by Lara Temple
‘Come,’ he said, holding out his arm and she moved towards him with her peculiar brand of pent-up energy, following him out to the street where he hailed a passing hackney cab.
She gave a breathy laugh as she settled on to the seat.
‘I feel like I am escaping from the Bastille! This is quite ridiculous. I have been here less than two weeks and already I am losing perspective on reality.’
Max smiled. He should have known she would treat this with her usual irrepressible enthusiasm. He settled back and waited for her next outrageous comment. It was not long in coming.
‘Thank you for offering to take me there. It makes it seem so much more...commonplace.’
‘That sounds disappointing. Should I apologise for taking the adventure out of it?’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that... Just that I am trying to convince myself that it needn’t be such a to do. That it is quite normal for me to go to see some of the most amazing painters alive in England today. Part of me doesn’t want to go.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, I am bound to discover that an unbridgeable chasm lies between my puny talent and real artistic skill. I am quite prepared to suffer some mortification before I can free myself from vanity and enjoy real genius.’
‘That is very...broad-minded of you,’ Max replied after a moment’s struggle not to laugh, reminding himself this was a serious issue for her, after all.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ she asked, her gaze both questioning and accusing.
‘Is that terrible?’
Her eyes slanted again in the amusement that never seemed far from the surface.
‘I did sound terribly pompous, didn’t I? But I mean it. Back in Ashton Cove I was always by far the best artist, not that anyone really cares about that over there unless they need me for the church decorations. But I know today I will see real talent. There are so very, very few and some of them will have their paintings on those walls. And I will know, for certain, that I am not and never will be of that calibre. I know that I am going to feel something in me die today and even though it will hurt, I wouldn’t avoid it even if I could, because the other side of that coin is the experience of witnessing genius. It’s still pompous, but I can’t help it—that is what I feel. Oh, look, is this Piccadilly?’
Max assented, absorbing what she said. He was acquainted with several artists because of his uncle and this was a very mature and quite unusual approach among those gifted, or cursed, with artistic talent. She didn’t speak again, aside from occasional questions about the buildings they passed as they made their way towards the Strand. Finally they drew towards St Mary le Strand and pulled up in front of the neoclassical façade of Somerset House where the Royal Academy was housed.
‘Oh, here we are! That was so very quick! Oh, come!’
She almost jumped from the hackney, waiting with clear impatience as Max paid the driver, her hand straining on his arm as he led her through one of the three tall arches into the Somerset House complex and towards the winding staircase leading to the Exhibition Room at the top of the building. Her eyes moved hungrily over the decorations that marked their passage, the sculptures by Wilton and Bacon, and the ornamented landings with occasional benches for the visitors to rest as they climbed the long staircase.
‘It’s a good thing you didn’t bring Marmaduke,’ he remarked halfway up and she looked up at him, laughter chasing away some of her intentness, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t flag on the stairs, as did many women who had stopped to rest and fan themselves and gossip, for which Max was grateful since it meant that beyond nodding at his acquaintances, he did not have to speak to anyone, though he was aware of the curious stares directed at them.
‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked her, curious about the seemingly boundless energy she radiated.
The question cut through her concentration.
‘Tired?’ she asked in obvious confusion and he indicated the steep stairwell.
‘You’re going up these at breakneck speed.’
She flushed guiltily.
‘Sorry, but I am so excited. And I am very used to climbing up and down the cliffs near Ashton Cove. My favourite place to draw is a little bay just to the west of where we live and there is quite a steep ascent. These stairs don’t really compare. I will slow down if it is too fast for you, though.’
‘Don’t be cocky,’ he said easily and she laughed. They had just made it to the final landing and he turned her to him.
‘Before we enter the Exhibition Room and I lose your attention utterly, you should probably tell me your name in the event we have no choice but to speak to someone. It would be a bit embarrassing to introduce you simply as the girl with the pug.’
She was straining forward like a racing horse against the gate, but that checked her and her eyes widened.
‘You are quite right. How foolish, but I hadn’t realised...still, we haven’t been introduced formally so it is not at all surprising. I am Sophie Trevelyan. And you?’
He hesitated. He had initiated this, after all.
‘Max...’
‘Harcourt!’
Max squared his shoulders and turned towards the exquisitely dressed dandy who was approaching them from the Exhibition Room. His shirt points were so high his amiable face seemed to bloom from the middle of a tight white flower. He stopped and bowed to Sophie, raising one brow expectantly. Max resigned himself.
‘Miss Trevelyan, this is Lord Bryanston. Bry, this is Miss Sophie Trevelyan.’
‘Trevelyan! That’s a West Country name, isn’t it? Do you live near Max?’
Before Max could respond, she extended her hand properly and answered with a warm smile.
‘Yes, we are neighbours. How do you do, Lord Bryanston?’
He assessed her with a practised eye and bowed gallantly over her hand.
