over the paper. Would that ever really happen again? Or would Jeff have changed so much that they would never be able to recapture their old camaraderie? Had art consumed him so that he would be lost to her forever even after he returned?

  And how should she sign the letter? "All my love," which would be truthful, or the more discreet, "As ever?" She sighed. The latter was just as true, since she loved Jeff as she always had, no matter how she put it.

  chapter

  6

  London, England

  Spring 1894

  FAITH WAS ecstatic when she received Jeff's note, inviting her to accompany him to the Opening Day of the annual exhibit at the Royal Academy of Art on the first Monday in May.

  She had seen very little of Jeff since his return from his "Vagabond year" in Europe. He had come back lean and tanned, with a sketchbook full of people he had met and places he had been, and an undiminished determination to become an artist. At first he had come down to Birchfields often, regaling Faith with stories of his adventures and enthusiastic descriptions of the museums and works of art he had seen.

  Anxious to share what was most important to him, to learn about the pre-Raphaelite painters and other artists Jeff admired, Faith had tried to educate herself about art and painting so that she could not only listen but speak intelligendy about them. As it turned out, however, there was little opportunity to do so.

  After he had enrolled in the Royal Academy of Art, taking as many classes as he was allowed, Jeff's world began to revolve around his studies and the instructors and fellow students at the Academy. His visits to the country became more infrequent, and when he found lodgings with an artist friend that boasted a small studio where they could paint, the Devlins saw even less of Jeff.

  Until his invitation, Faith did not know when she could expect to see Jeff again. He had spent Christmas in London with the Ainsleys and, although he had promised to come down for the Devlins annual New Year's Ball at Birchfields, he had contracted a heavy cold and was unable to make it even then.

  With so much time having elapsed, Faith was especially eager to look her best for the Opening Day. What should she wear? Jeff's note had been casual, mentioning only that they would go somewhere afterward for tea. That could be anywhere! When she was with Jeff, Faith was aware of feminine heads turning to observe his dark, Byronic good looks. She would just have to do something to be sure that he concentrated on her.

  At last she decided on an ensemble newly acquired, one that Jeff had never seen—a peacock-blue light wool walking suit with wide darker blue satin revers on the fitted jacket. With it she would wear a daring little tilted hat with a dotted blue veil and gloves to match.

  But the fact that Faith had taken such pains with her appearance was apparently lost on Jeff, who was in such a hurry to get to the exhibit that when he met her at the train, he rushed her into a waiting taxi with scarcely more than a greeting. Perhaps later, over tea, he would mention her new outfit, she told herself. He usually noticed such things.

  On the way, Jeff rattled off the names of some of the artists whose paintings had been accepted by the Academy. Some choices he applauded, others he disagreed with, saying that some really fine artists whose paintings deserved to be hung, had been rejected.

  Within a block of the Roy
al Academy there was a jam of carriages. The horses, prancing skittishly, made it difficult for drivers to maintain their places in line so that their occupants could be safely delivered.

  "Opening Day is always a crush!" declared Jeff, peering anxiously out the coach window. "Maybe we should get out here and walk the rest of the way."

  Faith winced, remembering her new high-heeled boots that had not been designed for walking and especially not for keeping up with Jeff's long-legged stride. To distract him from this suggestion, Faith quickly asked a question

  ."Will all the exhibitors be there today?"

  "Oh, you couldn't keep them away!" replied Jeff. "The exhibit is open to the public today, so exhibitors can mill around and not be too obvious as they strain their ears for comments from the critics and art reporters who will be here in full force—" He smiled wryly. "And naturally, if they're recognized, to accept compliments on their work. Oh, Faith, what I wouldn't give to be one of them! But I will be one day. You'll see." His jaw tightened and Faith could feel his intensity.

