The liveried footman at the door looked at him with suspicion – visitors to the exhibition did not generally arrive on foot and Bay looked a bit dishevelled after his struggle through the crowd. But Bay sprang up the steps with such confidence that the footman did not dare to challenge him.
‘What name shall I give, sir?’
‘Captain Middleton.’
On the other side of the room, Charlotte heard the words she had been waiting for all morning.
Pictures at the Exhibition
The turnout for the exhibition was vigorous for a wet morning in March. The lure of royalty was enough to draw the politicians from the chamber, the artists from their studios, the writers from their desks and the ladies from their morning calls. The large salon on the first floor had an Adam ceiling and a fine Grinling Gibbons chimney piece, but its eighteenth-century splendours had been eclipsed by the wonders of the modern world. Every inch of wall space was covered with photographs: studio portraits of the great and the good, staged tableaux of scenes from the Bible or the novels of Sir Walter Scott, studies of little girls in white dresses and grizzled old men in kilts. There were photographs of trees struck by lightning and crowds in Piccadilly, the Pyramids in Egypt and the Pavilion at Brighton. The majority of the pictures were monochrome and hung sombrely against the venetian red of the walls, but every so often a spot of colour was introduced by the brush or pen of a photographer who had needed the punctuation of a red lip or a blue sky. Most of the works displayed were no bigger than a family bible, and as there were nearly four hundred pictures crammed together on the walls, the initial effect was almost overwhelming.
Many of the spectators had never seen so many photographs gathered together before, and as they entered they paused, uncertain where to begin. This was not like the Royal Academy where everybody knew who this year’s lions were, and which pictures were to be the talk of the season. Here there were no familiar names to cluster around and no movements to discuss. Most visitors went straight to the portraits of the famous – where at least there was some possibility of judging the photograph against the original. The likeness of Lord Beaconsfield was considered most flattering, making him look so youthful that there was speculation that some artifice had been involved. Several women of a certain age, who had always resisted the pitiless lens of the carte de visite, made a note of the photographer’s name in their catalogues and resolved to enquire about having their portrait done after the same manner.
A few brave souls who had got all the way to the far wall found pictures that astonished them – women floating in thin air, a girl looking into a mirror and seeing the reflection of an old crone, a man with three legs. A Canon of St Paul’s whispered to his wife that he wondered if these pictures were quite suitable, ‘had there perhaps been occult practices?’ he murmured. His wife, who was ten years younger than him and a keen photographer, told him not to be such a fuddy-duddy. The pictures were ‘artistic’. Photographs could be manipulated just as much as paintings, and to achieve the effects in front of them had required an inordinate amount of skill.
* * *
Augusta and Fred were looking at a picture of a Highland scene. Or rather, Fred was looking and Augusta was surveying the room. She was not entirely at ease. This was not a milieu that she was comfortable with: royalty notwithstanding, so far she had not seen anyone she considered ‘smart’. There were several cabinet ministers in the room, a Poet Laureate and a number of fashionable painters, but none of them met Augusta’s exacting standards for smartness. A home secretary was no substitute for a duchess. Augusta was surprised that the Queen should patronise such a ramshackle gathering; it was the sort of occasion that she associated with Charlotte, who had no idea of what constituted ‘good form’. Augusta once again felt the unfairness of Charlotte being the heiress to a fortune, while she was marrying a Borders squire who didn’t even have a house in town. Augusta knew just what to do with that money – she knew that with sixty thousand a year, she could be one of the foremost hostesses in the land. If only Charlotte wasn’t so awkward. She had always wanted a younger sister, but not one like Charlotte. Augusta sighed.
Fred said, ‘I say, Augusta. Have a look at this one – ain’t those the housemaids from Melton?’
Augusta peered at the photograph through her eyeglass. ‘Why, yes. Although you would hardly recognise them; they look quite feverish. This must be one of your sister’s photographs. Number forty-seven. What does it say in the catalogue? A group study by Miss Baird. I do think that she might have mentioned Melton. I mean, after Mama went to all the trouble of giving her the old nursery for her photography, she might have had the courtesy to mention that she was at our house.’
