Revenge of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Her face animated, the woman turned the easel around so the canvas faced them both. Laura could feel the desert heat of its colors from where she stood.

  “You are afraid of this beast that is locked in your breast? Let it out, my dear! You cannot hide from it! I see hints of it in this painting here. In this work, I begin to see the world as you see it.”

  The surge of emotion that had burst like a storm had come to an end. Laura trembled as though she had caught a chill.

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying my work has merit?”

  “It has some – but I believe I have not seen your best work.”

  The older woman approached. “I think we have some things in common.

  “You see me as a celebrated painter, but I am only a woman like you. I have lost much which is precious to me. I have been homeless many times over. My friends were executed by the regime, including the queen herself. My husband betrayed me. And as for my daughter,” – the woman shrugged her shoulders – “we no longer speak. So do not pretend you are the only one of our sex who has been hurt by circumstances not of her making.”

  “Perhaps you presume too much about me, Madame.”

  “Do I?” She returned the pince-nez to her reticule disinterestedly. “Well, I am only in London for a few more weeks. I shall be stopping at Brighton for a few days of rest at the end of August. Call on me if you wish, and show me whether you are a real artist or just a little girl pretending.”

  Later, Laura sat alone in her studio surrounded by the smell of oils and earthy pigments. She was not so much offended that Madame Vigée-Le Brun had found her work wanting. She accepted the judgment the paintings deserved. But…

  How dare that woman judge her life?

  Madame had compelled her to confront the very thing she had been afraid to face; demanded she stare at it.

  She’d never really grasped the importance of Kit Hardacre’s blue leather journals, the ones he used to record the particulars of those he, Elias and the crew of the Calliope rescued. Now she understood.

  They weren’t just numbers on a ledger or some newspaper account.

  They were people. Those words were their lives.

  She closed her eyes and the face of Yasmeen appeared before her. The Somalian’s lithe grace when she danced was mesmerizing. Her mercy was divine. Even when she was administering discipline on Rabia’s orders, she was fair, if demanding.

  Such breathtaking audacity to kill Sheik Selim Omar, knowing it would mean death for herself.

  Even now, Laura struggled to believe Yasmeen was dead.

  She stared at her blank canvas. Perhaps, she needn’t be… perhaps, she could bring Yasmeen back to life. She picked up a pencil and closed her eyes once more before opening them and addressing the canvas before her.

  With growing confidence, she sketched her scene – Yasmeen the dancer in full movement, the curves of her body beneath diaphanous robes, a long, dark leg exposed to the upper thigh as the skirts of her costume flared in mid-turn.

  Laura worked furiously, giving movement and life to the woman who had become her friend and protector in the harem.

  Already, in her mind, Laura had decided the colors she would use – blues, purples, greens. She sketched out the background, the filtered light through the lattice windows, the thick painted walls decorated with mosaic tiles, the ever-present incense burner with its distinct white smoke rising lazily to the ceiling. Watching the dance were odalisques and concubines who reclined on silk cushions, listless and indolent.

  And there, in the shadows, so only the most eagle-eyed viewer would see: the imposing silhouette of the eunuch, Malik, the man who loved Yasmeen.

  Laura remembered some of the stories Sophia used to tell her – of Orpheus and Eurydice, Odysseus and Penelope, and Paolo and Francesca.

  The story of Yasmeen and Malik was an equally tragic love story. And she would bring them back to life. Their story would be known across England if she had her way. She would tell it in not one painting, but another and another, a whole series of paintings! Yasmeen would be vibrant and full of life despite her captivity, not because of it.

  Laura didn’t need models to pose for her, she knew her subjects by heart. She worked on, ignoring the servant bearing her dinner tray. By the time she had finished her preliminary drawings, the room was in deep shadow in the grey twilight. She blinked, surprised by the passage of time. Another servant arrived, this time to light the lamps and set the fire in her bedroom.

  I’m afraid you will be nothing more than a very little talent.

  The words echoed in her ears and Laura felt her anger stoked once more.

  She would show Madame what she saw. She would open that woman’s eyes to the truth. How dare she say she was unmarked by her experience.

  Laura worked feverishly for days, barely leaving her room, and stopping only when the light had become too poor to see. She recalled that Sophia had come to pay a fleeting visit but, to everyone else, she was not at home.

  Nearly two weeks after Madame Vigée-Le Brun’s visit, Laura emerged from her studio.

  “I need to go to town.”

  Samuel raised his head from the ledgers on the desk.

  “You’re sure? I mean, of course, you should. I’m certain Victoria would be delighted to accompany you. I imagine you’ll be wanting a new dress or shoes or whatever it is you women spend so much money on. I’m so glad you decided to come along to the countess’ soiree.”

  Laura didn’t recall agreeing to any such thing, but seeing the delight in her brother’s eyes made her disinclined to disabuse him. To be honest, she had no idea which countess he was talking about. Countess Hortence, she presumed.

  Samuel stood and tugged the bell pull by the fire. A servant swiftly answered.

  “Has Mrs. Cappleman left for town?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Tell my wife Miss Laura will be joining her.”

