by Jennifer Joy
Millie continued, “It would be a good diversion for you. If I mention your artistic abilities to the ladies on the committees, they will line up around the block to have their portraits done. You would meet many families that way and widen your acquaintances. And you would be kept occupied, which we have determined is for the benefit of your health.”
Anne did not need much convincing. It terrified her to expose her art to the public and potential critiques of the ton, but she could easily ask into her family and conduct her own sort of investigation until Mr. Haggerston returned from his holiday.
Nancy drew closer. “Pardon me for speaking up, Mrs. Hepplewhite, but I too hold an interest in seeing Miss Anne’s health improve. Might you have an address for Mr. Carriera? Perhaps we could go to his shop this very afternoon.”
“I must have it scribbled somewhere on my desk. I shall look for it directly.” Standing up with purpose, Millie said, “There, now that is settled. I will spread the word about the miniature portraits and you will soon have more to do than you have time to do it in. Oh, is this not exciting!”
She had barely closed the door when Nancy squealed in delight. “Do you realize what this means? We have figured a way for you to earn money without compromising your standing as a lady completely. We only need to convince Mr. Carriera.”
Anne thought back over the conversation, trying to understand.
Nancy sat next to her. “Let me explain. This artist, Mr. Carriera, has too many customers and not enough time. What if we could convince him to let you help him lighten his load for a price?”
A nervous knot balled up in Anne’s stomach. “But he is a real artist. I only pretend to be. I am not good enough.”
“Nonsense. Even Mrs. Hepplewhite recognized your talent. If the ladies in her committees have their way, you would paint them for free. Well, I see an opportunity and we cannot afford to let it pass us by.”
Anne was not sure which sensation was stronger: the dizziness or the nausea. Whether she fainted or vomited, neither was pleasant.
Nancy put her hand on Anne’s shoulder. “Miss, what have you got to lose?”
Anne focused on the question. She had no home. She had no money. She, as yet, had no information about her father. She could not afford pride. “Nothing.”
“What have you to gain?”
It was difficult for Anne to see any positive outcome. Using her imagination widely, she said, “If this venture is successful, which I highly doubt, I could earn a living. I think it would be very nice to see my paintings about. It would be pleasant to be good at something.”
“Your prospects are improving by the day, Miss Anne. Once we get an address, we could offer your services this very afternoon. Then, if it is in the area, we could return to the dress shop. I am certain Miss Adélaïde will give me work.”
Nancy’s optimism slowly seeped into Anne. She had no information about her father yet, but she was buying time to find him. She just might succeed.
Interrupting her happy thoughts, a footman presented a letter on a silver tray. It was addressed to her in Mother’s hand.
Chapter 11
Anne’s hand shook as she reached out for the letter. Her legs felt weak as she walked over to the settee and broke the wax seal.
Before she could open the page, Millie returned. She waved a piece of paper in her hand triumphantly. “I found it. I really must see to that desk. It is a mess and this little slip of paper had found its way to the bottom of the mountainous pile. But that is no matter now. Here it is.”
Anne took the paper and looked at the address. “I do not know London very well. Is this near us or near Mademoiselle Adélaïde’s?”
“It is closer to Adélaïde’s shop. Only, perhaps, three or four blocks.”
Millie said the distance like it was a short jaunt. But Anne remembered how large the blocks were and her legs already quivered. Best to take a carriage there and attempt to walk back.
“Thank you for going to the trouble of finding this.” Anne held up the paper, only then remembering that Mother’s letter was still in her hand.
“Oh, you have correspondence. I will leave you to it. I really must attend to some letters as well. I may even tidy up my desk while I am at it. Are you in need of a carriage? Mrs. Turford is picking me up in her carriage for a tour of an orphanage. We need to see what improvements need to be made to raise funds, so mine is available to carry you all over London if you wish.”
“That is very generous. Thank you. My feet thank you.”
Everyone laughed and Anne thought how nice it was to make people merry.
When Millie left, Anne looked at Mother’s letter and then to Mr. Carriera’s address. Two bits of paper. One, no doubt, contained nothing pleasant and would cast a shadow on Anne’s hopeful mood. The other was terrifying, but held the promise of good things if she did not ruin it.
She put Mother’s letter on the table by the settee. It would not hurt anyone if she waited a little longer to read it.
A few minutes later, Anne sat in Millie’s carriage, clutching her sketches to her chest as if they were her armor.
“Remind me why I am doing this, please.” Her heart was pounding just as hard as it had been during the walk that morning.
“You need money and you need to make more connections so that you may inquire about your family. This achieves both.”
“Yes. Right. I can do this. I think.”
“Of course you can, miss. All you need is to be brave for thirty seconds. Anyone can be brave for thirty seconds.”
“I have not been brave a moment in my life, Nancy. Thirty seconds is an eternity for me.”
“Well, then, how about five seconds?” Nancy smiled at Anne in her encouraging way.
Anne controlled her breathing and practiced what she might say in her mind, as they drove nearer to Mr. Carriera’s shop.
