Stifled by the two men hemming her in, their antagonism as oppressive as their physical nearness, Karen felt her head swimming.
Amanda said sharply, ‘Stand away, both of you, if you do not wish to create a scene with a swooning girl. Lord Antony, if you must continue your argument, pray do so in another place.’
His expression was grim as he stared down at Karen. She met his look squarely. Sick as she felt, she’d be damned if she’d be browbeaten into some sort of guilty submission.
‘Antony, you are absurd. Mr. Thornton was merely declaiming some verse he had composed in my honor.’ She made herself smile at the other man. ‘Thank you for the compliment, sir, but you must take your seat now. The music is about to commence.’
Antony’s attention shifted to his adversary, his expression still unpleasant, but he said coolly enough, ‘You must forgive my error. However, in future you will not approach my wife either in public or private without my permission. Do I make myself plain?’
A surge of violins drowned Thornton’s reply, but Karen caught the words ‘dog’ and ‘manger’, said with contempt. However, he moved away back to his own party, and her husband took his seat behind her, his presence very much felt although he neither touched her not spoke again.
Amanda put her lips to Karen’s ear. ‘Excellent! I doubted you possessed such presence of mind, my dear Caro. Do you feel well enough to remain for the performance?’
Karen nodded. This was her test night, and she was determined to pass with honors. But she was furiously angry and, oddly enough, that anger was directed at the woman whose place she’d taken. She must have been a stupid spoiled bitch to humiliate her husband so, and with a low taste in men, if Thornton was anything to go by.
She made a vow that she would alter Antony’s opinion of her before she left – if she left. No, make that when she left. Adele’s little face darted into her mind, but she was quick to close it off. Not now. Tonight she must do her part. Tomorrow, after she’d demonstrated her ability to move in this artificial society, she would corner Amanda and insist that they openly discuss the problem of finding someone who could help spring this trap. The time for evasion had gone. She couldn’t wait any longer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Antony left the following morning for a protracted tour of his estate, including a visit with his father who preferred the rural pace of life in Devon. He did not offer to take Karen, for which she was relieved. Sybilla had told her the elderly Earl of Roth suffered considerably from arthritis and rarely came to town. She also gathered he was a formidable old gentleman, who would take unkindly to the discovery that an heir to the title was highly unlikely to eventuate.
Naturally, it had been Lady Oriel who had enlightened Karen as to the reason for Antony’s remarriage – his father’s order for the sake of the name. Since the whole household must know he never came to her room at night, she felt sure Lord Edward would by now be informed of that fact, and she had no wish to face his disappointed wrath.
Besides, she had more to worry about.
Amanda, cornered in her own home where Karen had come to take tea and conversation with Mrs. Crayle, led her friend aside when the invalid lady retired for her pre-dinner nap.
‘Come, Caro, and sit in the window, and we can watch the quizzes strut up and down displaying their finery. You are looking well, my dear. I believe you are fully recovered.’
‘I’m as fit as I’ll ever be…’ Karen began, then halted at the look in her friend’s eye. She laughed. ‘Oh, very well. I should say, how kind of you to say so, dear friend. I am in high health, indeed, and most anxious to take counsel with you upon a matter of some urgency.’
Amanda approved the speech, and bowed to the inevitable. ‘You have played your part in our bargain, and it is now my turn. I will admit to being proud of my pupil. Not one person could have doubted that you are truly Caroline Marchmont. Now, as it happens, I have been pursuing certain enquiries on your behalf, and have learned that there is a man of power, a Pierre Marnie, who worked with my father years ago. I believe he may be able to assist you.’
‘That’s wonderful! Where is he? Can I see him at once?’
‘Unfortunately, he lives in southern France, in Avignon.’
Karen slumped. ‘Then it’s hopeless. There’s no way I could get there with the war going on.’
Amanda put a commiserating arm around her shoulders. ‘I am so very sorry. Yet all is not lost. We may find a way of reaching this man. I have friends who maintain contact with the Continent, despite the Corsican Monster’s blockade. Leave the matter to in my hands and I shall endeavor.’