‘Perhaps she has mentioned it somewhere else, Gus.’ Fred sighed; he wished that Augusta wasn’t so obsessed with her own position as a daughter of Melton. Although he was happy to be marrying an earl’s daughter, it would be more seemly if she remembered that his family had status too.
‘I am going to look for all of Charlotte’s photographs. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that she has included the picture she took of us and forgotten to mention our names!’ said Augusta.
Fred looked around for a diversion and saw Chicken Hartopp standing behind a bishop. He was stooping to examine a photograph that was hung at waist level.
‘Hello, Chicken. Thought you were with the Cottesmore today?’
‘Changed my mind. Have you seen this?’
The two men looked at the photograph of Bay and Tipsy in the Melton stables.
‘Don’t understand how they select the photographs,’ said Chicken.
‘No. You would think that they would look for interesting subjects.’
‘I mean, how is a picture of Middleton and his horse right for a Royal Exhibition? Middleton’s a nobody and the horse hasn’t won anything.’
‘Middleton thinks he’ll win the National with that mare.’
‘I wouldn’t put money on it. Horse is only fifteen hands. You need a big beast for the National. Anyway, Middleton’s too busy being a royal horse dealer these days. Someone told me at the club that the Empress bought a whole string of hunters on Middleton’s say-so. He certainly hasn’t lost any time.’
‘Yes,’ said Fred, ‘Bay has been very busy.’
* * *
Lady Lisle was saying to Charlotte, ‘And where are your photographs, dear?’
‘They are scattered about, Aunt. Only the most distinguished photographers are hung together. I don’t even know where all my pictures are, because all the hanging was changed last night. I believe that Mrs Cameron felt that not enough of her photographs were on the line.’
‘On the line?’ asked Lady Lisle.
‘At eye level. That’s where they hang all the most important photographs. You won’t find any of mine there.’
‘But eye level depends on how tall you are,’ said Lady Lisle. ‘I believe the Queen is quite a small person.’
Charlotte smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
Lady Lisle started to examine the wall behind her. She found the mass of images rather dizzying; watercolours were so much more peaceful. But then she found a picture that punctured her happy blur. This must be one of Charlotte’s photographs. That was Captain Middleton, she was almost sure, but who was the lady on horseback that he was staring at so intently? Lady Lisle turned to ask Charlotte, but her niece had disappeared into the crowd.
Charlotte was looking for Bay. After hearing his name announced she had been trying to work her way across to the door, but the room was now packed and the train on her dress made it difficult for her to move through it unimpeded. She saw the back of a head with reddish brown hair and set off in that direction, only for the man to turn around and reveal himself to be wearing a dog collar. Charlotte stopped by a table in the middle of the room that held a stereoscope and stood on her tiptoes to see if she could catch a glimpse of Bay.
‘Goodness me, Charlotte, why are you standing here all alo
ne?’ Augusta tapped her on the shoulder with her programme. ‘Shouldn’t you be enjoying your triumph?’
Charlotte was looking at a knot of people clustered around an easel at the front of the room. Was that Bay standing next to a woman in red velvet?
‘I am glad you think it is a triumph. I feel rather nervous.’
‘I can’t think why. It’s not as if you are one of the principals. I very much doubt that the Queen will single you out.’
‘How kind of you to point that out. I shall stop worrying immediately.’
‘I was disappointed to see that you failed to mention that the maids in your photograph belong to Melton. I thought it customary for an artist to thank their patron.’
Charlotte turned round to look at Augusta.
‘The photograph is of three young women with their lives ahead of them. It’s a study in character and composition. I don’t believe there is anything to be gained from knowing that they are housemaids. I wanted viewers to see their characters, not their situation in life.’ As she spoke, the chatter in the room dimmed and was replaced by an expectant murmur.
