When they reached the entryway, where Greaves was ready with Sophia’s pelisse and hat, Freddie took his own hat and bowed to Sophia. “I’ll be riding Ben’s gelding to Primrose Green. He’s got my curricle for the two of you, in deference to your injury.”
With a wink in Ben’s direction, he exited and hurried down the front portico of the house.
Sophia and Ben followed at a more sedate pace, and when they reached the curricle, he lifted her by the waist into the vehicle. It took no more than a few seconds, but the brush of her warm body against his coupled with her sweet rose scent had him a little light headed.
By the time he’d climbed up beside her and taken the reins from the groom, he’d regained his composure.
They were silent as he steered the light carriage over the gravel drive and toward the road leading to Primrose Green, which was on the other side of the village from Beauchamp House.
“Your brother seems nice,” Sophia said, which almost made him laugh. Polite chitchat was not what he expected from Miss Sophia Hastings.
Even so, he responded easily. “He’s a good man. Pesky as younger brothers often are, but since he’s married and become a father, he’s much more himself, I think. Freddie was always a bit wild. Certainly the most prone to get into scrapes of the Lisle brothers. But Leonora has had a calming influence on him.”
“Marriage has that effect on some men,” Sophia said with a nod. “Though his wife is Leonora Craven Lisle, is she not? Certainly not the sort of staid society wife one would think of as a steady hand.”
Freddie’s wife, Leonora, was a celebrated poet and had been rather famous in her own right long before she married Freddie. “I thought the same thing before I met her,” Ben said with a shake of his head. “But it turned out that far from being the sort of flighty, head-in-the-clouds poet one might expect, Leonora is rather comfortingly sane.”
He turned to glance at Sophia, where she sat beside him with one hand holding her hat in place thanks to a burst of wind. “She’s not unlike you, to be honest. She has that same sort of practicality mixed with idealism. I think you’d like each other if you were ever to meet.”
From the corner of his eye he could see that she’d colored a little. “Thank you. It’s a high compliment to be compared to someone of her stature.”
“I only tell the truth,” he said with false seriousness. “I’m a vicar, you know. It’s in the vicar handbook.”
“The Ten Commandments, you mean?” she asked with a raised brow.
“That would be one of them, yes,” he conceded with a sniff.
“Far be it from me to question you about church business, vicar.” Her tone was solemn, but there was a twinkle in her eye.
“See that you do not, Miss Hastings,” he returned. “See that you do not.”
After a brief, companionable silence, he said what he’d been thinking since she first walked out with the cane. “You seem to be feeling better.”
“Yes, thank goodness,” she agreed, the relief evident in her voice. “I was afraid it would be worse today and keep me from accompanying you. And I really do think you’ll need me to translate for you with Mr. Primble.”
“Come now,” Ben said. “I’ve met the man, and we had no trouble understanding one another.”
“It’s not that communication is the issue,” she said with a shrug. “It’s more that I will need to plead my case with him. Artist to artist.”
“But I thought Primble wasn’t much of an artist himself.”
“Oh, he’s not,” Sophia assured him. “He’s dreadful. But he fancies himself one, and that is all that’s needed for him to take up my cause. An attack against one of us is an attack against all in his eyes. It’s one of the reasons he turned Primrose Green into a colony. He wanted somewhere that artists could be together, in the spirit of community. Us against the world.”
“It sounds rather intoxicating,” Ben said, seeing when he glanced at her that she looked a bit like a champion. “Why aren’t you at Primrose Green?”
Sophia gave a snort of laughter next to him. “Because while I appreciate the ideals that the Primbles promote, I do not trust them to protect my reputation. And, scandalous as Beauchamp House can be to some, Primrose Green is far more dangerous. There’s a reason there’s only one lady artist in that house and she’s over fifty. The male artists who reside there are, not to put too fine a point on it, rogues every one of them.”
Ben had known that the Primbles’ household, filled as it was with various unrelated artists, was odd, but the trouble Sophia mentioned hadn’t occurred to him. Suddenly he was quite glad she hadn’t chosen to join the artist’s colony.
“Sounds like you made the right decision, Wallflower,” he said with quiet vehemence. He made a mental note to make sure she stayed in his view while they were at the colony.
“Oh, not that ridiculous nickname,” she said with an impatient noise. “I’m the least wallflowerish person you’ve ever met, I’d wager.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he responded, not looking her way, but feeling her gaze on him. “I suspect you fancy yourself a sociable, chatty sort. And you are, to a point. But there’s also a bit that you hold in reserve, Miss Hastings. As with the emotions you show only in your art, I think there’s another side of your personality. A shyer side. That you tamp down when you’re in company.”
“You’ve thought a great deal about this, haven’t you?” she asked wryly, though when he turned to look at her, there was hectic color in her cheeks. He must have hit a nerve. “Well, perhaps I am more complex than I let on to social acquaintances. But I don’t think you’re as cheerful and sunny as you pretend to be when you’re playing the role of vicar.”