After a half-hour’s discussion of ways and means, followed by Karen’s indulgence in an orgy of reminiscence of her little girl, she took her leave. Disappointment left her feeling hollow. Unreasonably, as she now realized, she’d counted on Amanda having a solution to her problem, and the let-down was terrible.
With little heart for enjoyment, she forced herself to be companionable at the opera with Sybilla and a party of her friends that night, automatically fulfilling her own new role and carrying her end of the conversation easily enough. Amanda had taught her well, and she’d had plenty of practice.
She did feel it was a pity that none of the people claiming close acquaintance with Caroline Marchmont sparked off a desire in her for closer intimacy. They just weren’t her kind. Their shallow interests left her cold, and she had nothing but contempt for the men and women who spent their days, and nights, in endless pursuit of amorous titillation. They had so much in the way of material support and opportunity, yet were too bored to make use of it.
The so-called exclusivity of the ton was as much a fake as the polite manner covering a seething pit of gossip and scandal. Many an aristocratic lady made no secret of the fact that her children had different fathers; and the hottest topic at any gathering was often the latest criminal conspiracy, or act of adultery. And those too high-nosed to associate with tradesmen and others who worked for a living, lowered their standards soon enough when it suited them. Money gilded and ennobled, as it had always done and would continue to do in Karen’s own time; but the blatant hypocrisy sickened her.
She could laugh at dandyism and other fads promoted often enough with tongue in cheek; yet she found it hard to reconcile the heedless waste and indebtedness with the poverty she knew existed beyond the magic privileged patch stretching between Regent’s Park and St. James.
A visit to the Royal Academy at Somerset House was more to her taste, although she was amazed and disappointed at the haphazard way the pictures had been hung, crowded together, frame to frame, as high as the ceiling, with the feet of the subjects of full-length portraits often at the level of the viewer’s eyes. Pushing hordes of sightseers didn’t improve her first impression.
However, her disappointment turned to a shiver of excitement when she realized the rather slovenly-looking, rough-around-the-edges man being presented by Amanda was the great Joseph Turner himself.
Karen turned an eager face to the painter, her mind busy with dates. He’d be about thirty-six, and still acclaimed principally for his work in oils.
‘How much I enjoy your work, Mr. Turner. Your recent water colors of Scarborough Castle are so luminous, so glowing.’
‘Thank you. As it happens, I plan to spend this summer touring through the south counties in search of material for the illustrations of Mr. Cooke’s book on view of the southern coastline of England.’
‘Ah, yes. Plymouth with Mount Batten.’ She stopped, remembering that particular work would not be finished for two years.
Fortunately, he assumed she was referring to a possible subject, and said he would bear it in mind. He then went into a monologue on his work, barely pausing to allow her any comment.
Acutely conscious of her slip, she set a guard upon her tongue. It was hard, knowing what lay ahead for this gifted man. His greatest work was yet to come, ten, twenty years ahead. The people who praised him now could have no ide
a what was in store for them.
When he did solicit her opinion, her genuine interest and knowledgeable comments kept Turner at her side. Finally, he said approvingly, ‘You may care to visit my own gallery in Queen Ann Street, Lady Marchmont.’
She glowed. ‘I should be delighted.’ Her eyes moved to the man at his side, tweaking his sleeve in demand for presentation
‘My dear fellow.’ Turner drew the man forward. ‘Lady Marchmont, allow me to present my good friend Andrew Robertson, the miniaturist. You were expressing a particular interest in lithographic work, my lady. Robertson does a little of that in the architectural line, himself.’
Robertson bowed. ‘Nothing that would bear comparison with your own, Joseph.’ He looked admiringly at Karen. ‘Lady Marchmont, I believe your husband commissioned a portrait. Yes, I am positive – ’ He broke off in confusion. ‘I beg your pardon. I must have been mistaken.’
Karen smiled. ‘You would have done a likeness of the first Lady Marchmont. I have not seen it, although I hear it is very fine.’
