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, apparently enjoying the 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 wonderful 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 disbelieved such 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.
Corinna was about to confess ignorance when a man stepped up and gave a little bow. "I'd be pleased to explain to such fine ladies." Although he wasn't anywhere as handsome as Sean, he too had a similar lilting accent. She'd had no idea so many Academicians were Irish. "Martin Archer Shee, at your service," he added.
Martin Archer Shee had studied with the late, great Sir Joshua Reynolds. Corinna was awed that such a man would bother to introduce himself, let alone take time to explain a mysterious procedure. "I'm Corinna Chase, and I'd adore hearing all about it."
"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 a more ominous 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 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; a quite engaging grin, Corinna thought. "Thank you kindly for the explanation."
"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 breathed. Maybe her chances weren't so dire, after all. "Martin Archer Shee likes my work. And he studied with none other than Reynolds."
"Ah, but I wrote Life of Reynolds," another man said, rivalry evident in his tone.
He stepped up to take Shee's place. Though she'd never seen him before in her life, Corinna knew who he was immediately. "James Northcote, I'm honored to meet you. I read your book four years ago, when it first came out, and I found your recollections of your old master to be quite enlightening."
"He was an enlightening man," Northcote said. "And a discerning one. He'd have been impressed, as I am, with your portrait of Lord Lincolnshire. The man's suit looks like real velvet, his lace truly 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 female 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 sounded very impressed with your realism."
Corinna smiled at her sister's use of one of the newest terms in art. 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, does one? Clearly he was implying 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 that Mr. Northcote had also said she needed improvement in portraying anatomy.
"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 quite happy, but sh
e 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 the best.
Besides, things weren't looking all that dire, 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 females 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 wouldn't be wanting 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. Mournfully.
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 the woman had in her bedroom. That she had one at all was rather intriguing. Mr. Fuseli painted weird, often sensual scenes, fantasies that were daringly inventive. His most acclaimed painting, The Nightmare, was an unforgettable image of a woman in the throes of a violently erotic dream.
She was a bit nervous to meet Mr. Fuseli. He seemed attracted to the supernatural, and he was bound to hold strong opinions. She almost hoped Lady Cavanaugh would be too hard to find.
But she wasn't, of course. The house simply wasn't large enough to get lost in it. Lady B found her sister very easily, and Lady C was positively pleased to provide the introduction.
Mr. Fuseli had masses of curly white hair and a face that looked oddly like a lion's. He'd already examined Corinna's artwork on the walls.
"Your paintings are very well done," he told her in a booming voice. "Very accurate, Lady Corinna."
"Thank you, Mr. Fuseli. I admire your paintings, too. I'm inspired by your inventiveness. I find your work fascinating. Very visionary."
"I do believe that a certain amount of exaggeration improves a picture."
Was that a criticism? He'd described her work as well done and 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 barest idea what he'd been talking about, or whether he'd liked her pictures.
Her sisters appeared as if by magic—or perhaps as if they'd sprung from one of his strange paintings. "What did he say?" Juliana asked.
"I don't know, exactly. He didn't quite make sense. But he did wish me the best of luck."
"Then he goes in the for column," Juliana said firmly, being the type to always look on the bright side.
Corinna wished she were half so certain. But maybe Mr. Fuseli did like her paintings. And there was still John James Chalon.
The crowd seemed to be thinning out. Spotting Lady A, who was looking rather flustered, Corinna made her way over to see her.
Her sisters followed in her wake.
"Did you talk to Mr. Chalon? Did he say he was willing to meet me?"
"I couldn't find him," Lady A said. "It seems he's left."
"Oh, no. He was the last committee member." Her final opportunity to convince herself she still had a chance. "Now I won't know if he liked my portrait."
"It's all right, dear." The sweet lady smiled. "Everyone loved your landscapes. This all went brilliantly, don't you think?"
Corinna nodded. It was all she could manage. Her only other options were to scream or to cry.
"Have another rout cake," Alexandra said.
THIRTY
THE EARL'S health was failing fast.
Lord Lincolnshire hadn't left his bedroom in two days…two days during which he wanted his nephew nearby. Stuck in the house for hour upon hour, Sean was at his wit's end. He had so much he needed to accomplish, so much that wasn't getting done.
And he missed Corinna.
For a solid week she'd spent long days painting in the salon. Morning to evening, she'd been there. Though he hadn't been there much himself during those hours, he'd liked seeing her portrait every night, checking her progress. He'd liked thinking that if he wanted to see her, he knew exactly where to find her.
