"I think I'll stick to producing pictures," Corinna muttered.
"Your husband may not agree with that," Griffin said, rising from the desk. He strode toward the room's door. "I'll be right back. I need to give this to a footman to have it delivered."
I believe all men are deceitful, Corinna remembered Amanda saying in Children of the Abbey. Well, her brother wasn't deceitful. Oh, no, he was perfectly straightforward. He was determined to marry her off, and there was nothing the least bit deceitful about the way he was going about it. To the contrary, he regularly announced it to the world.
Your husband may not agree with that.
Corinna was yelling at him in her head, deciding just what words to use to make it clear to him, once and for all, that she wasn't looking for a husband in the first place and wouldn't accept one who didn't support her art career in any case—when the moaning and screaming suddenly stopped.
Corinna's breathing stopped, too. "Do you think Aunt Frances is…?"
She couldn't bring herself to utter the word dead. And evidently no one else could, either, because a tense silence flooded the room.
And then a thin cry came through the closed door.
"Of course not, you goose." Juliana grinned. "She's had her baby."
"Thank God." Corinna bit off a hunk of almond cake. Her aunt's ordeal was over. Marriage and childbirth hadn't killed her, after all. "When can we see it?"
"Not for a while," Alexandra told her. "The baby will be covered in mucus and blood, so it will need to be cleaned up first, and Aunt Frances will need to deliver the afterbirth—"
"Stop." Griffin walked back in, looking rather green. "I don't think Corinna needs to hear this."
Corinna laughed softly. She was feeling better already. Her stomach fluttered with excitement as they all waited to be invited inside. The baby stopped crying, and the murmurs that came through the door sounded contented rather than distressed. She heard Frances's familiar soft chuckle and knew everything had gone well.
At last the connecting door opened. From the bed Frances smiled, propped comfortably against her pillows. Lord Malmsey came out of the room, a short man with a receding hairline, a wide smile, and a pink bundle cradled in his arms.
"It's a girl," he said, sounding bemused.
Everyone seemed to sigh in unison.
Slowly he unwrapped the blanket, revealing a little heart-shaped face, a shock of straight dark hair, and large, unfocused blue eyes.
Corinna rose and walked toward him.
"What are you calling her?" she asked.
"Belinda," he said quietly.
"Oh, God." Frances's sister's name. Corinna's mother's. "May I hold her?"
Griffin laughed. "I thought you didn't want a baby."
"There's a big difference between having one and holding one," she retorted, opening her arms.
Lord Malmsey reluctantly handed his daughter over. Belinda felt warm and smelled divine. And holding her close, Corinna fell in love for the second time in two days.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Hanover Square, Tuesday 13 May
My dear Cousin,
I regret that I shall be unable to accompany you to Chelsea today, as my Aunt Frances is most inconveniently delivering a child. I shall take you tomorrow if that agrees with you.
Fondly,
Cainewood
"A USEFUL SKILL indeed, miss." Sean made a notation in his notebook. "Perhaps I can find a position for you cleaning Delaney and Company's main offices."
"Offices?" the scullery maid squealed, her cracked and work-reddened hands flying up to her cheeks. Clearly she considered cleaning offices a huge step up in the world. "A place of business? Not a kitchen?"
"I cannot make any promises, since decisions have yet to be made. But you won't be working in a kitchen." One business he wasn't involved in was food service. He stood, and when she stood too, he stuck out his hand. "Whatever your final assignment, you should expect to begin the Monday following Lord Lincolnshire's loss."
"Will I still live here?"
"I'm afraid not." Sean was certain Hamilton would never allow it. "But have no fear, miss. I shall arrange lodging in a boardinghouse for you until you can find a situation of your own."
She clutched his hand in both of hers, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Thank you, my lord. You cannot imagine—"
"I'm not a lord," he interrupted. "Merely a mister."
"You'll be a lord soon—"
"And you're very welcome. Before you return to the kitchens, please ask Mr. Higginbotham to step in."
