“Ah, yes.” Forster smiled, raising Lady Wilmot’s hand to his lips for a chivalrous kiss. “The Muses’ Salon, a gathering of clever, capable—mischievous—women.”
“I know that you are quite busy with the opening of your panorama, and I’m sure it will be a tremendous success. But will you at least see my ceiling?” Lady Wilmot touched Lena’s elbow briefly. “The duke and I have an appointment with our solicitor now, but we could meet you at his house this evening.”
Lena looked at Constance, who nodded her encouragement. She thought of Horatio’s warning and the work she had yet to do on the panorama. Lady Wilmot’s ceiling might provide her with the means to survive the next month. Before Lena could agree, Lady Wilmot spoke again. “If your panorama is half as good as the rumors suggest, you will be flooded with commissions the day after it opens, and I was hoping to be first in line.”
Flattered, Lena opened the note that Lady Wilmot had handed her. “Cavendish Square. I will come by later this evening.”
Lady Wilmot smiled broadly. “That would be lovely.”
Chapter Three
Traveling to Cavendish Square had taken her far from the Rotunda or her boardinghouse, but even so, Lena maintained her vigilance, watching the others on the street on the odd chance that her handsome burglar might appear.
Typically before she interviewed for a commission, she learned all she could about her possible patrons: what they liked and disliked, their habits, and most importantly, whether they were likely to pay. But Lena knew little about Lady Wilmot or the Duke of Forster. Though Constance had offered a strong endorsement of the pair, her bookshop had grown busy, and Lena had withdrawn to Constance’s apartment to hide.
If Lady Wilmot had been looking for her, why hadn’t Horatio told her about their visits? Of course, knowing Horatio’s fondness for good food, he may merely have wished to prolong his access to Lady Wilmot’s cook. Lena could easily imagine Horatio as a fat-bellied Falstaff, pulling out a handkerchief and using it as a makeshift bib while he dug heartily into the meal Lady Wilmot had brought him.
But Horatio had left her a warning. Had it included Lady Wilmot and her beau? Or was Lena supposed to run from something else entirely? She shook her head, caught between frustration and fatalism. For all his crusty charm and secrecy, she cared about the old man. But if he—and by extension she—were in such danger that he had time only to steal her money and scribble a quick note, couldn’t that note have included a few more words?
She knocked on the duke’s door decisively, looking over her shoulder at the street. Behind her, even in this fashionable neighborhood, the street was full. But no one seemed to look her way. The door opened almost immediately, and she hurried across the threshold, hoping that whatever threat Horatio had warned her against remained safely outside.
The butler escorted Lena through opulent corridors befitting a duke’s home.
With a sort of flourish, the butler pushed open two double doors, giving her a view of a large hall, undergoing renovation. Even in disrepair, the room was majestic. To her right, along one long wall, large windows looked out over the parterre. To her left, in the center of the room, fire blazed in a giant fireplace, and in front of it stood an ancient table, long and wide, its wood polished and gleaming. Along the walls, fine dining chairs waited to be called into use.
But the ceiling caught her attention—and her breath. Arched beams divided the ceiling into six wide, rectangular sections, all empty of decoration. Along the edges of the room, where the ceiling curved down to meet the walls, carved wooden frames created spaces for portraiture and other scenes. Nine of the spaces were already filled with images of women, and Lena realized that the portraits depicted the women she’d met at the bookshop.
It was an exceptional space, the sort of commission that could make a reputation. A commission like this one—in addition to the panorama—might be the very opportunity she’d been working toward, showing the range of her skills and abilities. Immediately her mind began painting the ceiling’s spaces with scenes, their subject matter drawn indiscriminately from mythology, history, literature, and her own imagination.
Lady Wilmot approached from the center of the room, extending a welcoming hand. The duke followed closely behind. “Thank you for coming, Miss Frost. As you can see, our ceiling needs a painter of imagination and skill.”
Lena tore her attention away from the ceiling. “It’s stunning. I mean, it will be stunning in the right hands.”
