‘Dashing fluidity no less,’ Sargent repeated, genuinely interested and without a hint of amusement. ‘Yes, I think that is a most apt description of my style. And for that I thank you. You have a great interest in art?’
‘Most certainly, sir. I have studied it carefully and with great interest.’ May now stood back from the painting to give the artist her full attention. ‘I know quite a lot about you too, sir. That you first studied in Rome before progressing to the Accademia Belle Arti in Florence, where the famous American sculptor Hiram Powers predicted a great future for you.’
‘Excellent!’ Now Sargent laughed and as he did the two of them standing before the painting of the Honourable Mrs Healy Hutchinson attracted even more attention. ‘However, flattery – much as I enjoy it – will not get your portrait painted by me.’
‘That was not my intention, sir,’ May replied, not the slightest bit disconcerted. ‘I simply was answering your query as to whether or not I had an interest in art.’
‘Naturally,’ Sargent said. ‘And I shall greatly look forward to hearing more about your interest in it. Shall we say tomorrow?’
May regarded the great man steadily, her head cocked a little to one side as if she had no idea what he was suggesting. Then she smiled, as if the truth of it had all at once dawned on her. ‘You would like us to visit you here again tomorrow, sir? So that we may further our conversation? Why I should be delighted, sir, if my mother is agreeable.’ As if to seek approval May turned to her mother, who had stepped well back to leave the floor to the two main protagonists.
‘I mean, Miss Danby,’ Sargent corrected her before Alice had a chance to speak, ‘that I would like very much to paint you, and I would be most honoured if you would agree.’
Overhearing this most precious of invitations those standing nearby took immediate note, and one second later the whole studio was humming with the news.
‘I think it is I who would be honoured, sir,’ May replied, still managing to preserve her perfect decorum. ‘Mamma? I trust it will be possible to accept Mr Sargent’s invitation?’ May turned again to Alice who at once agreed with just the right mix of delight and poise.
‘Good,’ Sargent concluded. ‘We shall leave it to Nicolo to make all the arrangements. Now let me show you around the studio so you may give me your initial opinion of the rest of my current work.’
By now of course May Danby was the talk of the gathering and while many there envied her, few begrudged the beautiful unknown the instant fame the great painter had bestowed on her by his invitation such was May’s apparent quality and so original and total her beauty that those present could only feel happy that they had been there to witness it.
All except one guest who thanks to the excitement caused by this social meteor for once in her life was going all but unnoticed.
‘Who is vat girl who is getting all ve attention?’ Daisy Evesham demanded to know of the acquaintances standing with her. ‘Do any of you know anyfing about her?’
None of the men in her circle paid the question much heed since they were all too busy trying to keep May in their sights, while most of the ladies present shrugged or shook their pretty heads.
‘Do any of you know her muvver even?’ Daisy continued, having drawn a blank. ‘I take it vat is her muvver, alvough it is rarver difficult to believe vat such a girl could be born to such a plain-looking woman. Well?’
‘That is the girl’s mother right enough, Daisy,’ one of the women in her party told her. ‘I was standing nearby when they introduced themselves to Nicolo and so I heard. They are called Danby, she being the Honourable Mrs Charles Danby?’
‘No,’ Daisy said dismissively. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Neither have I,’ her friend agreed. ‘But that is who they are, apparently. The Honourable Mrs Charles Danby and her daughter May.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Daisy dyspeptically. ‘Small fry. Emily?’
From the corner of the studio where she had been standing largely neglected since May’s arrival, Emily stepped forward at Daisy’s behest.
‘What are you doing, Emily? Lurking away in ve corner like vat?’ Daisy demanded. ‘You know full well ve reason why I brought you here, and yet you are behaving most irksomely. Like some ridiculous shrinking violet. Now come along.’
Grabbing Emily’s hand Daisy began to lead her across the studio.
‘I have done everything you have asked me so far, Lady Evesham,’ Emily protested, only to be stopped by her furious patron.