He sat and made a few more notes while she all but danced out of the room. When the house steward entered, he rose again. "Was she the last one then, Mr. Higginbotham?"
A tall, thin man with a gaze that didn't miss anything, Higginbotham ran Lincolnshire's household like clockwork. "Other than Eugene Scott, one of the gardeners, yes. I allowed him the day off to sit with his ailing mother."
"A gardener." Sean nodded and made another note. Perhaps Mr. Scott could be assigned to work with the crews that landscaped new buildings following construction. "Please sit down, Mr. Higginbotham."
The steward did so, smoothing his palms on his striped trousers. "I must tell you, sir, that everyone, from the basement of this house to the attics, is extremely grateful for your seeing to their continued employment."
"Think nothing of it. They're uncommonly loyal employees, and as such, will prove to be assets in their future positions."
Now that Sean had interviewed them all—mostly in the evening hours over more than a week—he would assess their relative strengths so he could appropriately distribute them among the varied businesses he owned. Some would be involved in property management, others in import or export, manufacturing, construction, and many other of his endeavors.
"I hope everyone will be pleased with their final assignments," he said.
"I'm certain they will be pleased to have any employment at all. Although they wish to remain with Lord Lincolnshire until he's gone, of course."
"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way."
Higginbotham hesitated. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Hamilton…" He cleared his throat. "How is it you've come to know of enough available positions? And come by the authority to hire—"
"I know a lot of people," Sean interrupted dismissively.
"I expect as a well-known artist you've had commissions from all the best—"
"Something like that." He tapped his quill on the notebook. "As for your future, Mr. Higginbotham…"
The man sat forward, apprehension crossing his long face. "I assumed I'd remain here. If I may say so, Mr. Hamilton, you're going to require a minimum of staff at the least."
Sean wouldn't think of leaving such a fine man at the mercy of Deirdre's husband. "Your efficiency has impressed me. I know of a factory in Surrey in need of a foreman. If you're amenable, I'd like to see you in that position."
Higginbotham's eyes widened. "A factory?"
"They manufacture lamps, the new gaslights. As it's a growing industry, it's a very large factory indeed, with upwards of three hundred employees."
The steward squared his shoulders. "I have managed a sizable staff here."
"More than a hundred, by my estimate." Sean felt like he'd interviewed a thousand. "You'll have to relocate outside London, of course, but compensation will include a foreman's house and the staff to manage it, leaving you free to focus on the factory's needs."
"I'm to have my own servants?"
"You'll need them. The factory is a major responsibility."
The man's eyes filled with determination, perhaps tempered by a touch of excitement. A house steward was a respectable position, but managing a factory was something else altogether. Rather than a glorified servant, he'd be a man of industry, a man of business. "I'm up to it, sir, I assure you."
"I've no doubt." Sean snapped the notebook closed. "We're agreed, then, and I'm finished here. Let Lord Lincolnshire know, if you pl
ease. I'm off to…paint."
Lincoln's Inn Fields, Tuesday 13 May
My dear Cousin,
It should have been better had you notified me of your delay sooner than four hours after I expected you. You seem to have forgotten that Lady A is holding her reception tomorrow, possibly the most important day of your sister's life. As I plan to attend, Thursday afternoon will be more agreeable for Chelsea.
Yours very sincerely,
Rachael
P.S. I wish Lady Malmsey the best.
TWENTY-NINE
ROUT CAKES
Take Flour and mix with Butter and Sugar and Currants clean and dry. Make into a paste with Eggs and Orange Flower Water, Rose-water, sweet Wine, and Brandy. Drop on a floured tin-plate and bake them for a very short time.
My mother said these cakes bring luck, and indeed, I fed them to my husband the day he proposed! Serve to ensure the success of your rout or any other event you'd like to see turn out well.
—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1765
FINALLY, THE day of the reception dawned. Corinna arrived at Lady Avonleigh's town house, where an ancient butler ushered her inside. Her knees were shaking. Lady Balmforth, who shared the house with her sister, came over to greet her and bring her to the drawing room.
