“Lady Augusta Maria Grey. My four times removed great-grandmother. She was French, which was why she insisted her portrait be painted by Ingres.” She felt his gaze, and it warmed her skin. “A closeted Catholic. That’s why the collection was kept under wraps for so long; the Catholic pieces in the collection were considered religious icons. She brought most of them with her when she married into the family.” He pointed to another portrait of a portly man with a large nose. “Her husband was so infatuated with her that he hired a priest to secretly live here so she could celebrate Mass.”
“Amazing. I don’t even have Polaroids of my grandparents, let alone portraits and stories about my family going back generations.”
He turned his eyes from Alice to the portrait, gazing at the picture as though seeing it for the first time. “Perhaps you can come back another time, and I’ll tell you about all of them.” He swept his hand in front of the paintings.
“I would love that,” Alice said, downplaying her excitement. She glanced at Geoffrey whose face broke into a smile and whose eyes seemed to hold a lot more interest in her than they had looking at the pictures he’d probably seen a million times.
“I would too. Right now, we had better catch up with my mother.” He placed his hand lightly on her back and led her toward a room down the hall.
Geoffrey’s touch was nothing more than platonic, and yet an unfamiliar fluttering traveled across her skin where his hand had been. And that was before they stepped through the open heavy, wooden doors into a room with vaulted ceilings and stained- glass windows. Her eyes skipped over the architectural details of the chapel, moving straight to the art hanging on its walls. The fluttering she’d felt seconds before turned into full-body tingling, and Geoffrey’s hand was nowhere near her.
Medieval art. That was her true love, and she doubted anything could ever replace it.
“I think you’ll find this piece most interesting.” Lady Chatsworth led her to a corner with a pedestal and a glass-encased box.
Alice suspected what it might be. The Hildegard page. She approached the box slowly, afraid to be disappointed.
She didn’t need to be afraid. Geoffrey turned on a soft light, illuminating the manuscript page, secure under glass, that she’d hoped to see.
“The Hildegard page. It exists,” she whispered. The piece had been documented, but no pictures had ever been taken of it.
“We’ve never been able to verify it was actually illustrated by Hildegard, but it certainly looks like her work,” Lady Chatsworth said over Alice’s shoulder.
“It definitely has some of the same colors and lines that she used.”
So few women artists of the Middle Ages were known that Alice couldn’t help but be fascinated by one of the few who was. Alice could have studied the page all day, but Lady Chatsworth moved on, and so she followed. There were other works to see, and who knew if she’d ever have another opportunity to see them? She felt like the interview was going well but had no idea who her competition was.
Alice followed Lady Chatsworth and Geoffrey around the chapel looking at every piece of art with almost the same level of amazement as she’d felt with the first. Each piece was an object of religious devotion, either with Mary and the Christ child or Christ on the cross. Alice wasn’t particularly religious but looking at gold-leafed paintings gave her faith that a higher power existed.
“This collection is even more incredible than I’d imagined,” she said once she felt she could speak. “I’m so glad you’re making it public.”
“I’ve been trying to convince Mum for years that we should,” Geoffrey said. “I used to sit in here for hours as a child, before I left for school. It was always so peaceful.”
“Yes, well, the time had to be right.” Lady Chatsworth’s words trailed off before she added abruptly, “Perhaps we should see this presentation you’ve prepared.”
Alice froze, wondering if she’d offended the woman. Lady Chatsworth’s smile didn’t seem offended, but Alice hoped she’d have more than fifteen minutes to look at the collection. “Of course,” she forced herself to say before taking a deep breath and one last look at the room and its treasures.
Geoffrey escorted her to the library where a screen was set up with all the equipment she’d need for her PowerPoint. Alice took out her laptop and pulled up the presentation she’d taken weeks to prepare and practice. As well as everything seemed to be going, she shouldn’t have been as nervous as she was. She felt lightheaded and slightly queasy, especially when she looked at Lady Chatsworth, her face inscrutable, waiting for Alice to start. But Alice’s mind had gone blank. The words on her notecards bounced, the letters exchanging places with each other before she could read them, just like they’d done when she was a child.
Geoffrey cleared his throat, and she looked at him expecting to see the same composed face as his mother. He nodded, then winked, and that’s all it took. The letters on her notecards quit dancing and the words she’d rehearsed so many times returned.
“Grey’s Collection of medieval art is rumored to be one of the finest private collections in the world. After having seen it, I have to say that the rumors are true. Your pieces are one of a kind, yet still representative of the religious art typical of the Middle Ages.”
Alice clicked to her first slide and glanced at Geoffrey who leaned back in his chair with his hand cupping his chin. His smile reassured her again as she continued her presentation. She explained the necessity of keeping the art safe while also making it available for all to see and her ideas about how to do so. In Alice’s experience, art that had been passed down for generations often lost its meaning for the owners. Many knew very little about the art they owned, other than its value for insurance purposes.
Then she got to the really important part.
“You’ve requested that the art be shown with contemporary pieces, and while I think the collection would be better viewed on its own, I believe I’ve found an artist whose work will complement the religiosity of your collection.”