‘It was a mother and child together. I also painted your husband’s likeness on ivory. The settings were particularly fine, as I recall.’ Red-faced over his faux pas, he soon excused himself, leaving Karen curious and determined to search out the miniature portrait of her predecessor. The unmentioned, but not forgotten Jenny Marchmont had really begun to intrigue her.
When Amanda later taxed Karen with having concealed her interest in art, she defended herself vigorously. ‘You asked me not to speak of my previous life. I was to put it behind me and study to turn myself into a woman of fashion. Well, that’s what I have done, Amanda, and still you are not pleased.’ She turned away and allowed the footman to help her into her carriage.
Amanda followed, distressed. ‘I have wounded you. Nothing was further from my intention. You have succeeded in your task to admiration, and I am perfectly sure no one could guess you are not what you seem. Now, I beg you will appease my curiosity. What is your interest in the world of art and how did you acquire so much detailed knowledge? I declare, I was ready to drop with surprise when you began discussing matters of technique with Mr. Turner. I have no doubt but that the use of cross-hatching is an essential, but what does it mean?’
Karen shrugged. She was still a little annoyed. ‘Cross-hatching is simply a term for the series of closely spaced parallel lines used by Mr. Turner in his engraving to give a uniform color or shadow. He crosses the first set of lines at right angles with another set, to deepen the effect. As for my interest and knowledge, I am an artist myself.’
For once Amanda could find no words. She sat back against the cushion and stared.
‘I supported myself working in a London gallery, but I have always painted. On the night before I… disappeared… my work went on exhibition to the public for the very first time.’ Karen smiled wryly. ‘Who knows? I might have become famous by now. I wonder whether I shall ever find out?’
‘It held much meaning for you, your painting?’
‘Oh, Amanda, if you only knew.’
‘Then we must see what may be contrived. Since Lady Caroline displayed no such talent, you cannot be seen to work in your own house. However, you could hire a studio and go there each morning. Who is to know that you are not promenading in the park?’
A few days later the two women took a hackney to the unfashionable neighborhood of Chelsea and viewed an attic room recently vacated by a not very successful artist who had decided to return to his father’s business. They were standing in the middle of the dusty floor, discussing Karen’s needs, when a young man bounded up the stairs and through the doorway, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw them.
‘I beg your pardon, ladies. I believed the studio to be uninhabited.’ Despite his youth, he appeared quite gnome-like, but his ugly, pock-marked face presently expressed such an odd mixture of chagrin and admiration that Karen struggled not to laugh.
‘You are welcome to come in, sir. We were about to leave.’ She moved forward holding out her hand. ‘I am Caroline Marchmont.
‘William Etty, at your service, my lady.’ He bowed awkwardly. ‘Er… may I be so bold as to ask whether you have an interest in renting these premises?’
‘I regret that I have already done so. Did you hope to move in yourself?’
His disappointment was swiftly banished. ‘By no means. That is to say, there are many such rooms available. I do not despair of finding a suitable lodging and studio.’
She examined him with such concentration that he began to grow pink. ‘William Etty. Of course!’ Her eyes widened and she looked mischievous. ‘Mr. Etty, I shall dare to make a prophecy concerning your future.’
‘Caro,’ said Amanda, warningly.
But Karen didn’t heed. ‘Young man, you will one day be acclaimed as a Royal Academician, famed throughout the art world for your portrayal of the female form.’
‘F-f-female f-form?’ Now he was scarlet.
‘Yes, indeed. Nudes, after the style of Rubens and Titian.’
‘Madam, I am a student at the Royal Academy Art School. I paint landscapes.’
‘I daresay. But in your later years your female studies will be represented in every important gallery and collection in this country, and will command a higher price than the work of Constable and Lawrence. You will set a standard, Mr. Etty. I congratulate you.’ Taking Amanda’s hand she swept out, leaving the astounded man to make what he could of her words.
