He shouldn’t have asked her to come back. With sparkling morning light streaming from an azure blue sky imbuing the scene with a magical sense of hope and promise, it hadn’t taken more than ten minutes with brush and paints and the girl lying amidst the daisy-strewn grass before Crispin knew this.
Still, what was the harm in the simple pleasure of transferring her exceptional beauty onto the canvas in front of him? He hadn’t painted in two years, and there was fever in his fingers to create and do justice to his subject.
He felt alive.
That was all this feeling was. A desire to do his best work knowing that the girl in front of him offered him the means to do that.
“Would you put aside what you’re holding please, Miss Montague?” She’d broken the ennui of her dull, wearying task to make a daisy chain. Now he needed her to be still. “Sorry to sound like the grim voice of authority.” He tried to inject levity into his tone, though he was tense with the need to get his painting right. What was required to get the light in her eyes just so? He’d nearly had it yesterday. Now it eluded him. A pinprick of white, perhaps? “You’ll be comparing me to your pater in his grumpiest frame of mind,” he muttered, half attending to the need to put her at ease while he loaded his paintbrush.
“Oh, that tone is very mild compared with my father’s temper.” Obediently, she put down the daisy chain and stared up at the sky, and as he studied his work, pleased with the effect, he wondered for the first time about her large family.
“I’m sure he’s only concerned for the happiness of you all. That’s how my pater excuses his lapses of good humour.” Crispin smiled across at her, but instead of meeting happy collusion or agreement, her expression was closed. And dark.
Of course, it was no business of his to pry, but he suddenly wanted to get a sense of Miss Montague’s position in the world. Not that it would matter to him after today from a personal sense, but if he could aid her in any way in what he supposed was her primary duty, to succeed in the marital market, it would be helpful to know a little about her father.
“You have sisters, don’t you, Miss Montague?”
“Six, Mr Westaway, and only one married. We are a great trial to our father.”
“I’m sure if they’re all as lovely as you, it won’t be long before your father can bask in the collective success of his seven daughters who’ll have made his family so well connected. I presume your married sister is older?”
“Twelve months older than me and married to a man who is to turn sixty in a few months. Not a love match.”
That stopped him in his tracks. Crispin wasn’t easily shocked, but this didn’t reflect well on Mr Montague. He racked his brains to come up with what he knew of Miss Montague’s family and realised he knew nothing.
“So, Mr Westaway, are you pleased with your painting?” She was turning the topic to lighten the mood, for now she was all smiles as she raised herself onto her elbows. “I hope I’ve been a good subject. Despite what Lady Vernon told you, I do find it hard to stay still unless there is a great deal at stake.”
“My painting?” He felt ill at ease. Not only was there the self-imposed pressure of painting his best work, but that of producing a painting that promised this young woman a better future.
“Yes, I want you to recommend me to your artist friends as a model. My father knows nothing of what I’m doing here and would be shocked, but this is better than a great deal of other ways to save himself the expense of keeping me than the ones he has in mind.” She rose and came over to stand at his shoulder, her admiring gasp sending desire washing over him like a hot wave. He stepped back quickly, masking his awkwardness with a smile as he said, “I could never do justice to your beauty, Miss Montague, but I believe it is a fair likeness.”
Her surprise and admiration seemed genuine. “It’s…it’s truly brilliant! Oh, Mr Westaway, you’ll win the competition; indeed, you will! And you’ll show your father what talent you have, and he’ll let you do what you want to be happy. I’m so proud of you.”
“I only wish it were so simple.” He thought of his father’s fury should he learn that Crispin had been wasting his time on artistic pursuits, when he should be attending to the delicate strategic relations between England and her allies and potential enemies.
“But your talent is prodigious. It mustn’t be wasted. You must tell him it’s what you want.” She took his hand and squeezed it, her eyes shining. “I knew you were good, but I didn’t realise how good. You truly have made me the happiest girl.”
