It was different for him. As a man and the son of a peer, he need not be constrained by the limitations of others. By definition, the world was his—legally, socially. It was something he had been raised to accept as his natural due. It simply was how the world worked. He’d not questioned it.
Why would you? his conscience whispered. By the nature of your birth, you came out on the winning side of life.
Perhaps if he hadn’t, he might be flashing defiant stares and daring the powers that be to overturn the natural order of things. It was an interesting thought, but there was no time to ponder it. The words, ‘I think St Helier should go’ jerked him out of his musings.
‘Go where?’ Darius glanced around the chamber. What was Aldred Gray up to? He didn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him, as the expression went.
‘To check up on Miss Stansfield’s work after the Christmas holidays,’ someone nearby supplied the conversation he’d missed.
‘We must handle this very carefully.’ Aldred Gray, egotistical spider that he was, was enjoying the attention as all eyes fixed on him. ‘No matter how good her work is, we must be prepared to declare it, or her, unacceptable in March.’
Ah, so the probation was meant to be a smokescreen. Darius had thought as much. It was an ingenious smokescreen, one that appeared to offer her a chance and in doing so, one that would not offend Sir Lesley Stansfield. The Academy would not want to risk quarrelling with him, a leading artist and professor within their ranks. ‘Why me? I’m not a member, merely a critic.’ He was an invited guest to these meetings, a non-voting member of the discussions.
‘For precisely that reason.’ West took up the idea. ‘You will appear entirely objective.’ Darius didn’t care for that word ‘appear’. He was not in the business of lies and misleading, nor was his opinion in the business of being bought. He was an art critic, he didn’t take sides.
‘I will be entirely objective,’ Darius asserted. He had his own reputation as an art critic to think of as well.
‘It shouldn’t be too hard to find incriminating evidence against her character, after all,’ Gray said with a nod and a certain knowing gleam in his eye. ‘A woman like that, a woman of her age, has no doubt had her affairs.’ Gray waved a hand dismissively. ‘Of course, she’s entitled to them privately, I suppose, but we can’t have such behaviour, such lacking in morality, among our academicians. It’s hardly the standard we want to set.’ The chamber nodded as one, as if they’d all been choirboys, which Darius knew first-hand they weren’t.
‘If you can’t find any illicit behaviour on her part, you can always seduce her yourself,’ another near Gray chuckled. ‘She said the word penis. Sooner or later she’ll show her true colours.’
‘That’s entrapment,’ Darius replied drily, staring the man down. He had no desire to follow up with Miss Stansfield. He was aware of her and the place she occupied in the art world—the talented daughter of a talented artist—but he did not know her well. She was hardly the type of woman the son of an earl would seek out socially. She was far older than the debutantes that peopled his dance card and his mother’s expectations. She had no title, no lineage, no age-old fortune. She merely made paintings for those who did.
She was a woman of little note to a man like himself, yet as odd as she struck him, as much as she went against the standard of what a woman ought to be, he didn’t want to spend his winter playing her probation officer or, worse yet, deceiving her. From the look on her face this afternoon, she’d had enough of deception. Whatever she knew of the world or expected from it—and surely at her age she wasn’t entirely naive—she’d been genuinely surprised by the rejection today. She’d honestly thought she’d be admitted and that gave his usually rather conservative conscience pause. Was she being unjustly denied a place?
He prided himself on being a man of honesty and directness. Deception of any sort cut against that code. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he wasn’t their man, but his refusal wouldn’t stop the ploy from going through. They would simply appoint another to go in his place, someone who wouldn’t supply true objectivity, someone who did not have her interests at heart, someone like Sir Aldred Gray. He found he didn’t like the idea of someone deliberately seducing the proud Miss Stansfield for the purpose of using it against her.
‘All right, I’ll do it,’ he found himself agreeing. How hard could it be? He’d planned on spending the winter in town looking after some political and business interests anyway. It would be simple enough to drop by her studio once or twice and see how things were progressing. If his report was too objective for the council’s sake come March, that would be their problem. Until, then, however, it looked as though Miss Artemisia Stansfield was his.
