River of Fire

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Nothing so civilized," she said ruefully. "After the selection, artists must go to the academy and ask the porter about the fate of their work. There is a great queue of people, and the porter loves to bellow out 'Nay' for the pictures that haven't been accepted. Very embarrassing."

  Kenneth made a face. "I expect that will happen to me."

  She gave him a level look. "Rejection won't mean that your work is unworthy."

  He smiled. "Having received approval from you and Sir Anthony, I can survive the academy's lack of appreciation."

  Once again, she saw that disquieting warmth in his eyes. It reminded her too much of when they had made love. She drifted across the small room. "One learns where one's work has been hung on Varnishing Day, when artists can make last-minute changes." She smiled. "Mr. Turner has been known to practically repaint a whole canvas from wonderful to even more wonderful."

  "How do they hang a thousand paintings?"

  "Very closely. The frames almost touch. The Great Exhibition Room is enormous, too. A painting hung near the ceiling is practically invisible. They call that being 'skyed.' Better than nothing, I suppose, but it doesn't do much to advance an artist's career."

  "Obviously acceptance is only the first hurdle of what turns out to be a whole steeplechase." Kenneth's expression became pensive. "It feels odd to be talking about painting and exhibition so naturally. I was raised to be a landowner, and fate made me a soldier. I could not have imagined living an artist's life even three months ago."

  She looked at his craggy features and powerful body and thought of the corsair. Perhaps he wasn't every woman's secret romantic fantasy—but he was certainly hers. Knowing she must leave, Rebecca put her hand on the doorknob. "Perhaps a pattern that you didn't recognize brought you to art in a roundabout way, Kenneth. You had the talent to learn despite having no formal teaching, and war has given you the material for great art. The result is: a unique vision."

  Then she turned and left swiftly, before she gave in to the temptation to walk into his arms.

  Chapter 25

  Kenneth whistled softly when he and Rebecca entered Somerset House. "You weren't exaggerating about the number of people queuing up to learn if their work will be hung."

  Rebecca edged closer to him. "Think how much worse it would have been if we had arrived first thing this morning."

  "It's bad enough now. There must be fifty or sixty men jammed in here." He smiled at her. "And about three women."

  More artists were arriving steadily, some of them jostling about in their anxiety. Knowing how much Rebecca disliked crowds, he aimed his best officer glare at those who came too close. He and Rebecca were always granted more space.

  The porter who was consulting the list of paintings boomed out "Nay!" to the man at the head of the line.

  "Poor devil," Kenneth murmured as the artist turned and left, his face white.

  She took hold of his arm. "I'm seriously regretting this."

  He patted her hand where it rested on his forearm. Her fingers were icy. "I would tell you the truth—that you will be accepted—but it wouldn't make you feel any better, would it?"

  She gave him a wry smile. "You must feel the same way."

  "Worse," he said feelingly. "My chances are much poorer."

  "I have better technique, but you have more substance."

  "Your work has every bit as much substance, it just isn't as melodramatic."

  They looked at each other and broke into laughter at the same time. Rebecca said, "We're in a terrible state, aren't we?"

  He had never felt closer to her. Apparently shared worries were as powerful a bond as shared passion. He hoped devoutly that her work was accepted. He was resigned to the fact that his paintings would be rejected, but it would go harder with her. After all, she was Sir Anthony's daughter, not an unknown.

  "We need a change of subject, or we'll both have a fit of the vapors." He tried to think of an innocuous topic. "Let's talk about the Gray Ghost. He's in fine condition for a cat that you reckon must be ten or twelve years old."

  She gave a glimmer of a smile. "He should look good. He's only been awake for about two of those years."

  He chuckled. They managed to maintain a pretense of conversation as the line moved forward, but he doubted either of them would remember a word that was said. He did notice that about three out of four artists had their work rejected. He guessed that Rebecca was aware of that, too.

  An interminable wait later, only one man separated them from the porter. "Frederick Marshall," the artist said hoarsely.

  The porter rustled through the much-thumbed papers, his lips moving a little as he read the names. Then he peered over his half-glasses. "Marshall. Nay."