‘You have done everything I have asked you, Emily, but without any success,’ Daisy seethed. ‘Now let us have one last go at catching Mr Sargent’s eye, shall we? Ovverwise vis creature who has just arrived is going to steal all our funder and I will not allow it. Nicolo?’ she called to the painter’s manservant. ‘Nicolo, a moment of your time, please.’
Nicolo came over to meet Daisy as she crossed the studio and enquired how he might perhaps help.
‘I need anuvver word wiff your master, Nicolo,’ Daisy informed him. ‘Vare is somefing I neglected to tell him, and it is rarver pressing.’
‘So sorry,’ Nicolo sighed. ‘I would do anything to help you, Lady Evesham, you know this. But the Master he say enough now for today. He is tired so much by these events and tomorrow he must be at his best for he is to paint a most beautiful young lady.’
‘He is? Really,’ Daisy sighed, as if to indicate such a thing was an impertinence, and having missed out on the detail of the events which took place before the portrait of the Honourable Mrs Healy Hutchinson. ‘Might one know who vis is, Nicolo? Obviously a famous Society beauty one must suppose.’
‘A famous Society beauty to be, Lady Evesham,’ Nicolo returned. ‘The beautiful young lady who was a late arrival. That is she, over there.’
With that Nicolo nodded his head towards May.
‘In vat case, Emily,’ Daisy announced, ‘ve time has long passed when we should have gone.’
* * *
On the way home both May and her mother were oddly quiet, as if the events of the day had proved too much for them both. In fact neither of them spoke at any length, particularly not to remark on what had happened at the great man’s studio, until they were settled in the comfort of the little sitting room back at their house in Park Lane.
‘It has to be said, May dear,’ Alice began, ‘that no-one could have dreamed of such an auspicious debut for you.’
‘It was sheer luck,’ May laughed, bending forward to start unlacing her boots. ‘And by the way, did you know that Mr Sargent was a close friend of Monet and greatly admired Whistler, and yet—’
‘May dear—’
‘Yet in spite of even being invited to join the Impressionist movement – and can you imagine the honour, Mamma? He was invited to join the Impressionists and yet he turned them down.’
‘That is most interesting, May darling, but of little relevance to the here and the now. And it was nothing to do with sheer luck, Mr Sargent deciding to paint your portrait. It was because of your looks, my dear.’
‘They say that Mr Sargent prefers worldly to artistic success, Mamma—’ May continued, but Alice was not to be silenced.
‘Truly, May, you are a great beauty and that is the fact of the matter. Perhaps one thing you did not learn when you were studying painting is that Mr Sargent chooses who sits for him, rather than the other way round. Did you know he flatly refuses to paint royalty? In fact the rumour goes, according to my friend Lady Ducket, that even Her Majesty has been passed over, as have other members of the royal family, including the Prince of Wales who has not taken it at all well. All sorts of women, many who consider themselves to be great beauties and who are considered by others to be so, have also been ignored, yet Mr Sargent took one look at you – et voilà!’
‘Please do not think for one moment I am not greatly complimented, Mamma,’ May said. ‘Of course I am, but my delight is not for me but for you. If we succeed in what we plan to do then I shall be happy not because i
t will make my fortune, but because it will restore you and Pappa to your rightful place in Society. Now I have a very good idea. Let us ring down for some sherry and sit here by the fire and drink it with our boots off. How does that appeal to you, Mamma?’
Alice Danby smiled back at her gorgeous daughter who was smiling at her as mischievously as a marmoset.
‘I think that is a simply excellent idea, May darling,’ Alice agreed. ‘For I have to say that I feel we have truly earned it.’
