A Fine Retribution

by Dewey Lambdin

  “If it rains, or Charley’s more interested in something else, we can’t go,” Jessica said.

  “Perhaps the bawdy prints would entice him,” Lewrie japed.

  “Hah!” Jessica barked in sudden humour. “Let that reach Father’s ears, and we’d never hear the end of it!”

  “Well, perhaps I could escort you, if my doin’ so isn’t an equal scandal to your father, Miss Jessica,” Lewrie offered. “Now that my portrait is all but done, but for the uniform details, or nearabouts, let’s say that we skip tomorrow’s session. I could hire a hackney or a coach, come collect you round mid-day, and make an afternoon of it. And, there’s one of my favourite chop-houses nearby in Savoy Street, just off the start of the Strand. It’s like an ‘all nations’ dram shop, with cuisine from half of Europe on their menu. My treat.”

  “Oh, Sir Alan, that would be simply grand of you!” Jessica enthused, “Though … are you sure we would not be imposing on your time?”

  “Mais oui, the gesture magnifique,” Madame Pellatan cooed, “one worthy of le chevalier grand!”

  “Then it’s settled? Excellent!” Lewrie declared.

  “We’ll bring umbrellas, just in case, though,” Jessica wisely suggested. “Then, rain or no, at least we will be in Sir Alan’s capable hands.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hmm, maybe we should’ve picked a better day, Lewrie thought as their two-horse hackney fell into the queue of other carriages and grander private coaches bringing attendees to Ackermann’s Repository of Arts the next day. It was only at the last minute that he learned that this would the opening day of the exhibition, which would attract not only the idle hoi polloi out for any free entertainment, but the Quality, members of the Peerage, the famous, rich, and infamous. One peek out the window of the hackney revealed a press of people on the sidewalks from storefronts to the kerb-sides, with barely room for coach passengers to alight, and the lines in front of the shop’s doors looked to be daunting, too. At least the weather was not too threatening, the usual grey overcast, part clouds and part coalsmoke, which might end in a misty drizzle after all. Lewrie stuck his head out again to take a deep sniff, but his nose, trained to the smell of fresh water and rain on the wind at sea, failed him; all he could sense was horse manure.

  After several minutes of slowly creeping forward as the queue of equipages dropped their passengers and wheeled away, Lewrie decided that there was nothing more for it.

  “I fear we might as well debark here, ladies,” Lewrie told them, gathering up his walking-stick and furled umbrella. “Mind your possessions, your reticules. There’s sure t’be more than a few ‘three-handed Jennies’ about. Pickpockets,” he added, explaining how his pocket watch, chain, and fob had been lifted by an expert, right in the lobby of the Old Bailey just after his acquittal in 1801. Once on the sidewalk, he paid off the cabman, telling him that he was free to hustle up other fares, and they would hail another when they were done.

  Then, they spent at least a quarter-hour standing in line before gaining admittance, shoulder-to-shoulder with people, some of whom complained of sharing a sidewalk with the working or idle poor, barely a cut above “Captain Tom of the Mob, begad!”

  Lewrie was in a civilian suiting, a black coat, buff breeches, top-boots, and a maroon waist-coat, with a matching neck-stock, and a low-crowned, narrow-brimmed black hat. Madame Pellatan had gone all-in, in pink and white, a white silk shawl, a young mountain-sized powdered wig sprigged with wee birds and butterflies, with her face and neck an inch deep in powder and rouge. Thank God that Jessica had dressed so much simpler in a mid-blue gown trimmed with white lace, with an ivory satin shawl draped over her arms, with a perky visored bonnet on her head, though her hair had been done up with a royal blue and gilt rope of some kind woven into her formal updo.

  Ackermann’s must have hired some toughs to keep an eye on the crowd, steering away curious urchins and the poorly dressed, giving any suspicious-looking idlers and pickpockets ferocious warning squints. At last, they gained admittance, squeezing through the doors against an outrush of previous gawkers, and into a buzzing, guffawing, tittering mob of sightseers, some of them smelling no better than they had a right to, and the air, with so many candles lit, suddenly seemed much warmer than it had been outside.

  “Where do we start?” Jessica asked, frowning as she peered from one side to the other, and sidling up closer to Lewrie, out of dread, or sheer necessity to avoid being jostled. Framed paintings rose to the ceilings in a jumble, whilst the works to be exhibited stood about on easels, or braced atop the counters.