She clicked to the next slide and looked to Geoffrey for his reaction, sure he would love her idea. Instead, as soon as the slide appeared, Geoffrey’s smile disappeared. It was replaced with a look that was a mix of anger and shock.
“No.” He sat up straight in his chair, looking ready to pounce.
“No?” his mother and Alice questioned together, though she seemed less surprised than Alice.
Alice looked back at the slide to make sure she’d shown the right one. It was a piece by an artist who went by G. No one knew who he or she was, and they either loved G’s art or hated it, but it would blend seamlessly with the Grey’s collection because of its similar themes.
“I . . .” Alice stumbled over what to say next. “It’s a unicorn.” She pointed to the picture of an abstract sculpture made from discarded objects that seemed to have no shape except for a horn and eyes that evoked a depth of emotion that was rare in sculpture. “It has the religious feeling of your pieces without being religious. Unicorns were sometimes used in medieval art as a symbol of Christ or chastity.”
“I know.” Geoffrey raked a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, but it’s not the right piece. You’ll have to find something else.”
Lady Chatsworth turned toward her son, her eyes soft. “Are you sure?” She placed a hand over the one he had gripped around the arm of his chair.
He nodded and let his eyes meet Alice’s. “Critics hated G’s show. That piece especially. You’ll have to find a different artist if you want the job.”
Alice almost responded that some critics hated the show, not all, but then she realized he’d just offered her the job . . . probably.
“So . . . are you hiring me?”
His mouth twitched into a smile. “If you want it, and if you’re willing to trust me on this G thing.”
Of course, she wanted the job, but G was the perfect artist for the mix of contemporary and medieval they wanted. There was no one better suited for thei
r museum. She’d been sure of it before she saw their collection, and she was even more sure of it now.
But she was also sure she wanted to curate their collection, with or without the G pieces. She closed her PowerPoint and pulled back her shoulders. “I do want the job, and I can find something else.”
“Good,” Geoffrey said firmly. “You’re hired.”
Geoffrey’s eyes darted to his mother who looked as surprised as Alice felt.
“A-a-are you sure?” Alice glanced at Lady Chatsworth, sensing the woman had more to say about who got hired than Geoffrey had let on. And judging by the way her whole body had stiffened when Geoffrey had said “you’re hired,” she wasn’t happy about being cut out of the process.
Silent seconds passed, but just as Alice was sure Lady Chatsworth was going to overrule her son, she stood and smiled regally. “Of course we’re sure.” She clasped her hands in front of her, and despite her ramrod-straight posture, Lady Chatsworth looked smaller to Alice than she had a few hours before.
“That’s wonderful.” Alice swelled with excitement she couldn’t contain, spilling over like over-proofed bread dough. “Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me.” Tears pricked at her eyes, and she stopped talking.
Geoffrey stood and pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Alice. Who did that? Where she came from, no one carried handkerchiefs. No one wore suit jackets, for that matter. She pressed the floral-patterned square to her eyes and covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from saying, “My cup runneth over,” like her grandma used to say.
The look of shock on Lady Chatsworth’s face brought Alice back to her senses. She shook her head, took a deep breath, and straightened. “I apologize.” She let out the breath she’d taken. “I’m not usually so emotional. I suppose it’s the jetlag.” That, plus one of her biggest dreams coming true.
“That’s quite all right.” Lady Chatsworth still had her hands clasped and hadn’t moved.
“The fact you’re emotional only proves you’re the right person for the job.” Geoffrey took back the handkerchief she handed to him, and his fingers brushed hers.
The goosebumps that rose as they touched had nothing to do with the job he’d given her and everything to do with the look in his eyes. It was the same expression she’d seen when he’d gazed at his favorite painting in the chapel.
But that was impossible. She was no work of art. She was a hard-scrabble girl who’d scraped her way off a run-down farm and now stood in an English estate bigger than any house she’d ever been in.
“I should go then. I’ve got a bit of a drive back to London, and I’d like to start researching other possible artists.” Alice packed up her laptop.
“You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and already learned to drive on the wrong side of the road?” Geoff sounded impressed.
“I did.” Alice grinned but didn’t offer up any more information. She’d been driving since before she could see over the steering wheel in a tractor. If she could back up a tractor-trailer and operate a John Deere, there was no reason she couldn’t drive on the opposite side of the road.
She dropped her laptop in her bag and held out her hand to Lady Chatsworth, then Geoff. “I’m looking forward to spending more time with you both.”
They walked her to the entrance portico where Lady Chatsworth waved goodbye from the top of the stairs. Geoff ran down them to open the car door for Alice, waiting to say goodbye until she was safely seated behind the wheel. Alice drove away with a smile on her face, but also two thoughts niggling her brain.
She’d gotten what she wanted, but how would she leave her mom and brother alone on the other side of the world? And how would she ever find someone as perfect as G for the museum?