‘You will have to excuse me, I believe that the Queen is arriving and Lady Dunwoody has asked me to be in the receiving line.’
Charlotte found her way to the door. At the bottom of the steps she could see a very small woman in black making her way up the red carpeted steps. The crowd in the room drew back to make room for the royal party. Charlotte saw Bay on the other side of the room. She waved to him but he was looking in the other direction. She dug her nails into her palms. To cross that empty floor to greet him now would be tantamount to announcing their engagement in The Times. If only he would look her way. She stared at him as hard as she could, willing him to turn his head.
‘There you are, Charlotte,’ said Lady Dunwoody. ‘You must come and stand next to me. I am relying on you to make sure that Caspar behaves himself.’
Charlotte followed her and took her place in the line of people waiting to be presented to the Queen, Caspar on one side, Lady Dunwoody on the other. Caspar whispered in her ear, ‘Is that your beau standing over there? Shall we make him jealous? If you smile at me now while I whisper in your ear, he will think that we are having a flirtation.’
‘But I don’t want to make him jealous,’ said Charlotte.
‘Carlotta mia, every romance needs a little tension. If the gallant captain turns his head and sees you gazing at him as you are now, he will know precisely what is in your heart, but if he turns to see you confiding in me, well, he will be confused, and that would not be such a bad thing. Everybody desires a thing more when it is not straightforward.’
‘Perhaps that is the way that it works in America, Mr Hewes, but I don’t care to play games.’
‘What I am suggesting is simply self-defence,’ murmured Caspar in a more serious tone than he had used previously.
Charlotte did turn to look at him then, but at that moment the Queen reached the top of the steps and the sounds in the room were muffled by the approach of royalty.
The Queen was even smaller than Charlotte had expected. She barely reached the chest of her Highland servant. But her lack of height was balanced by her considerable girth, the stoutness accentuated by the old-fashioned width of her skirts. The crowd instinctively shrank back another foot as if they hadn’t quite anticipated her wideness.
Behind the Queen and John Brown, came a couple of ladies. One of them, who was a little taller but almost as stout as the Queen, must be her youngest daughter, Princess Beatrice. She had the same bulbous blue eyes as her mother. At the rear of the party were two men. Without quite knowing why, Charlotte assumed they must be foreigners – there was something about the younger man’s goatee and the cut of his frock coat that made him look quite different to the Englishmen in the room.
Caspar said under his breath, ‘Who is the fellow with the gold pin who looks so uncommonly put out?’
‘I think that must be Prince Rudolph, the Austrian Crown Prince.’
The Queen was talking now in her high, clear voice with its exaggerated emphasis, and slight German accent.
‘What an extraordinary display, Sir Peter,’ she said to the President of the Society, who had greeted her at the top of the stairs. ‘To see so many photographs in one place. How pleased Prince Albert would have been to see this. He was so interested in photography. He made us sit for them many times. I remember he would say to me that he always preferred a photograph to an indifferent painting. The camera does not lie, he would say.’
Sir Peter bowed. ‘The Society will be for ever grateful to the Prince for his patronage. Such a remarkable man.’
The Queen nodded, satisfied with this tribute. ‘Today you have another royal visitor. We are very pleased to see the Crown Prince Rudolph here. The Ambassador was good enough to suggest that the exhibition might form part of the Crown Prince’s itinerary.’
The Queen turned to Rudolph. ‘What a pity your mother could not join you here today. She came to visit us at Windsor and she looked very well. I hope she is still enjoying her visit.’
‘I believe so, Ma’am, but you have the advantage of me as I have not seen the Empress since I arrived in England.’
Queen Victoria blinked. ‘I trust that she is not overexerting herself. She told me that she rides out every day, but at her age she really should be careful. A gentle ride every day is good for the constitution, but hunting is quite another matter.’
‘The Emperor is of the same opinion, Ma’am.’
