by Bliss Bennet
It was only that the saint’s reclining posture and guinea-gold curls put him so much in mind of Clair as a schoolboy—Viscount Dulcie, as he kept forgetting to think of him. The similarity made the prideful part of him cringe, remembering how the older boy had befriended him, then abandoned him without a thought all those years ago. But another, more persistent part kept pulling him back, eager for the rush of feeling the painting evoked, the memories of the shock at his first sight of the stunningly handsome adolescent Sinclair Milne, the revelatory pleasures of their early days together. Memories he’d thought he’d put aside long ago, until he’d returned from the Continent earlier this spring, and caught sight of the grown-to-adulthood Lord Dulcie in all his arrogant glory.
Memories that continued to plague him now that their once separate social circles had begun to overlap as Dulcie paid court to Benedict’s sister.
“Here, child?” Adler’s impatient question jerked Benedict free from his fruitless reverie. Dulcie seemed on the verge of making an offer for Sibilla, and it would not do for Benedict to keep mooning over a future brother-in-law.
“A bit higher, Grandfather,” Polly said, lifting her own hands and rising on her toes.
Benedict hoisted the painting a hands-width higher. “Here?”
“Yes, but now a touch to the right . . .”Adler’s foot tapped with impatience. Of a less artistic, and more decisive, temperament than his granddaughter, the merchant clearly did not share Polly’s interest in the finer points of aesthetic display.
Benedict’s fingers tingled, longing for a piece of charcoal with which to limn the intent expression on Polly’s face. Sketching could always distract him from his often turbulent feelings. And Polly’s passion for this task put him in mind of his mother, a far more comforting memory than that of Viscount Dulcie. A talented artist herself, Lady Saybrook had been the first to offer Benedict a paintbrush, and to encourage his own clumsy early aesthetic efforts. During the painting lessons Benedict had given Polly since their first meeting in Italy last June, he’d taught her many of the artistic precepts his mother has imparted to him, including those about how the placement of a picture could influence the effect it would have on its viewers.
“Here?” he asked as he suppressed a grunt.
“Almost! Just a bit to the left,” she answered, leaning her entire body in the direction she wished the painting to move.
“Come now, Polyhymnia,” Adler interrupted. “Mr. Pennington may have once dreamed of being close enough to touch a Carracci, but I hardly think said dream included toting one about for days on end.”
Polly’s brow wrinkled. “I know, Grandfather, but I just cannot decide. After seeing Sir John Leicester’s collection, the way he displayed his paintings so symmetrically, I cannot get it out of my head. Might we install a brass picture rail here, and hang the paintings on chains the way he has, rather than from hooks in the wall?”
Benedict had admired Leicester’s new system, too. It would be perfect for the new national art museum, allowing the displays to be changed at will.
If he could but convince Adler to finally commit to serving as the museum’s first, and leading, patron.
“And how much do you think such a contrivance costs?” Adler asked, gazing fondly at his granddaughter even while shaking his head at what he obviously regarded as her latest flight of artistic fancy. “Do you think I put together one of the finest art collections in the country by frittering away my money on every newfangled notion that catches the eye?”
“I would never ask you to buy anything just because it is fashionable,” Polly said, her voice ripe with disdain. “But with such a system in place, you could rearrange your pictures whenever you liked. Just think of the possibilities!”
“Rearrange the pictures? Why ever would I wish to do that?”
Polly caught Benedict’s eye, and the two of them grinned. Adler might enjoy collecting paintings, but he had little of the aesthetic sensibility that ran so strongly in his granddaughter, something she and Benedict, artists both, had shared many a smile over during the months since they had first met.
“Ah, yes, laugh all you will. But someone around here must pay the bills.” After a nod to Benedict, Adler caught hold of one end of the painting, then hefted it to his shoulder. “Now, Polly, pick a spot and be done with it. I’ve more important matters to see to before we dine tonight.”