“That’s why after I saw your work for Lady Eremond, I was so insistent to find you,” Lady Wilmot explained. “Originally, I’d hoped that the painter who had completed the portraits would finish the whole. She had been in exile here during the wars, but when the way to return home became clear, she took it.”
“She cannot help but be disappointed,” the duke objected. “Time only stands still in our memories.”
“She might discover she would have done better to stay here in the life she had made rather than try to regain the life she’d left,” Lena agreed.
“Was that your experience, Miss Frost, when you returned from the Continent after the wars?” Lady Wilmot looked curious and sympathetic.
“I was so young when I left England that I had few expectations of what English life would be like on my return.” Lena delivered the answer matter-of-factly, having practiced it a hundred times. “I had little choice but to return. The French government pardoned the French who had fled the wars to live in other countries, while it grew less tolerant of the English who had lived the war years in France. But I wish your painter well. Many who took that journey discovered either that there was nothing left to return to or that they were as much an exile at home as they had been abroad.”
“But one must still take the journey.” Lady Wilmot’s voice held a hint of sadness.
The duke put his hand on Lady Wilmot’s shoulder. “I must take your leave, my dear. I’m to meet Clive in my study within the hour.”
“Tell your incorrigible brother I expect a full report before he goes. I haven’t seen the rascal in weeks.” Lady Wilmot touched the duke’s arm before he walked away, a gentle motion that Lena admired. “Come this way, Miss Frost. From the center of the room, you can imagine my design best. The previous owner’s grandfather had an affection for all things Venetian. He moved this ceiling from that republic more than fifty years ago. The beams are original to the room, but the wooden medallions between them and the frames around the edges of the walls are all imported. The portraits, commissioned this past fall, have only recently been installed.”
“Nine portraits.” Lena examined the portraits carefully. “All women and all in classical dress. Constance called your book club the Muses’ Salon. Are these portraits intended to depict the classical muses?”
“Yes and no. Each of the classical muses embodied and inspired a particular area, so I determined they would be my models. Too often we see even the most unaccomplished men commemorated, yet truly exceptional women go unacknowledged and unadorned. I’d like this room to pay tribute to women of great talent, so I began with the women of my salon.” Lady Wilmot pointed to the portrait to their right. “Ariel is our scholar, so there she is dressed as Clio. Can you identify the next?”
“A painter learns mythology as part of the stock and trade,” Lena demurred. “Is that Lady Judith looking up into the stars as Ourania? Meeting her briefly, I didn’t find her a star-gazing type.”
“Ah, if I could only encourage Lady Judith to abandon practicality for daydreams!” Lady Wilmot was quiet for a moment, then continued. “Lady Judith can tease out the components of a scent or a food, a skill well represented by Ourania’s focus.”
“Your sister-in-law is Terpsichore. Is Mrs. Mason an adept dancer?”
Lady Wilmot laughed. “Mrs. Mason navigates the currents of society with an unerring good humor and discretion, so it seemed appropriate to portray her as the muse of dance. In these portraits, the relationship between the classical mu
se and my modern ladies is more evocative than exact. But each of my salon’s muses has special talents.”
Lena examined the other portraits. “They seem to be interesting women. Perhaps I will have occasion to learn more of them.”
Lady Wilmot considered Lena carefully. “They are valuable women to know.”
Lady Wilmot’s gaze, kind though it appeared to be, made Lena feel that her secrets were written clearly on her face. Even so, she refused to appear ill at ease.
“Might I ask some questions?” Lena waited for Lady Wilmot’s nod before continuing. “Do you wish to memorialize only living women or those from any age? And only English women or those from any land?”
“Whatever the land or time, I wish to picture women of accomplishment. Perhaps each section could illuminate a different category of women’s achievement: rulers like Sheba, Cleopatra, or Russia’s Catherine the Great; discoverers like Caroline Herschel with her comet; or explorers like Sacajawea.” Lady Wilmot listed the names with enthusiasm.