Her shrewd analysis took him off-guard a bit. He was, as a general rule, an easy-going man, but there were times when even he didn’t feel as chipper and pleasant as his position required of him. But he’d learned long ago that not unlike Descartes, with his admonishment to kneel down and pray in order to become a believer, it took only a concerted effort to project good humor for it to eventually convert itself into the real thing.
“I’m no more a simple character than you are, Miss Hastings,” he agreed. “I may even have hidden depth. But that’s for you to learn at a later time. For it would appear we’re on the drive leading to Primrose Green.”
He watched as Sophia turned and noted that they were indeed on the straight drive leading up to the red brick manor house that was covered in ivy.
“So we are,” she said with a brisk nod. “I think I see your brother just ahead of us.”
And sure enough, Freddie, riding Ben’s gelding Gabriel, was almost at the end of the drive.
“So you do, Sophia,” he said. It was a little heady how good her name felt on his tongue. And with that thought he tamped down his attraction for his companion and focused on the meeting ahead of them.
* * *
Sophia soon found herself, along with the Lisle brothers, following the Primbles’ rather slovenly butler down a narrow hallway toward a pair of French doors.
As they walked, Sophia with one hand on her walking stick and the other resting on Ben’s arm, she couldn’t help but notice that every available inch of wall was covered with paintings. It hadn’t occurred to her that the artistic output of a household with multiple artists in it would of necessity need space in which to hang their works. Did the colony have so little luck selling their pieces, she wondered?
She’d only ever been in the drawing room of Primrose Green on social occasions. And then it had only been a couple of times. The general aesthetic of the Primbles seemed to be “more is better.” Not unlike this hallway with its abundance of paintings, from landscapes to portraits to classical scenes, the drawing room was a showcase of other sorts of bric a brac. From figurines, to tapestries, to mirrors.
“It’s a veritable museum’s worth of not very good art,” Freddie said in a low voice that only Sophia and Ben could hear.
Before they
could reply, they reached the doors, which opened directly onto a wide sweep of green lawn. Sophia had forgotten that Primrose Green boasted one of Capability Brown’s gardens. Rather than remaking it in the current style, the Primbles had maintained the artificial lake, faux antique Greek urns and follies along the lake’s edge and the tangles of trees and shrubbery beyond. On the expanse of green just near the house, were the Primbles and several of their residents, set up with easels and palettes as they tried to capture the landscape around them on canvas.
In the distance, Sophia could also see a man busy at another easel while several people in what looked to be Greek attire posed against the columns of the largest of the follies.
The butler announced their arrival, and after some initial pleasantries, the Primbles were ushering them back inside to a library that was, thankfully, filled only with books.
“My dear Miss Hastings,” said Evelyn Primble once she’d seen Sophia’s ankle properly elevated on a leather sofa, “you must take better care. It is the height of foolishness for an artist as talented as you to risk permanent bodily harm. You need your physical strength to do your work justice.”
The lady of the house was, by appearances, exactly what one would imagine when attempting to conjure the dictionary definition of a lady artist. Attired in a brightly colored patterned tunic, with a belt cinching the waist and a rather unwieldy turban covering her hair, Mrs. Primble gestured broadly with her hands when she spoke, and was, in general, the sort of woman who took up a great deal of metaphorical space in a room.
Her husband, by contrast, looked like a prosperous businessman, a banker perhaps, or a lawyer. His clothes, while following the customary country uniform of breeches and frock coat, were drab in comparison to his wife’s. But he was a pleasant enough fellow, if a bit dull in the shadow of his butterfly of a wife.
Mrs. Primble now turned to Ben with a scowl. “What on earth do you mean, Vicar, escorting this young lady out and about with such an injury? I thought you had more sense than this. She is a treasure, and we need her in top form for the exhibition.”
“Now, mother,” Mr. Primble chided “Miss Hastings is perfectly able to make her own decisions. It’s not the vicar’s fault…”
Exchanging an amused look with Ben, Sophia interrupted before the Primbles could continue their treatise on her well-being. “Actually, Mrs. Primble, the exhibition is precisely why we’ve come. That, and—” she gestured to Freddie who’d been watching the whole exchange with the enthusiasm of a small boy at Astley’s Amphitheatre for the first time, “—something a bit more complicated that Lord Frederick has brought to our attention.”
The husband and wife paused in their chatter and also exchanged a speaking look. Though Sophia had no notion of what it could mean.
“Then this calls for something stronger than the tea I’ve sent for,” Mrs. Primble said. “I know it’s not even time for luncheon yet, but I get the sense that this is serious business.”
“I’ll wait for the tea, thank you, Primble,” said Ben to their host, who had produced a bottle of brandy from the sideboard.
“I will too,” Sophia said with an apologetic smile. “I could do with a strong cup.”
“Suit yourselves,” Mrs. Primble said with a shrug as she handed a glass to Freddie. “Now, what’s this business you’ve brought to us?”
Quickly, Ben outlined Peter Morgan’s objections to Sophia’s paintings being displayed as part of the exhibition. As he spoke, Mrs. Primble in particular became more and more incensed. By the time he’d finished with Morgan’s threat to have him removed from the parish, both Primbles were nearly trembling with outrage.