“And if you choose the spot now, we’ll have time for a lesson before you must ready yourself for the evening,” Benedict tempted as he raised his end of the painting once again. Parallel to its neighbor, but with a bit more space between the two than he’d given it before.
“No, not today, we’ve a ball to attend,” Adler said. “Polyhymnia does enough already to frighten away potential suitors without staining her fingers and gown with watercolors. I shudder to think what she’d look—or smell—like if I gave in and allowed her to dabble in oils.”
Happily for Benedict, Adler’s eye was fixed on his granddaughter, not him. Polly had no difficulty maintaining an air of innocence, unlike Benedict, whose face tended to reveal far more than he wished. He’d long urged Polly to confess to her grandfather that under his tutelage, she’d done far more than dabble with oils. At least she took decent care not to reek of turpentine whenever she was in her grandfather’s presence.
“Mr. Pennington says my work shows great improvement,” Polly interrupted, clearly attempting to distract him from any further discussion of suitors. Polly had as little wish to marry as Benedict did, even if her reluctance stemmed from a far different cause.
With her most winning smile, she laid a hand on her grandfather’s arm. “And you know that Mr. Pennington is the best of teachers.”
Adler grunted. “The best of dockworkers is what you need here, Polly, not the best of teachers. Now choose, or I’ll choose for you.”
“But Grandfather—”
“No! I will brook no further dithering, nor more argument. Footman, mark this spot, then install the proper hangers. And you, Polly, go and ready yourself for this evening’s entertainment. Or I’ll forbid you to pick up another paintbrush!”
“Yes, Grandfather.” Polly ducked her head and turned away, but not before Benedict caught a glimpse of a familiar, stubborn set to her lips.
Benedict shook his head. He had nothing but gratitude towards Julius Adler for the way the art collector had supported him and his work since they’d met abroad nearly a year ago. But he knew how unhappy Polly became when her strict grandfather grew impatient with her disorderly ways, and how frustrated by his oft-repeated threat to keep her from painting. And how often she would agree with the older man, just to keep the peace, only to go off and do what she wanted once they were apart. Only too likely she’d rush straight back to her canvas after this latest brusque attempt to control her free spirit. Perhaps after he’d discussed this business of the museum with Adler, he’d try once again to hint to the man the value of patience when dealing with his sensitive, talented granddaughter.
“No, no, do not touch it!” Adler chided the footman, who had come too close to the painting as he reached up to mark the spot for the hangers.
Benedict and Adler lowered the frame once again to the floor, placing the Carracci out of the footman’s reach. Before the older man lowered a protective cloth over the painting, Benedict caught a last glimpse of the reclining saint. Yes, St. John did look far too much like Clair—Lord Dulcie, damn it. But Dulcie shared little of the saint’s charitable nature, at least as far as Benedict could see. Most men matured from their careless adolescent selves, but the only change Benedict had noticed over the past two months of circling the viscount was in Dulcie’s person, somehow not just more elegant, but also more virile, than it had been even at sixteen.
“Yes, a true masterpiece. No wonder you stare,” Adler said before turning back to the footman. “Inform me when you’ve finished, and Mr. Pennington and I will see to the hanging.”
Benedict shook his head at Adle
r’s misinterpretation. Would he have to avoid the gallery altogether once the blasted painting had finally been hung?
“Now, Pennington, you have news about our little scheme?”
At last. “I do indeed, sir.”
“Then come with me, and we’ll discuss it like civilized men, over a drink.”
Benedict followed Adler into a neat, if rather stark, library.
“So, you managed to meet with the king’s art advisor, and sound him out about our ideas?” Adler asked as he gestured Benedict towards a chair by the hearth.
“Yes, I ran down Sir Charles Long in his club yesterday. He agrees that the time is ripe to approach the king about supporting the establishment of an art gallery for the nation.”
