“Aristocracy!” Cara exclaimed.
Lady Lindsay pulled up short. “He didn’t tell you? No, I don’t suppose he would. He’s too enamored with the idea of being a bohemian painter. His brother is the Earl of Morestowe.”
Cara stared at her, dazed.
“You mustn’t go after him expecting piles of money,” Lady Lindsay warned. “His brother controls the purse strings, and very tightly, too. My husband and I hoped Lord Morestowe might become a patron of our gallery, but he has shown no inclination to do so. In fact, I don’t think he cares about art at all.”
“That’s too bad,” Cara agreed. “He must not have much imagination.”
Lady Lindsay shrugged but didn’t answer. She led Cara down a hallway and pointed her toward the ladies’ retiring room. “Good-bye, then. I look forward to seeing you in the fall.”
When Cara had finished, she made her way once more up the wide staircase, still thinking over the startling information Lady Lindsay had given her about Langham. The brother of an earl! It seemed too fantastic to believe.
She found Langham in the main gallery. He immediately led her to a painting midway along one wall. “This is the one I was telling you about.”
Cara saw right away why he thought she had been the model for it. The focal point of the painting was a young woman kneeling on the floor. There was a resemblance, although the model’s eyes were brown, not blue like Cara’s. The girl in the painting also had reddish tones in her hair that Cara did not have. But the roundness of the face, her large eyes, small mouth, and soulful expression—these were all things Cara had seen in her mirror countless times. The girl knelt next to an open violin case. A small white cloth and a square of rosin lay where they had fallen onto the floor. Cara recognized the rosin because her brother-in-law Nate owned a fiddle.
“What do you think?” Langham said. “Now that I see the two of you together, the likeness is perhaps not so great. And yet there is something in the expression . . .”
Cara didn’t hear the rest. Her attention had focused on an older man in the background of the painting. He was seated at a window, playing the fiddle. The girl’s father, perhaps? A brass plate proclaimed the painting was titled Memories. What story was being conveyed? Was the father dead? Was he living only in the girl’s memories? Cara’s eyes misted at the thought. She had no real memories of her father, only a tintype photograph taken in the prime of his life. What would he look like now? Most importantly, where was he? Cara refused to believe he was dead, but she could not account for his staying away from his family all these years.
“Are you all right?” Langham drew near her.
She nodded, although she couldn’t help giving a little sigh. “It’s just that the painting reminds me of my father.”
“Is your father still living?”
“Yes!” The answer blurted from her lips immediately. Her shoulders sagged. “In truth, I don’t know.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s a rather long story.”
“You needn’t tell me if you don’t want to. I’m sorry I showed the painting to you if it makes you sad.”
She wiped back a tear. “I’m moved, that’s all. Isn’t that what great art is supposed to do?”
Langham gave an appreciative nod. “Come and have a look at these by Frederic Leighton. If you aren’t transported with delight, I will eat my hat.”
Cara smiled as his quip lightened her mood.
They made their way through the gallery. Many paintings were inspired by Greek myths or old legends. Cara studied each work in detail: the drape of the gowns, the flow of a woman’s hair, the emotion on the faces. They were beautiful and powerful and captivating. Langham discussed the merits of each one, as well as what he considered its shortcomings. To Cara, they were all perfect.
Throughout this time, she sensed that Langham’s mind was partly on something else. There were other visitors, though the crowd was sparse, and he kept turning to look whenever someone new came into the main gallery. At one point he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time.
Cara sighed. There were too many paintings to view all in one day. “I could live here, I think.”
“So could I, if they didn’t charge a king’s ransom for a cup of tea.” He grinned as he snapped his watch shut, but Cara saw he was not merely smiling at his own joke. He’d caught sight of two young ladies just entering the main gallery.
They easily stood out from the other patrons. Their gowns were brightly colored silk so loosely gathered at the bodice that Cara suspected they weren’t wearing corsets. Neither was there evidence of crinolines or bustles, for the gowns fell in a smooth line down to their feet. Instead of hats, they wore garlands and scarves in their hair, which wasn’t even pinned up but worn loose around their shoulders. The effect was odd, yet Cara thought them beautiful.
Seeing Langham, they rushed forward, calling his name. He met them halfway, giving them each a kiss on both cheeks. “I thought you might not be able to come.”
“It required some subterfuge,” admitted the taller of the two women. “Papa thinks we are shopping for parasols.”
The other woman was still holding Langham’s hands. “I missed you at the Grosvenor’s open house on Sunday afternoon. Where were you?”
“I’m afraid I was . . . indisposed.”
She frowned. “I’m concerned about these recurring illnesses. Has the doctor not identified the issue?”
“I’m afraid not.” A shadow passed over his face that seemed out of character with everything Cara had seen of him so far. She couldn’t imagine what kind of illness could be troubling him. Langham tweaked his mustache. “Nevertheless, I soldier on. I am so glad you made it here today.”
When the woman caught sight of Cara, her expression changed to surprise—and, Cara thought, consternation.
“Let me introduce you all,” Langham said. “Miss Cara Bernay, these are the Misses Kinnard—Mariana and Louise.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Mariana, the taller one, said, taking Cara’s hands and speaking in deep, resonant tones. Cara thought she sounded like an actress in a play.