  “If this is a way to show the works, it’s not workin’,” Lewrie said. “Who thought this arrangement up?” There were also some bins where unframed canvases stood to be leafed through, held up for inspection, then jammed back in. There were also open-top boxes where shifty sorts of men pawed through, laughing and nudging their compatriots.

  “I almost regret coming,” Madame Pellatan bemoaned, at her most theatrical, drawing out a Chinese fan to whisk before her face.

  “I think I see some sense to all this,” Lewrie said at last, and pointed to the left. “It looks as if people are startin’ over yonder, and workin’ their way round to the right. Let’s see if we can sidle over, even if we have to queue up again.”

  That was the key to finding the exhibition pieces in all of that crush, though it did not allow them the space to take in any of the artworks. Step back far enough to contemplate one, and half a dozen others would step in front of them. To snake their way beyond those viewers, they would be too close to appreciate much more than the brush strokes and the colours.

  Crowded, and boring, Lewrie thought, who had never had much appreciation for fine art, though he had once owned a tittilating scene of an Ottoman Turkish hareem, with tits and thighs aplenty hung in his old rented rooms on Panton Street, just after the American Revolution, but his late wife had taken one shocked look at it, given him the evil eye, and sold it off to a street monger, instanter.

  There were pastorals, featuring grist mills, trees, and cattle; ruined abbeys and churches abandoned since Henry the Eighth’s years; grand and vast country estates with horses and dogs; more horses held by jockeys or stablemen, thoroughbreds and Arabians with heads too tiny to be real; hunt scenes with more hounds; the tumble-down, ivy-covered ruins of ancient Greece and Rome, though those had intriguing sunset clouds and colours; and there were ships in battle, done by artists who had only the vaguest grasp of what ships looked like, what ocean waves looked like, rows of curly-cued or saw-toothed waves marching in tidy rows, at which he scoffed.

  “Alan, old son,” someone called out. “Is that you?”

  “Who?” Lewrie asked, turning to look about, finding his old school chum, Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick. “Peter, you old scamp. Damn my eyes!” he cried, forgetting his vow to keep close watch over his salty tongue, and leading his small party through the crush to shake hands. “Good t’see you, again! How d’ye keep?”

  “Main-well, considering,” Rushton replied, “question is, how do you keep, now you’re a householder?”

  “Just temporary,” Lewrie told him. “Oh, Peter, allow me to name you to the ladies. Madame Pellatan, Miss Chenery, this is Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick, a schoolmate of mine from my brief time at Harrow. Peter, this is Madame Berenice Pellatan, a noted artist who fled the Terror with her husband from Paris.”

  “Madame, pleased to make your acquaintance,” Rushton said with a brief bow from the waist.

  “M’sieur le Vicomte enchanté,” Madame Pellatan intoned with a deep curtsy, and a hand out to be kissed, which Peter did peckingly, keeping a straight face though amused by her airs.

  “Allow me to further name to you Miss Jessica Chenery, another artist of rising renown, who is doing my portrait,” Lewrie said, “Miss Chenery, Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick.”

  “Miss Chenery, happy to make your acquaintance,” Peter replied. “Ah, and here is Lady Draywick. Come, my dear, and
greet one of my old school friends,” he said as his wife emerged from the crowd, repeating the introduction ritual afresh.

  No wonder ye took Tess on for yer mistress, Lewrie thought; for your “lawful blanket’s” a fubsy Tartar.

  Though there was no accounting for a man’s taste, Lewrie knew Peter Rushton of old, and had always ranked him as a fellow of a most discriminating taste when it came to women, so … how to explain his choice of wife? Surely, she must have been attractive at one time; either that, or possessed of one Hell of a dowry. Peter’s own wealth notwithstanding, Lady Draywick looked like a dowdy, older housemaid out on the town her one free day a week, dressed in her mistress’s finery. She also had a permanent frown on her phyz, which deepened upon introduction to Lewrie, and Jessica, giving Lewrie the impression that Lady Draywick suspected her husband, and all of his so-called old friends, of being so many lechering, adulterous wallowing swine, and any fetching younger mort of being a whore, or one of her husband’s kept women.