Chapter Five
Geoffrey’s walk back to the front door after waving goodbye may have been the longest of his life. He had so wanted to tell her thank you for appreciating his sculpture. After having the piece he’d put so much of his heart into ridiculed by critics and fellow artists, Alice’s words had been balm to his soul. He wanted to tell her the real reason they couldn’t use G’s work, but of course he couldn’t. He trusted her—probably more than he should have after knowing her less than twenty-four hours—but for his family’s sake, he couldn’t reveal that he was G.
He’d told her he would be in touch the following day, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to wait that long. There was so much he liked about Alice beyond her love for his art. Even before she’d arrived, he’d been impressed she was willing to brave the English roads when he’d offered to have a driver pick her up for the interview. She’d insisted she preferred to drive herself. She was no shrinking violet, that one.
Geoffrey shut the door and shoved his hands in his pockets, walking slowly toward the drawing room where he knew his mother would be waiting for him. A familiar feeling of loneliness overtook him as his steps echoed off the circular walls of the portico. He much preferred his flat in Notting Hill, but of course they’d had to meet where the art would eventually be shown. But he would have liked a more intimate setting with Alice. Something about the woman made him want to learn all of her secrets and tell her all of his.
All but one, that is.
That one he had to keep to himself and his family.
“That went well,” his mother said as he entered the drawing room. She was already seated at a desk tucked in the corner, shuffling through papers. “Though I was surprised you decided on her so quickly and without consulting with me. I support your choice either way, but I would have liked to state my opinion first.”
“I apologize, Mum. I suppose I already had it in my head that she was the one, even before she came for the interview.” Geoffrey flopped onto the couch, already restless with his visit home and anxious to get back to his studio. Despite the negative reviews of his exhibit, his hands itched to mold, carve, and create again. He needed to get back to it.
“It’s all right, dear. I knew she’d be perfect when we had to drag her away from the manuscript page. And you made the right choice rejecting her suggestion that your sculpture be shown, though I’m sure that was difficult,” Lady Chatsworth said nonchalantly, keeping her attention on the papers in front of her.
“Not difficult at all, Mum. It wouldn’t help my art or my reputation if people discovered I’m not only G, but that I’m also using my family’s famed art collection to showcase my own. Our decision to juxtapose medieval art with contemporary art would look like it had been made to promote me rather than the idea that art is timeless and tells the story of human evolution. I’d be even more of a laughingstock.”
“I’d hardly say you’re a laughingstock. Your art is very good.” She held up the card she’d been writing and examined it.
“Thanks, Mum,” Geoffrey muttered. Perhaps he should have been more enthusiastic at her comment. It was one of her more effusive compliments.
“I’m sure Alice will be able to find something that will work just as well.” Lady Chatsworth waved the card to dry the ink. She was very particular about handwriting all of her thank yous, even before she’d had to let her assistant go. Expressing gratitude was not a job she would outsource.
“She’ll have to. She obviously can’t use Re-Collecting or any of my other sculptures,” Geoffrey responded with an air of regret.
Alice was right. His art would blend perfectly with the collection. After all, it was the collection that had partially inspired his work. How could the artwork not inspire him when he’d spent so many years studying it? And Alice had seen the connection even before seeing the pieces themselves. He was still stunned that she’d spotted the medieval influences in his very contemporary work.
“Clarissa will be coming for dinner tonight.” Lady Chatsworth stuck her card in its envelope and sealed it shut with the same wax stamp her mother and grandmothers had used before her.
“Clarissa? I thought we were having a family dinner.” Geoffrey r
an his hand over his face. The presence of the woman he’d been trying to break up with for years would certainly make dinner even more uncomfortable.
“If she’s going to be family, I thought it only right that we should invite her. I know she’s anxious to see you after six months.”
The last of her words was a pointed remark meant to prick him with guilt for having told everyone, Clarissa included, they weren’t to visit while he was in Los Angeles. His six-month sabbatical was a chance for him to be completely focused on his art. It was supposed to be his opportunity to make it in the art world.
“There’s no guarantee she’s going to be part of the family. I haven’t proposed, and she hasn’t accepted.” He took a deep breath, fighting back the urge to tell his mother he no longer loved Clarissa Barclay. A very unfortunate circumstance, considering that her family’s bank held the mortgage on Binchley Hall and had been very generous in not foreclosing on them.
“You make a wonderful match, Geoffrey. You’re perfectly suited.”
“I don’t know if I love her,” he blurted, unable to hold back any longer. “That seems like a pretty good reason not to marry her.”
His mother set down her pen and slowly turned to him. “Being equally matched and having affection for one another is more important than being in love.”
“How did that work out for you and Dad?”
Lady Chatsworth went still before lasering in on Geoffrey. “Love is a fairy tale.”
A heavy silence fell between them. He knew she didn’t believe that. Circumstances of the last few years made her say it. But even though she blinked, she didn’t back down other than to soften her tone when she next spoke.
“I know you don’t care for this house or the grounds that surround it, but you do care for the art that is housed here.” She walked to him, placing a tender hand on his head, combing his hair with her fingers. “Clarissa cares for you, and she’s inherited enough money that, were you to marry her, you wouldn’t lose what you truly do love.”
Gambling on a Gentleman: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love) Page 4