‘Much better now, Miss Trevelyan,’ he replied, his eyes wide and appreciative. Her captivating laughter rolled out and two men who had been inspecting the Carlini sculpture at the top landing turned, one of them raising a curious quizzing glass towards them.
‘I hadn’t realised the exhibition began out here,’ she remarked with such a mixture of innocence and mirth that Max wasn’t surprised to see Bryanston’s gaze sharpen, like a dog catching the scent of prey.
‘Neither had I,’ Bryanston responded. ‘And to think I almost managed to find an excuse not to accompany my aunt here today. My luck is definitely in. I should go lay a wager while it lasts. Max, be a good fellow and bring Miss Trevelyan over to join our party.’
‘Not this time, Bry.’ Max replied firmly.
‘Here, what kind of friend are you?’ Bryanston protested and turned to Sophie. ‘I don’t know why I put up with him. He’s as stiff-necked as those statues over there and about as warm.’
‘At least I’m not as gaudy as a potted plant. Where the devil did you get that atrocity of a waistcoat, Bry? It reminds me of one of my grandmother’s dressing gowns.’
‘Have you no discrimination, you heathen? I personally designed this with Stultz! That’s what your parents get for naming you after some marauding Welsh warrior.’
‘He was a Roman, he just married a Welshwoman.’
‘That’s worse. They wore sheets.’
‘I think your choice of colours is very creative, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie interceded. ‘Not many people would have thought of putting saffron together with puce like that.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Max muttered. ‘I think your aunt is trying to catch your attention, Bryanston, so run along now.’
Bryanston half-turned in alarm, restricted by his high shirt points.
‘Have some pity, man. Between my aunt and Lady Pennistone I am being reduced to emotional rubble. You clearly have a kind heart, Miss Trevelyan, convi
nce the cold brute to join us.’
He grinned appealingly at Sophie, but before she could respond Max took her elbow, urging her towards the entrance of the Exhibition Room.
‘Go charm your aunt before she writes you out of her will, Bry.’
‘Good day, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie said properly as they moved forward, but the laughing smile she directed at Bryanston was so vivid Max wasn’t surprised that his friend remained standing on the steps with his hand held dramatically to his breast in what might have been a very successful Byronic pose if not for his irrepressible grin. Max considered enlightening Sophie as to the lack of wisdom in encouraging the likes of Bryanston when he realised it was too late, he had clearly lost her attention.
They had entered the great Exhibition Room and she stared in awe around the enormous space, her head back and lips slightly parted. He had been here so often, he had forgotten how powerful the impact of entering the enormous hall could be during the Summer Exhibition. For someone like her it must be overwhelming. Hundreds of gilt-framed paintings jostled each other on the walls of the enormous space, lit by the wide, arced skylights that dominated the ceiling. Dozens of fashionable men and women were moving idly around or seated on the low olive-green sofas in the centre of the room. The cavernous buzz of voices swallowed her gasp of surprise. She took a step forward and then, as if suddenly conscious of his presence, she turned back to him.
‘Oh, thank you for bringing me here. You needn’t stay, I know you would prefer not to. I shall be just fine now. Good day, Mr Harcourt.’
Max hesitated, wondering if he should correct her, but since he had suffered under one title or another from the day he remembered himself there was an appeal in being just plain Mr Harcourt. This woman knew nothing about him but that he lived near her and had a sister, and unlike most of the young women he met she didn’t seem to have an agenda for him other than wanting to sketch him. Being Mr Harcourt made everything simpler, lighter. In a few days she would probably be back on her way home and he would never see her again. What was the harm in taking just a few more minutes to enjoy one of his favourite places in London in the company of someone who actually appreciated the artwork itself rather than the spectacle of people on the strut? Ten minutes and he would be on his way. There was no harm in that.
‘Come. I will show you my favourite,’ he said.
She directed a questioning look at him and then gave a little nod and he took her hand and placed it on his arm again and led her towards the other side of the enormous room. As they walked her gaze swept over the paintings, drinking them in, her lips parted as if on the verge of a smile, but he could feel the tension of her hand on his arm. He drew her to a halt just where the room led off into another corridor where a silk cord marked a barrier.
The light from the skylight was not as pronounced here, but Turner’s painting still stood out from among the more ponderous landscapes and portraits. It was labelled Venice, looking east from the Giudecca, Sunrise and its deceptive simplicity and limited palette also made it stand out. It was mostly washed sky and sea in pale pink and golden yellow and a long line of Venice’s skyline traced in purplish blue in the distance. She drew away from him, moving towards the painting, taking it in and then moving back again, forcing a portly couple to make way for her without even noticing them. Max moved so he could watch her face, the smile that bloomed slowly, suffusing her face with joy. Finally she turned to him, her eyes filled with pleasure and even some sadness.
‘I had no idea anyone could do that. He is utterly unfettered. It is quite unfair to have him crowded here like this. There is nothing here like it. I see why you love it,’ she said, her gaze locked back on the painting.