  “Alan … Sir Alan, Baronet now … got sent down with me from Harrow when we set the governor’s coach house on fire, ha ha,” Peter boasted. “Hadn’t seen him in ages after he went off to the Navy, but whilst Clotworthy Chute and I were in Venice, just before Bonaparte threatened to take it, there Alan was, and we sailed out of danger on his ship. You recall Clotworthy, dear? He was in on our fiery cabal, too. Think we’re all still banned from Harrow for life, ha ha!”

  “Thought they asked you back t’speak to the students,” Lewrie said. “Clotworthy mentioned it whilst helping me furnish my place.”

  “Then they’re getting hellish-desperate for exemplary speakers,” Rushton hooted in mirth. “Why, they’ll be having highwaymen in, next!”

  “Why did you set the coach house on fire?” Jessica asked, halfway ’twixt glee and a show of alarm.

  “Oh, because the school governor was a tyrant,” Rushton said.

  “The food was pig swill,” Lewrie stuck in.

  “The coach house was … there,” Rushton sniggered.

  “But we let the horses out before we lit it,” Lewrie assured her. “Just our luck t’be caught still holdin’ the torches.”

  “Hmmph!” from Lady Draywick. “Some wit never improves with age.”

  “You’re doing Alan’s portrait, d’ye say, Miss Chenery?” Peter asked. “That’d be a trial, making him appear human, haw haw.”

  “I am, milord,” Jessica answered gladly, “and we’re almost done, though I fear Sir Alan finds posing too long a trial, but our sessions have proved most amusing and exciting. He’s lived a most adventurous life.”

  “I daresay,” Lady Draywick drawled, sure that “sessions” with Jessica Chenery were done stark-naked.

  “Mademoiselle Jessica has the ability to render her subjects more true-to-life and realistic than anyone I have ever seen, m’sieur vicomte,” Madame Pellatan stuck in, feeling ignored. “Her likeness of the Baronet simply leaps off the canvas.”

  “It’ll be done soon,” Lewrie told them, “and you and Lady Draywick should come over for an un-veiling. Your brother, Harold, too, if he’s of a mind. My cook is a marvel, and is sure t’lay on a fine feast, in celebration.”

  “I say, that’s sounds jolly, what, m’dear?” Rushton said to his wife. “Clotworthy, too, since he said he furnished your place in such a grand manner. I wonder, Miss Chenery … have you any paintings in this exhibition?”

  “None submitted to the Royal Academy, milord, though I have been tempted to try, under an assumed name, of course,” Jessica replied, in an impish way, “I have left several pieces at Ackermann’s on consignment, but I fear you’d find them un-suitable, unless you wish fanciful paintings done for children.” She looked all round, up to the rafters, and could only spot one of hers still hanging, of a squirming puppy in a young girl’s lap, trying to lick the girl’s face.

  “Ah, yes … pretty,” Rushton said, sounding let down. “A pity my children are mostly grown. Amusing, though.”

  “Miss Chenery has been very successful with her fanciful art,” Lewrie boasted. “Even illustrated a children’s book, right?”

  “For money?” Lady Draywick sniffed.

  “Yes, milady, for money,” Jessica shot back, her dander up.

  “And why not?” Lewrie felt compelled to defend her. “Anyone with great talent, even a woman, should never hide it under a bushel basket, or be expected to sketch relatives for free.”

  “Well, I…!” Lady Draywick began.

  “Hah! Modern outlook, Alan. Quite right, too!” Peter rushed to intervene. “More show to see. You will excuse us, Sir Alan, Madame … Miss Chenery. Send me a note when you’re ready to display your portrait, Alan. Good day,” he said, bowing his way from them, and dragging his dis-approving mate with him, still clucking in irritation.

  “Thank you, Sir Alan,” Jessica said, bestowing upon him a warm smile. “For defending me, and for your sentiment.”

  “Meant every word of it, Miss Jessica,” Lewrie replied, feeling as if he’d done something noble, for a rare once. “What a fubsy…”

  “Yes, Lady Draywick is a … well, whatever one wishes to call her can’t be said in public,” Jessica stammered, on the verge of some foul language.

  “Ah, but in private, now!” Lewrie teased, returning the impish smile on her face, and delighting that he could amuse her. “Ye know, for all the years I’ve known Peter, this was the first time I ever met his wife?”