“Your gowns are beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like them—except in these paintings.” Cara indicated the artwork all around them.
“It’s the clothing of the Aesthetics. We purchased these from Monsieur Liberty’s shop on Regent Street. Do you also wish to cast off the yoke of ordinariness and the social strictures that have smothered appreciation of all that is truly beautiful and good?”
Cara blinked, not understanding the question.
“Cara is an artist,” Langham informed the sisters.
“I don’t recall meeting you before,” Louise said. She eyed Cara with suspicion.
“I just met her today myself,” Langham said. “How about we go for tea, and everyone can get better acquainted?”
“We haven’t time. Papa insists we be home early today.”
“This is our last day in London,” Mariana explained to Cara. “The pater is taking us to the country tomorrow. He’s arranged for us all to stay in some drafty old mansion in Gloucestershire.”
“He’s still trying to get you engaged to that rich industrialist from Birmingham?” Langham asked.
Mariana heaved a dramatic sigh. “He’s trying. Not that I mind so much, for Mr. Everson is rich. It’s just that in the meantime, we shall be forced to act proper—wear corsets and attend garden parties and play croquet and talk about the weather.”
“I feel sure you’ll be able to stand strong against such banalities,” Langham assured them, although to Cara it sounded like an idyllic summer—except for the corsets. No one enjoyed wearing them, but Cara had never even considered doing otherwise.
“Be sure to take a copy of Swinburne’s poems,” Langham continued. “Perhaps you can win them over to deep contemplations of art and beauty.”
Louise drew closer to Langham, fanning her long lashes at him. “I do wish you could be there.”
“I would r
uin that party, I’m afraid, when your father pitched me out of it like a cricket ball.” Despite his joking tone, he looked down at Louise with an expression that Cara interpreted as tender regard.
Mariana took Cara’s arm in a friendly gesture. “Have you seen that painting by Albert Moore? It’s fascinating.”
Cara allowed Mariana to lead her away, ostensibly to view the painting located at the opposite end of the gallery. She understood this was really to allow Louise and Langham some private time together.
“They are fond of one another,” Cara said.
“They are, although our father forbids her to see him, so we have to resort to these secret meetings whenever we can. Once I am married to Mr. Everson, I shall have money and freedom to do as I like, and perhaps I can help those two get together.”
“I really did just meet Langham today,” Cara said, worried Louise might perceive her as a romantic rival. “I don’t . . . that is, I wouldn’t . . .”
“I believe you. My sister has a jealous streak, that’s all. But I don’t think Langham would be swayed. He fell hard the first moment he saw her. Heaven knows why.”
“Why doesn’t your father like him? I would think that being a member of the aristocracy would be a strong selling point.”
“Yes, well . . .” Mariana looked at Cara as though trying to judge how much to say. “Langham is still trying to make something of himself in his own right, I think.”
“Do you mean his goal of being a painter?”
“Yes, that’s it.” But something in her expression made Cara think more was being left unsaid.
They spent several minutes discussing the Albert Moore painting before Mariana turned to look at the couple, who were now seated on the viewing couches at the center of the gallery. “I hate to break them up, but we really must be going.”
Langham insisted on escorting the sisters to their waiting carriage. The four of them walked downstairs and out into the hot sunshine.
Just before handing Louise into the carriage, Langham said, “Remember our little code: ‘Everyone here sends kind regards.’ When you read that in Georgiana’s letters, you’ll know it’s from me.”
She beamed at him. “I’ll remember.”
“They are very nice,” Cara said after the sisters had gone. She didn’t know what else to say, lest it sound like prying.
“Louise thinks she’ll marry me one day.”
His directness took her by surprise. “Don’t you want to?”
“There are other problems to sort out first.”
Cara thought of Mr. Kinnard’s objection to the match. She was about to mention it, but before she could, Langham said, “It’s nearly time for tea. Why don’t you come to the studio with me? I’ll introduce you to Adrian and Georgiana, the two artists I live with. I know they’d love to meet you. Georgiana sold a painting this week, and she always lays out an excellent spread when we’re in the money.”
“Is it far from here?”
“It’s in Holland Park, a few miles west. It’s a pleasant walk if you go through Hyde Park, although today we should probably opt for a cab.”
“But isn’t the Opera Comique to the south?” Despite how she felt about her sisters right now, Cara needed to ask the Morans for help.
“I’ve been thinking about that. There may be someplace else you can stay. I’ve got an idea up my sleeve.”
“An idea up your sleeve?” Cara repeated in amusement.
He grinned. “I’ll explain after we get there.”
After spending the afternoon with him and knowing he came from one of England’s best families, Cara was willing to trust him. And why shouldn’t she follow her own path, even if it veered from what others thought was normal? From now on, she was going to make her own decisions and live life her own way.
CHAPTER
7
THEY WALKED to a nearby cabstand. While they were still perhaps twenty yards off, Langham paused to get a look at the cabbie before stepping closer. This must have been one Langham didn’t know, because he nodded to himself and led Cara to the cab.