  The parlor maid bobbed a curtsy and went on her way.

  “I also need more art supplies.”

  “Of course, of course! Whatever you need!”

  Samuel approached her and gave her an awkward hug.

  “I’m so pleased you’re home where you belong. I’ve been worried about you. Now that you’re back, it will be as if nothing ever happened.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “When Samuel said you wanted to go shopping with me, I’m sure that spending twenty pounds in Rudolph Ackermann’s shop buying art supplies was not what he was thinking.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Laura answered, as she and Victoria made their way back down the Strand toward Pall Mall, “but his is the only shop this side of London with a reliable supply of cobalt blue.”

  “Are you going to show us what you’ve been working on? We’ve barely see you since Madame Vigée-Le Brun’s visit.”

  “Not until we get to Brighton.”

  “That’s weeks away!”

  Already Laura tired of the conversation. In her mind, she was deciding how much she needed to water down the cobalt to best add depth to late afternoon shadows in a casbah market scene.

  “Well, the sooner I can get home, the sooner I can finish.”

  “You don’t get out of it that easily. You still need a new wardrobe for the trip to Brighton.”

  “I have plenty of gowns.”

  “Ah, but you don’t have a suitable hat; the sun is particularly fierce by the shore and the last thing you want is to get color on your face.”

  Laura remembered her promise to be kind to Samuel. By extension, that meant being kind to his wife, so she trailed Victoria to the large emporium, Harding, Howell & Co’s Grand Fashionable Magazine, where Laura selected a hat, while her sister-in-law pondered fabrics for two new summer dresses.

  Despite having accomplished everything she had set out to do, Victoria insisted on more shopping, which took them past the construction of a new arcade in Mayfair. From what Laura could see, it looked as though this Burlington Arcade, when it
was complete, would be an impressive structure, a shopping street under glass, protecting it from all weather.

  After a while, Laura begged off going into one more shop and readily agreed when Victoria insisted she rest on one of the seats outside the store.

  Once, an expedition like this would have been the highlight of a week, but now it had become an annoyance, a chore. How many dresses could one woman actually wear? And did it really matter if the hem was one-inch higher than last season?

  Laura found herself watching the passing parade.

  How many people, even here in London, owned little more than the clothes on their back?

  She started, the thought that ran through her head had Elias’ voice.

  “Forgive me, miss, are you by chance Miss Laura Cappleman?”

  She tensed then regained her composure. This was London, not Palermo. To the best of her knowledge, there were no white slavers here.

  The man who addressed her was tall and fashionably dressed. He about Elias’ build, but he was younger and with much darker hair.

  “I do not believe we have been introduced.” Laura gave him a cool look.

  He gave a brief nod in acknowledgement. “You’ll forgive my impertinence, but we do know one another, you know. My name is Walter Pearson, I’m a friend of Samuel’s.”

  The name sounded familiar. She frowned, struggling to recall where she might have heard it.

  “Sam and I were at Eton together,” he prompted. “I spent a most wonderful summer at Bentwood House. I’ll always remember the cricket game we played in the gallery and how furious your father was when I broke the frame of your grandfather’s portrait.”

  Ten years disappeared in an instant. Laura touched her cheeks. Of course she remembered Walter. His father was Viscount Thorburn.

  “I do remember you! You and Sam were banished to the stables for a week!”

  Pearson laughed. “And I’ve been in dread terror of mucking out stables ever since!”

  Laura laughed and it felt good.

  “What a fortuitous bit of luck we should meet. I’ve not long left Samuel. We had business to discuss after my business trip to Wales. It’s been an age since we’ve seen one another.”

  Laura’s smile faltered just a little. “I’ve been abroad and just returned home myself.”

  “Abroad! You must tell me where. The rotten war with old Boney put paid to my plans to tour the Continent, but I do plan to go.”

  Laura smiled politely. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Victoria emerge from the shop.

  “I’m afraid I have to be going,” she said. “But I will tell Samuel that I bumped into you.”

  “I know it’s rather forward, but may I call?”

  Laura stood to attract the attention of her sister-in-law.

  “I’m sure my brother would be delighted to see you at any time, Mr. Pearson.”

  She had hoped to put him off, but the rebuff only seemed to elicit his interest. Laura sidestepped him and waved a hand.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’m sure I’ll be very busy.”

  Laura finally gained Victoria’s attention and bid the man a good day.

  “Was that Walter Pearson?” Victoria asked the question as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  Laura had to give Victoria credit for not being as naive as she looked. “If you’ve been introduced, then why didn’t you greet him?”

  “Oh, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Laura’s look became shrewd. “You’re up to something, aren’t you? Both you and my brother. If I didn’t know better, I’d suggest you are plotting something behind my back.”

  The look of panic on Victoria’s face was enough to convince Laura of the truth of the matter.

  “Well, yes. We did want you to be reacquainted with Walter,” she admitted. “And before you accuse your brother and me of meddling, Samuel hoped it to be a surprise when we could confirm the guest list. Walter has assured him there will be patrons of the Royal Academy in attendance at Countess Hortence’s soiree.”