But while Alice and May Danby were sipping sherry wine and easing their aching feet in front of the fire, Daisy Evesham and her protégée were tiring their feet out even more around the other studios which were open that Sunday, so determined was Daisy to get Emily’s likeness painted by some other celebrated artist. On their rounds they called on Sir Danmar Croft, an older gentleman and as unlike to John Singer Sargent as could be. Whereas John Singer Sargent was American, easy of manner, charming and when he chose to be so highly amusing, Sir Danmar was the very opposite. Here was an Englishman of the traditional style, with a distant and patrician manner, and a most condescending way with women. He was however renowned for his portraiture, although nowhere near as famously as Sargent, so Daisy considered that she would not be entirely wasting her time by walking Emily past him, as she put it. The old man was not in the slightest bit interested as it happened. The reason was nothing to do with Emily’s looks nor with her appeal, it was simply that he had a full order book and while he was perfectly prepared to accept a commission there was absolutely no chance of its being executed until the end of the year, well after the Season was over. Had they come to his studio first, he informed them as he showed them the door, then their luck might have been better, because as it happened once the beau monde had descended on Glebe Place he was offered a full complement of work. If they wished to try further, he told them, then perhaps they might care to call on Edmund Bedint before they took themselves home.
Taking the old man’s advice Daisy ordered her coachman to take them on to Charkham Street and the studio of the recommended artist. Edmund Bedint’s place of work was even larger and much more luxurious than the somewhat spartan one they had just left, with walls painted in a deep and passionate red and enormous gilded wooden chandeliers hanging from its lofty ceilings. There were also plenty of massive chairs made up to look like thrones placed on rostra everywhere, obviously in which his chosen subjects were expected to sit or pose or lounge or do whatever they or he pleased and which were now occupied by the last of his guests, as were the many ornate sofas placed against the walls. Above the studio floor a gallery ran the full way around the room where again a few hangers-on were still loitering and drinking, leaning on the banisters to watch the death throes of the party below.
‘Mr Bedint is not so talented as Mr Sargent, as you can see from all ve gold,’ Daisy confided to Emily as they waited to be introduced. ‘It’s rarver like we women. Ve less paint we need to apply ve greater our beauty. Anyway, I am sure Mr Bedint will do because he did at least paint ve first Countess of Evesham’s portrait. Ah.’
Daisy moved forward as the small crowd in front of them cleared and she could see her way through to meet the artist himself. Unfortunately the great man was in no fit state to meet Daisy or anyone, because as the sofa on which he rested became visible so too did his own particular welfare, and to judge from the empty bottle in his hand, his closed eyes and the beatific smile on his face Mr Bedint had long since passed the point of caring.
Before Daisy could make a remark, a small brightly dressed woman with frizzy orange hair and well-rouged cheeks stepped between the two women and the recumbent painter.
‘I am afraid Mr Bedint will be able to receive no more visitors alas, ladies,’ she said none too fluently. ‘As you may see, tired as he is by his efforts today he has decided upon sleep.’
‘Perhaps vis is one of vose blessings in disguise,’ Daisy hoped as she and Emily made their way back to their carriage. ‘At least it had very much better be. Vare is still a long way to go as far as the Season goes, so perhaps we may discount vis particular incident and regard it as a mere hiccough. People do get vemselves in a most peculiar state of agitation when it comes to who is to be painted and who is not, so perhaps we let ourselves get rarver carried away. After all, what really counts is who is caught, is it not? And somehow I feel vat ve little girl we saw taking ve eye today is from far too insignificant a background to be of any real account. What is it vey describe such fings as? Of course – a morning glory. My late husband had a string of morning glories at Newmarket. Horses vat promise all on ve gallops only to disappoint on ve course. And yes, ve more I fink about it ve more comfortable I become, because I feel sure vat is what vat poor child is. May Danby is simply vis Season’s Morning Glory.’
In return Emily said nothing. There was no real need to since Daisy was thinking out loud rather than addressing her directly. But even if she had been really seeking an opinion Emily would have been unable to agree. As soon as she saw the girl in question entering John Singer Sargent’s studio she knew she had never seen beauty like it and probably never would again. Words could not describe how lovely the girl was, nor the effect her beauty had on those around her. All Emily could think of as she unsuccessfully racked her brains to write a description to send back to her family in Ireland was that if there were such things as angels in heaven then they surely could be no better looking than Miss May Danby.