The Queen was about to reply when Princess Beatrice, who could see the receiving line that was waiting for the royal party, said, ‘Perhaps you should move inside, Mama. It is very draughty here, and you might catch a chill.’
The Queen shivered and the royal party moved into the room and began to make their way down the line. Thirty of the photographers in the exhibition were to be presented.
Charlotte was about halfway down. The progress of the royal party was uncommonly slow and she rocked on her heels with impatience. The crowd was still blocking her view of Bay.
‘Really, Charlotte. Stop moving about. The Queen won’t get here any faster if you fidget.’ Lady Dunwoody spoke out of the corner of her mouth, all the while looking straight ahead with a fixed smile on her lips.
Charlotte muttered an apology and tried to stand still, but she could not help craning her head to see if Bay was looking at her. But he had disappeared from where she had seen him last. If only the Queen would move a little faster. At that moment Charlotte would have happily given up her chance of curtseying before royalty if it meant that she could go and find Bay, but she knew that Lady Dunwoody would never forgive her if she left her place in the receiving line, so she balled her hands into fists and tried to count in her head, as if she was playing hide and seek.
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, at last the Queen had reached Lady Dunwoody.
‘I remember the picture you had at the last exhibition, Lady Dunwoody. It was the Lady of Shalott, I believe. I am so fond of Tennyson.’
‘You are too kind, Ma’am. I hope I may be allowed to present you with a print of the picture.’
The Queen nodded, satisfied that her hint had been taken. ‘We would be delighted.’
‘May I present my goddaughter Charlotte Baird, who has a number of photographs on display, and my assistant Mr Caspar Hewes, who has given us some splendid views of his native America.’
Charlotte made her curtsey and was gratified to observe that she had been quite right about the Queen’s resemblance to a codfish. It was the heavy jowls on either side of the tiny, pursed mouth that quite resembled gills, and the glassy, bulging eyes that glistened moistly as if only recently placed on the fishmonger’s slab. Princess Beatrice, who hovered next to her mother, was also fish-like, although not so august a fish as a cod, a haddock, perhaps.
‘You are very young, Miss Baird, to be in the exhibition.’
‘I have been fortunate to have Lady Dunwoody as a teacher
, Ma’am.’
‘Your modesty does you credit, Miss Baird. Young women today can be quite brazen.’ She turned her head slightly to John Brown, who murmured in reply, ‘Indeed, Ma’am. Brazen is the wurrrd for it.’
Charlotte bowed her head in what she thought was a reasonable facsimile of demureness. She hoped that Augusta was watching this exchange. Royal favour was not something that Charlotte had ever considered, let alone sought for its own sake, but there was a certain satisfaction in receiving something that would so thoroughly enrage Augusta.
Now Caspar was bowing before the Queen. It was a very low bow, one that would have been more suitable to the court of the Sun King at Versailles than a modern queen, but Victoria nodded with approval, finding nothing extravagant in his gesture.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Caspar, in a voice that would have filled the Albert Hall.
‘Which part of America do you come from, Mr Hewes?’
‘I come from California, Ma’am.’
‘Such a romantic sounding name.’
‘It is a spectacular country, Ma’am. I am afraid that my photographs do not do it justice. There are trees there the height of your cathedral spires and the earth is so fertile and the weather so clement that the settlers call it the land of milk and honey.’
‘I am surprised that you could bring yourself to leave such a paradise, Mr Hewes.’ The corners of the Queen’s mouth were pointing down. Charlotte heard Lady Dunwoody gasp. Sir Peter, who was standing behind the Queen, stood very still, his mouth slightly open as if preserved in aspic. John Brown gave a long rolling sniff.
But Caspar was not deterred. ‘Natural beauty is all very well, but there is no culture there. We Americans are forced to travel a long way to find the patina of civilisation that your subjects take for granted, Ma’am.’
He bowed again as if to emphasise the subjugation of the New World to the Old, and this time the Queen’s lips flickered upwards.
The Fortune Hunter Page 29