“How dare that here-and-thererian, who has only himself arrived in this county within the last year or so, imply that Miss Hastings is not resident enough to show her paintings!” Mrs. Primble hissed. “That trumped-up figure of an artist he had under his wing is no more a painter than I am a blacksmith! His work is derivative at best, and near-forgery at worst.”
“Miss Hastings,” Primble assured her with a determined look, “you may rest assured that so long as Mrs. Primble and myself retain our positions on the exhibition committee, your work will have a place in our show. Not only is it thought-provoking and unlike anything else to be exhibited, but the fact that Lady Celeste Beauchamp herself chose you from the dozens of other female artists of a similar caliber gives you a stamp of approval that outshines any quibble that Peter Morgan might have. The man’s a Philistine, and doesn’t know good art from a machine in one of his blasted factories.”
“While your support is reassuring,” Sophia told them sincerely, “I cannot help but fear that he will find a way to turn the other committee members against me. The amount of largess he’s pumped into local coffers speaks quite loudly. Especially during a time of diminished prosperity.”
But Mrs. Primble seemed to have no worries. “You let us handle the matter, Miss Hastings. He might have money to flash about, but we are not without influence in the village. I will see to it that your art is displayed in a place of prominence, where it can do its work of stirring emotions.”
Despite her reservations, Sophia felt a sense of relief at the Primbles’ promises. They did hold a great deal of sway with the townsfolk, who held the artist’s colony to be an eccentric attraction that made their village more interesting to tourists, whose custom had become important while the crops were failing.
“Now,” Mrs. Primble said, as if they’d put the matter to rest, “what was this other business you wished to see us about?”
Rather than outline the entirety of what the Home Office believed about the forgery ring, Freddie told them only that a forger was suspected to be in the area and that the authorities were searching for him.
It would have been easy to assume that because of their eccentricity, the Primbles were foolish. But the shrewd look that came into Mrs. Primble’s eyes as Freddie spoke told Sophia that she, at least, was up to every rig.
“And you think we might know who this forger is because we have an abundance of artists in our own household.” It was a statement, not a question. And Sophia was pleased that Freddie didn’t try to fob her off with a half truth.
“It is not unreasonable to think that the house in the area that shelters the most painters might be the first place to search for our culprit,” he said with a nod. “I don’t wish for you to betray a trust, of course. But as artists yourselves, you know that works that falsely purport to be the valuable creations of the world’s finest craftsmen devalues everything in the market. You cannot wish your own works, or those of your residents, to lose value because of this charlatan.”
Primble moved to slip a hand around his wife’s waist, as if to give her support while she took in the news.
“There is someone, Lord Frederick,” he said, his jaw tight with emotion. “Someone who once was a resident here, but has since gone on to enjoy the auspices of another patron. His work, while technically strong, never had enough originality to set it apart from that of anyone else’s. There was no spark. No je ne sais quoi. When he was approached by Peter Morgan with an offer of patronage, he leapt at the chance. And he has, since moving into Morgan’s household, found some degree of success. Though I wouldn’t say his work is any better than it was before. It does help to have the backing of a man with a great many friends who have the funds but not the taste to furnish their mansions with art.”
“You’re speaking of Thomas Ryder, then?” Ben asked, his eyes sharp with interest. “I didn’t realize he’d once been a resident at Primrose Green.”
“Not for terribly long,” Mrs. Primble assured him. “He didn’t get along with the others, for one thing. A house like this, where many temperaments must live in harmony, isn’t the best place for someone who is unwilling to cooperate with his peers. He often chose the best models and locations for his works without any concern for anyone else who might have previously made arrangements to use them. He had a rather mercenary approach to art itse
lf, seeing it as a means to an end, rather than something to be created from one’s soul. He didn’t fit in here, and to be honest, when he left to go to Morgan’s we were all relieved.”
Chapter 12
Sophia had never met Ryder, though she’d been aware that Morgan had taken a painter under his wing. He’d been there the night of the ball, though he’d given her a wide berth because of her injury. He had danced every set and seemed interested only in those young ladies who had the boon of a large dowry to illuminate their charms. It sounded as if he painted with the same venial intent as he sought a wife.
“And you think he’s good enough to reproduce the works of the Old Masters?” Freddie asked, rising from his chair, restless now they’d learned of a suspect.
“Absolutely,” said Primble with a nod. “He might not be very creative when it comes to choosing his own subjects, but his brushwork is outstanding. And he often made it a point to teach himself the techniques of great artists in an attempt to improve his own work. He’s one of those poor creatures whose paintings are flawless, but unfortunately don’t depict anything particularly new or interesting.”
Sophia was gaining a new respect for the Primbles’ knowledge of art and painting. Like most people, she’d assumed that they surrounded themselves with artists because they lacked talent themselves. But the ability to differentiate between mediocre and excellent work was a talent in and of itself. Perhaps there was a reason for the hallway of not very good paintings. Something besides simply displaying the works of their students in a place of prominence.
Having elicited the information they’d come for, Ben also rose, and moved to stand beside Sophia’s settee, holding her walking stick for her.
Wallflower Most Wanted Page 11