Other than that Emily was bored and wished that she was back riding over the spring green hills and fields in Galway.
RIDING OUT
The one compensation Emily had found so far was being able to ride out in Hyde Park. Had she not been able so early in her stay in London to persuade her mentor to allow her to do so Emily might well have bolted back to Ireland, for much as she had finally enjoyed her stay with Lady Devenish as soon as Daisy Evesham had collected her and carried her up to the capital she had felt nothing except an impending sense of doom. That she did not like her patron she realized from the start, but due entirely to her family’s impecunious state she had decided that she would have to follow their wishes and see the whole venture through to its conclusion. Even so, during those times she had been left alone with Lady Evesham Emily had been made to feel so unhappy, both by Lady Evesham’s totally uncharitable outlook on the world in general and on Society in particular as well as by the expectations she described for her protégée, that she had consistently considered the idea of running away and taking her chance of maybe marrying well enough back home.
It was perhaps because she sensed the girl’s unease that Daisy at once acceded to Emily’s request to go riding. Knowing her passion for horses the countess thought it would keep her mind fully occupied, and provided she did not get herself into any mischief the recreation might actually help advance Daisy’s machinations, since once the subject had been broached and permission given she intended to organize matters so that her beloved Captain Peter Pilkington should coincidentally ride out at the same time as Emily. The captain had confessed to Daisy that he had been mightily impressed by Emily’s equestrian skill and so if Daisy was to succeed in arranging the match then the more the two saw of each other – and most particularly on horse – the better.
She left it to her coachman to make the necessary arrangements since besides being familiar with all the best livery stables in the vicinity she knew he also prided himself on having an eye for a good horse. So just as Portia had been fortunate enough to have Mr Plumb inspect any potential conveyance for her so too was every care taken to make sure that Lady Emily Persse was well and suitably horsed. She was, of course, also well and suitably clothed, although well would hardly be anywhere near an accurate enough description of the simply superb habit Daisy had made for her at Busvines. As a result Emily, who caught every eye on the ground, was even more of a sight on horseback, as indeed is the case with most women. A horse does wonders for the form and the appeal of a woman, and the sight of Emily dre
ssed in immaculate style upon a superbly schooled gleaming black thoroughbred all but stopped the traffic in Hyde Park every morning.
Then one day a small accident happened which led to two people meeting and there is no doubt at all that the fact of their meeting totally altered the shape of both their destinies.
Emily was already mounted on her immaculately turned out horse and was preparing to leave the mews to hack her way over to Rotten Row when the horse who was being got ready beside her began to stamp and fidget before its rider could mount.
‘Careful!’ Emily called to its groom. ‘I think he has a horsefly on him! There – look! Underneath on his stomach!’
The boy who was holding the horse pulled the animal’s head round as he bent down to see if he could spot and swat the fly with a stable rubber he had in his hand. ‘Thanks, miss!’ he called back, seeing the nasty insect settling on the horse’s stomach and flicking at it with the cloth. ‘He’s gone now!’
Emily didn’t see what happened next as she was busy turning her own horse round to face the right way, but from behind she heard a sudden clatter of hooves and a cry as the other horse took fright and bolted. Spinning back round she saw that the rider had managed to mount and fix herself into her side-saddle before the horse had taken off, but was obviously now well out of control to judge both from the speed and the angry bucking of her mount.
‘You can’t have got it at all, you dolt!’ Emily shouted at the boy. ‘You should have had someone hold his head and made sure! Come’n, Prancer! After them!’
Kicking her own horse on Emily galloped off after the bolter, below the arch of the mews and out into the road. The other horse knew its way round the streets well enough because she could see it was heading full speed for the park, unmindful of both traffic and pedestrians in its path. Mercifully the rider was still on board, although equally still out of control.
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