She'd been a fixture. A comfort. A temptation.
But since she'd finished the portrait, all her time had been spent with her aunt or Lady Avonleigh. Now that he was here, she was gone. He didn't know when he might see her next, and the house felt empty.
Fearing the situation would drag on, yesterday Sean had asked Higginbotham to have his art supplies fetched from the studio on Piccadilly Street. Thinking it was what Hamilton would do himself, he'd set everything up in the drawing room that had Hamilton's pictures all over the walls. Then he'd summoned his secretary, Mr. Sykes.
Sykes had been in Sean's employ for nearly eight years. He was a short, dark man with round gold spectacles, a quick, precise mind, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Sean's many and varied enterprises. During the hours the earl slept—which, fortunately, were many—the two of them worked quietly behind closed doors in the drawing room. The staff had been told that Sykes was Sean's assistant, there to mix paint for him and such. In reality, they were allocating positions for all of Lincolnshire's many servants.
Sean was thankful that was now done. He'd begun notifying each member of the staff of his final decisions. Were it not for the sadness of Lincolnshire's impending demise, he suspected some of them might be singing as they worked. They were obviously looking forward to what lay ahead. And very relieved overall.
But Sean was not.
In deference to Lincolnshire's wishes, he was neglecting his own concerns. In defiance of Hamilton's plans, he'd been introduced as the man in public. And other than the last few days—and despite knowing what was best—he was kissing Corinna too often and growing much more attached to her than was prudent.
Nothing was working out the way it was supposed to. And lately he'd found himself wondering if maybe he could stay with her. Marry her. He kept thinking about how her brother reportedly thought him a fine man, and attaching way too much significance to that.
This had to stop.
When she showed up unexpectedly Thursday morning, he was entirely too happy to see her.
"How is he?" she asked quietly, poking her head into the earl's room.
"The same." Sean waved her to the chair next to him beside the towering bed, where the earl slumbered upright, his back propped against a dozen pillows. "Sleeping as comfortably as I expect we can hope." It seemed the only way the man could sleep these days, the only way he could breathe.
"You look upset."
"It's not pleasant," he said with a shrug, "but it cannot last much longer." He looked closer at her, noticing her tense jaw, a certain wildness in her eyes. Or maybe panic. "You look upset, too."
Lowering herself to the chair, she sighed. "Lady Avonleigh's reception didn't go well."
"What happened?"
"She kept asking why you weren't there," she said, keeping her
voice low. "Or rather, why Mr. Hamilton wasn't there." She winced and flicked a wary glance at Lincolnshire, apparently worried he might have overheard. "Sorry."
"He's asleep. Though we should be careful."
She nodded. "The committee members were mystified, since they believe Mr. Hamilton to be in Wales. Lady A and her sisters and my cousins and others all kept saying he'd been seen at various social events, and the artists kept saying that was impossible…" She clenched her hands together in her lap. "It was a mess, Sean."
"It's sorry I am about that." Not that there was anything he could have done. "How about the rest? Did the committee members like your new painting?"
She sighed again. "For the most part, they didn't seem enthralled with my portrait of Lord Lincolnshire."
"Why not?" He was outraged. These artists were obviously idiots. Temperamental idiots, one and all—with the exception of Corinna, of course. "It's brilliant."
"It isn't." When he might have protested further, she unclenched her hands and laid one on his arm. "They liked Lord Lincolnshire's expression well enough. William Mulready said I captured the essence of the man." A hint of a smile transformed her face; she'd obviously liked hearing that. "And they admired the textures overall. They thought his suit looked like real velvet, his lace truly handmade, the trees wet and glistening."
"But…?" All of that sounded grand. Which meant there had to be a but.
"But they claimed Lord Lincolnshire's form doesn't seem real beneath his clothes. He looks stiff and unnatural."
"Did they?" Sean hadn't looked for such a thing. Hadn't known to look for such a thing. He'd been impressed with the way she'd rendered Lincolnshire's face, and aye, his clothes and the background. Even color-blind, he could see that. But he'd paid no attention to the man's body.
Well, another man wouldn't, would he? Unless he were an artist.
Hurting for her, he tried to point out the positive. "It doesn't sound all that bad. They had lots of good things to say."
"One of them really loved my work—"
"One?"
"Yes, one. Or rather, only one had no reservations about it. Martin Archer Shee, that was."
Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3) Page 17
