by Georgie Lee
“I have no desire to entertain the matter at present,” Edward stated, hoping to put an end to the conversation, but his father refused to let the topic drop.
“You’re six and twenty and you’ll entertain the matter. I’ve ordered the house in London opened. You’ll go down for the Season.”
“I’d planned to travel to Town but not for the Season. I’ve learned Mother’s painting might be in London. I intend to find it, then come home.”
“Go to London for whatever reason you like but stay for the Season and don’t come back until you have a wife.”
Edward shifted his gun to his other arm. “I’m surprised you’d recommend such a state.”
George turned to Edward, his eyes full of love and concern. “Yes, I made a poor decision the second time, but your mother was the finest lady I’ve ever known and I have you to show for it. Learn from my mistakes and marry a woman who truly loves you and shares your interests.”
Edward remained silent, pondering the words he’d heard so many times in the last sixteen years, ones he’d taken to heart far more than his father had realized.
“Have you any word from your wife?” Edward asked cautiously. The subject of his stepmother was a delicate one, for the vile woman hadn’t lived at Grossmont Hall for almost four years.
“Bloody woman. She’s in Bath where she’ll stay.” George resumed his walk, kicking aside a small stone in his path.
“Why don’t you divorce her?”
“She’s caused me enough trouble without increasing my solicitor’s bill.”
As they continued on in silence, Edward thought back to his childhood at Grossmont Hall. His mother’s love and devotion had been the center of his life. Her experiences in the Colonies had given her a wider view of the world, one she’d instilled in Edward along with her great love of art. Art was the only extravagance she’d ever indulged in, filling Grossmont Hall with works from across Europe. As he reflected on his mother, memories of the night she died threatened to fill his mind but he quickly pushed them away.
“I’d rather not go to London.”
“Go to York then if you like. I don’t care where you find your wife so long as you find a good one.” George patted the dog’s head as she bounded up to him, tail wagging, her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. “See, not all ladies are so hardhearted.”
His father picked up a stick and tossed it down the road, sending the dog lumbering after it.
Edward shifted the gun again, the thought of spending the Season in London combined with looking for a wife depressing him. “I’ll think on the matter.”
“Good. There are many pleasures to be had with a good woman as your wife, think on that when you venture to Town.”
Edward nodded, but silently chaffed under the order to settle his future this spring. If he must participate in the Season, he‘d do so on his own terms. But how?
Edward worked over the question during his afternoon ride as he set out across the wide, green fields in an attempt to clear his mind. A plan came to him as he raced through the open pastures and it continued to develop as the day progressed.
After dinner, when he and George had retired to the library, Edward stood over the fire, watching the greedy flames consume a fresh log as he pondered how to tell his father his plan. The dog slept on the small rug in front of the fire, her ears twitching with each pop of the embers.
“What is it my boy? Not like you to be so quiet,” George asked from his leather chair, the long barrel of his gun over his knees as he rubbed it with an old cloth. The smell of gun oil filled the room, giving it a decidedly masculine air.
“I’ve decided to take your advice and find a wife in London.”
“I knew you’d be reasonable.”
“But I have a plan.”
George stopped polishing and examined his son. “You have land, a title and you’re rich. What kind of a plan do you need to find a wife? The pick of society will flock to you.”
“This is exactly why I need a plan. I don’t wish to be followed about by a bunch of greedy green girls and their eager mamas.” Edward paced in front of the fireplace, careful not to step on the dog. “I plan to have Henry put it about our fortunes are much reduced.”
“What kind of wife will you catch with such nonsense?”
“One who loves me for who I am and not my purse,” Edward smiled, pleased with himself but his confidence wavered at the skeptical look on his father’s face.
“Go to London as you like, but you’ll attract fairer ladies with money than with poverty. A rich woman your equal will have nothing to do with you, while a girl of your status lacking fortune won’t give you a second look. You’ll have a hard time attracting a lady of quality, no matter her rank or position,” George shrugged, returning to his gun.