They got there too soon. Nancy herded her through the door and before Anne could gather her thoughts, she was standing in front of a gentleman about the age of Mother. He wore spectacles and his white hair poofed out over his ears on the sides surrounding a shiny dome. He looked over his spectacles at Anne.
Nancy nodded for Anne to speak. Five seconds.
“Are you Mr. Carriera?”
“I am. And who might you be, young lady?” He spoke softly, like a father would to a child.
“My name is Anne de Bourgh. I come with a particular request. I hope that we might be able to help each other.” She stepped forward until she stood in front of Mr. Carriera’s work table.
“You have my attention, Miss de Bourgh. Please, tell me how I may help you.” He got up and pulled two chairs over to his table, motioning for the ladies to sit.
Anne relaxed slightly. At least he would be kind when he refused to let her work with him.
“I find myself in need of work. My family is very proud and my skills very limited, so my prospects are… poor, to say the least. I would never venture to call myself a talented artist. You are a much better judge of that.”
“Is that your book of sketches?” he asked, holding his hands out.
Anne handed the book over and picked at her fingers while he looked. She was afraid to look up and see the disapproval on his face.
“You captured the devilish look in the eyes of this man. Your portraits are very expressive. Have you studied much?”
Encouraged with the praise, Anne sat taller in her chair. “Only a short time, many years ago.”
“Good. Too many people waste years on theory and nonsense when they should be practicing.”
Starved to hear more, Anne asked, “Do you really think I have talent?”
Mr. Carriera sat back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking at Anne over his spectacles.
She regretted the question, but his answer meant so much to her.
Finally, he leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. “I do. Now, tell me please, what I can do to help you.”
Anne clutched her
heart and slumped into her chair, smiling so big her cheeks hurt.
“A friend of mine mentioned that you do miniature portraits and have more work than you can handle. I would like to help you— if you think I am good enough.”
“Ah. Your friend is right.” He waved his hand around the room and Anne noticed for the first time all of the sketches lined up on the wall waiting to be painted. There must have been two dozen.
“Miss de Bourgh, your sketches are excellent but have you worked with watercolors? I should like to see your work before we make any agreement.” He opened a drawer and pulled out cakes of colors and unwrapped a thin square of ivory.
“Right now?” Anne’s trepidation returned. How could she paint in front of a real artist?
“Yes, why not? You do not have enough time to finish a complete portrait, but it will be enough for me to determine if your technique is good.” He pushed the jar of brushes closer to her and placed the ivory next to them. Selecting a picture from the wall, he asked, “Can you paint her?”
Anne looked at his sketch. His lines and shading were much better than hers.
Nancy reached over and squeezed her hand, mouthing the words, “Five seconds.”
She had made it this far. She would not stop now.
After asking a few questions about the lady’s coloring and general demeanor, she started to work. The paints were easier to work with than she had anticipated, and it did not take long for the noise outside the shop to dull to a low hum. She was alone in her own world where time had no meaning and she felt at ease with herself.
Anne did not know how much time had passed when a shadow covered her piece of ivory and broke her concentration. It took her a moment to remember where she was.
Mr. Carriera stood behind her, his eyes squinting through his spectacles.
“Good. Good. Very good. Miss de Bourgh, I will be frank. Your technique is lacking in some areas, but you undeniably have talent.”
It was not enough. She had failed. Anne’s chin quivered though she did her best to stop it.
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Carriera, and for your time. I am grateful.” She rose to take her leave.
“Where are you going? Did you not say that you need work?”
Confused, Anne sat back down.
“It is true. You cannot paint the portraits today, but I think that with a couple weeks of instruction, you would be ready. Can you come in the mornings?”
Anne wanted to leap up and hug the man.
“Yes,” she almost yelled.
“Tomorrow morning, say, 9 o’clock? That is not too early?”
“I would come if you said to be here at the break of dawn. Thank you.”
“I look forward to working with you, Miss de Bourgh.” He bowed. The lines on the sides of his eyes crinkled upward, magnified by his spectacles as he held the shop door open for their departure.
Elation overtook Anne. Finally, she had made some progress. She had bought herself more time to search for her father.
Anne was too excited to sit, so they sent Millie’s carriage home to walk the rest of the way to the dress shop, and then home.
“He was so pleasant. I wonder why he was so kind?” Anne asked Nancy. She still could not believe how simple it had been.
“There are nice people in the world, miss. Perhaps he is one of them. Things are looking up, are they not?”
“Yes, they are. They finally are.”
Luc tapped the door knocker at Miss Beatrice de Bourgh’s apartment. It was located at a comfortable walking distance from Luc’s home. No bright colors or adornments greeted him on the front step. Only drab grey. It did not welcome callers, which suited Maman just fine.
A butler as old as Miss Beatrice answered the door and showed Luc and Adélaïde into the waiting room. The furnishings were sparse, but clean. Luc thought how well the room represented his dear friend. She was meticulous in her habits, but was not given to luxuries.
They stood when she entered the room.
“Luc. Adélaïde. How good of you to come.” A dimple flashed in her wrinkled cheek. She must have been a real beauty in her day, thought Luc, as he bent over to hug her. He could see the similarities between her and Miss de Bourgh. Both were small in stature and had the same pointy chin.