  "Yes, Jeff, I'm sure you will," she said loyally,

  "Imagine, what it must be like—" he murmured, and Faith saw his hands ball into fists, one of which he thrummed tensely on his knee. Then he turned to look at her, eyes shining. "The Prince of Wales and the Queen, if she's well enough, come on the Thursday before Opening Day to view the selected paintings in private. Friday is Private View, by invitation only. I've heard that some consider this to be the beginning of the social season. Tom and I came and stood along the curb to see the arrivals. Quite spectacular. Splendid carriages pulling up in front. The ladies, dressed 'to the nines'; the gentlemen, in morning coats and top hats. Some of the viewers were minor royalty, members of Parliament and their ladies." Jeff gave a little laugh. "I wonder how many real art lovers there were among them. I suspect most of them simply came to see and be seen."

  When their taxi finally pushed up the line, a good half-block from the Academy, Jeff opened the door impatiently, paid the fare, and reached in to help Faith out.

  Inside, the artists who had been successful in having their work hung were present in hordes. Art critics and society reporters, tell-tale notebooks in hand, scurried about, seeking interviews from the more famous. Jeff recognized some not-so- well-known painters, too, and mumbled their names to Faith as they jockeyed for attention, hoping to be noticed and to receive favorable comments or reviews.

  In the press of people, Faith had a hard time keeping up with Jeff as he elbowed his way through. She could barely see the paintings, much less appreciate or enjoy them. Hat askew, face flushed, and tottering in her untried new boots, Faith was grateful when Jeff had had enough.

  "Let's go, this is a madhouse!" he said. "We'll have to come back later in the week when we can really see something." Taking her hand and turning a broad shoulder to the crowd, he pushed back through the incoming crush blocking the door through which they had come earlier.

  Outside, Faith straightened the brim of her hat and adjusted her veil while Jeff ran a short distance to hail a taxi. Almost before she could catch her breath, they were drawing up in front of a fine hotel, and the taxi door was being opened by a uniformed doorman.

  "My, are you sure this is the place?" Faith whispered as they entered the grand lobby of Claridge's.

  "After putting you through all that, I think you deserve a posh tea," he replied confidently and guided her toward the dining room, where a dignified maitre d'hotel bowed in greeting and a waiter escorted them to a corner table.

  After being seated, a worried little pucker appeared between her dark brows. Leaning toward him, Faith asked Jeff in a low tone, "Are you positive you can afford this?"

  Jeff laughed the rich, full laugh that Faith loved.

  "Of course, my dear old worrywart," he assured her. "Didn't you know I've come into my inheritance? First of the month, regular as Big Ben, my cheque from the trust fund arrives. I've not paid my school fees or rent as yet, so order away—the sky is the veritable limit—strawberry trifle, sponge cake, chocolate eclairs—whatever your little heart desires!"

  "Well, in that case," declared Faith, entering into the game, "tell the waiter to bring the entire dessert trolley!"

  Within a few minutes the first awkwardness of the long months apart disappeared, and Faith and Jeff were back on their old terms, teasing and bantering with one another. She could see that Jeff was still stimulated from the exhibit, and although she would much rather have turned the conversation to more personal things, he was too wound up to speak of anything else.

  "I didn't see much today. At least, nothing I would call avant-garde," he commented as he offered Faith the plate of buttered scones, then helped himself. "That's why I admire the pre-Raphaelite artists so much. They tried to break through the stuffiness."

  "What do you mean? I don't quite understand." Faith was genuinely interested.

  "Well, before they—the pre-Raphaelites—came on the scene, there were rigid rules to which paintings and artists had to adhere, such as the subjects the Royal Academy would consider suitable for hanging in the annual exhibit," Jeff explained. "More tea?"

  Faith held out her cup.

  "Even the position a painting was hung was restricted. I mean, it was all so political, you see. Placement of one's painting at the exhibit depended on an artist's rank and rating in the judgment of the hanging committee."

  "The hanging committee?"

  "A handful of men whose vision was very limited," Jeff replied scornfully, reaching for the thick raspberry jam and piling it liberally on his scone.

  "And what did the pre-Raphaelites do to change things?" Faith was leaning forward now, her tea growing cold in her cup.