"Welcome, my dear. Where is Mr. Hamilton?"
"He…ah…he couldn't come," she said, which was the truth. Mr. Hamilton couldn't come, as he was in Wales, and Sean couldn't come in his place, either. "I haven't seen him the past few days, Lady B. Apparently he's very busy."
That was true, too. She hadn't seen Sean since she'd finished the portrait.
"Well." The older woman huffed, sucking in her already thin cheeks. Lady B was as skinny as Lady A was plump. "My sister is not going to be happy about this."
Some of the ladies' friends were already there, exclaiming over Corinna's paintings. Lady A and Lady B had taken all the other pictures off their peach-painted walls and hung Corinna's art there instead.
Everything in their house seemed to be peach. The color unfortunately clashed with some of Corinna's work, but there was nothing she could do about that. Nothing but cross her fingers and hope that the artists would like what they saw when they arrived.
Alexandra showed up next, a platter in her hands. "Rout cakes," she explained. "They're supposed to ensure the success of your rout."
"It isn't my rout. In fact, it isn't a rout at all. It's a reception."
"It's a fashionable gathering, and as Lady A's home isn't overly large, it's bound to be a crush. That's a rout in my book." Alexandra leaned to kiss her sister's cheek. "You look nervous."
A sarcastic retort hung on the tip of Corinna's tongue, but she felt too frazzled to make jests. "I am," she admitted instead. She abruptly realized that, other than the rout cakes, Alexandra held…nothing. And there was a decided lack of squeaky wheels. "You left Harry at home."
"Babies don't belong at routs." Alexandra set the platter on a side table of mahogany inlaid with lighter, peach-colored wood. "Show me your newest painting."
But before Corinna could do so, Juliana walked in. Then Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth. Then more of Lady A's and B's friends, and their other sister, Lady Cavanaugh, and the first of the artist judges.
Suddenly, it was a rout.
Corinna could barely move among all the people. Lady A pushed through the crowd to give her a hug, enveloping her in camphor and gardenias. "Our honored guest! Where is Mr. Hamilton, my dear?"
"He couldn't come."
"Well. I…well. I never—" More guests were arriving, cramming the drawing room. Her plump cheeks quivering with indignation, she turned to the nearest new arrival. "Have you heard, Mr. West, that Mr. Hamilton isn't coming?"
Benjamin West! The president of the Royal Academy! Corinna found herself speechless with terror, which was not a good thing, considering the man looked mightily confused.
"I'm sorry to hear that, madam, but it's hardly a surprise, considering he's currently in Wales."
"When did he leave for Wales?"
"Last month, I do believe."
"Last month? I think not." Lady A looked even more confused than he did. "Lady Rachael," she called, motioning her over. "Did we not see Mr. Hamilton last Saturday at the Billingsgate ball?"
"Why—"
"No," Corinna cut in, sending her cousin a pitiful, pleading look. Although Rachael didn't know the truth, surely she'd respond to such obvious silent begging. "That was Sean Hamilton, remember? Sean, not John." Before Rachael could disagree or Lady A could protest further, Corinna clutched Mr. West's arm and began pulling him toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire.
Though she was no shrinking violet, she surprised herself with that kind of boldness. But she didn't see where she had much of a choice. She had to get Mr. West out of there before—as irreverent Rachael would put it—all hell broke loose.
"Will you have a look at my newest painting, Mr. West?" she asked, coming to a stop before it. "As I'm considering submitting it to the Summer Exhibition, I'd surely appreciate your thoughts."
Before commenting, he studied the picture quite a while. Corinna studied him. He was balding, what was left of his hair was gray, and he looked rather dour overall. But not really unfriendly, she decided with some relief.
Mr. West was famous for his paintings of recent battles that depicted their heroes wearing modern dress rather than traditional, classical garb. Since Corinna thought it rather silly to paint contemporary men sporting flowing Roman robes, she heartily approved—and she hoped his willingness to take the less traveled road meant he was more open-minded than most.