“And well he should. How could he allow the British Empire to be outdone by the French? And by the Italians, and the Germans? Why, even the Imperial collections in Vienna are open to anyone with clean shoes! It’s a national disgrace that we have no public gallery of equal stature.” Adler handed Benedict a glass, then took a seat behind a desk.
“Indeed, sir. If England’s support of the arts was at all suitable to her rank amongst the nations of Europe, our national establishments for the cultivation of the arts would surely surpass those of any other age or country,” Benedict agreed.
Despite—or perhaps because of—being born in Russia, Adler had a strong streak of patriotism for his adopted country. Benedict’s own motivations for championing a national art gallery in London were far different. Important works of art should not be hidden away in private collections—such as those owned by Lord Dulcie and his fellow British Institution connoisseurs—with only friends and family allowed to view them. How were the next generation of British artists to be nurtured and encouraged if they had no access to the finished works of the greatest painters of the past? How much more would his own mother have been able to accomplish if only she’d been able to study more than the few family portraits that hung in Pennington House’s gallery? The idea of more such talent going to waste made him gnash his teeth.
Adler, though, would hardly be moved by such idealism. So Benedict must shape his argument to best appeal to the feelings of his audience. “Without a patron willing to sell or donate a substantial number of works of art to serve as a basis for such a collection, though, I fear our country will long lag behind our Continental brethren.”
“And fat old Georgie won’t give his own collection for the good of his people, will he, the selfish bastard.”
“The king feels that allowing the British Institution to borrow several of his paintings each year for its spring show is the epitome of royal selflessness. Or so Sir Charles implies.”
Adler snorted. “Old George wouldn’t recognize selflessness if it bit him on the arse.”
“But your collection contains far many Old Masters than does the king’s,” Benedict reminded. A bit of flattery never hurt.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? You’d think a connoisseur with a personal income exceeding the national revenue of a third-rate power would have chosen more wisely, rather than spending so much on contemporary artists. Ah, but there is no accounting for taste, is there?”
Benedict himself would have far preferred the more modern works in King George’s collection to Adler’s almost slavish devotion to the Old Masters. But for a national museum, one needed paintings from the past as well as the present.
“And how many of my paintings does the fat old king think to cozen me out of?” Adler asked.
“Sir Charles did not specify any particular number.”
“You do know that I cannot offer them all,” Adler warned. “I must hold some back for Polyhymnia’s dowry. Especially if I’m to catch a nobleman for her. Or even the son of a nobleman—”
“Certainly, sir,” Benedict interrupted. The wealthy merchant had been hinting at a possible match between Benedict and Polly almost since they had first met in Italy almost a year ago. Luckily for Benedict, Polly reserved all her passion for her art, with none left for him. And all his passion—well, it was not for Polly, nor for any other young lady he’d yet to meet.
“Sir Charles did say other gentlemen may be hatching similar plans to yours. Offering to sell or gift their own art collections for the sake of establishing an art museum for the glory of England.”
Adler sat straighter in his chair. “Who?”
“I’ve heard talk of Lord Leicester, as well as Sir George Beaumont.”
Adler dismissed Benedict’s words with a sharp snap of the hand. “Leicester’s no competition; his collection contains only British works. Beaumont, though, he might present a problem. Is he in earnest?”
“Rumor has it he is interested, but wary, as he feels the British Museum does not have the space to display the collection whole.”
The merchant’s fingers drummed on his desk. “What if I offered to sell not only a selection of pictures, but also this house? Once Polyhymnia is married, I’ll have little use for such a large London residence. Parliament would be hard pressed to turn down such an offer, don’t you agree?”
Benedict leaned forward, catching his breath at the grandeur of the gesture. He could picture it, the wide rooms cleared of furniture, every wall hung with the glories Adler had amassed during his fifty years of traveling and collecting. No one demanding money, or tickets, or even one’s name at the entrance, only handing out catalogs or guidebooks to the collection with a welcoming smile. Proctors stationed here and there, not to turn people away, but to supply the interested with information about the works, and to ensure the paintings were not harmed. And artists’ easels scattered all about each room, eager students attempting to learn from their predecessors by imitating their techniques.