“You enjoy admiration? Well, you shall have it in spade loads.” I just can’t lavish it on you, personally, as I would wish. Gently, he disengaged his hands and sent a glance up at the house. “Lady Vernon was hoping to catch the morning train to London, and there’s still time, Miss Montague.” He swallowed down his disappointment that he could not respond to her as he wished, and gave her what he hoped was a paternal pat on her shoulder. “Now, let me walk you to the house. I’ll see you in London at the unveiling.”
Chapter 12
“Why so glum, Faith? I think it was a poor plan of Mrs Gedge’s to see you clothed like a parson’s daughter when you’re to be competing with duchesses.” Charity was curled up on Faith’s bed like a cat, her long hair undressed and pooling about her. She sent Faith a bolstering smile. “Don’t be afraid. Tonight, it will all work out.”
Faith nibbled her nail and nodded. She couldn’t trust herself to answer.
Her vulnerability was like a gaping wound and the future like a black, angry, dangerous void waiting to hungrily devour her. She’d be like all the other girls at Madame Chambon’s, with closed heart and open legs, submitting to a line-up of meaningless sexual encounters just so she could keep body and soul together. And then the moment she was no longer giving value, if she got sick or her looks were marred or faded, she’d be thrown into the gutter to fend for herself.
All because she’d not managed to do one simple thing—entice Mr Westaway enough to at least give the appearance to Mrs Gedge that he’d fallen in love with her.
She dusted her décolletage with a rabbit’s foot loaded with fine powder while her brain whirled feverishly. Perhaps she could win him over using honesty. That would be novel?
“I know you’re disappointed he didn’t fall in love with you, Faith, but is he nice, this Mr Westaway?”
“He’s lovely.” Faith had no hesitation in answering. “I like him very much, and if it wasn’t so vital to…everything…that I make him fall in love with me, I’d say I liked him too much to want to make him fall in love with me, if that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense at all.” Charity shook her head. “But then, nothing much makes sense.”
With a sigh, Faith rose. “How do I look?”
“Like an angel, truly! You don’t need bows and furbelows. In fact, you’re more striking without, and I can now see exactly what was in Mrs Gedge’s mind. Oh, but I do hope it works tonight. If Mr Westaway doesn’t fall in love with you just by looking at you, he’ll never fall in love with anyone!”
With this bolstering pronouncement ringing in her ears, Faith prepared to make her grand entrance at the Grand London Art Exhibition, arriving in Lady Vernon’s hired carriage, which was waiting for her discreetly a little distance up the road.
She hadn’t thought she’d be excited at the outcome. There was no outcome that promised what she needed without some compromise, and the fact she’d simply sat for a painting meant nothing when the real purpose behind the whole charade had come to naught.
Yet, as the double doors opened to the hallowed precincts of the Royal Society of Artists, a frisson of very real expectation skittered up the back of Faith’s knees and lodged in her stomach. Mr Westaway’s talent was undeniable. The painting had been exceptional. He deserved recognition.
And when across a crowded floor of patrons, mostly whiskered older men in sombre evening attire, Faith caught a glimpse of Mr Westaway, she was suddenly a jumble of ner
ves. He was in conversation with a lady and a gentleman, and he was laughing, a drink in his hand, and all eyes seemed to be on him. She noticed people around her indicating him with nods and veiled gestures, and her excitement grew.
People knew already that Mr Westaway was good. That they had a fine artist in their midst. She wasn’t imagining all this.
While the crowd pulsed around her, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked so handsome, so self-assured. So right at home in his domain and Faith felt so proud of him.
As Lady Vernon gave her a little prod to keep her moving, she was addressed by a small, forceful young woman with a jaunty little feathered hat holding a notepad whom she recognised before the strong American accent gave her away.
“Miss Montague, I’m going to make you famous!” The confidence and enthusiasm in Miss Eaves’s tone were in striking contrast to the way Faith felt.