*****
After six weeks in London, Edward knew his father was right. Ladies of title and fortune were wary of men without means while ladies with little means sought men of large fortunes. Only mushrooms eager for a title to accompany their newfound wealth showed any interest in him, except Miss Stuart. She didn’t care if he was a duke or a pauper and she didn’t want his title or anything to do with him. He should be glad, but instead it irked him.
Edward took another long sip of brandy, forcing Miss Stuart from his mind. There was no point worrying about the woman. Even if Henry proposed to Miss Knight, after tonight, he doubted Miss Stuart would ever speak to him again. He’d dared to question her precious doctor and his methods and won her wrath, though what a surprisingly pleasant wrath it had been.
Chapter Four
Minnie stood in Charlotte’s lap, her nose pressed against the window as she and Charlotte observed the bustling London streets from inside Lady Redding’s well-appointed town coach. Minnie barked as the carriage passed a dog chasing two schoolboys through a small alley.
“How much farther to Mr. Taylor’s?” Charlotte asked, interrupting the excited whispers of Aunt Mary and Lady Redding as she pulled Minnie down from the window.
“Not far. You’ll love Mr. Taylor. His collection cannot compare,” Lady Redding replied in her elegant voice. “You’re sure to find something of quality to contribute to Mrs. Greenville’s charity auction and perhaps a few for your own collection. I don’t know how Mr. Taylor comes across these treasures but I’d love to know his secrets.”
“Perhaps he’ll trade a few of his secrets for a few of yours?”Aunt Mary teased and Charlotte’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Aunt Mary?”
“No, she’s quite right. I’ve gathered a few secrets in my time. But I’m not the only one.” Lady Redding gently nudged Aunt Mary who giggled behind her fan.
Charlotte shot her a questioning look and moved to inquire, but Aunt Mary raised her hand.
“Never you mind,” she snapped, and Charlotte knew better than to press the matter.
“Charlotte, tell me again about Paris. I haven’t been there since well before the revolution,” Lady Redding sighed, glancing lazily out of the carriage. Though not a conventional beauty, Lady Emily Redding, Dowager Countess of Redding, possessed a handsome face, a slender figure, dark hair and steel gray eyes that, according to Aunt Mary, had once set London society on fire. “I hear Napoleon has made it the jewel of Europe once again.”
“Don’t ask Charlotte about Paris, she saw little of it outside the Musée Napoleon. It was all I could do to entice her to the opera or balls,” Aunt Mary said, half jokingly, and Charlotte sat up in excitement.
“The Musée is magnificent. I wish London had such an art gallery, and I met so many interesting people there. Remember the old German artist, Aunt Mary?”
“He was one of the few people you met who was of any interest,” Aunt Mary teased, turning to Lady Redding. “He told us all about Mr. Beethoven, who is quite the scandalous gentleman.”
“I understand Empress Josephine has a rather sordid past. Is it true she was raised with savages in the West Indies?”
&nbs
p; Aunt Mary leaned closer to Lady Redding, the fire of a secret burning in her eyes.
“It’s all true and more,” she whispered then nodded at Charlotte, “but I’ll tell you another time.”
“Aunt Mary, you never hesitated to share the latest on-dit in Paris.”
“We aren’t in Paris anymore. Beside, gossip isn’t fit for a young lady’s ears, but if you were married I could tell you everything.”
Charlotte bit back a retort then changed the subject as she was in no mood for another discussion of marriage. “Lady Redding, Empress Josephine owns a number of works by Jacques Louis David and they’re magnificent.”
Lady Redding nodded in appreciation. “Mr. Taylor has quite a number of works by well-known artists and a few obscure but talented ones. He recently came by a work of Mr. Smibert’s, a rare find indeed for it’s a landscape.”
“A landscape from an American?” Charlotte mused. “I thought Colonial artists only produced portraits. I can’t wait to see it.”
“I hear Lord Woodcliff owns some of Mr. Smibert’s works,” Lady Redding winked knowingly at Aunt Mary, much to Charlotte’s chagrin.