“What of women of letters? Perhaps poets like Sappho or Charlotte Smith or novelists like Frances Burney or Elizabeth Inchbald? Or a historian like Catherine Macaulay?”
“Ah! An artist with the soul of a scholar!”
“No, I’m merely an avid reader with a friend who owns a bookshop.”
“Then I must loan you two of my books, both quite old. I have been collecting women’s books for some time. Do you know Marguerite de Navarre? She modeled her Heptaméron on Boccaccio’s Decameron. Such lusty tales! Or Christine de Pisan? Her Book of the City of Ladies—much like my ceiling here—argues in favor of women’s accomplishments.”
“I would be honored to borrow them.”
“I will have them here when you come next. Now that you know the purpose of my ceiling, let me show you my sketches of some possible versions.” Lady Wilmot led her to the table. “I was inspired by your frieze at the African’s Daughter. Here my woman warriors, Boadicea and Joan of Arc, fight side by side on the shore, while Artemesia of Caria commands the Persian fleet, as described by Herodotus.”
Lena picked up one of the sketches: Lady Wilmot had a discriminating eye and a subtle taste. “You are a talented artist in your own right. The lines here are fine and the coloring skillful.”
“I prefer botanical illustration, though I occasionally dabble in portraits of my family.”
“We could integrate botanical illustrations here or here to good effect.” Lena pointed at one of Lady Wilmot’s designs, watching as Lady Wilmot’s face shifted from rejection to consideration. “Then the Muses’ Salon would be decorated in part by one of its Muses.”
“That’s an interesting idea . . . and not altogether unappealing.” Lady Wilmot looked from the design to the walls themselves.
Lena reconsidered the room in light of Lady Wilmot’s ideas. A series of historical paintings focused on the acts of women—it wasn’t merely a lucrative commission, it would be a tour de force. But even after the opening, the panorama would require her presence. Lena felt the gnawing anxiety return. Accept. Refuse. Run. Her options had been reduced to single words.
Lady Wilmot studied her face. “I know that you are devoted to your panorama, and Mr. Calder explained that you already have plans for a second to follow on the success of this one. But surely between the opening of this one and the next, you will have some months to fit my ceiling into your plans.”
Lena began to speak, but stopped. She wanted both: the panorama and the ceiling. If Calder hadn’t abandoned her, she would have managed, but she was alone, with little resilience to manage both projects. But perhaps, if she could set up one canvas at a time on the Rotunda stage, she could paint while monitoring the final progress of the panorama. At the least, she could begin.
“We’ve also crafted a budget. With the help of our previous painter, we estimated the cost of one section of the central ceiling. But of course you will have some alterations, according to your preferences for specific workmen.” Lady Wilmot held out a ledger sheet.
Lena took the list. Her stomach twisted at the first item: “a plaster worker for lathe and burlap.” Lady Wilmot didn’t want her to paint on panels that would be affixed to the ceiling. She wanted her to paint directly on the ceiling in buon fresco, embedding the ground pigments into a layer of wet plaster to create a single surface. Unlike oils, which would take days to dry, plaster—and her work—would set quickly, testing her skill and precision. She swallowed once, then twice, then continued reading.
The upper part of the list addressed the materials needed to construct the scaffolding and other equipment necessary to paint such a large project. Wood. Nails. Tarpaulins. Silently, Lena read each item in the long list, comparing Lady Wilmot’s list to a similar one in her mind. All in good order, thorough and detailed.
The lower part listed the pigments she would grind in water, then apply directly to the wet plaster. The colors tore at her heart with mingled despair and desire: raw and burnt umber for the earth tones; yellow ochre to add depth; caput mortuum for dark and light flesh tones and for folds in drapery; florentine chrome oxide for the greens; and a dozen others. Each name bloomed a color in her imagination. The pigments were followed by ground minerals she would use sparingly for rich accents: malachite for a luminous green, azurite for an azure blue, and lapis lazuli for a brilliant one.
“You will need a red,” she said half to herself.
