by Tamara Gill
Later, when the offer was sent formally in writing, he’d been holding the plaque as he read, and knew that only this artist could do proper credit to a representation of Geoffrey.
His letter of inquiry to the Blackburns elicited the information that the artist could be contacted through the British Museum. Now, here he stood, still waiting for the tardy sculptor.
“Enough waiting,” he said to the curator. “I shall attend him at his home.”
“But…but,” the curator sputtered.
“Come, man. Have I not wasted enough time? Give me Mr. Black’s direction.”
“My lord, I do not have his home address. I value him, of course. He is a genius at restorative work as well as with his own creations. However, all the museum’s prior dealings with P. Black have been by way of a third party. That’s how we arranged this rare engagement. It took much convincing, I assure you. Perhaps the shy gentleman could not bring himself to reveal who he is.”
“Unacceptable,” Stone replied. “I must meet him. Talk to him about Geoffrey. How else will he be able to portray my brother as he truly was?”
“Perhaps his lordship will allow me to arrange another meeting?” the curator asked tentatively. “I shall stress even more the importance of the interview and his punctuality.”
Stone’s aching leg would not allow him to stand still much longer, and sitting was even worse. He sighed in resignation. “Very well.”
He strode limping across the foyer and flung open the front door and slammed it shut behind him. He squinted as the brightness of the sunshine blinded him momentarily, painting the view outside in a glare of white light.
* * *
Pauline finally reached the museum’s front steps and, heaving for breath, raced up. Half way to the landing, she crashed into someone coming down the stairs.
A man caught her by her arms and held her back. “My pardon, miss,” he said. “You should watch where you step.”
“Oh, no,” Pauline said with a wheeze, alarmed at how he was gripping her arms. “You’re crushing my Spencer, sir. You shall make it seem as if I slept in the thing. And this is already the second time I’ve had to change.”
There was a definite pause and then, with studied sarcasm, he slowly released his grip and said, “My apologies for wrinkling your garment.”
She finally glanced up at the man and recognition sank in like a lead brick. She’d run into Lord Ashford leaving the museum.
Oh, no! She stumbled down a step, still out of breath from her rush to get here. He’s leaving.
He stepped to the side to pass by her and, impulsively, Pauline stepped in front of him.
“My lord,” she gave a hesitant smile, “forgive me for…”
He raised a hand, cutting her off. “Kindly step away.”
“But you don’t understand, my lord. You see my carriage was caught behind a toppled apple cart not a block away. I’m…”
“Pray, desist!” he snapped, as if stunned by the audacity at her trying to engage him in conversation.
Most devastating of all, there was not a shred of recognition in his gaze. It was as if he didn’t really see her. Obviously, unlike with her, their first meeting hadn’t been etched into his brain.
“We have not been formally introduced,” he continued, confirming her horrid suspicion that he’d completely forgotten her, “and I do not make a habit of speaking to strangers in public places.”
With his every word, Pauline’s hot face grew cold as blood drained away.
She heard a titter of laughter from below them on the pavement, suggesting people had stopped to watch this encounter. Even if he didn’t know who she was, those below would no doubt have recognized him, for his sketch had been in the papers for months. She’d seen it herself on the back of the newspapers her father read at the breakfast table.
He glanced past her to their audience, his displeasure expanding. Then he gave a sardonic bow and simply side-stepped her and left.
Pauline’s arms were still tingling where he’d held her so forcible, to ensure she didn’t tumble down the stairs. Their physical encounter had brought back vivid memories, along with an uncomfortable fluttering in her chest. Feelings and longings that had shattered into rubble long ago, now reformed.
“He didn’t recognize you,” Lucy said, stating the obvious as she came up the steps, panting. “After you made such a special effort to look your best.”
Pauline sent the limping form of the retreating earl a worried look noting how he seemed so sad and unhappy; it broke her heart that she’d added to his disappointments by being late.
“What are we to do, miss?” Lucy continued, this time minding their audience and whispering. “This story is sure to grease the mills ‘fore sunset. Every household in the city will know that his lordship has given you a set-down.”
She ignored her maid’s worried chatter, focused on his lordship’s proud silhouette entering a carriage. He reminded her of a fine English Alabaster statue. The very stone she’d been contemplating using to carve the image of his late brother. He was obviously still deep in grief. The last thing he had needed was for the artist he hired to not show up as arranged.
“What if you’re refused a card to Almack’s this Season because of this public scene?” Lucy said in a soft lament.
“I’ve no interest in attending there ever again,” she replied absently, “so that hardly signifies.” Her Almack days were long past. Pauline had made her come-out over three summers ago and had not ‘taken,’ which, according to her mother, was due entirely to Pauline’s forbidding aspect whenever a gentleman came to call.
Having successfully married off three other daughters, but seeing no method of getting around their stubborn youngest girl, her parents had relented and allowed Pauline to pursue her passion for sculpting.
They only insisted on one caveat; that during the Season, she must attend no less than five assemblies, balls or the theatre, and smile at the gentlemen when they asked her to dance or spoke to her. Pauline had distractedly agreed, knowing it to be a small price to pay for having gained the freedom to sculpt.