So this is what they’d been whispering about on the other side of the carriage.
“The American can’t be very talented if one with such limited means and wit as Lord Woodcliff can afford his works.”
“Lord Woodcliff’s means aren’t so limited or his wit as dull as you believe, Charlotte,” Lady Redding chided. As an old friend of Lord Hatteston, Lord Woodcliff’s father, she didn’t take kindly to Charlotte’s less than flattering opinion of his son.
“He only has himself to blame for my low opinion,” Charlotte muttered, focusing her attention on the buckle of Minnie’s collar in order to avoid the grand lady’s studying eyes. She wondered how Lady Redding, and even Elizabeth could be so blind to Lord Woodcliff’s faults. Certainly he was capable of being affable, as he’d proven in Hookham’s, but he could be equally annoying as he’d been at the Royal Academy and at her soiree.
“I hear Lord Hatteston’s situation is much reduced since his wife moved to Bath.” Aunt Mary leaned toward both ladies and dropped her voice to a tone fit for gossip. “She runs up enormous debts at the whist table the Earl is obliged to settle. It’s a pity he married so poorly the second time.”
“Indeed,” Lady Redding sighed with regret. “The first Lady Hatteston was a diamond of the first water.”
“What happened to her?” Charlotte asked. Despite her dislike of Lord Woodcliff, Charlotte found herself eager to know more and Aunt Mary was quick to oblige.
“The poor woman died of a fever when Lord Woodcliff was young. She was from the Colonies, the daughter of a merchant. It was quite the talk of society the Season Lord Hatteston proposed to her.”
“She was also a great admirer of art. Lord Woodcliff acquired his taste for art from her.” Lady Redding raised a well-shaped eyebrow at Charlotte’s incredulous look. “Yes Charlotte, he has taste and Mary informs me he was admiring many of your own pieces last night, including yourself. He’s well traveled too.”
Charlotte snorted. “Then it’s wasted, for it’s done nothing to open his mind or set his horizon beyond his front door.”
Lady Redding laughed, her gray eyes alight. “Careful, so many protestations might be mistaken for interest, though the son of an Earl would be an advantageous match.”
“I have no need for an advantageous match, or any match at all.”
Aunt Mary shook her head disapprovingly and moved to reply, but Lady Redding spoke first.
“Charlotte, don’t dismiss it entirely. After all, there are some advantages to marriage.” Lady Redding exchanged a knowing smile with Aunt Mary.
“What advantages could there possibly be?” Charlotte demanded.
“The longer you’re in London, the more you’ll discover them.”
Before Charlotte could say she didn’t care a whit for Lord Woodcliff or the supposed advantages of marriage, the carriage came to a halt.
“Here we are at Mr. Taylor’s,” Lady Redding announced as the footmen, attired in fine blue livery, hurried to hand the ladies down.
Charlotte gathered up Minnie and her reticule and followed Lady Redding and Aunt Mary out of the coach and up the stone stairs to Mr. Taylor’s front door.
A sober butler ushered them into the town house and Charlotte gasped at the sight before her. Every wall was covered from floor to ceiling with the faces of saints, martyrs, knights, ladies, children, Greek gods and landscapes of every conceivable fashion and time period. Charlotte wandered through the foyer and the large adjoining hallway, overwhelmed by the masterpieces available in this small space. She’d seen a number of great collections in a few private homes in England but none to match the sheer volume of works available at Mr. Taylor’s.
A large marble staircase dominated the far end of the entrance hall and at the top stood Mr. Taylor, a portly man of fifty with a round face, small spectacles and little hair. His large girth strained the blue satin of his waistcoat and breeches as he descended the stairs with the affected flourish of a practiced dandy, his hand outstretched toward Lady Redding. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Lady Redding smiled as his lips brushed the back of her hand. “I couldn’t resist a visit to my favorite art dealer.”
“And you’ve brought friends?”
“This is Mrs. Stuart and her niece Miss Stuart.”
Charlotte and Aunt Mary curtseyed. As Mr. Taylor stepped closer to Charlotte, Minnie growled.