  Marshall slammed one fist into the opposite palm. "Damn the academy! What do those old fools know of real art?" Eyes blazing, he pivoted and stalked away.

  Rebecca's turn. Kenneth put his hands comfortingly on her shoulders. A tremor in her voice, she said, "R. A. Seaton."

  The porter gave her a disapproving glance, then bent to his papers again, his finger moving slowly down the page. "Seaton. The Corsair. Aye. Transfiguration. Aye."

  Rebecca seemed to light up like a candle under Kenneth's hands. She spun to him, her eyes shining. He wanted to kiss her, but settled for saying warmly, "Wonderful, and deserved."

  "Your turn," she said. In her eyes, he saw how much she wanted for him to succeed as well.

  He stepped forward. "Kimball."

  The porter seemed to be getting slower with every artist. He fumbled through the pages. "Kimball. Nay."

  Kenneth's heart froze. Though he had told himself he would be rejected, the reality still hurt. It hurt like hell. Rebecca's hand caught his and squeezed hard.

  Then the porter muttered, "Nay, that was Kimbrough. Let's see, you're Kimball?" He peered at Kenneth, who managed a nod.

  The porter looked at his list again. "Navarre, the Fifth of November, 1811. Aye. Spanish Pietá. Aye."

  With a rush of pure joy, Kenneth caught Rebecca up in his arms and whirled her around. She hugged him, laughing with equal delight.

  The man behind them pushed by impatiently and gave his name. Brought to his senses, Kenneth carefully set Rebecca down again. Their gazes caught and held with dangerous intensity.

  He should know better than to touch her when they were both in an emotional state. That was what had gotten them into trouble before. If they hadn't been surrounded by people, he couldn't have vouched for the consequences.

  He tucked her arm in his elbow and led her away. "We did it, Ginger. We did it!"

  She almost danced down the outside steps. "Even if our pictures are skyed up to the rafters, we'll always be able to say that we've exhibited at the Royal Academy!"

  He smiled at her exuberance. For today, at least, they shared the camaraderie of soldiers who had fought and won a battle, side by side.

  * * *

  Varnishing Day was chaos. Not only was the exhibition hall full of artists prepared to make last-minute changes to their work, but gawkers who had used influence to get in for an early look were underfoot. Rebecca instinctively pressed closer to Kenneth. He was such a comforting presence in a crowd.

  Eyes wide, he glanced around the gigantic room. "You told me that every wall was covered with paintings floor to ceiling, but the reality is still a shock. I feel overwhelmed."

  "So do I. I've attended exhibitions my whole life, but I've never had to look for my own work amid the confusion."

  "We had better do this methodically. Let's start at that corner and go around until we find our work."

  "All the while praying that we've been hung somewhere near the line." When he gave her a quizzical glance, she explained, "The line is that ledge that runs around the room. It's about eight feet high, so pictures hung near it are the easiest to see. The line is usually reserved for paintings by academicians, with whatever is left going to the best work by outsiders."

  She took his arm and they started arou
nd the room, dodging artists carrying ladders and supplies. Though Kenneth had brought a portmanteau filled with paints and brushes, they had both decided not to make any changes to their work unless they noticed some truly horrifying detail.

  "Look!" Rebecca halted, stopping Kenneth as well. "Father's Waterloo paintings. Don't they look magnificent?"

  The four great canvases hung side by side on the line, dominating a whole wall. An awed group of people had gathered to admire the works.

  "Sir Anthony has achieved his goal," Kenneth said quietly. "Generations from now, people will look at these pictures and know what it meant to be at Waterloo."

  She pointed at the line-of-battle picture. "There you are with your regiment, a little left of center."

  "Actually, I'm there." He indicated the scarred veteran guarding the regimental colors in the foreground. "Sir Anthony repainted the sergeant to look like me, just as he threatened."

  "You are going to be a London celebrity after this exhibition," she said with a wicked smile.

  He groaned. "My identity isn't obvious in your father's picture. As for the corsair—forgive me if I hope that it has been hung up by the ceiling."