“I don’t want to be famous. I’m English,” she said, making the young woman throw back her head and give an unladylike guffaw.
“Uncle, Miss Montague says she doesn’t want to be famous. But I tell you, she’s going to be after Mr Westaway wins this show hands down, and I write her story.”
The gentleman with a long white beard and sombre, impressive bearing—which belied any relationship to the young lady who’d just addressed Faith—nodded at Faith as he introduced himself as Sir Albion, the patron of the Society. “Write your story, Amy, but don’t tell anyone it’s going to make them famous. It’s a vulgar notion, I might add.”
“Indeed, most vulgar,” Lady Vernon muttered, her nose twitching as if she actually did have a barometer for what was morally acceptable. It was difficult for Faith to keep her own nostrils from flaring in disdain. Instead, she inclined her head and said with her most demure smile, “Notoriety is for those who seek it, and I certainly do not. If Mr Westaway is to be commended for his painting, I am simply happy that I assisted in some small way.”
Sir Albion looked at her with approval. “I marked him out as a great talent many years ago, but I feared he’d lost his passion. Clearly you, Miss Montague, have reawakened it. Ah, here comes the gentleman in question now.”
“My ears are burning.” Mr Westaway looked a touch self-conscious as his gaze flickered from Faith’s face to his esteemed patron as he acknowledged the ladies with a small bow. “But I’d not expected to have such strong competition when the time frame was so limited. Some of the finest are competing for the grand prize.”
“The challenge of a time frame and the inducement of such a grand sum of money makes their enthusiasm not so surprising, for all that we like to think ourselves above such considerations.”
“We all need to eat, Sir Albion.”
“Indeed we do, Miss Montague,” Sir Albion said, raising his eyes, before glancing at his niece. “Amy here thinks she owes it to herself to do that through her own merits. A very progressive thought indeed. Clearly, things are different in America.”
“Things are changing, Uncle, both here and across the Atlantic where less and less is it considered vulgar for a woman to advance herself through honest toil and her own endeavours.” Miss Eaves puffed out her chest importantly, and the little bird on top of her jaunty hat did a trembling dance of agreement. Faith stifled the urge to laugh, which was prompted more by her nervousness in being in such close proximity to such influential people. Influential because her fate lay in their hands more than they could know.
“There is no competition; we do know that, Mr Westaway,” Miss Eaves said with conviction, and everyone looked at her in surprise causing the young lady to shake her head. “I don’t know the outcome, if that’s what you think, though my uncle does. The patron of the competition—who is anonymous, by the way, though word has it that she’s an extremely wealthy American—has already judged the entries. In my opinion, though, there is no competition. Mr Westaway is going to become a famous artist, and Miss Montague is….” She looked enquiringly at Faith. “What do you hope to achieve out of all this?”
Sir Albion gave a gruff laugh. “Too direct by half, as you’d say yourself, Amy. One doesn’t ask young ladies such things. Certainly not in company.”
“Why, because their intentions can only be one thing? And it’s vulgar to express that we all know what that is? Surely, we all want to succeed and profit, and get ahead. And what’s the harm in that? It’s human nature! So why should we not be allowed to voice such things aloud?” Undeterred by her uncle, she looked enquiringly at Faith, demanding it would seem, an answer.
Faith glanced at Lady Vernon for inspiration, but Lady Vernon appeared as caught off balance as she herself.
“Miss Montague is about to take London by storm.” Faith was saved by Mr Westaway’s gallant pronouncement. “When I am in Germany and reading the English newspapers, I shall no doubt come upon an announcement that she’s either become the muse of a great painter or the wife of a great nobleman.” He smiled at Faith. “I believe either would be the pinnacle of Miss Montague’s ambitions.”
Miss Eaves looked dubious but then conceded, “I suppose that would be a great advancement for a parson’s daughter with nine brothers and sisters, I hope I have that number right, and yes, I have been doing my homework.” She hadn’t finished making her point though, and she strung out her response with a pointed look at everyone in turn. Faith wasn’t sure if she liked the young woman or not. While she could concur with some of her sentiments, her manner was too brash and confronting for her comfort.