  “Well, perhaps some rocks are better left un-turned,” Jessica slyly japed. “One never knows what lurks beneath them.”

  “Oh, well said!” Lewrie encouraged. “You’re gettin’ the hang of it. I don’t know whether I’ve corrupted you, or wakened a talent long un-used.” And that was rewarded with another smile on her face, this one warmer and fonder, and Lewrie was surprised by the flood of warmth that that awakened in his chest.

  “Oh, is that a David?” Madame Pellatan exclaimed, pointing to the far side of the gallery. “He was a dear friend of ours, before we had to flee Paris. I’d know his work anywhere! But, how can it be here, in England? His Belisarius is so well known. We must see it, Jessica!”

  “Who?” Lewrie asked as he was dragged along in Madame Pellatan’s wake as she ploughed through the crowd like a charging bull.

  “Jacques-Louis David,” the older lady said over her shoulder, “a most famous painter! Oh,” she sniffed, crestfallen as she got a better look at it. “Quel dommage, it is only a copy, and done much smaller than the original. An exceptionally good one, but … pity the buyer who is taken in. How dare they sell it as the original!”

  Madame Berenice droned on, despite it being a copy, about the composition, the musculature depicted, so much blah-blah to Lewrie that he lifted his gaze to other works hung high above, hoping for a promising nude or two, but no such luck.

  “The dynamic nature of it,” Madame Berenice went on, “and the lifelike character. It is an example of ingratitude to those who serve the state. Belisarius depicts a successful Roman general who has suffered the ingratitude of a heartless emperor, reduced to begging on the streets to support himself and his daughter. Jessica, see how dramatically the faces, the bodies are rendered? The human form must be studied in detail, what lies under the skin, else all will appear stilted and forced. The Italian, DaVinci, did just as meticulous studies for his paintings, his sculptures.”

  “And medical books help,” Jessica commented. “Yes, anatomy books,” she added, to answer Lewrie’s quizzical look. “I have a set that I found in a used-book dealer’s bin. Skeleton, sinews, muscles, and veins … some illustrations done in colour. Almost as good as attending medical school anatomies, which of course I could never do! I’ve found them most useful.”

  “Then I’ll never let you near a surgeon’s scalpel, or even the steak knives,” Lewrie japed. “Talk about stayin’ on your good side!”

  “Oh, Sir Alan, you are so droll!” Jessica replied, touching him on the sleeve for a second. “You could nev
er get on my bad side!”

  There was a gap in the crowd in front of the David, allowing Madame Pellatan and Jessica to get closer, prating of brush strokes, whilst Lewrie was cut off by several fancily dressed couples swanning in between. Before he could sidle through to rejoin them, a young fellow in high Beau Brummell fashion leaned over Jessica’s shoulder and made a comment, using the press of the crowd as an excuse to put himself against her bottom, chuckling and leering.

  “Excuse me, sir!” Jessica snapped, whirling to face the man.

  “I said there’s better muscles to be seen in the flesh, my dear,” the fop repeated.

  “You groped me, sir!” Jessica hotly accused.

  “Pushed ’gainst you,” the fop shrugged off. “Quite by accident. Perhaps you’ll like me better, after you get a chance to know me. A guinea, shall we say, sweet’un?”

  “You’ll like me a lot less, after I knock your damned teeth out,” Lewrie growled as he got up to them, and Jessica was quick to come to Lewrie’s side, a bit behind his left shoulder.

  “Beg pardon, you…!” the young fellow began to bristle up.

  “You will leave the young lady alone … sir!” Lewrie warned him. “Get ye gone, now, before it costs you more than you can spare.”

  “I was only making idle conversation, most innocently,” the young man glibly crooned, shamming sweet reason. “I was jostled, and meant no offence.”

  “You were not!” Jessica retorted. “You groped me, and made improper advances, and prop … propositioned me!” she stammered.

  “I’m sure that you’re mistaken, girl,” the young man sniggered.

  “Bugger off,” Lewrie snarled.

  “Or what, sir?” the fellow shot back, full of confidence, even seeming to enjoy the confrontation.

  “Boy,” Lewrie sneered, “I’ve probably killed more men than you’ve had hot dinners, and one more, especially one like you, makes no significance. Now, bugger off before I rip your head off and shit down your neck!”