The earl’s carriage, with a handsome coat of arms on its door, moved away down the street and so she turned to enter the museum in a troubled state.
Somehow, she had to find a way to salvage what she could from this disaster. She must not lose this assignment. It would be the biggest creation she’d ever been part of. A true challenge to her strength, creativity, and commitment to her craft. Best of all, it would also give her a chance to properly re-introduce herself to the earl. He would not forget her a second time.
She entered the museum and her breath caught, as it always did, in places where art took pride of place. Museums had a reverence about them that invariably left her with a sense of awe. It thrilled her to think one of her works of art could one day grace this stunning setting.
Pauline was a creditable sculptor. She’d even received some acclaim for her work, under a suitable male pseudonym, of course. This new assignment, however, was special. It was to be a war memorial to commemorate the fallen. She shivered at the very thought of being involved in such an incredibly honorable creation.
It was an effort by the prime minister, himself, to take advantage of the public interest already generated by Geoffrey Livingston’s death, to honor his contribution to the war, and instigate feelings of support for the British troops still fighting in Spain.
The statue was to be held temporarily at this prestigious British Museum, a lone modern art piece among all its natural history artifacts and classical antiquities. A month after its first public reveal, yes, an actual reveal, the piece was to be taken to its permanent location at the Household Calvary Museum.
Apparently, the movement of the statue, with suitable fanfare of course, along the streets of London, was part of the process to impress Londoners and, indeed, the whole country on the need for the immense amount of finances and manpower being expended to defeat Napoleon.
; The possibility of working on this show had thoroughly invigorated Pauline’s creativity. Working with the earl was merely the icing on this delicious cake. It was enough to entice her to agree to give up her anonymity in order to be presented to the man who was sponsoring the project. Lord Ashford had insisted on being introduced to the artist he had handpicked, knowing him as only “P. Black.”
If she wanted this assignment, and Pauline desperately did, she must admit to Lord Ashford that, first, the artist he had chosen was a female, and second, she was a lady of quality – the granddaughter of a peer. A fact she and her family had worked hard to keep secret for over three years.
She prayed her tardiness had not lost her this rare opportunity to participate in her country’s war efforts. And gain her a second chance to make a better first impression on the earl.
Chapter Two
Stone signaled for his waiting carriage to approach and then entered it. As the vehicle trundled away, he glanced back and noticed the young lady he’d run into. She still stood on the museum steps, watching him.
Odd. She looked sad and heartbroken, not simply piqued that he had refused to engage in idle conversation on a public street. A thread of regret wove into his chest. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so abrupt. After all, he hadn’t really been upset with her at all, but with the artist he had hired for not keeping his appointment, and with his brother for dying.
His vehicle rolled on, changing his view from the lady to that of a busy impersonal London street. Yet, Stone could not shake the vision of her standing so still on the steps.
She suddenly seemed familiar. As if he had met her at some point. He’d attended enough balls in the past seven years, perhaps they had been introduced at some point. If so, why hadn’t she corrected his error?
He shook off the encounter. It didn’t matter. They were unlikely to meet again anytime soon, for he had no plans to attend balls in the near future. What would be the point? Geoffrey wouldn’t be there to make it entertaining. That swerved his thoughts back to his current dilemma with the missing artist.
Another disappointment in a world filled with them. How was he going to carry on without Geoffrey?
A lone tear slid down his cheek, and outside a gull cried out with a hoarse aow.
* * *
Pauline strolled through the museum toward the curator’s officer still troubled by her impromptu run-in with the earl.
This latest encounter took her back to their first meeting during Pauline’s presentation in the Queen’s Drawing Room. Focused on his conversation with friends, he hadn’t noticed her then either, but she’d been entranced by the young officer in red.
He had a magnificent physique and when he took a lady onto the dance floor, he moved with the grace of an Adonis. He had cast every other gentleman into the shade, leaving her with an instant tendre for the handsome uniformed soldier. He had been Major Matthew Livingston then, cousin to the late earl.
Still, the young ladies in the room had used every artifice designed to ensnare him. When her father noticed Pauline’s studied interest in the young officer, he had suggested to his wife that she procure their daughter an introduction. He then whispered in Pauline’s ear, some sage advice.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Sadly, despite her parents’ machination, Major Livingston hadn’t been entranced by Pauline. That had been her one and only dart into the realm of love. She decided soon after he left for the Peninsula that her sculptures provided more entertainment and less emotional turmoil.
Pauline knocked and, upon gaining permission, entered the museum curator’s office with Lucy. She shut the door so the three of them could have a private consultation. She soon learned the good news that the earl still wanted her to do the artwork, but it took much convincing before the curator would believe that she was the commissioned artist, P. Black. Then he slumped in his chair, his wide-open eyes reminding her of a startled mouse.
“What will the earl do when he finds out?” The curator grew smaller, as if he were shrinking within himself. “What if he holds me at fault and I lose my position? He’s a powerful gentleman and a patron of this museum. How will I pay my rent at my lodging house? I shall have to sell my box at the Haymarket Theatre.”