“I’m sure there are other pigments we will need as well.” Lady Wilmot spoke softly, as if knowing that Lena was struggling with the decision. “But to make this room a showplace, both for my salon and for your talent, then we should use the best materials.”
Lena returned to the list. The next section outlined a timetable, beginning with several rounds of sketches to finalize the design. Below that, at the bottom, was the estimate of her fee. She caught the gasp before it left her lips. A generous estimate. No: a more than generous estimate, particularly if it were only for a single section. She multiplied out the cost for the whole ceiling, and she felt faint.
Lady Wilmot spoke quickly. “I estimated the length of time you would likely need for one section of the room—and I wanted for you to have no need to take other commissions while painting for me. I believe it is a fair figure per section.”
“More than fair. But . . .” Lena looked back at the list, calculating out how many months the project would take from the completion of the scaffolding to the end. Had Horatio known how much Lena would profit when he refused the commission? If she believed Horatio’s warning, she should refuse and run. Her stomach felt leaden. It felt like a cruel joke: to be offered such a commission at the very moment she shouldn’t accept it.
“Look at the room again before you say no. Paint the walls in your mind’s eye, and see how beautiful it will be.”
Lena picked up Lady Wilmot’s sketches. Looking up, she imagined each one on a different section of the ceiling, filling each scene with the rich, vital colors Lady Wilmot had listed. Lady Wilmot’s sketch of the women warriors came alive in umber, ochre, blue, and green, the blood on the fallen soldiers an oxide red. Lady Wilmot waited quietly. Completing the circuit, Lena faced Lady Wilmot, the pull of the ceiling too great to resist. “Yes. I will.”
Lady Wilmot smiled broadly, then spontaneously embraced Lena. “I’m so pleased.”
“Perhaps you should wait to see if I’m a competent workman, timely in the discharge of my responsibilities.”
“I have no fears. Lady Eremond said that you were prompt and efficient. And Mr. Calder—well, his praises would fill a book.” Lady Wilmot opened a folder on the table, removing a banknote. “This is a retainer for your first set of sketches.” Lady Wilmot pressed the note into Lena’s hand. “I prefer to pay for each stage, so that you are always appropriately compensated for your labor. Before the duke returns, I was hoping we could discuss the timing of the portrait I mentioned at the African’s Daughter.”
Lena resisted looking at the note, though she
was desperate to know if the retainer would give her enough to pay this week’s craftsmen. The closer she could get to the opening ball, the more likely she would be to succeed. “Of course.”
“The duke and my daughter Lilly share the same birth month, and they have grown in the last few months quite devoted to one another. I would like to have a portrait of her to hang there next to the others.” Lady Wilmot pointed to a location in the center of the long wall, between two of the portraits of the salon members. “She is only eight, and I would like you to depict her as a young Persephone.”
“Persephone? The most beautiful woman among the gods, stolen by Pluto and taken to the underworld as his bride. Wouldn’t you prefer a wood sprite or a fairy for a young girl?”
“Oh, she is already a beauty . . . and, I should perhaps warn you, a bit of a hellion.”
“I could have been described in the same way when I was a girl.” Lena felt an immediate connection with the girl, coupled with a bit of jealousy. Her father had not been so accepting of his daughter’s exuberance.
“I refuse to stifle her spirits; a girl needs a bit of spunk to survive in this world,” Lady Wilmot explained. “What resonates for me in the Persephone story is her mother Demeter’s grief, so profound that it causes her to withdraw all warmth from the earth.”
“But summer returns when Persephone rejoins her mother,” Lena filled in part of the story.
“And winter returns when she rejoins her husband.” Lady Wilmot’s expressive face changed to pensive, and her voice to confidential. “You must understand: I almost lost Lilly some months ago, and in those hours when I didn’t know if she were alive or dead, I tasted that grief. So it seems an appropriate emblem for her.”
“You said ‘hang,’ so I’m assuming I can sketch her here, then paint in my studio,” Lena asked hopefully.
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