Amanda’s scolding went over her head. She felt exhilarated. This was the first positive result of her unfortunate body change. It had been a thrill to meet someone and know for certain what his life path would be. She had not dared to enlighten the great Turner, a public figure in a most public place; but she simply couldn’t resist little Mr. Etty. What a heady feeling, to confound him with promises of marvelous prospects! All the same, she did agree to be more circumspect in the future. It would never do to be talked about, at least, not as some sort of crackpot aristocratic soothsayer.
The atmosphere at Rothmoor House remained strained. Lady Oriel and the Honorable George seemed to avoid Karen’s company, while Basil definitely spied. She’d caught him more than once listening to her conversations with visitors, and had seen him give money to Lucy.
Sybilla, too, seemed to have changed. Her former friendly attitude had slipped into a slight coolness towards her cousin, and there was a watchful look about her these days. She reminded Karen of a dog that has lost a treasured bone, casting about amongst possible foes, ready either for attack or defense. This puzzling change remained a mystery, for Sybilla kept her distance. She no longer invited Karen to join parties of friends for outings on horseback or to the shops and theatres, but whispered in corners with Lady Oriel, ignoring Karen much of the time.
She saw little of Charles, who still, in his deliberate, detached way, remained a friend. With his employer absent he seemed busier than ever, although not too occupied to spend time with Amanda when she visited the house.
The days seemed long, and the evenings longer. Karen couldn’t spend too much time at her studio, yet would not give the remaining hours to idle chatter and peacocking in the latest ensembles. She didn’t ride (although she hid this fact by stating that her recent illness had left her with a weakness of the limbs, and her medical adviser did not recommend riding); and while she enjoyed dancing (medically approved) she found the elaborate formality of Almacks wearisome, and the constant backbiting and criticism of matchmaking mamas and their silly daughters even more so.
Few of the gentlemen clamoring to escort her could be trusted to keep the line, or, as she would have said, keep their paws to themselves. Those she danced with seemed evenly divided into three sectors – feeble-minded bores whose interest never rose above sport and gambling; callow and impressionable youths who had to be fought off in the conservatory; and the more dangerous predators who remembered Caroline Marchmont’s reputation and acted accordingly.
Nice women avoided her, a
nd men of wit and education assumed her to be an empty-headed flirt. She couldn’t win.
Frustrated, Karen decided to redecorate. In her opinion, nothing had been done for Rothmoor House in the past fifty years. Taking the hopeful view that Antony’s attitude towards the servant crisis would carry over to her spending spree, and defiant and unhappy enough not to care, she began with her hated bed chamber.
Out came the ornate furniture, the hangings and swags, the rugs with their hideous patterns. She’d show them what could be achieved with a minimum of fuss. The wallpaper was painted over in oyster white, so that only the faintest garland pattern showed through. Woodwork, including the heavy window shutters, gleamed with fresh white paint. Draperies were replaced with white silk worked in a faint gold pattern; and rugs of Chinese pattern in soft green, pink and gold scattered on the polished boards. The great bed was stripped of its hangings and covered in apple-green silk. Whispered reports from the servants’ hall held that her ladyship had gone mad indeed, exposing herself to noxious night airs.
Faded watercolors and landscapes covered in darkened varnish were banished to the attics, along with the ugly furniture and a multitude of china bric-a-brac. Six oriental silk panels discovered in an importer’s warehouse, and horrendously priced, now graced the walls, their delicate brushstrokes hinting at dawn over lakes and mountains; long-legged birds fishing amongst reeds; and blossom trailing along the bamboo rails of a tea-house. One Meissen shepherdess was permitted to remain on the chimneypiece to point her toe at her reflection – and that was all.
Karen, returning from the studio unexpectedly early one day, heard the sound of scuffling as she entered her room. Although there was no sign of disturbance, the dressing room door stood ajar. Angry at the continued spying and scuttling about in the house, she marched over and flung back the door. Two defiant eyes stared up at her. Chloe crouched behind the fire stand, her sharp little face drawn tight and, Karen suspected teeth gritted.
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