The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  “Will you have a look at my newest painting, Mr. West?” she asked, coming to a stop before the portrait and flashing what she hoped was a charming smile. ”As I’m considering submitting it to the Summer Exhibition, I’d surely appreciate your thoughts.”

  Before commenting, he studied the picture quite a while. Corinna studied him. He was balding, what was left of his hair was gray, and he looked rather solemn overall. But not really unkind, she decided with some relief.

  Mr. West was famous for his paintings of recent battles that depicted their heroes wearing modern dress rather than traditional, classical garb. Since Corinna thought it rather silly to paint contemporary men sporting flowing Roman robes, she heartily approved—and she hoped his willingness to take the less traveled road meant he was more open-minded than most.

  “It’s very nice, Lady…Corinna, is it?” he said at last in his disarming American accent. “Your basic techniques demonstrate fine skills. But I’m not certain your model’s form looks quite realistic.”

  “His form?”

  “His body, under his clothing. Not quite natural, I’m afraid.”

  Her heart turned to lead in her chest. She’d done her best, considering the Academy refused girls access to anatomy lessons. Maybe she should point that out to him. As the Academy’s president, maybe he would see how unfair that was, how detrimental to a girl’s chances, and decide to change the Academy’s rules.

  No, that would never happen. And he might consider such a request to be very bad form. She’d never get elected to the Academy if its president found her vulgar.

  On the other hand, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Lord Lincolnshire’s form looked perfectly fine. West was known for painting all of his subjects with large almond-shaped eyes, so maybe he wasn’t one to judge. Although his portrait clients thought those eyes most dashing—and surely commissioned him for that reason—it wasn’t realistic, after all. Some of them had narrow, squinty eyes, or small round ones.

  “Thank you very much for your opinion,” she told him as nicely as she could manage. “I quite appreciate it, and I shall take your thoughts under consideration.”

  Suppressing a sigh, she returned to Rachael after he took leave. “Well, that didn’t go well.”

  Rachael’s sisters came to join them. “Who was he?” Claire asked.

  “Benjamin West, the president of the Royal Academy. He said Lord Lincolnshire’s body doesn’t look natural beneath his clothing.”

  Elizabeth glanced over toward the painting and shrugged. “Looks fine to me. Rather more impressive than the earl’s real body, in fact.”

  “He did say I have fine skills. And maybe he’s wrong about the other, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? Either way he won’t vote for my painting. Unless I change it.”

  “His is just one opinion.” Rachael touched her arm. “There are other committee members, aren’t there? How many in total?”

  “Nine. The president plus eight elected Academicians.”

  “So you have eight more men to influence. Seven if you count Mr. Hamilton as being on your side. And he should be, considering you’ve become friends with him.”

  “I’m not sure friends is an accurate description of our relationship.” But although Rachael didn’t know the truth, in a sense she was right. The real Mr. Hamilton should be on Corinna’s side, considering how hard she’d been working to keep his uncle happy. And he believed each work should stand on its own and not be judged by the gender of its creator. “However, I think he probably will vote for me,” she decided.

  “So you’ve already balanced Mr. West’s negative opinion with a positive.” Rachael smiled; but then her brows drew together in a frown. “Why did you claim you didn’t see Mr. Hamilton at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday? That he was Sean Hamilton, not John? I’ve heard you call him Sean, and Lord Lincolnshire calls him that as well, but I thought it was just a nickname?”

  “Mr. West seems to think Mr. Hamilton is in Wales for some reason. I didn’t want to argue with the president of the Royal Academy. Better to go along with what he said, I was thinking.”

  Rachael exchanged dubious glances with her sisters. “I don’t know about that.”

  Corinna gave what she hoped was a casual shrug, then smiled at Lady A, who was approaching with another gentleman trailing her.

  “I cannot understand why everyone thinks Mr. Hamilton is in Wales,” the older woman muttered darkly. And then more graciously as she drew near, “Mr. Mulready, I’d be pleased for you to meet Lady Corinna Chase. Lady Corinna, this is William Mulready.”