Chapter Two
The audacity of them to offer her, a professional, active, award-winning painter, probation! As if four months would change anything. The idea rankled on several levels. Artemisia was still seething over the insult by the time she arrived home, her emotions as stormy as the weather. She didn’t dare tamp down on her anger yet, though, for fear of what might lie beneath it—tears, grief, despair. She still had to navigate homecoming, still had to face the staff, still had to climb the stairs to her room. Only there would she entertain the notion of setting aside her anger, and then just for a self-indulgent moment or two, after which she would put the mantle of anger on again. Anger was sustaining. It had got her through before when another man had betrayed her.
‘Miss, welcome home,’ Anstruther greeted her, an expectation of impending good news inflected in his voice. The butler’s usually stoic expression held a hopeful enquiry in his eyes. She had none to give him.
‘Is my father home?’ Her tone was clipped and impersonal as she handed him her gloves and shed her outerwear.
‘No, miss. He’s gone out to his clubs.’ Anstruther was too well-trained to overlook the subtext of her message. There would be no celebration tonight. The flicker of hopefulness in his gaze had been replaced instantly by the professional detachment of his calling. Silently, she thanked him for that. She could not have borne up under his sympathy.
She was glad, too, that her father was out. Perhaps he’d already known and strategically decamped. He’d done his part. He’d served as her nominator. He’d made it clear the rest was up to her, that she must stand on her own feet for reasons that weren’t entirely charitable. Sir Lesley Stansfield had a strong streak of self-preservation in him. Still, she’d agreed. She’d wanted her own laurels to rest on, not his, and in that she had failed.
‘There you are! At last! I thought you’d never come home.’ Her sister Adelaide’s excited exclamation drew Artemisia’s gaze up the long staircase as Addy sailed down the steps, all exuberance and confidence in her sister’s success. ‘How did it go? Shall I call for cham—?’
Artemisia hated to disappoint her. ‘No champagne, Addy.’ She halted her sister’s progress with a look and a shake of her head. She could feel Anstruther retreating behind her to give them privacy.
The smile on her sister’s face faded. ‘No! Never say they denied you?’
‘They did.’ Artemisia mounted the steps, suddenly weary. She found a small smile for her sister before stalling Anstruther’s retreat. ‘I’ll need my trunk from the attic, please.’
‘Where are you going? What’s happened?’ Addy fell into step, following her to her room where her sister took up her usual post in the middle of Artemisia’s bed, skirts tucked about her. ‘You’d best tell me everything.’ There was comfort in those words and in Addy’s presence. Here in the sanctity of her own room, with Addy beside her, she could set aside her armour and let the hurt show. Addy had always been her biggest supporter, her most loyal advocate, a champion who believed she could do no wrong. It was exactly what she needed now.
‘I am so sorry, Arta.’ Addy squeezed her hand when she finished. ‘Did they give a reason? I can’t imagine what it wo
uld be. Your work is exquisite.’
‘It wasn’t my work.’ Artemisia rose from the bed and began to pace, strength and conviction returning to her. ‘It’s because I’m not like them.’
Addy’s ginger brows knit in puzzlement. ‘You’re a painter, an artist, a professional. You are just like them. How can they say that? You’ve had more commissions this year than most of them.’ Her sweet sister truly didn’t understand. ‘Surely one of them would have spoken for you.’ She could see her sister running the list of names of their close acquaintances, friends of their father, behind her thoughtful green gaze.
‘Not like that, Addy,’ Artemisia said softly. ‘I lack one fundamental quality they all share. I lack a penis.’
Addy covered her mouth in shock. ‘Oh! Arta! Don’t be vulgar.’
‘Honesty is never vulgar.’ Artemisia held firm on that. ‘Despite the superficial offer of a four-month probation, they don’t want women in the Academy. It was made very clear to me today. Their answer will be the same in March.’
