The Art of Love
Page 25
Leo would not have hesitated to follow Tara inside but what he saw next made him stop short. Rising up from his seat at a table by the window was Philippe La Monte and although the presence of Tara’s undesirable friend alone would not have kept Leo away, the way in which he embraced her, and the enthusiasm with which Tara allowed such familiarity, froze Leo where he stood.
It was as intimate a tête-a-tête as Leo had ever seen. Tara and La Monte sat down at their little table, talking nineteen to the dozen, utterly unaware of anyone else in the coffee shop, let alone their unseen observer outside. Then La Monte took Tara’s hand and she leaned even closer to him. Suddenly feeling uncomfortably like a peeping Tom, Leo shook himself back to life, turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come, his thoughts seething. How dare that pretentious little frog move in on Tara? And what did Tara think she was playing at? Throwing herself into Leo’s arms one minute, inviting a proposal of marriage from Mark the next, and holding hands in public with La Monte practically the very minute after that? How dare she! Well one thing was certain, he told himself wryly, he need have no fears that she had accepted Mark’s offer, even Tara would not be so brazen as to allow herself to be entertained alone by a man after she had made such a commitment to another. A second thought struck him, if Tara was in London, why hadn’t she sent him her card to let him know she was there? Was he mistaken in his assumption of how important he was to her? With his mind in a turmoil Leo strode unseeingly through the crowds, across the bridge and then through the less well frequented streets leading to his studio, everything seeming far more complicated than it had done only an hour before.
Chapter Seventeen
The moment Tara opened her eyes on Tuesday morning she realized she had nothing to do that day. More of her friends were out of town that she had hoped, making the most of the late August sunshine. Freddie and Philippe were the only two who had responded when she sent out her card and she had seen so much of them both over the last few days she felt she could not possibly call on either of them today. Philippe in particular she knew she should keep her distance from or he might start thinking that he had a chance with her, and moved as she had been by the sincerity of his proposal, Tara knew that he was even less the man for her than Mark was. She also knew she ought to return to Bournemouth before her mother felt quite abandoned, but the prospect of the seaside town without Leo was so bleak that she could not bring herself to return yet.
Meanwhile an empty day loomed alarmingly before her. Tara tried not to think about the fact that it was Tuesday, the day on which each of her sittings for Leo had taken place. She had thought she would not notice his absence so keenly in the city, but all at once she found out she was wrong. London, it seemed, was not the city she loved without Leo in it. Would he ever marry? Tara wondered. The only comfort she had on that score was the fact that he had not appeared to be looking for a wife. Then unbidden the memory of Freddie’s disgustingly well educated cousin Antonia talking art with Leo sprang to mind and she buried her head under the pillow to try and shut the image out. Leo might not be looking for a wife, but he was so attractive and intelligent, so desirable, one would certainly find him.
Betty’s footstep outside the door made Tara sit up sharply. The household was stirring and she did not want to fall into the trap of staying in bed later and later each day, it would only make the empty evenings longer. Would Leo be ensnared by an Italian woman, she wondered. With any luck he would not speak the language which should surely minimise the chances of marriage to a foreigner, or if he did marry an Italian, the lack of a mutual language would at least ensure that theirs was not a meeting of the minds.
Not that her own relationship with Leo had been particularly cerebral, Tara felt herself forced to admit. Although she was sure his passion for her had been as sincere as her passion for him, art was his life and apart from her own portrait she had never really looked in detail at a painting. She certainly could not discuss pictures on even the most elementary level. Suddenly she knew what to do with her day. Antonia’s knowledge of painting stemmed from no more than frequent visits to art galleries. She could do the same. The British Museum was perhaps the obvious place to start, but she remembered Leo mentioning a gallery in Dulwich. Its tenuous connection with him was irresistible, she would go there. Relieved to have a point to her day after all Tara rang for her maid. It was time to get up; she had a life to lead.
Leo packed the paintings he and Lord Seaforth had selected with care and loaded them into the hackney cab he had hired specifically to make this delivery. He was pleased with the choices they had agreed upon, he would be displaying four large paintings and four smaller ones. The view of St Paul’s, a personal favourite, which he had finished at around the time that he had painted Tara’s portrait was included in the selection. Lord Seaforth had picked it out at once, and immodest though the thought was, Leo was confident that it would easily sell for the large figure Lord Seaforth had recommended putting on it. The honour of his family name was about to be redeemed; as a sought after artist he would once more feel entitled to use his title and claim his rightful place in society.
But as the carriage bumped over the uneven streets of south London Leo, squeezed in with his canvasses and steadying them on the turns, felt grimmer than he would have imagined at the prospect of his return to respectability. Only the day before he had been anticipating returning to Bournemouth, with his head held high, ready to sweep Tara off her feet, out of Marks’s arms and into his own. Then, having won her heart as a woman, he would have made her an offer of marriage which she would not have hesitated to accept. Tara had made it very clear that she would not consider a match which would shame her family, but as Lord Fosse his credentials were impeccable. Yet now he had his doubts. Was Tara’s love reserved exclusively for him? Leo would have sworn that the evening of Lord Davenham’s ball, when he had taken her back to his cottage in the rain, was the first time she had known the touch of a man. But perhaps he was wrong, the familiar way in which Tara had let La Monte hold her hand in the coffee shop disturbed more than he would have liked. Did Tara have the knack of making all men think that they had won her heart?