  Mr. Mulready looked much younger than Mr. West, probably not much more than a decade older than Corinna herself. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he said in an accent that reminded her of Sean.

  That thought made her smile. “Oh, Mr. Mulready, your painting in last year’s Summer Exhibition was my absolute favorite!”

  She wasn’t making that up; the enthusiasm in her voice was genuine. And judging from the man’s expression, he rather liked hearing it. “Which one, my dear?” he asked.

  Academicians were allowed to display six paintings each—works that were hung without question, without being judged by the committee. “The Fight Interrupted. I adore the seventeenth-century Dutch masters, and it reminded me of their work. An updated version, of course.”

  “I too admire the Dutch masters,” he said, sounding like he also admired her for admiring them. “Their work inspired The Fight Interrupted.”

  Encouraged by how much better this was going than her last conversation, Corinna started inching Mr. Mulready toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire. “I also much admire your wife’s landscapes, Mr. Mulready.”

  “Elizabeth does lovely work.”

  “Since you married a female artist, may I assume you don’t disapprove of us?”

  He laughed, which was a relief. It had been a rather saucy question. “A valid assumption. I’ve had a look at your paintings, my dear. Your own landscapes are quite remarkable.”

  Oh, this was going astoundingly better. “Here is my latest portrait. What do you think?”

  “Lord Lincolnshire, isn’t it?” Cocking his head, he perused the picture. “I think, Lady Corinna, that you’ve truly captured the essence of the man.”

  Corinna couldn’t help but grin. She couldn’t think of a more glorious compliment than hearing she’d captured the essence. That was exactly what she tried to accomplish, not only with this portrait but with all of her paintings.

  And the score was now two to one. Mulready and Hamilton on her side, and only Benjamin West on the other. Clearly her chances were good.

  She loved William Mulready.

  Until she heard the next words out of his mouth. “But he seems a wee bit…stiff.”

  “Stiff?”

  “Yes, stiff. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Lord Lincolnshire—quite the art collector, isn’t he?—and he struck me as a relaxed sort of fellow. It’s something about this fellow’s frame beneath his clothing that looks stiff, I think…” Smiling, he patted her on the shoulder. “Not to fret, Lady Corinna. Your landscapes are brilliant. I’m sure the committee will be more than pleased to choose one of them.”

  She didn’t want them to choose a landscape. She was no longer sure she even wanted to submit any. She was going to have to fix Lord Lincolnshire’s portrait.

  “How is it going?” Alexandra came and asked when Mr. Mulready had walked away.

  “He likes my landscapes.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “He’s not nearly as impressed with my portrait. He thinks Lord Lincolnshire looks unnatural beneath his clothes. And Benjamin West said the same thing.”

  “Oh, my. I think you need a rout cake.”

  Alexandra fetched one from the platter and handed it over. Corinna bit into it morosely, thinking she could use their luck.

  No matter that she didn’t believe in that nonsense.

  “How many works will be chosen
?” Alexandra asked.

  “There were nearly a thousand in last summer’s Exhibition.”

  “Well, then, I should think your chances will be good.”

  “But there were more than eight thousand submitted. And there are eighty Academicians who get to show six pieces each, which leaves only five hundred twenty for the rest of us.”

  “Only five hundred twenty,” Juliana said with a laugh as she joined them. “I should think there’d be room for one of yours in all of that. And I cannot believe you did that calculation that fast.”

  Juliana never had been very quick with numbers, but that was beside the point. “I’ve done that calculation a hundred times,” Corinna admitted. “At the very least.”

  “How are the pieces chosen?” Juliana asked.

  Shrugging, Corinna was about to confess ignorance when a stranger interrupted her. Giving a little bow, the gentleman said, “I could not help but overhear the lady’s question, and I’d be more than happy to provide an explanation.” Although he was older and not nearly as handsome as Sean, he too spoke with a similar lilt. She’d had no idea so many Academicians were Irish. “Martin Archer Shee, at your service,” he added with a merry wink.

