“I declare, these modern painters aren’t for me,” Lady Bosworth was saying. “What’s wrong with a fine picture of a garden, I ask you?”
They’d stopped before a small gallery and were examining the paintings in the windows. A frisson of excitement raced down Grace’s spine when she got a look at the works herself. What an interesting assortment. A few of the artists she knew already, part of the younger generation currently working in France. Several were new to her, perhaps unknown artists working locally.
“These are quite remarkable,” she said before she could stop herself.
Lady Bosworth drew herself up, preparing to argue her assertion, but the dowager spoke first. “I’d like to go inside and get a better look.”
Suppressing a smirk, Grace ushered the two older ladies inside, Lady Bosworth scowling the entire time. The gallery was no bigger than an average shop in town, with aged wood floors and a counter along the back. No great renovations had been made when the previous business had moved out and the gallery had moved in. The larger pieces were hung on the walls, while the smaller canvases were propped on easels scattered randomly about the room.
The dowager and Lady Bosworth moved slowly from painting to painting, Lady Bosworth huffing and sighing to let everyone know her opinion of the works. Grace trailed behind, caught up in each one. The gallery owner, whomever he was, had a remarkable eye for new talent.
“How striking,” the dowager murmured as she examined one.
“It’s improper!” Lady Bosworth declared. “None of the ladies are dressed!”
“I believe it’s depicting an allegory, Your Ladyship,” Grace said as she caught up to them. “See? This is Galatea and this is Acis, the shepherd.”
Lady Bosworth sniffed. “But to depict them in such a way is indecent. She looks like a common streetwalker.”
“She looks like a real woman, in love with a real man.”
“Look at his hand! He’s about to touch her—good heavens, it would be a scandal to even say it.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Grace asserted. “Why, look at these colors. It’s so vibrant. It nearly dances off the canvas.”
“I do like the colors,” the dowager ventured, tilting her head as she examined the piece. Grace hadn’t intended to convince the dowager to purchase anything, but now she felt a perverse need to, just to put Lady Bosworth in her place.
“And the composition is so dynamic, with this figure of Polyphemus hovering just behind them, threatening their happiness. The trees along the sides frame it all, drawing the eye in to the central drama.”
“It’s quite sloppy,” Lady Bosworth said peevishly. “I’m not sure the man has had any training at all.”
“The loose brushwork is entirely intentional. The artist is more interested in conveying the emotion of the story than creating a perfectly accurate representation. We have photography for that. It frees the painter to create, to express himself, to move our souls.”
A smile bloomed across the dowager’s face. “What a wonderful thought. A painting can exist just to stir the soul. I think I’d like to have this one.”
“You’re going to buy it?” Lady Bosworth nearly screeched.
“Yes,” the dowager said with a decisive nod of her head. “Yes, I am.”
It was all Grace could do not to throw Lady Bosworth a gloating grin. “Why don’t I stay behind to arrange the purchase? You and Lady Bosworth can continue your shopping.”
“Thank you, Grace. How very kind of you. We’ll see you back at the hotel.”
After she’d seen the ladies out the door, she turned around to locate the gallery owner. A woman sat behind the counter now. She hadn’t been there when Grace first entered the gallery. She was somewhere in her fifties, perhaps, dressed in a showy black and green dress better suited to an evening affair than an afternoon in a shop. Lazily smoking a cigarette, she appraised Grace through a curl of smoke. Her black hair was up in a messy knot and she was most certainly employing kohl to render her dark eyes so striking. There was a kind of brazen sensuality about her some French women pulled off effortlessly, from the knowing expression of her eyes to the languid slouch of her body. She’d be a scandal in London Society, but here, she fit right in.
“Pardonez-moi, savez-vous où est le propriétaire?”
“I am the owner,” the woman answered in heavily accented English, tilting her chin up slightly. Her voice was low, with a heavy rasp.
“Ah, merci. My friend is interested in purchasing this painting.”
“Yes, I saw you talk her into it. Very good.”
“I only pointed out the work’s merits.”
“These English.” She waved a hand wearily, and a bit of ash crumbled off the tip of her cigarette. “They have no appreciation for good art. They come in wanting nice landscapes or girls in pretty dresses. They see this and they don’t understand.”
“Modern painting isn’t for everyone.”
The woman examined her another moment, then crushed her cigarette in a little glass bowl and slid out from behind the counter. She retrieved the painting from its easel and brought it to the counter.
“Who should I charge?”
“You may send the bill to the Dowager Countess of Marlbury, care of the Hôtel Victoire.”
Her dramatic dark eyebrows rose. “Oooh, such a title. You keep fancy company. You are one of them, no?”
Grace averted her eyes and shrugged. “Yes and no. By birth, yes, but life has sent me down a different path.”
The woman was silent for a few minutes as she wrapped the painting in paper and secured it with twine. She passed Grace a card so she could write down the directions for delivery and payment.
“I am Madame Duvernay,” she said at last.
“Miss Grace Godwyn. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You will leave soon with your countess friend?”