His arrival at the Dulwich Picture Gallery put a stop to Leo’s dark imaginings. His arrival was anticipated, he was pleased to see, when a porter immediately appeared to help him unload the paintings. Leo paid the driver and then followed the porter through a back entrance to the gallery.
‘Good, good,’ Lord Seaforth said, entering the basement storeroom as Leo and the porter brought in the last of the pictures. ‘You might be interested in this.’ He handed Leo a printed flyer and reading it quickly Leo saw that it publicised the exhibition due to open on the first of September, featuring landscapes by himself and three other artists. The artists’ names were printed on the flyer, with his own heading the list and he could imagine Tara picking up the bill and realizing for once and for all that Leo was a renowned artist. Perhaps then she would understand how she had insulted him by offering him as job as a farmer. But of course Tara never went to art galleries or any other places of intellectual purpose. She would not see this evidence of his success as a landscape painter. Still, he could not help being pleased with the flyer which would soon be fluttering through the hands of society.
‘That’s a nice piece of publicity,’ Leo said, trying for nonchalance, after all, Gainsborough would not get excited over a leaflet. He suspected he had not quite succeeded when he caught a fleeting smile on Lord Seaforth’s face, but the curator chose to say nothing on that point.
‘The exhibition will be in the west room,’ Lord Seaforth continued. The room is cleared and ready for hanging. The other painters are bringing their work later in the week, but I thought that as you are the principal artist, we should place your pictures first. Please come this way.’
People, Tara knew, spent hours in galleries. Certainly no one else here seemed in a particular rush. But apart from looking at the pictures, which in all honesty she kne
w she could do in about ten minutes, she was not sure what one did in art galleries. At the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition, to which she went annually, the whole point was to see and be seen, and the pictures were just a nice background in front of which to do that. But glancing around the few visitors there were to the gallery at this time of day, she saw that not only was there no one she recognised, but there was no one who looked as if they would ever frequent the places she normally habituated. There was a governess with two docile charges, a clergyman, and an older couple who walked with dignity, but whose clothes had clearly seen better days.
Suppressing a sigh, Tara applied herself to looking at a painting of Christ in his manger, surrounded by animals which looked even more unnaturally docile than the two schoolgirls who had been brought here presumably as a treat and a break from their lessons. Improving one’s mind was frustratingly difficult, Tara thought, winking at the taller of the two girls and getting a shy smile in return. She had looked at this painting for at least five minutes and saw nothing in it other than what she had first perceived.
In the middle of the room was a table, littered with some piles of paper. Tara wandered over to it. Perhaps one of the things people did in galleries was look at the advertisements for upcoming exhibitions at which they could idle away another two or three hours of their empty lives. One of the bills was promoting the exhibition currently on the walls, a collection of religious art by English artists. The other flyer was entitled Modern Landscapes. Leo would be interested in that, Tara thought. If he were in London she could perhaps accidentally meet with him here and he would see that there was more to her than just the veneer of a London socialite. She looked more closely at the advertisement. Paintings by artist Lord Leo Fosse…Tara read the words again in disbelief, and again once more.
The exhibition, she saw, was due to open next week, on the first of September. Did that mean that Leo would be here on that day? She had no idea how these things were organised. Hastily she glanced around but none of the other patrons of the gallery looked as though they would be able to tell her. However the man at the front desk who had accepted her sixpence when she came in might know more.
There was no one attending the small desk in the foyer of the gallery, but a small silver bell rested invitingly on top of it. Without hesitation Tara picked it up and jangled it. It made more noise than she had expected, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the older couple in the gallery raise their eyebrows at each other. But she did not care. A bell like that was bound to be heard even in the basements of the building. After a moment a man appeared. ‘May I help you, madam?’ he asked.
Tara brandished the flyer she had picked up. ‘About this exhibition,’ she said. ‘Will Mr… I mean Lord Fosse be present for the opening.’
‘I’m not sure,’ the man said. ‘Some artists choose to be present for the openings of their exhibitions and some do not.’ What an ineffectual little man, Tara thought, no wonder it had fallen to his lot to man the front desk, it was a role that could not possibly be demanding. ‘I don’t know what Lord Fosse intends,’ the man continued. ‘If you will excuse me for a minute, I will go and ask him.’
It took a split second for the man’s words to register and then they struck home. Leo was here, in this very building, right now. Tara reached across the desk and grabbed the man by the lapel of his jacket just as he was turning away. ‘Madam!’ he said, looking more than a little alarmed, but she ignored that.
‘Is Leo here? Take me to him at once.’