Adler’s house was rather dark, not ideal for displaying art, but if they could put in a skylight or two . . .
“Well, Pennington?”
Shaking off his dream, Benedict turned his attention back to Adler. “That would be an amazingly generous offer, sir. Far more so than Leicester’s, or even Beaumont’s, especially if the paintings you offered were of equal worth.”
Adler nodded. “I’ll get the entire collection valued, then decide which—if any—pictures to offer. Mr. Young should know—”
A knock on the library door interrupted the most promising conversation Benedict had ever held about his dreams for a British national art museum.
“Are you ready for us?” Adler asked before the approaching footman could get in a word.
“Not quite yet, sir. This note just arrived for you, from Lady Milne.”
Lady Milne? Benedict frowned. Adler had never mentioned an acquaintance with Dulcie’s mother.
Adler cracked the seal and quickly scanned the note’s contents. Then, with a crisp nod, he set it down on the desk and folded his hands atop it.
“Do you know anything of Milne’s son, Pennington?” Adler asked.
Benedict caught back a painful laugh. Did he know anything of Clair?
Only that he was a golden-haired, golden-tongued risk-taker. A charming, enthusiastic lover of beauty in all its forms.
And to his everlasting embarrassment and regret, a selfish, unfeeling abandoner, one who would forsake a friend without the least scrap of remorse.
Oh, he knew all about Viscount Dulcie. Too much, and too little, but nothing he could share without revealing secrets of his own.
“He’s Milne’s eldest child, and only son,” he offered instead. “A true connoisseur of the arts. You and he should have much in common.”
Adler smiled. “Lady Milne offers to introduce us so Lord Dulcie may act as guide to my granddaughter and myself during a proposed visit to the spring exhibition at the British Institution.”
“Are you not already a member?”
“Assuredly. Yet the son of an earl, and one with an interest in art—well, such a connection is nothing to sneer at. Especially when one has a granddaughter to settle.”
Benedict shifted in his seat. “I have heard
it said that Dulcie will be soon engaged.” And to Benedict’s own sister, no less. Dulcie as his brother-in-law, rather than as his— Well, the mere prospect of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Ah, but young men’s hearts are ever so fickle, are they not? Particularly when the details of dowries come to the fore.” Adler reached for his pen and inkwell, a self-satisfied smile curving into the rounds of his ruddy cheeks. “I shall accept. And have Polyhymnia offer to give him a tour of my own collection as a thank you.”
Benedict frowned. Once Dulcie had raised his toploftical quizzing glass to the glories of Adler’s collection, would he drop Sibilla Pennington in favor of Polly Adler, flitting like a careless butterfly from one flower to the next? As much as Benedict would rejoice over ridding his family of Dulcie’s pall, he wouldn’t wish him on anyone else he called friend, either. Especially since Dulcie would likely exert his charms on Polly only until he gained her dowry of Old Masters, then abandon her to move on to another self-indulgent pursuit.
“Mr. Adler, I think I should inform y—”
“We’ll talk more of this matter after I’ve had the collection valued. We’ll leave the Carracci unhung until then.” Adler had already moved on, not even looking up from the sheet of foolscap over which his pen moved with sharp, decisive strokes. “Bid you good-day, Pennington.”
Pinching his lips tight, Benedict bowed, then followed the footman from the room.
As they reached the gallery, Benedict paused to lift the corner of the drape from the as yet unhung painting. Yes, the handsome viscount might resemble Carracci’s Saint John, but the small bowl of water the saint held would never be enough purify such a sybaritic soul.
Would Adler truly trade his collection for a title for his granddaughter? Did he not realize that if Dulcie got hold of it, the preening peacock would only hide it away, or use it for his own self-aggrandizement, boasting of his own disinterest when he deigned to show it to a handful of select friends and acquaintances? And then what would become of the plans for a national gallery?