Miss Eaves sniffed. “Indeed, I look forward to the time when a woman is allowed to make her own way in the world without having to rely on any man; however, I will allow that Miss Montague has shown talent and strategy.”
Sir Albion sent a pointed look in his niece’s direction. “A demure, discreet demeanour will still get a young woman a great deal further than…otherwise,” he finished with raised eyebrows. Miss Eaves was not put in her place. Faith decided she was not the kind who would ever be silenced by criticism.
However, she was glad when the collective attention of the crowd was stirred by something taking place at the far end of the room, and when Faith looked, it was to see that three paintings had been separated from the rest of the exhibits and were now lined up beside each other under lights upon the dais.
Miss Eaves gave a murmur of excitement; Lady Vernon gripped Faith’s arm, and a great silence descended upon the room. The moment was nearly upon them.
Faith exchanged a quick, nervous look with Mr Westaway, her mouth dry.
He stepped close to her. “I don’t know whether I’ll be relieved or disappointed by the outcome,” he admitted.
“You surely want to win, don’t you, Mr Westaway?” Faith whispered. “Every great talent craves recognition, even if they are unwilling to admit as much.” As a gentle hum went through the crowd, and as conversation resumed in the delay before an announcement, Faith told him, “My sister, the eldest and, seemingly, the most modest and retiring of all of us, worked twice as hard for the crumbs of praise that were few and far between in our household. But her zealousness, or martyrdom, came from the desire for recognition, purely, though she was the last to admit that she did what she did to be noticed. I know you love painting, but do you really do it only for the love of it?”
His surprise was obvious. After a moment, he confessed in a low voice, “I’ll give you the truth, Miss Montague, and this is only between you and me because we have been part of something…more important than simply creating a painting. Yes, I crave to be recognised as a great talent. But I also crave the continued love and respect of my father. That, and my desire to be a great painter, are incompatible. And so, tonight I confess to secretly wishing I might be declared the winner to bolster my own vanity in my abilities. But perhaps more than that, I wish the prize might go to someone else as it would enable me to accept more easily that this is not my calling.” He looked at her carefully, and Faith felt sure she read longing in the depths of his gaze. “You know I go to Ge
rmany before the end of the month, Miss Montague. Nothing will make my father prouder than to see me take up this important position. I’ve been groomed to follow in his footsteps for my whole life.”
Faith felt a stab of something between pain and disappointment. Not for seeing her own dreams and ambitions go up in smoke, but for the bond between this man and his father. In all her young life, she’d never felt the kind of love and respect for anyone that would make her sacrifice her own ambitions. Granted, her scope had been limited, and she’d been at the mercy of those stronger than herself, but for these short moments talking to Mr Westaway, she wished she had an affiliation of the heart with someone that was greater than her own vanity, desires, and all those other foibles that made human beings so… fallible.
Mr Westaway’s life was built on a foundation of love and filial duty, honour and nobility.
Faith’s was built on a lie.
But if Faith only had the chance to prove to someone the inner core of nobility she was sure existed somewhere, she’d gladly make such a sacrifice for love.
She hadn’t realised her feelings showed on her face and was surprised by his sudden concern. “Are you all right, Miss Montague?”
Faith took a sip of her champagne and tried to cleanse her smile of all bitterness and disappointment. “I was just thinking how nice it would be to love and respect one’s father as you clearly do, Mr Westaway. Oh, my goodness!” She broke off suddenly as the first of the paintings on stage had its concealing sheet whipped away, and the audience gasped.
How strange it was to see herself lying in the grass amidst a field of daisies, her expression animated, her hair spread like a halo about her, the beautiful countryside as her backdrop. It was a picture of lovely innocence—even she could see that before the corroborating comment from a nearby dowager.
Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances Page 26