  "Out of my hands," she said cheerfully. "It's a pity there are no women on the Hanging Committee. That would guarantee the picture a good spot."

  Laughing and teasing, they continued around the room. There was much to see and discuss. Too much. Rebecca knew from experience that it would be necessary to come back again and again to fully appreciate the works displayed.

  They had surveyed two walls and narrowly missed being hit by a palette dropped by a nervous young man on a ladder when Kenneth said in a voice of suppressed excitement, "Look. There."

  Their paintings had been hung side by side, and right above the line where they were readily visible. Kenneth's pair were on the right and Rebecca's on the left.

  "Thank heaven," she said fervently. "Your career is made, Kenneth. How much do you want to sell the paintings for?"

  He looked surprised. "I hadn't really thought beyond getting my work exhibited."

  "Well, it's time to start thinking. After all, the purpose of exhibition is to sell."

  "Have you set your prices?" he retorted.

  She glanced at the corsair and the falling woman. "These two paintings are not for sale. I wouldn't mind if I got some portrait commissions out of this, though."

  A fashionable couple stopped to look. The man exclaimed, "Look at those Spanish paintings. Such power! Such realism!"

  The elegant lady on his arm shuddered. "I think they are hideous. Art should be about beauty, not squalor." She gestured at Rebecca's paintings. "Now, these are beautiful. Look at the exaltation on the face of the girl as she sacrifices herself for her people. Most affecting." Her gaze went to the corsair. "The pirate is rather scandalous, but certainly striking." The tip of her tongue touched her lips. "I wonder who the model is."

  Rebecca muffled her laughter with one hand as she pulled Kenneth away. "That was a fair sample of what we will hear about our work. And you, my lord corsair, are going to awake the day after the exhibition opens to find yourself famous."

  He winced. "I'll have to leave London immediately."

  When she laughed again, he said sternly, "You're enjoying this entirely too much. I should have submitted Lilith. Then men would pursue you the way you claim women will pursue me."

  "Nonsense." She batted her lashes demurely. "No one would believe that such a sensual demoness had been modeled after a prim creature like me."

  "You vastly underrate your charms, Ginger." Kenneth's gaze shifted to something beyond her. Raising his voice above the babble around them, he said, "Good day, Frazier."

  Lord Frazier said genially, "Good day, Kimball, Rebecca. Anthony said you've both had work accepted."

  "Those four." Rebecca indicated their pictures. "We were fortunate to be hung in a good location."

  "No doubt Anthony used his influence." Frazier's gaze went to Transfiguration, and his expression became utterly still.

  After a long silence, his gaze passed over the other pictures, ending on Kenneth's pietá. "Interesting, though a bit modern for my taste, I'm afraid. A pity you haven't been properly trained, Kimball. If you intend to continue painting, you must apply yourself to historical subjects. One cannot claim to be a serious artist without knowledge of the antique, and of the Grand Manner so ably described by Reynolds."

  Rebecca was not surprised that he didn't comment on her paintings. Frazier was the sort who believed that female artists could never equal males.

  Kenneth said politely, "Did you submit a painting this year?"

  "Yes, but I haven't located it yet." Frazier scanned the crowded walls. "I chose to portray Leonidas at Thermopylae. I consider the Greek victory over the Persians to be one of the seminal moments of Western civilization."

  "I agree—a noble subject. I saw a picture that might be Leonidas over there. I doubt it's yours, though, because of where it's hung." Kenneth indicated a painting on the opposite wall, about halfway between the line and the ceiling. While not impossible to see, it was far from a choice spot.

  Frazier's gaze went to the picture, and his face went rigid. "That is my painting," he said tightly.

  The note in his voice alarmed Rebecca. The man looked ready to have an apoplexy. "Obviously it was hung in error," she said. "Remember several years ago they made a similar mistake with one of Father's paintings." Unobtrusively she nudged Kenneth's ankle with her toe.

  Understanding, he said, "Disgraceful that such mistakes are made with the work of an academician." He gestured toward the canvas. "An immensely complex composition, Frazier. It must have taken a very long time to paint."