Grace shook her head. “I will leave, but not with the dowager. I’ll be taking a job soon.”
Madame Duvernay made an expressive little sound which managed to convey disappointment and judgment all without a word.
“I haven’t any family,” Grace found herself explaining. “And no money. So I have to go to work. And for a variety of reasons, I can’t go back to London.”
The older woman grinned knowingly. “Ah. You are fleeing a lover.”
Grace started to protest but relented with a sigh. “Yes, I suppose I am. So I have to work and I can’t go home. I’ve just been offered a position as a governess for an English family in India.”
Madame Duvernay’s eyebrows shot up again. “Why do you want to go be a governess in India? This sounds most unpleasant.”
“It’s all I’m qualified to do. And in truth, I’m not even qualified to do that.”
Madame Duvernay gave an enigmatic shrug the French seemed to have perfected. “You are qualified to sell paintings.”
“What?”
“This.” She waved a hand at the wrapped painting. “You sold your countess this painting.”
“I—”
“You should come and work for me,” Madame Duvernay said decisively.
Grace blinked in confusion as the other woman searched under the counter for another cigarette. “Pardon?”
Madame Duvernay expertly struck a match on the edge of the counter and lit her cigarette, inhaling deeply and then blowing out a plume of smoke. “I am good with the artists,” she said, waving her cigarette for emphasis. “But no good with these rich English people. But you, with your pretty face and your nice accent, they like you. They trust you.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Me, I scare them.” Then she threw her head back and let out a loud, throaty laugh. Grace could see why the English aristocracy would be frightened of Madame Duvernay. She was a bit scary, the way outrageous,
daring things sometimes are. But those things were sometimes exciting, weren’t they?
“You want me to work for you here?”
“Why not? You are smart. You like the art. And you are far from London and your lover here. Do you want to go be a governess in India?”
“Well, no, but—”
“But what? You should do what you like to do.”
It was an alluring idea, but not without consequence. A young woman could remain respectable as a governess. There was some implied protection provided by the family she served. This—living on her own in France and working at this gallery, coming in contact with customers all day long—it was a very different sort of thing. But did it matter? London had already turned its back on her. Perhaps it was time she turned her back on it, once and for all.
“You think about it,” Madame Duvernay said. “I think you like this much better than India.”
She left the gallery consumed with indecision, standing at a crossroads, uncertain which path to take.
* * *
Back in the dowager’s suite of rooms, Lady Bosworth was still complaining about how dull Menton was in summer and the dowager was still ignoring her. When Grace moved on from the dowager, no matter where she chose to go, she’d be sure to drop a hint to her about inviting a different friend along the next time she traveled abroad. Lady Bosworth was unbearable.
She excused herself to her own small room—which wasn’t necessary, as no one had taken note of her arrival—and drew out the reply she’d received from Major Herbert the day before. The major and Mrs. Herbert would be delighted to take her to Bombay with them as the governess to their two daughters, ages seven and ten, at her earliest convenience. They needed her answer soon, as they had travel arrangements to make. She’d intended to write back today and accept. Now she wasn’t so sure.
In a matter of weeks, she could be in Bombay, overseeing the education of two little girls, all traces of her old life wiped away. No one would care if she had once been a viscount’s daughter. No one would care if she’d been left tarnished after a broken engagement. None of it would matter.
She’d never encounter any reminders of her old life, not judgmental nobility or gossiping gentlewomen. She’d never see Honor and Rupert, a reminder of all she’d lost when she’d finally given up and let him go. But she’d also never see Genevieve, Victoria and Amelia. And she’d never see Julian. Fleeing him had been her primary object in choosing a position so far from home, but now the keys to her escape were in her hands, her heart ached at the idea of never laying eyes on him again. She wished freeing his hold on her heart had been as easy as releasing Rupert had been. But she was beginning to fear it would never happen.
Her door clicked and she looked up wearily, prepared to meet Lady Bosworth’s latest demand or complaint with smiling good nature. But it wasn’t either one of the elderly ladies. It was Frederick Musgrave.
He leaned against her closed door, grinning at her with undisguised hunger. Her stomach clenched with dread as she shot to her feet.
“I don’t recall giving you leave to enter my room. This is entirely improper, Mr. Musgrave. I must insist you leave at once.”
Frederick pushed off the door and sauntered across the room. “Now, Gracie, you’re still being so infernally formal.”
“Because we are not intimates. Please go.”
“Not intimates yet, but we could be. My offer still stands, and I won’t even renegotiate the terms to reflect your diminished status, which I think is rather generous of me.”
Grace sidled around the table, placing it between herself and Frederick. “My diminished status?”
“A broken engagement at your age? And under highly questionable circumstances? You’re past all hope, Gracie. You have to see that. But I’m open-minded enough to see you’ve still got some worth. Now come and give me a kiss and we can begin getting better acquainted with each other.”
Her face flamed but she held onto her temper...barely. “I was the one who called off the engagement.”