  Laura found herself filled with renewed energy, she no longer even felt footsore. Victoria latched on to her shift in mood.

  “Are you sure?”

  “About what?”

  “Patrons of the Royal Academy being there!”

  “As sure as I can be. Now you will come won’t you? We’ve managed to secure you an invitation. Apparently, you made quite an impression on the countess when you interrupted morning tea in a painter’s smock.”

  Yes, Laura rather imagined she had.

  “Your brother wants nothing more for you than to settle back into society. A few events such as this, as well as the summer party to Brighton, we will have you introduced to the best people in no time.”

  “And what of Walter Pearson? I assume he will be there to facilitate such introductions?”

  “What if he is? He’s a fine young man with a good income and he’s a friend of Samuel’s. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be seen squired on his arm. His name could open a lot of doors for you.”

  “You and Samuel are trying to make a match of it! Of all the underhanded things!”

  “Stop making a scene,” Victoria hissed, looking about to see if anyone had overheard. “We’re not asking you to marry him, just accept his friendship and see where it leads, that’s all.”

  “But, miss, I won’t have time to properly dress your hair!”

  Laura looked longingly at the painting taking shape on her canvas and then back to the exasperated frown of Wallis. The pastoral scene of Sicily flowed effortlessly from her hand. It felt good to paint with ease; more than that, it felt right.

  In the harem, painting had been her salvation, the only thing which brought her through those dark times, especially before Sophia’s arrival. Now, painting had become a joy again. As much as she hated to admit it, she had Madame Vigée-Le Brun to thank.

  “We don’t need to do anything elaborate,” said Laura. Wallis looked even more downcast. “I haven’t worn my pearl hairpins in the longest time. You can do something with those.”

  The girl brightened up considerably and Laura was reminded of a similar lift to Samuel’s countenance when she told him that she would attend the soiree. How little it took to make some people happy.

  “You’ll be wearing the pink gown tonight, miss?” the maid asked.

  “Yes. Why don’t you choose suitable shoes and jewelry while I bathe?”

  By the time Laura entered her bedroom, a copper tub waited by the fire. Also waiting was a small stack of envelopes. On the first one she recognized Sophia’s handwriting. They were in Liverpool where Kit had commissioned the building of a second ship. Vincenzo Florio’s negotiation with Samuel to supply tin can making machinery was well underway, while Morwena and Jonathan had traveled to Manchester to sign a new agreement to import bolts of cotton fabric to Sicily.

  She quickly flipped through the rest of the mail, hoping for a letter from Elias amongst the invitations to renew acquaintances and to attend upcoming parties. Victoria really had gone to extraordinary lengths to improve her social life.

  There was no letter from Elias. And no word about Benjamin.

  Perhaps that was the only news she needed to know.

  Countess Hortence’s home was everything Laura imagined it would be – elegant, tastefully appointed, and very, very expensive.

  Along with Samuel and Victoria, Laura was introduced by the majordomo and swept along with a series of greetings with people she half-remembered from before.

  She woke long-dormant social graces and listened to breathless gossip about people she did not know and could care less about. Laura tut-tutted in all the appropriate places, but could muster little interest in their misfortunes.

  It almost seemed a relief when a man approached. He was almost prettily handsome, the type of polite young man that would charm an ingénue and win over her mother but somehow he seemed lacking. Why should that be?

&nb
sp; Laura hid a grimace. She knew exactly why that would be. Every man she met would be measured against Elias’ yardstick, and so very few would measure up.

  Walter Pearson gave a courtly bow. “Samuel gives me to understand you’re a painter, Miss Cappleman.”

  “You seem remarkably well informed,” she replied with an upturn to her lips. “Some would say I’m a very good artist.”

  Laura watched the changing expression on Walter’s face – surprise and delight, but perhaps a little artfulness. Flirting with such a man was effortless. In fact, too easy.

  “I’d like to take the liberty of introducing you to my father,” he said. “Did you know he happens to be good friends with John Yenn, the architect?”

  He left the question dangling and offered a knowing smile. Laura had never met Walter’s father but she did know of John Yenn – an Academician, current Royal Academy treasurer, and the man responsible for the delightful Greek-inspired summer houses at Blenheim Palace.

  The expression on her face must have pleased him, because he continued.

  “I have a growing interest in architecture, too, Miss Cappleman. Perhaps, being an artist, you share my interest.”

  Walter proffered his arm. Laura took it and allowed him to lead her on a stroll around the ballroom. She caught the eyes of Samuel and Victoria. Her sister-in-law’s head lifted in approval, an expression of satisfaction that had Laura wondering whether the woman had already applied for the banns to be read.

  A discreet cough from Walter directed Laura’s attention.

  “Father, might I introduce you to Miss Laura Cappleman, sister of my dear friend, Samuel?”

  Laura curtsied.

  “I’ve been telling Father about your paintings,” said Walter.

  There was no subtlety here. Laura suppressed a grin.

  “You’re too kind,” she replied.

  The viscount, thick and gouty looking, rose to his feet.

  “So many women dabble in such things, but they will never be as good as a man; they don’t have the temperament to create great art.”