  Frazier's expression eased a little. "I've been laboring on it for over two years. It's one of my finest works."

  "You must go and see that the picture gets hung properly," Rebecca said sympathetically.

  "Yes. I'll take care of that at once. The fools." With no other farewell, Frazier left.

  Under his breath, Kenneth said, "Was it an error?"

  Rebecca shrugged. "As an associate of the academy, he should have automatically been hung on the line. He's not well liked by his fellows, though. Too arrogant. Other artists only tolerate arrogance if it's coupled with genius. Perhaps someone on the Hanging Committee decided to even an old score with him."

  "Either that or the Hanging Committee made its judgment based on the work itself."

  Suppressing a smile, Rebecca said, "That's unkind. It's technically very competent."

  "But forgettable." Kenneth contemplated the dozens of naked, sword-wielding and shield-bearing figures. "And highly illogical. All of the soldiers I know prefer to wear clothing when fighting battles."

  "Hush," Rebecca said with a laugh. "It's in the classical mode, not modern realism."

  "Even two thousand years ago, soldiers would want to protect vulnerable body parts," he said firmly.

  Smiling, she took his arm so they could continue their tour of the exhibition. Only as they moved away did she realize that Lord Frazier had been waylaid by someone a few feet away from them. All she could see was his stiff back, but it was possible that he had overheard Kenneth's criticism.

  She hoped he had not. After all, being mediocre did not make an artist any less sensitive.

  Chapter 26

  The day of the Strathmore ball had arrived, and Kenneth and Rebecca were sharing a light meal in the drawing room to take them through until the late supper. As he took another piece of spice cake, he said, "I'm looking forward to the ball tonight. Now that the exhibit has opened and we are both certified successes, we're entitled to a night of frivolity."

  Rebecca smiled indulgently and divided the last of the tea between their cups. "I must admit that I'm looking forward to it, too."

  He studied her fondly as he sipped his tea, thinking that she looked as delectable as the cakes. Now that he wasn't working himself to exhaustion, his desire to bed her was rapidly ge
tting out of hand. He had better start work on his engraving series. That should absorb some of his unruly energy.

  His thoughts were interrupted when Sir Anthony came into the drawing room, resplendent in full evening dress.

  Rebecca glanced up. "Hello, Father. I thought you had left for dinner already."

  "George and Malcolm will be here to collect me in a moment, but I wanted to pass on some news," he replied. "Rebecca, today at the exhibition, two people asked if you did portrait work. Expect to hear from them. There have also been several outrageous offers to buy The Corsair, all from women. I assume it is not for sale?"

  "You assume correctly. Still... how outrageous?"

  "Five hundred guineas."

  She spilled her tea. "That's a fortune!"

  "That was the highest firm offer," he continued. "A certain elderly duchess said she would give a thousand guineas for it, but I believe she was jesting."

  Rebecca grinned at Kenneth. "You're famous, Captain."

  He stared gloomily into his cup. "Perhaps I'll grow a beard so no one will recognize me."

  "There was also considerable interest in your two paintings, Kenneth. I advise you not to accept less than three hundred guineas apiece. You should be able to get more."

  "You think they're worth that much?" Kenneth said, amazed.

  "A painting is worth what someone wants to pay. Don't undervalue yourself." As Sir Anthony opened the door to leave, he said with regret, "I assume I'll need a new secretary soon."

  Kenneth thought of his still unfinished investigation. "Yes. But not just yet."

  At that moment, Hampton and Frazier arrived. Since the drawing room door was open, they came to say hello.

  Hampton said, "You two young people have done brilliantly with your exhibition pieces. Rebecca, your pictures are superb." His gaze went to Kenneth. "I feel vastly pleased with myself for having contracted you to do the Peninsular series. Any chance that when the first prints are offered, I can borrow The Corsair to hang in my shop window? It would do wonders for sales."

  While Kenneth groaned and Sir Anthony laughed, Rebecca said firmly, "I think not, Uncle George."