Frederick shrugged diffidently. “You did it before he could, to save face. I understand.”
“Rupert would have married me.”
He chuckled. “And that’s why he married Lady Honor Chatham before his seat in your parlor had grown cold. Give it up, Gracie. He knew you were damaged goods. Here I am offering you a comfortable arrangement and you’re still turning up your nose at it like a queen.”
Leaning across the table and planting her palms on it to steady herself, her voice was low and shaking with rage. “Let us be perfectly clear, Mr. Musgrave. I shall never, ever accept your vulgar proposition.”
Frederick sputtered in disbelief. “Why? You think yourself so precious as to be above it? You won’t receive a better offer, Grace. And certainly not an offer of marriage. No one will have you now. So why don’t you accept my offer and come under my protection? What other options do you have?”
“I have myself! I’d rather go to work in the filthiest factory than to debase myself with someone like you.”
For someone so large and ungraceful, Frederick moved terrifyingly fast. He’d lunged forward, skirting the table and seizing her arm before she could react. She took a step back, but he held firm, his grip on her upper arm so tight, he was surely leaving bruises. Grace knew she had one chance to get away, or else Frederick would take what he wanted from her no matter what she said or did.
Today she wasn’t hampered by fine evening gloves, so when she drew back and slapped him openhanded, the sting in her own palm was enough to bring tears to her eyes. It had to hurt Frederick doubly.
She wasn’t strong enough to overcome him, but the force of her slap momentarily shocked him and his grip on her arm loosened slightly. She twisted her arm free of his grip, grimacing in pain as she did so, and ran for the door. Wrenching it open, she raced down the short hall back to the sitting room where Lady Bosworth was still nattering away to the dowager about the heat.
They both looked up as Grace stumbled into the room, rubbing her bruised right arm, her hair slipping free of its pins. She heard Frederick come to a halt behind her, but she didn’t turn to look at him.
“Lady Marlbury,” she said, gasping for air. “You’ve been excessively kind to me and I’m grateful for every moment I’ve spent in your company, but I’m afraid I can’t stay here another moment.”
“Can’t stay?” the dowager asked in confusion.
“Yes, I can’t stay. You see, your grandson has been pressing me to become his mistress, and I won’t remain in the company of a man who’s insulted me so gravely.”
Lady Bosworth sniffed. “Well, if he did suggest something so improper, I’m sure you encouraged him. Don’t think I didn’t hear the whispers about you in London.”
Grace laughed, without humor. “Yes, you would think that of me. People always think the worst of those with no money and power to defend themselves. Think it if you like, but I won’t stay here to be insulted another moment.”
The dowager’s eyes flicked between Grace and her grandson, and for an instant, doubt flared. Frederick must have seen it, too, because he began to stage his defense.
“She’s been throwing herself at me since last winter, and now she’s embarrassing herself with this ridiculous story because I won’t have her.”
Now Grace did face Frederick. “No, Mr. Musgrave, you’ve embarrassed yourself, and with no help from me. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to pack my things and go. I would be grateful if you ladies would keep Mr. Musgrave here with you, as he seems happy to let himself into my room without invitation.”
“Frederick...” the dowager said tentatively. “Say you didn’t do something so abominable to my guest.”
“Grandmother—”
“Do you mean to say you’re leaving this hotel alone, Miss Godwyn?” Lady
Bosworth interjected.
“Quite alone. I’ll make my own way from here on out.”
“It’s most improper. You’ll be ruined in polite Society.”
She gave Lady Bosworth a disgusted glance. “Society has been itching to condemn me for years. They can have at it now. What they say is no longer any concern of mine.”
“But Grace,” the dowager protested. “Where will you go?”
“To work,” she said with a smile she was surprised to find was absolutely genuine. “I have a job. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She pushed past Frederick and slammed the door of her room. His voice, defending himself to his grandmother, faded with every dress she folded into her trunk. For all she’d been dreading this moment of reckoning, now that it was here, all she felt was free.
Chapter Nineteen
Julian stood on the crest of the gentle slope of the lawn behind the Abbey, watching his cousins’ gaggle of children scamper and roll across the grass. Phoebe and her siblings alone had already produced eight children between them. The older cousins had added more children to the mix, and the younger, like Minnie, would no doubt announce new additions any day now. The next generation of Brennans was well underway, and here he stood, alone and still rooted in the past.
If only he’d never met Grace. Would he be standing here now with Honor? Would their child be joining the club of baby Brennans soon? But it was no good. He didn’t regret walking away from Honor. He’d have never known a day’s real happiness at her side. And he couldn’t regret meeting Grace, no matter how hard he tried to.
“Quite a long face you’re wearing on such a glorious day, my boy.”
Julian turned to smile at his grandfather, who’s strolled up to stand beside him. Horace Brennan’s face lit up with a warm glow of pride as he surveyed the scene before him, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren spread out across the lawn, enjoying a lavish picnic.
A Reluctant Betrothal (The Grantham Girls) Page 21