“Sir,” Pauline said, unhappy at having placed this poor man in such a vulnerable situation. “Do not worry so. I’m sure I shall be able to make his lordship understand.”
“Understand?” the curator asked in an appalled tone. “His lordship will not understand. He will be furious.” The man shuffled the papers covering every inch of his desk as if hoping to somehow find a solution in the surfeit of sheets.
Pauline paused, considering the curator’s words. She, too, wondered at his lordship’s tolerance. Recalling his disinterest at the Queen’s reception and his contempt during their meeting outside the museum, she felt a sinking certainty that he might dismiss her out of hand if she were ever presented to him as the artist P. Black. A consequence she was now wholly determined to avoid.
She badly wanted the earl to notice her, even if only with a bit of admiration for her work on this assignment. “You’re right, sir. Best, if his lordship never finds out that I’m not the ‘man’ he thinks he has employed.”
“Exactly, Miss Blackburn,” the curator said. His frightened gaze grew thoughtful. “Perhaps we can find another artist and convince him to pretend to be P. Black?”
Pauline shook her head. “If you do, the earl will not be as satisfied with the statue. I recall you saying he particularly liked my style of carving.”
Thanks heavens she’d included one of her figurines with her family’s condolence card. She’d done it on impulse, because Cecil once wrote that the Major was partial to puppies. She’d hoped her carving would give him some comfort.
The curator spread his arms wide. “Oh, it’s hopeless. He will pauper me as just punishment. I shall not have sixpence to scratch with by the end of the Season.”
“Calm yourself, sir, for I have an idea. Since the earl already believes this artist is a recluse, we need only convince him that not even to meet the man who intends to pay him the proposed vast sum, would she, or ‘he’ be willing to come out of hiding.”
The first sign of hope flashed across the curator’s face. “Could this work?”
“Why should it not?” Pauline asked. “I’ve already displeased him once by missing our appointment. Yet, he still wants me to do the work. There is only one problem I see. To do a credible job of the earl’s brother, I need to learn more about him. It would help to see a sketch or painting of the gentleman.”
“I have a portrait!” the curator said, jumping out of his chair. “The earl left it for the artist’s use.” He ran to fetch it.
Pauline waited with a racing pulse, teetering between anticipation and fear.
“Can you truly pull this off, miss?” Lucy whispered in worry. “What will the earl do when he finds out he’s been tricked?”
“We must ensure he never finds out,” Pauline replied.
On the curator’s return, she dismissed her worries and bent to study the large canvas. “This is good, but I need more. What type of man was he?”
“You could ask his friends,” the curator said. “Some of the men of his company are currently in town. Since word spread of the proposed exhibition, they have called on me in droves to confirm that we indeed intend to have a sculpture made of the Honorable Geoffrey Livingston.”
He indicated the surfeit of papers scattered across his desk. “These are all from them, entreating me to introduce then to P. Black.”
“It would be out of place for me to speak to them in private,” Pauline said, with regret.
“Many of his friends are gentlemen of the ton,” the curator said. “They travel in similar circles as yourself.”
Pauline refrained from telling him that she rarely attended social events any more. However, it might be time she fulfilled her obligation to her parents and took part in the Season’s
festivities.
Her mind set on her course, she made arrangements whereby the curator could contact her directly if needed and they shook hands to seal their secret pact.
* * *
The next morning at the breakfast table, Pauline began the discussion about her social attendance. “Mama, is there an upcoming ball we will be attending soon?”
Her mother, having just taken a sip of hot chocolate, choked and sputtered, spewing her drink.
At the other end of the table, her father peeked around the side of his open newspaper and met Pauline’s gaze for a steady three seconds. When she didn’t blink, he withdrew behind cover.
A nearby maid ran over to be of assistance to her ladyship.
“Never mind,” her mother said, shooing away the girl. “Pauline, explain yourself.”
“We have an agreement, do we not?” Pauline asked with an innocent expression, hiding her humor at the shock she’d given her mother. “I’m to attend five entertainments each Season. Since I’ve now secured a large assignment with the museum, I thought to fulfill my obligations to both of you prior to beginning work, which will absorb a great deal of time.”
“Sound planning, Paul,” her father from behind his paper.
“Pauline,” her mother automatically corrected.
“My pardon, sound planning, Pauline.”
“Thank you, Papa.” Pauline was no longer able to prevent her lips from tipping up with amusement.
“There’s the Patterson ball in three days,” her mother said, having re-gained her equilibrium. “If you wish to attend that one, we have much to do to prepare. You’ll need a new ball gown, there’ll be fittings to arrange, and…”
“Will there be any gentlemen from the cavalry there?” Pauline asked, and then quickly corrected herself. “Any eligible cavalry gentlemen?”
“Were you hoping to see anyone in particular, dear?” her mother asked, her eyes widening with shock again.
“I thought it might be nice to meet some of Cecil’s friends. They might know how he fares.”