She stood there for a long moment and then with a sigh she turned away to examine the other paintings. She hardly seemed to notice that he placed her hand on his arm again, her attention fully on the paintings. Surprisingly he didn’t mind being taken for granted. Her face was so expressive of enjoyment and awe, it was enough to just watch her revelation and to answer the questions she occasionally directed at him about the artists and the paintings which became more frequent as they advanced.
When they had completed the circuit of the room he led her down a corridor to the Academy’s Council Chambers.
‘Come, I want to show you something.’
Guests could not usually enter this part of the Academy, but she would appreciate seeing Angelica Kauffman’s allegorical murals, as much for their quality as for the artist’s gender. But they had barely entered the chamber when a portly man who had been standing talking with a small group of men and women turned and noticed them and promptly gave a shout of greeting and headed in their direction.
‘Oh, hell,’ Max said ruefully under his voice. ‘It’s a good friend of my uncle’s and a relentless gossip. Once he starts asking questions, we will never escape. Wait here, I’ll get rid of him.’
He moved forward to intercept the man, grasping his elbow and deflecting him from his trajectory. As they moved towards the other end of the room, the man’s voice rang out merrily.
‘Max, old boy! What have you been up to? How is Charles? Still having a high time out with the ladies in Venice? The old dog!’
Max answered the barrage of questions about his uncle’s activities in Italy as best he could and drew the conversation to a close with a promise to remember him to his uncle. Then he turned around to an empty room.
‘You looking for that pretty little thing you came in with? Saw her head to the inner rooms.’
‘What?’ Max exclaimed and without even bothering to say goodbye he headed towards the doorway at the other side of the room. Damn the girl. It was just like her to go to the one place in the whole Academy she was absolutely forbidden to enter.
He found her easily enough the moment he entered the inner room. She was staring in wonder at the tightly packed nude paintings and studies that covered most of the wall space.
‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t come in here!’ Max said sternly, grasping her arm and drawing her towards the door at the other end of the corridor.
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? I would have thought that was obvious! This part of the Academy is not for well-bred young women.’
She turned to him with the amused twinkle in her eyes he was becoming very familiar with and which did nothing to lower his guard.
‘I know that’s what people say, but that is rather ridiculous, isn’t it? There’s hardly anything here a woman hasn’t already seen. If anything, I would have thought this wasn’t a room for well-bred young men.’
Max had to make a considerable effort not to laugh at this rather original view of the matter. She really was absurdly peculiar.
‘Besides, I just saw two very nicely dressed young women pass through here,’ she pointed out.
‘They may have been nicely dressed, but I doubt they were well bred.’
‘Oh! Do you mean they were...lightskirts?’
‘I mean that unless you want to find yourself classified alongside them, we should return to the main exhibition,’ Max said, exasperated as much at himself as at her.
She glanced back with a rather wistful look at the painting of the reclining woman.
‘It is such a pity. There are some amazing paintings in here, though I don’t know what I think about this one. There is something not quite right about her, something in the eyes. Though other than that it is one of the best paintings I have seen today, aside from Mr Turner’s...’
‘Why, thank you, miss. Though I do not know what I feel about being classified alongside Turner’s increasingly eccentric oeuvres.’
A man dressed almost entirely in deep grey and black moved towards them. He was extremely handsome, his hair was a deep shade of chestnut and his brown eyes gleamed amber around the iris, but his expression, which was calculating and fa
intly malicious, did not match his features. He bowed slightly towards Max and the malice became more apparent.
‘Harcourt.’
Max cursed their ill luck. Of all the men in London to run into...
‘Wivenhoe,’ he acknowledged and took Sophie’s arm, guiding her towards the door.
‘Going so soon, Harcourt? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your...friend?’
To Max’s surprise Sophie burst out laughing.
‘Oh, dear, you are right!’ she said to Max, chuckling. ‘He thinks I’m your...what is it called? Chère amie? Do you really think I look the part?’ she asked Wivenhoe curiously. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so with my looks and clothes, judging by the two lovely ladies I just saw. Did you really paint this amazing painting? Frankly, you don’t look the part either.’
That speech seemed to shake even Wivenhoe’s world-weary pose and he inspected her with a look unusually devoid of cynicism.
‘I find myself quite afraid to enquire into the meaning of that comment,’ he said at least.
‘Yes, I think that beast is best left dormant,’ Max said caustically. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I will take Miss Trevelyan back to the main room. She is unacquainted with Somerset House and has strayed into this area by mistake.’
Sophie allowed Max to propel her out of the room and back down the corridor to the main hall, her gaze scanning the paintings as she went. Once in the corridor she sighed.
‘It really is quite unfair of men to keep such lovely paintings to themselves. I am beginning to suspect that London is a great deal more straitlaced than the countryside. After all the dire warnings I received from the squire’s wife I thought it would be a great deal more exciting than it is.’
Wivenhoe gave a soft breathy laugh as he followed behind them.