Once they were underway, she said, “Why don’t you like your brother?”
“I already explained why.”
“But maybe he has his reasons for being so dictatorial?” she ventured.
Langham frowned. “Lady Lindsay told you about him, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” Cara admitted.
“I should have known. Although Lady Lindsay comes from a wealthy family, she had no title until she married a baronet. Now she is obsessed with the social hierarchy. Still, I wish she hadn’t said anything.”
“Don’t you like being a member of a titled family? Forgive me for sounding so inquisitive. I can’t imagine enjoying such a privileged status and not wanting to talk about it.”
“Privileged,” Langham said with disdain. “You don’t understand how terribly stifling it is. It’s always ‘do this’ and ‘don’t do that’ and ‘you must absolutely behave in such-and-such a way’ at this event or that. There’s never any freedom to do what you really want.”
“I suppose I never thought about it that way.” Despite her words, Cara still found it difficult to understand. After all, she’d been raised in an orphanage with two thousand other children. They’d had no money or privilege, and yet they’d had just as many rules governing their actions. “I suppose your brother—that is to say, his lordship—does very important things. In the government, I mean. The House of Lords, and all that.”
“Do not refer to my brother as his lordship or other such nonsense. Not in my presence, at any rate. Henry is good enough. I prefer Harry, but for some reason he bristles when I call him that.” Langham shrugged. “Harry’s a straightforward, principled man who always does the right thing.” He gave a snort. “Therefore, he’s a terrible bore.”
The cab was moving through Hyde Park. They passed many open carriages, as the day was fine. Most of the superbly dressed ladies and gentlemen appeared to be enjoying themselves, but a few wore expressions of mild ennui, as though such rides were so commonplace as to be dull. That was a shame. Cara would have been happy to trade places with any of them. She leaned back and sighed, giving herself over to the pleasure of daydreaming that one day she might join them.
Meanwhile, Langham had sunk into his thoughts, a frown drawing his brows together as he toyed with his cane.
“I suppose you have a large estate somewhere?” Cara asked. She imagined a vast tract of land and an ancient, imposing mansion. Something like what the Needenhams had, only even grander.
At the mention of the estate, Langham gave a little smile. “It’s in Essex. A lovely place. It can be restful, and perfect for painting. Except for . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Except?” she prompted.
He inhaled deeply and straightened, waving away her question. “Look, we are entering Holland Park. It’s a charming neighborhood. A lot of artists live here. I’ll point out a few of their homes.”
The names he rattled off as they passed stately homes surprised and impressed her. She had no idea so many painters lived in the same area of London.
When the cab finally stopped, they were in front of a town home that looked more modest than the others they’d passed, and yet to Cara’s eyes it was still very nice.
“That’ll be one and six, sir,” the driver said once Langham and Cara had gotten down from the cab.
“Right, my good man,” Langham replied. “Wait here. My money’s inside.”
The cabbie’s manner switched from polite to brusque. “Make it snappy, if you please. I ain’t got all day.”
Langham led Cara up the steps to the house. Opening the door, he ushered her inside. “Georgiana! I’ve brought company!” he called out.
A woman came from an adjoining room. She wore a paint-splattered smock, but she was carrying a teapot. “Adrian and I were just wondering when you would show up.” She offered a friendly, curious smile to Cara. “Welcome, Miss, er—?”
> “Lend me two shillings for the cab, will you, dear?” said Langham.
The woman grimaced in irritation. “Hang on.” She left them briefly. When she returned, she held coins instead of the teapot. “Here’s one and eight,” she said, dropping the money into Langham’s hand. “You always tip too much.”
“Georgiana, you are going to ruin my reputation for generosity among the fine cabmen of our city.”
She pushed him toward the door. “Just pay the man so he can get to his next fare.”
Langham went out the door and bounded down the steps.
“How do you do?” the woman said, extending a hand toward Cara. “I’m Georgiana Marshall.”
“Cara Bernay.”
“Come in to the studio.” As she led Cara down the hall, she called out, “Adrian! Langham has brought someone for tea.”
When they entered the next room, Cara’s mouth fell open with delight. This was a room wholly dedicated to art. Everything suggested light and openness. The late-afternoon sun poured through a massive window along the wall to her left. At the far end of the room were two more large windows, set up high to allow more light throughout the day. There was even an overhead gaslight.
Canvases on a half dozen easels were positioned to catch the light from the windows. Tables were cluttered with every kind of art supply, including pencils, sketch pads, paint tubes, brushes, and palettes. She knew the large bottles on one table held solvent, for she smelled their astringent odor right away. Many people didn’t like that smell, but to Cara it spoke of creation and endless possibilities.
Seated at an easel near the main window was a heavyset man with a bushy beard. He stopped painting as they came in, looking up to see the newcomer. Cara expected some word of welcome, but his eyebrows rose and he stared at her. Perhaps he was displeased at being interrupted. Remembering how often she’d had to set aside her painting just as she was getting to the heart of it because she’d been called to some mundane task, Cara sympathized. But as the man continued to look at her, she realized he didn’t look angry but supremely interested. She began to feel her cheeks tinge under his scrutiny.
The Artful Match Page 7