Addy was silent for a long while, processing the revelation. Did her sister believe her? As large as the revelation had been to her, it would be even larger to Addy, who was younger and more sheltered from the world than she. Perhaps it was too large of a truth, too heinous, for Addy to allow. It would mean allowing for a certain duplicity in their so-called friends and that would be hard for Addy to accept. At last, Addy spoke. ‘Then you’ll have to prove them wrong.’
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Artemisia’s trunk, a large, leather-covered pine affair that took two footmen to carry from the attic. ‘Just set it by the window,’ Artemisia instructed, feeling Addy’s eyes on her full of questions.
‘I’m going to Aunt Martha’s farmhouse in Seasalter,’ she announced once they were alone again. Their great-aunt had left it to the girls after her passing. ‘I can paint and recoup.’ It had occurred to Artemisia on the ride home that she had no choice about the probation. If she didn’t show up in four months with something to show the Academy, they would say she had simply refused consideration for membership. The onus of her failure would be laid fully on her shoulders. If she did show up with new art, then the onus would be on them and who knew what could change in that time. She stifled a wry chuckle at her own expense. It was true, apparently: hope did indeed spring eternal.
‘Now?’ Addy looked disappointed. ‘What about the holidays? Christmas is in two weeks. We’ll miss all the parties.’
‘I will miss all the parties,’ Artemisia corrected.
Addy shook her head. ‘We. Don’t think I’ll let you go traipsing off to Kent for months on end without me. We’re sisters and this is my fight, too. If the Academy refused you, they’ll refuse me in a few years. This is for us.’
‘You could come after the holidays,’ Artemisia offered, knowing how much Addy enjoyed the festivities. Her sister was a far more social creature than she was. ‘It will give me time to fix the place up, make it habitable. We haven’t been down in years.’ In truth, she wasn’t sure what she’d find in Seasalter. She only knew she had to go somewhere and that was the only place available that was truly hers, where she could paint in private.
‘It will be a real adventure then.’ Addy smiled, a spark of inspiration leaping in her eyes. ‘I know, we should have a name. Men do it all the time. The brotherhood of this, the brotherhood of that. What would we be? A sisterhood, in our case literally.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I know, we could be the Seasalter Sisterhood, united in a common cause.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘No, that’s too tame. You’re not a tame woman. We need something more...defiant. Rebellious. That’s it! We’ll be The Rebellious Sisterhood.’
Artemisia went to her and wrapped her sister in a hug. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? To give up your holiday? I don’t know what I did to deserve a sister like you. The Rebellious Sisterhood it is.’
* * *
As much as Artemisia would have liked to have left immediately for Kent, the reality was that ‘immediately’ meant three days later. There had to be time to pack clothes, time to gather art supplies and household goods against the anticipated paucity of the farmhouse, time to send a rider ahead to warn of their coming. With luck, the farmhouse wouldn’t be entirely uninhabitable upon their arrival.
Or not. Artemisia dropped the carriage curtain. After a long day of rainy, rough travel, she was ready for a decent hot meal and a warm bed, but the dark façade of the farmhouse, starkly outlined against the grey sky, did not reassure her of getting either unless she provided them herself. She reached across the carriage and gently shook Addy awake. ‘We’re there.’ She offered her sister a smile.
The carriage rolled to a halt and Artemisia jumped down, not waiting for help. With the exception of a cook-cum-housekeeper they would hire from the village, they’d be on their own. She’d best get used to it. The comforts of London were far behind them now and unnecessary, she reminded herself. Living in a farmhouse hardly necessitated the staff and services required for running a town house. She pulled up the hood of her cloak against the rain and surveyed the house, a red-bricked structure built in the classic T style, with a single-storeyed kitchen extension attached on the left of the two-storey structure. A wisp of chimney smoke drifted against the dusky sky and Artemisia smiled. Maybe they had some luck after all. Where there was smoke, there was a fire, and where there was a fire, there was warmth and perhaps tea.
The front door opened and a stout woman in a white cap and apron beckoned them in welcome. ‘I thought I heard horses. Come in, come in, you’ll be soaked through in no time standing about like that.’