“No, no Minnie,” Charlotte scolded. “I must apologize Mr. Taylor, she’s shy with strangers.”
“Aren’t we all sometimes?” He stepped out of range of Minnie’s sharp little teeth.
Lady Redding took him by the elbow. “Miss Stuart has traveled the continent and has a fine collection of paintings.”
Mr. Taylor’s eyes lit up. “Do you?”
“It’s only a trifle compared to yours.”
“Then we must increase your collection.”
“Miss Stuart doesn’t shop for herself today but for a charity auction. I’ve informed her of Mr. Smibert’s work. May we see it?”
“Of course. Please follow me.” Mr. Taylor led them to a smaller room off the main hallway. Inside, paintings hung along a single row against the green painted walls to show them to their best advantage.
“Each is available ladies. Please feel free to choose any you like. But for you Miss Stuart, here is Mr. Smibert’s work.” Mr. Taylor motioned to a prominently hung landscape of a distant city perched on the edge of a harbor.
Charlotte stepped up to the work, admiring the rich tones and the subtle, delicate brushstrokes. “It’s magnificent, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I don’t recognize the city.”
“Boston. This is a very rare piece for the artist usually specializes in portraits. The Prince of Wales owns a number of Mr. Smibert’s portraits.”
“I don’t think much of the Prince’s favorites but in this instance, he exhibits marvelous taste.”
“Charlotte, mind yourself,” Aunt Mary chastised and Mr. Taylor chuckled.
“No, it’s rare to find a young lady with such well-formed ideas about art. It’s an admirable quality.”
“It’s beautiful. Aunt Mary, what do you think?” Charlotte turned to the two ladies, excited by the prospect of contributing such a fine work to the auction.
Aunt Mary squinted at the painting. “It would go well over the fireplace in the dining room.”
Charlotte stifled a small laugh. She’d learned long ago Aunt Mary only disapproved of a painting if she couldn’t imagine a room in which it might hang.
“It’s not for me but for Mrs. Greenville’s auction. If the artist is a favorite of the Prince’s, then it may attract the attention of the ton and earn a great deal for the Widows and Orphans Fund.”
“I’m afraid I can’t sell it just yet for I have a gentleman coming to view it,” Mr. Taylor said with a little regret but then seemed
to think twice about his objection. “However, I’m told his circumstances are much reduced. For a young woman of such astute judgment, and to help so noble a cause, I’d be willing to entertain an offer sooner.”
“Then I shall have it.”
“A lady who is both generous and wise, you’re truly a rare find.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte replied, when suddenly the portrait of a young lady dressed in the wide skirts so fashionable a half century before caught her attention. She hurried across the room to it. “Is this by Mr. Gainsborough?”
“Yes. Are you an admirer of Mr. Gainsborough?” Mr. Taylor stepped closer to Charlotte and Minnie growled, forcing Charlotte to shift the dog to her other arm.
“I adore his work. He must have painted this during his Rubens phase,” she stated confidently, pleased to share with Mr. Taylor her knowledge of art. She was disappointed when the art dealer shook his head.
“No, I’m afraid it was painted while he was influenced by Van Dyke.”
“Are you sure?” She leaned in to examine the feathery brushstrokes of the trees and the formal pose of the subject.
“Yes, very sure. You can tell by the—”
“Sir,” the butler interrupted, “the gentleman has arrived.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll tell him the piece has been taken. But not to worry, I have another, smaller canvas by Mr. Copley that’s sure to satisfy him.” Mr. Taylor hurried from the room, leaving the women to enjoy the art.
“Come Mary, I wish to show you a sweet dog portrait you may want for your dining room.”
“It sounds lovely.” Aunt Mary followed her friend down the hall.
Charlotte placed Minnie on the floor and returned to the painting of Boston. While Minnie sniffed about the corners, Charlotte admired the deep amber tones of the rolling hills and the way the city, set so far from the viewer, seemed to disappear into the landscape as though it belonged there more than the trees and rocks so prominent in the foreground.