(Lady) Eleanor
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Chapter 2
The British Museum, May 1901
“Caravaggiowasneveranartist to follow convention.” Doctor Eggleford’s low voice echoed through the small lecture hall as though he were entertaining a crowd in the theater in ancient Athens, gripping the podium as he gestured broadly. The room, a stark contrast to the museum’s grandiose Greco-Roman facade, was practically archaic with rows of student desks and a single half window opening into the alley behind the building.
The late May air was thick, and Egglesford paused his lecture to wipe sweat from his brow before replacing his spectacles on his nose. The heat had not dissuaded the intellectual set of thetonfrom coming to the esteemed scholar’s lecture, one accessible only to the museum’s significant donors. Despite the breeze blowing through the propped window, Henry’s eyelids drooped more with each passing moment.
He had no obligation to be in the museum. In fact, his lecture days were behind him since he and Oxford University had officially parted ways, without a diploma having passed into Henry’s hands. Listening to the exposition of a recent paper by the world’s foremost expert in the Italian Renaissance was by far the wildest thing he had ever done to get the attention of a woman.
Henry glanced around him; the dozen gentlemen gathered about the long, scarred table were in equal states of stupor, scratching pencils into the grooves marking the surface, examining their pocket watches, or openly napping. The lecture itself was not the lure for these men, but the drinking and discussion at White’s afterwards, the opportunity to feel academic and superior to their fellow man merely because of access.
Looking down at his paper, Henry squinted at the image on the page. He had attempted to capture the open window and courtyard beyond, the light reflecting and setting the stone edifice into brilliant speckled patterns. Of course, he had not written a single word the lecturer said, but that was to be expected.
Egglesford droned on. “His works often reflected the tumult of his surroundings, including his personal life.”
A lilting and slightly husky voice carried through the classroom. “You mean the murder.”
Henry’s lids popped open, and he turned toward the back of the stuffy room to see the woman, seated in a frail-looking wooden chair, a notebook propped smartly on her lap. In direct disregard of the heat, he wore a shawl around her proud shoulders, silver spectacles perched on the tip of her dainty nose.Here we go again, he thought with a wry smile.
Doctor Egglesford gave a tight-lipped nod. “Yes, Lady Ashby, but we should not bring up such… unpleasantness—”
“How can we discuss the motivations of the artist and the subject of his works if we do not acknowledge one of the crucible moments of his life?” Lady Ashbylifted her pen from the page and scratched her temple with her ungloved finger, leaving a smudge of blue ink in its wake. “He was a fugitive from justice, an outcast from society, and his subject reflects his tendency towards self-destruction.”
“There is no substantive historical record to support those stories,” Henry interjected, unable to keep silent. “He’s become somewhat of a folk hero, the romantic element of his character drawing in more praise than the work itself.”
Lady Ashby’s slate grey eyes narrowed. The auburn slashes of her brows rose as she replied. “Are you suggesting Caravaggio’s work lacks merit?”
“I am suggesting nothing of the sort.” Henry’s voice was smooth even as his pulse picked up pace. “The man was a talent, but a hothead, and many of the followers of his work, specifically of the female variety, are more interested in his deeds than his art.”
Her nostrils flared. Mirth bubbled in his chest, but he fought to keep it in check.Far more fun was seeing what she would say next.
“Are you now suggesting art historians ignore the background of the artist, the influences in his life, and examine the works independent of the knowledge?”
“Of course,” Henry replied, buffing his nails against his waistcoat. “The artist will not proclaim his life story alongside his artwork. We must view the art as a standalone piece. He created the work to be admired in such a manner.”
“Preposterous!” The flush in the lady’s cheeks had moved down to the laced collar of her grey crepegown.
“Lady Ashby, if you please—” Egglesford attempted to interrupt, but Henry and the noblewoman paid him no mind.The other gentlemen shifted in their seats, some murmuring their disapproval, while others appeared to be placing bets.
Henry graced her with a condescending smile. “An artist’s work must be appreciated exactly as it is, with no comment on the artist’s life—”
“So you ignore the homoerotic references inRest on the Flight to Egypt?”
“Lady Ashby!” howled Doctor Egglesford. An elderly man near the middle of the room broke into a fit of uncomfortable coughing while his neighbor pounded on his back.
“I do,” Henry said, lounging even further in his chair and picking a piece of imaginary lint from his sleeve as a snicker rose in his throat.“In fact, I’m much more interested in theBoy Bitten by a Lizardand its accurate portrayal of the snapping pain of venereal disease.”
“Lord Morley, I say—”
Lady Ashby’s cutting reply drowned out Egglesford’s voice. “Speaking from personal experience, I suppose?” A nervous chuckle rumbled in the room, although Henry’s focus never left Lady Ashby.
Henry smirked. “I wonder, does your fondness for Caravaggio’s work have anything to do with the lovely portrait he painted of you?”
Lady Ashby tilted her head, the pile of flame-red curls shifting.“To what are you referring, my lord?”