  Martin Archer Shee had studied with the late, great Sir Joshua Reynolds. Corinna was awed to find such a man speaking to her, let alone flirting with her. If only she had Juliana’s abilities, she could turn that to her advantage.

  But since she was merely Corinna, she said, “I’m Corinna Chase, and it’s an honor to meet you, sir. We’d be delighted to hear your account.”

  “It’s very pleased I am to meet you, Lady Corinna. The process is a simple one, if a wee bit tedious. The works are marched past the Committee by a chain of human art handlers. The first round cuts the mass of submissions to about two thousand, and the next round is much more rigorous. From the Academy’s earliest days, two metal wands have been used to stamp labels attached to each painting. One wand is surmounted by a letter D, the other by an X. A work which receives the vote of three or more Academicians is awarded a D for ‘Doubtful’ and passes to the next round of selection. Works which get the X are eliminated. The rounds are repeated until the paintings that remain are reduced to a reasonable number. Beef tea is always served to keep the Academicians’ spirits up during the ordeal.” His eyes twinkled. “Which isn’t really very much of one, in reality. Hanging the exhibition is a much more arduous affair.”

  “That takes days,” Corinna told her sisters. “More than a week.”

  “With much politics involved regarding whose picture goes where. All done in a veil of secrecy, to protect the Hanging Committee from being hanged ourselves.”

  Mr. Shee smiled at his own joke, while the three ladies tittered politely. Corinna laughed loudest of all, hoping she sounded convincing. “Thank you kindly for your insight, sir.”

  “My pleasure.” He winked again. ”I’m much impressed by your work, Lady Corinna. Your textures are quite admirable. I wish you the best of luck in the selection process,” he added before taking his leave.

  Corinna turned to her sisters. “He likes my work!” she squealed. Maybe her prospects weren’t so grim, after all. “Martin Archer Shee likes my work. And he studied with none other than Reynolds!”

  “Ah, but I wrote Life of Reynolds,” another stranger said.

  This one was accompanied by Lady A, who’d evidently brought him over for an introduction. In fact, when the gentleman joined Corinna’s circle directly, without waiting to be introduced, Lady A looked slightly put out. But Corinna couldn’t worry about offending the woman’s sensibilities when there was such a man as James Northcote in their midst! “Mr. Northcote, it’s truly an honor,” she gushed. “I read your book four years ago, when it first came out, and I found your recollections of your old master tremendously enlightening.”

  “He was an enlightening man,” Northcote said. “And a discerning one. He’d have been impressed, as I am, with your portrait, Lady Corinna. The subject’s suit looks like real velvet, his lace genuinely handmade, the trees in the background wet and glistening. An admirable endeavor, Lady Corinna. Not perfect, of course. The underlying anatomy seems a mite off, and—”

  “I’m so pleased you think well of it,” Corinna interrupted before she was forced to hear that complaint again. “I realize it’s not usual for a woman to paint portraits.”

  “Half the things that people do not succeed in are through fear of making an attempt,” he told her solemnly. “You’ve an excellent start. I wish you well in proceeding with your portrait career.”

  “I think you have a good chance,” Juliana said as he walked away. “He seemed very impressed with your realism.”

  Corinna smiled at her sister’s use of the latest jargon, wondering where she’d read about realism. But then she sighed. “He didn’t think the underlying anatomy looked very real.”

  “He said you have an excellent start.”

  “Exactly. One doesn’t submit a painting that looks like a start. Clearly he was saying I need more practice.”

  She mentally counted her votes. Against: Benjamin West and James Northcote. For: John Hamilton and Martin Archer Shee. William Mulready would vote for a landscape but not for a portrait.

  She wanted to submit a portrait.

  Well, maybe Mr. Mulready or Mr. Northcote would vote for her portrait if she fixed it. And there were four other committee members. With either Mulready or Northcote on her side, she needed only two of them to swing the vote.

  “How are things going?” Lady A asked, joining their little circle.