Inside, the small entrance hall was warm as Artemisia and Addy shed their cloaks. Addy cast her an I told you so smile. ‘See, everything is ready, Arta.’ To the woman, Addy explained, ‘Artemisia always expects the worst. She was certain the farmhouse would be damp, no fires, no beds, no hot food.’
‘We’ve done better than that. Get settled in the parlour and I’ll bring you tea and ginger biscuits.’ The woman exchanged a friendly conspiratorial look with Addy and bustled off before Artemisia realised she hadn’t asked her name.
‘You’ve made another conquest.’ Artemisia pulled a chair before the fire. Addy was always charming. People were drawn to her sister’s open manner and enthusiasm for everything. Not so her. People found her off-putting. Perhaps it was her height—she was as tall as many men. More likely, though, it was her own manner that put people off—a directness laced with cynicism. Beyond Addy, Artemisia trusted no one, confided in no one, a product of an early brush with heartbreak and betrayal. To date, life had proven that decision correct.
The housekeeper bustled in with a tea tray, followed by a pretty blonde girl whose cap couldn’t quite hide her abundance of errant curls any better than her clean, respectable apron could hide her abundance of feminine curves. And she was trying to hide them, Artemisia thought. Desperately, and failing miserably. Artemisia had instant empathy for the pretty girl. Men were capable of doing terrible things to pristine beauty.
The housekeeper set the tray down on a low table before the fire and Artemisia saw to the business of introductions. ‘I’m Miss Stansfield and this is my sister, Addy.’ The girl hung back, respectfully behind the older woman, attempting to blend in, but failing in that as well. A girl like her would never survive service in a big house.
‘I’m Mrs Harris,’ the housekeeper said, as brisk and no-nonsense in her tone as she was in her movements. ‘I’ll come up during the day and look after the house. There will be breakfast and lunch served and I’ll leave supper for you on the stove.’ The woman allowed herself a break from the business of introductions as she added, ‘I served your great-aunt before she passed. It will be a pleasure to have someone at the house again. I was thrilled to get the news Martha’s nieces were coming. She loved to talk about you and the summers you spent here.’
Martha. Their
great-aunt and Mrs Harris had been friends. ‘I took the liberty of hiring some girls in the village to help get things ready. They’d be eager to work if you wanted to hire.’ She gestured for the pretty maid to step forward. ‘This is Elianora, she’s my niece. My brother owns the bakery in town. She does the baking for me here. It’s good to have a second pair of hands, good to not be alone, if you take my meaning.’
Artemisia offered a curt nod in Elianora’s direction. ‘Thank you for the biscuits, they are delicious.’ Ginger biscuits aside, she understood Mrs Harris’s meaning. It referred to the likelihood that illicit activity might be got up to in the desolation of the Kent countryside, particularly in empty or mostly empty farmhouses where only a housekeeper worked. The marshy coast was known for its smuggling industry as much as it was known for its oysters. A woman alone might be an easy target.
‘I think the two of you will be more than enough staff for the house.’ Artemisia was quick to squelch the idea of extra help. The last thing she wanted was a house crawling with maids and footmen. ‘We want to live simply and privately while we’re here.’ She was here to paint, but the housekeeper looked crestfallen.
‘Well, it was just a suggestion.’ Mrs Harris was all brisk business once more, moving to straighten a pillow on the sofa to cover her disappointment.
Artemisia was aware of Addy’s gentle touch at her knee, counselling restraint as her sister softened her inadvertent blow. ‘Let’s see how things go and how much work we actually require, Mrs Harris. We can revisit the subject after we’ve settled in.’
That seemed to appease the housekeeper. ‘Very good, then. I’ll see that your baggage is delivered to your rooms and then I’ll be off for the night. There’s stew and bread set aside for supper in the kitchen.’
‘Times are hard, Arta,’ Addy said softly after Mrs Harris left them. ‘People will be glad of the work and the holidays are coming. Perhaps we might have a small party here, welcome ourselves to the neighbourhood so to speak. After all, one can never have too many friends.’
Portrait of a Forbidden Love--A Sexy Regency Romance Page 2