Standing between him and Adélaïde, Miss Beatrice led them into her parlor where the sweet aroma of cake constantly lingered. It was the only room in the house with any special adornments, to Luc’s knowledge. Above the fire mantle hung the gilded mirror he had bought her to brighten up the room. A stack of books, mostly poems and the plays of Shakespeare, towered on the table next to her favorite chair. Luc made a mental note to bring some wax candles. The room smelled of the inexpensive tallow candles she often used.
They sat and a tea tray was brought in. Miss Beatrice occupied herself in pouring before asking, “What news do you have this week?”
Luc looked over at Adélaïde. He was hesitant to bring up her family. She had avoided the topic vehemently in the past.
“My leading actress is marrying an earl. Her wedding is in June and puts me in a most vexing position.”
“I can understand why she would marry that month. Society is still in town and for someone used to an audience, she would want a crowd to attend. Why is this vexing to you?”
“The Earl forbids her to act once they are married. If he had his way, she would quit the theater immediately, but she convinced him to allow her to finish through most of the season. What I cannot fathom is why she agreed to marry on the morning of what was to be her final performance.” Luc smacked his hands against his thighs. “I am left without an actress.”
Miss Beatrice waved away his worry. “You will find another, I am sure. Each day has its worries, Luc. Do not let what might happen in almost three months’ time ruin today.”
Adélaïde sighed audibly from her chair. “If only it were so easy. Miss DeVries is as petite as you are and it will be no small feat to find an actress to fit her costumes. I will not make them new for only one performance! Not when I have a whole wardrobe to make before her wedding.”
Luc smoothly said to his sister, “Maybe Maman would offer to fill her role. The costumes would be a perfect fit and I am certain she knows all of the lines.” He nodded toward her stack of the works of Shakespeare.
Miss Beatrice chuckled. “You would lose all of your audience by the end of the first act. Who wants to see a plump, old lady when they are used to Miss DeVries? I do not envy you, but do not lose too much sleep over it.”
She patted Luc and Adélaïde’s hands. Now is the moment.
Luc started slowly. “There is a lady we met only this morning who would meet the physical demands of the piece. But she is a lady of high class.”
“Humph! Some of those ladies give themselves airs. Times are changing. I never believed it beneath me to do some form of work. Look at Adélaïde! She is more accomplished than many ladies of the ton and a real credit to women in London. If only more women of the upper classes could see past their own noses and do something worthwhile, maybe people would stop blaming the French for the moral reform taking place here.” She pounded her fist into her hand.
Luc saw that Adélaïde’s color was also up. This was a sore topic to her and Luc needed to redirect the conversation quickly or lose his opportunity.
“The lady we met this morning was unlike most I have met. Instead of jealously protecting her maid, she seemed happy when Adélaïde offered the maid work at the dress shop. She was just your height, as well. Not fat and stuffed into a corset like so many others. In fact, I thought her too thin. She could benefit from some of your cakes.” He held up a bite of cake before popping it into his mouth.
“Hmm, probably a lady fallen on hard times. I hope you do indeed hire her maid, Adélaïde.”
Luc washed his cake down with a gulp of tea. “Her name was Miss Anne de Bourgh.”
Miss Beatrice snapped her head up, her warm brown eyes hardening. Luc wa
tched her struggle to control her reaction.
He softened his voice until it was only above a whisper. “Please, what can you tell us about Miss de Bourgh? She never implied as much, but we think she is in a predicament. If she is your niece, would you not like to know her? She could be good company—”
“Good company! How could she possibly be good company when she has been raised in the pit of a viper? Lady Catherine drew my brother, her own husband, to desperation.”
Adélaïde stared at Miss Beatrice, nostrils flaring and fire in her eyes. “Did you know Sir Lewis had a child?”
Luc held his breath. He loved Miss Beatrice as if she were his own mother, but withholding the birth of a child was unimaginable to him.
Miss Beatrice hung her head. “I may have heard something, but I never cared to confirm it.” Lifting her head, she looked at Luc, “How could I tell Lewis that his child was born merely six months after his faked death? How could he possibly have come back? He was so miserable with Lady Catherine, he was willing to face a revolution rather than live in his own home.”
Silence overtook the table. Adélaïde pushed her plate with a half-eaten cake away. Luc could not force another bite if he tried. Disappointment filled his stomach.
After he had collected his thoughts, Luc said, “You know as well as I do that a child should not be punished for his or her parents’ wrongs. Would you have allowed Adélaïde and me to die in Paris like Mother and Father?” Luc’s voice choked out of him. The memories were too raw and his sadness too real to hide.
Adélaïde stood to leave. Where Luc felt disappointment, she felt anger. He could see it written on her face and in her clenched fists.
Luc, too, was upset. But it was not in his nature to leave in anger. He would do his best to soothe the woman he had depended on after her brother bravely helped him and Adélaïde escape death. “What you did was wrong— so very wrong, Maman.”
Miss Beatrice flinched at the endearment.