  “All right,” Corinna said. “Mr. West was lukewarm, but Mr. Shee said he was impressed by my work, and so did James Northcote.” She wouldn’t mention Mr. Northcote’s other comments.

  “Mr. Hamilton will certainly vote for you, although I’m still miffed with him for not attending. He could have influenced the others positively. What did William Mulready have to say, my dear?”

  “He loves my landscapes, but he’s not as enthusiastic about the portrait.”

  “Well, that doesn’t signify, now, does it? My daughter painted wonderful landscapes. You should be happy enough to get a landscape into the Summer Exhibition.”

  Corinna wasn’t certain that would make her happy, but she didn’t say so. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful. She was thankful to Lady A for giving her the opportunity to meet all the committee members, even if things weren’t working out quite as she’d hoped.

  Besides, things weren’t looking all that dreadful, either. She needed only two more artists to love her work, and she had four more chances to find them.

  “I spoke with William Beechey,” Lady A added. “I’m sorry to tell you, my dear, that it doesn’t seem he approves of ladies painting portraits.”

  Corinna couldn’t say she was surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. A portrait painter himself, Mr. Beechey had painted the royal family and nearly all the most famous and fashionable people. A steady stream of very sober portraits. Obviously he took life seriously and probably didn’t relish competition from anyone, let alone from female artists. “Well, then, I don’t need to meet him. There are still three committee members I’ve yet to speak with.”

  Lady Balmforth threaded her way to them. “I talked to William Owen,” she reported. He was principal portrait painter to the Prince Regent.

  “And?” her sister asked.

  Lady B just shook her head. Woefully.

  Another artist to cross off Corinna’s list. Now there were just two left…and her stomach felt as though rocks were collecting inside it.

  “How about Henry Fuseli?” she asked. “Or John James Chalon? Have either of you talked to either of them?”

  “Our sister has one of Mr. Fuseli’s pictures in her bedroom,” Lady B said. “Let’s ask her if she’ll introduce you.”

  Lady A nodded. “That would be good. I’ll find Mr. Chalon in the meanwhile.”

  As Lady B took her to find Lady C, Corinna wondered
what sort of picture Juliana’s mother-in-law had in her bedroom. That she had a Fuseli at all was rather intriguing. Mr. Fuseli painted weird, haunting images, daring fantasies. His most acclaimed painting, The Nightmare, depicted a woman in the throes of a bizarre dream.

  Griffin would throw a fit if he knew his innocent little sister had ever even glanced at one of his pieces.

  To be honest, she was a bit nervous to meet Mr. Fuseli. Though she admired his creativity, she wasn’t sure how she felt about some of his subject matter, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to encounter the man who’d dreamed it up. She almost hoped Lady Cavanaugh would be too hard to find.

  But she wasn’t, of course. The peach house simply wasn’t large enough to get lost in it. Lady B found her sister very easily, and Lady C was delighted to provide the introduction.

  Corinna steeled herself.

  Mr. Fuseli had masses of curly white hair and a face that looked oddly like a lion’s. He’d apparently already examined Corinna’s artwork.

  “Your paintings are very well done, Lady Corinna,” he told her in a booming voice. “Very accurate.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fuseli. I admire your paintings, too. They’re so inventive. Very visionary.”

  “I do believe that a certain amount of exaggeration improves a picture.”

  Was that a criticism? He’d described her work as very accurate. She always did her best to portray the truth or, as William Mulready had put it, to capture the essence. There was nothing exaggerated in her pictures at all.

  “Our ideas are the offspring of our senses,” he continued.

  What was that supposed to mean?

  “It was lovely speaking with you, Lady Corinna,” he concluded. “I wish you the best of luck.”

  That was it? He was done? She hadn’t the slightest idea what he’d been talking about, or whether he’d liked her pictures.

  Her sisters descended on her immediately. “What did he say?” Alexandra asked.

  “I don’t know, exactly. He didn’t quite make sense. But he did wish me the best of luck.”