  "Rossetti, Millais, and Holman Hunt were trying to do something new, yet still based on medieval art. They wanted to use a broader palette, richer colors. What they wanted to do was to bring back the romantic idealism of the great Italian artists before Raphael. Actually, they hoped to restore what they felt had been lost. Get rid of all those murky landscapes—" Jeff made a grimace of disgust—"that awful drabness, the gloominess."

  "But, Jeff—" Faith began somewhat tentatively, not sure enough of her ground to argue, yet wanting to show Jeff that she had done some research of her own on the subject. "Personally, I think some of their paintings are gloomy. Take Millais's painting of'Ophelia.' What could be gloomier than a painting of a drowned girl with a ghastly pale face, floating on the surface of the water like—like seaweed!"

  Jeff had to smile. "Well, yes, I have to admit that some of the subjects were on the dark side." He signaled the waiter to bring them a fresh pot of tea, then continued. "But it's not just the richness and texture of their paintings that I'm talking about. It's their themes that inspire me. They used the great legends of King Arthur's knights. They used allegory, religion, poetry. That's what painting is all about to me—inspired and inspiring to painter and viewer alike."

  "Oh, Jeff, yes! I do understand," Faith breathed, catching some of his enthusiasm.

  "That's my goal, too, Faith. I want to paint the kind of paintings that will—how can I say it without sounding insufferably arrogant—" he paused, as if searching for the word.

  "It doesn't sound arrogant at all," she said, then smiled. "A bit ambitious, perhaps?"

  Jeff pushed his teacup aside, folded his arms, and leaned on them. "Ambition can be very close to arrogance. It's self-destructive, really. In a way, that's what led to Rossetti's downfall. He was the leader of the group, extremely talented and charismatic but too easily bored to put in the necessary apprenticeship and too impatient to learn perspective and composition. Some of his paintings show it. Figures out of proportion, perspective off—" Jeff dismissed this unsolicited critique with a wave of his hand and, smiling slightly, went on.

  "Anyway, almost as a lark, Rossetti had offered to paint a huge mural in Oxford's Union Debating Hall, and filled the walls with elaborate scenes from the legends of Malory's Morte d'Arthur. He even vo
lunteered several of his fellow artists to help, and they all went down to Oxford and had a high old time all one summer. The trouble was, none of them knew how to prepare plaster properly. As a result, the paint sank right into the surface, and now all that can be seen is a faint tracery of ghostly figures here and there."

  "Oh, what a shame! What a waste of time and talent!" exclaimed Faith.

  "Of course, that was the reason the original brotherhood fell apart. Each went his separate way, and some came to tragic ends, I'm afraid." Jeff sighed and shook his head. Then he lifted his chin, his eyes level with Faith's across the table.

  'Their dream is now mine, Faith. I want to recreate a mural like Rossetti had in mind when he started—the legend of King Arthur, depicting the stories of his knights on panels in the style of the pre-Raphaelites, with all the drama and richness of texture and color they introduced. That's why I must learn everything I can at the Academy and from the Old Masters, and why I must paint and paint!"

  Gripped by his intensity, Faith could hardly breathe.

  "Oh, yes, Jeff, what a wonderful plan! I'm sure you will. . . you can!"

  Slowly the fervent expression softened to a smile, the passionate light in his eyes became teasing again. "I believe if I said I was going to fly over the English Channel, you'd tell me I could do it, wouldn't you, Faith?"

  Faith's cheeks grew warm and she tried to reply in the same light manner he had used. Though she knew in her heart that what he said was true, he did not suspect the reasons why,

  "Well, I guess we'd best be going. I have a class tonight and you have a train to catch." Jeff rose, came around to pull out her chair and offer her his arm.

  Settled inside the cab the doorman had hailed at the corner, Faith smiled at Jeff. "It was a perfect day. Thank you for asking me."

  "I enjoyed it, too, Faith. But it will have to last us a while, I'm afraid. I'm leaving in two weeks for the south of France. Provence. Tom and I are taking off to join a community of artists for a summer of painting. The light there is supposed to be incredible!"