‘Madam, I couldn’t possibly… they are hanging his paintings… I cannot take a member of the public…’ the man shook himself free of her grasp, but did not seem to take any reassurance from his new found freedom. Tara decided she had to try and appear a little less scary.
‘Leo is a very good friend of mine,’ she said, ironing the breathlessness out of her voice and gradually bringing in a purr. ‘I have not seen him for quite some time,’ it was five days since she had last laid eyes on Leo, but it seemed like an eternity. ‘I would very much like to surprise him. It’s his birthday,’ she added on impulse. She had no idea when Leo’s birthday was, but she would put money on the belief that the man she was talking to did not know either.
Leo’s birthday seemed to sway the man. She saw his shoulders relax and he looked relieved as he turned back to her once more. ‘In that case… I did not realize… please let me escort you to the west room, where Lord Fosse is currently hanging his paintings.’
‘Thank you,’ Tara said and tipped the man generously. She had no idea how Leo would receive her and she wanted it to be worth the man’s while if he were later upbraided for acceding to her wishes. She also had no idea what she was going to say to Leo. All she knew was that knowing that he was in London, not Italy, she could not bear to wait a moment longer than she had to until she saw him.
The picture hanging had gone well. Leo had always thought that the placement of paintings in an exhibition was critical, and Lord Seaforth agreed with him. But contrary to his expectations, it did not take long for them to agree on the final arrangement. ‘Good, good,’ Lord Seaforth said as Leo prepared to hang his last painting. ‘I have some matters I must attend to, but perhaps you would care to join me for morning coffee in my office shortly.’ He departed and Leo picked up his picture of St Paul’s. A footstep behind him made him set the heavy work down again, and he turned, expecting to see that the curator had returned to give him one last piece of advice.
But there, standing in the doorway, the picture of beauty in a white muslin dress, the sheerness of which was just the right side of decency, and tendrils of her dark curly hair escaping from their chignon and falling down to frame her face, was Tara. For a moment Leo couldn’t breathe. Tara had come to find him, she had sought him out. Goodness knew how she had known where he was, but it did not matter, she was here. Perhaps Mark and La Monte meant nothing to her after all. She had come to him.
‘I… I thought you were in Italy,’ Tara said rather mystifyingly.
Leo felt himself compelled to cross the gallery and take her hands. They felt both strong and delicate in his own. ‘Why on earth did you think that?’ he asked, not letting go.
Tara looked up at him trustingly. ‘Mark said you had always wanted to go.’
‘I have,’ Leo said, not at all enlightened, but not really caring, Tara was here, that was all that mattered, but he forced himself to continue with her chosen topic of converation. ‘Italy is the only place to seriously study art.’
‘Oh,’ said Tara, and he felt her grip on his hands tighten even while the look of trust faded from her eyes.
‘I thought you were in Bournemouth,’ Leo said, wanting to rebuild the tenuous connection that had so briefly been between them. ‘What brings you to London?’ He hoped against hope that she would say she had wanted to see him, but Tara had already told him she had thought he was in Italy, so that could not possibly be her reason.
What had brought her to London? The utter unbearableness of Bournemouth without Leo, Tara thought. It was the truth, but telling Leo that would be unthinkable. ‘Your cousin proposed to me,’ she said instead. Retreating from the scene was a time honoured way of dealing with an unwanted proposal, and although that had not been her reason for coming up to town, it had certainly been a sensible move.
Leo’s eyes narrowed. ‘So I heard,’ he said heavily. ‘I gather you agreed to consider his offer.’
‘He is very nice,’ Tara said hastily, she did not want Leo to think that her intended rejection of Mark meant that she did not like him.
‘He is,’ Leo said neutrally, then for the first time since she had come into the room he broke eye contact with her and Tara felt bereft without his dark eyes boring into her soul.
‘Men do propose,’ she babbled, wishing she knew what he was thinking. ‘They can’t help it, it’s in their nature. Why I received another proposal only on Friday.’
‘From Philippe La Monte,’ Leo growled.
‘Did you come here to ask my advice on which one you should accept?’ Leo asked.
Tara snatched her hands away, feeling as if he had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. ‘No!’ she gasped. ‘That is… no! Not unless you think I ought to choose either one…’ cold wisps of despair seemed to wind their way around her heart. The awful knowledge that even when confronted with the information that she had had two proposals of marriage from other men, Leo was not going to claim her as his own descended on Tara like a suffocating fog. It was all she could do to remain upright, staring at Leo as he slowly turned back towards her.
‘So why did you come to see me?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t,’ Tara said wildly. ‘I came to the gallery to look at pictures and I found the advertisement for the next exhibition with your name on it.’
‘But you did come to find me,’ Leo said, moving a step closer so that his face was in shadow and she could not read it at all. ‘This room is off limits to the public, yet here you are.’ He reached out as if to brush one of Tara’s curls away from her face and then he froze. ‘Did you simply wish to let me know of your conquests? To let me know, despite my being a lord, how far out of my reach you really are? This is it, Tara, I have my title, and I live by my art and this is all I have to offer.’