"It's very nice, Lady…Corinna, is it?" he said at last in his disarming American accent. "Your basic techniques demonstrate fine skills. But I'm not certain your model's form looks quite realistic."
"His form?"
"His body, under his clothing. Not quite natural, I'm afraid."
Her heart turned to lead in her chest. She'd done her best, considering the Academy refused women access to anatomy lessons. Maybe she should point that out to him. As the Academy's president, maybe he would see how unfair that was, how detrimental to a lady's chances, and decide to change the Academy's rules.
No, that would never happen. And he might consider such a request to be very bad form. She'd never get elected to the Academy if its president thought she was vulgar.
On the other hand, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Lord Lincolnshire's form looked perfectly fine. West was known for painting all of his subjects with large almond-shaped eyes, so maybe he wasn't one to judge. Although his portrait clients thought those eyes most dashing—and doubtless commissioned him for that reason—it wasn't accurate, after all. Some of them had narrow, squinty eyes, or small round ones.
"Thank you very much for your opinion," she told him as sweetly as she could. "I surely appreciate it, and I shall take your thoughts under consideration."
Suppressing a sigh, she returned to Rachael after he took leave. "Well, that didn't go well."
Rachael's sisters came to join them. "Who was he?" Claire asked.
"Benjamin West, the president of the Royal Academy. He said Lord Lincolnshire's body doesn't look natural beneath his clothing."
Elizabeth glanced over toward the painting and shrugged. "Looks fine to me. Rather impressive, in fact."
"He did say my techniques demonstrate fine skills. And maybe he's wrong about the other, but that doesn't really matter, does it? Either way he won't vote for my painting unless I change it."
"His is just one opinion." Rachael touched her arm. "There are other committee members, aren't there? How many in total?"
"Nine. The president plus eight elected Academicians."
"So you have eight more men to influence. Seven if you count Mr. Hamilton as being on your side. And he should be, considering you've become friends with him."
"I'm not sure friends is an accurate description of our relationship." But although Rachael didn't know the truth, in
a sense she was right. The real Mr. Hamilton should be on Corinna's side, considering how hard she'd been working to keep his uncle happy. And he believed each work should stand on its own and not be judged by the gender of its creator. "However, I think he probably will vote for me," she decided.
"So you've already balanced Mr. West's negative opinion with a positive." Rachael smiled; but then her brows drew together in a frown. "Why did you claim you didn't see Mr. Hamilton at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday? That he was Sean Hamilton, not John? I've heard you call him Sean, and Lord Lincolnshire calls him that as well, but it's just a nickname, after all."
"Mr. West seems to think Mr. Hamilton is in Wales for some reason. I didn't want to argue with the president of the Royal Academy. Better to go along with what he said, I was thinking."
Rachael exchanged puzzled glances with her sisters. "I don't know about that."
Corinna gave what she hoped was a casual shrug, then smiled at Lady A, who was approaching with another man in tow.
"I cannot understand why everyone thinks Mr. Hamilton is in Wales," the older woman muttered darkly. And then more graciously as she drew near, "Mr. Mulready, I'd be pleased for you to meet Lady Corinna Chase. Lady Corinna, this is William Mulready."
Mr. Mulready looked much younger than Mr. West, probably not a decade older than Corinna herself. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear," he said in an accent that reminded her of Sean.
That thought made her smile. "Oh, Mr. Mulready, your painting in last year's Summer Exhibition was my absolute favorite!"
She wasn't making that up; the enthusiasm in her voice was genuine. And judging from the man's expression, he rather liked hearing it. "Which one, my dear?" he asked.
Academicians were allowed to display six paintings each—works that were hung without question, without being judged by the committee. "The Fight Interrupted. I adore the seventeenth-century Dutch masters, and it reminded me of their work. An updated version, if you will."
"I too admire the Dutch masters," he said, sounding like he also admired her for admiring them. "Their work inspired The Fight Interrupted."
Art of Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 3) Page 16