“But the solution is obvious,” she’d said. “You have no need to fly back to Northumberland. You can stay here with me.”
“Stay? But I do not want to stay in London.” Or rather, she didn’t want to face Jack. Or his sisters. Or anyone else who might know what Nora had accused her of.
“Of course you want to stay! You’re here for the art, are you not? You told me all about it last night while we drank our lemonade.Iremember the conversation, even if you don’t. The novelty of conversing intelligently at Almack’s will stay with me for as long as I live. And you’ve spoilt me now, Miss Fanshaw. How will I survive discussing Lady Dynsford’s antique lace when I know I could be discussing the competing merits of Neoclassicism and Romanticism! Youmuststay. You’ll improve my mind, or certainly theappearanceof it, which is all that matters in polite society.”
“You…you are too kind,” Lucy had stammered, unable to tell if the lady was joking.
“Kind? Not at all. All the benefit is to me. Didn’t I tell you last night that London is bored? It’s both bored and boring, and you could be the perfect cure. A little project for me. A social experiment of sorts, if my suspicions are correct. And more than that, my very own protégé! I’ll never have children, but I confess to having the very motherly urge to manage everyone and make them do exactly as I like. I could dress you, and style you… But no…” She’d paused, tilting her head and giving Lucy a studying look. “Perhaps you’re perfect exactly as you are. Not in brown like last night, never brown—”
“It was the shade of umber,” Lucy had mumbled, her curiosity about what Miss Sedgewick meant bysocial experimentburied under the rest of the lady’s speech.
“I beg your pardon?”
“In the modiste’s, when she showed me the fabric samples, I picked it because it was the exact shade of umber I was wanting to find for my current painting. That sort of dusky, earthy, chestnut—no, not chestnut, not reddish tones, but a sort of rich…erm…dark.”
“I’m sure it’s the perfect colour for whatever you’re painting, a ploughed field, perhaps. But you are not a plant, Miss Fanshaw, and it is not the right substrate. This pale pink”—her eyes ran over Lucy’s day dress—“with the little coral sprigs. It’s much better. But I would like to see you in cream. Your dark curls against palest cream! You’re an artist, Miss Fanshaw, surely you can imagine the effect.”
“Oh… I… I hardly ever think about what I look like.”
“No, I see! I really dosee—and that will have to be my job. Mine and… Well, I believe I know an ally for that task.” She’d smiled significantly, though all the significance was for herself because Lucy was entirely lost. “Theseeingof Miss Lucy Fanshaw. An excellent project.”
Then Miss Sedgewick had laughed and said, seemingly entirely unconnected,“The problem with Jack is, for all his undoubtedly fine attributes, he is not very clever.”
So. Miss Sedgewick called him Jack. And she’d heard the hastily correctedCarolinelast night. She’d seen the way Jack looked at her.
Heat prickled her palms, uncomfortable and annoying under the thick liniment. If he was engaged to Miss Sedgewick then Nora wouldn’t have made her ridiculous claims. If he wasn’t engaged…he oughtn’t be calling her Caroline.
“I’m glad the ointment works,” Miss Sedgewick said. “Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to one of my good artist friends, Mr Thornton.”
Lucy forgot Jack for a moment. “Mr Thornton the portrait painter? I… I have heard of him.”
“Yes! He’s as marvellous a man as he is an artist, and a great friend to art and all who love it. You’ll like him, Miss Fanshaw, and he’ll surely know an alternative to turpentine that will not injure your hands. They say we must suffer for our art, but notneedlesslyone hopes.”
“Thank you. Again, you are kinder than I deserve. But I really mustn’t trespass on your kindness. If you could direct me to where I might find—”
“You’ve had a fright, Miss Fanshaw. A horrible morning after a horrible evening, and you’re not thinking clearly. You cannot let this trifling misunderstanding run you out of town. You know you don’t want to return to your aunt’s, and I’ll not let you, for I can well imagine the dreary life you must have lived up there. It’s similar to what mine surely would have been if I’d stayed respectably at home in Derbyshire. But I refuse to do it. I force myself into society, however much society doesn’t like us determinedly unmarried women. Must Ikidnapyou, Miss Fanshaw? How else can I persuade you to stay?”
“I hate to impose…”
“Yes. I can see that. You hate it so much you barelyspeak. But I strongly suspect that when you do so, it’s to say something worth saying, as it was last night at Almack’s. Make that the case now, Miss Fanshaw. Say something sensible instead of this nervous politeness. Do you really want to leave London?”
What could she say to such a speech?
“N-no,” admitted Lucy. “Or not yet. Not before I’ve had a chance to…” She trailed off, hot and stupid.
“To what?” Miss Sedgewick prompted.
“To…to be among artists. To talk with them and learn…learn what I need to know to complete the painting I’m working on. I can see it so clearly in my mind. But without access to…to certain, um, resources, it is impossible. But I would—” She blushed, but Miss Sedgewick’s tilted head made her continue. “Iwould submit it to the Academy. When it’s done. I know I’m no member, nor ever will be—”
“Being a woman,” Miss Sedgewick said with an understanding smile.
“Yes, and also being a no one, with no connections, no sponsor, and no formal training. But I can stillsubmita painting. And though it’s never likely to be accepted, I know the subject to be fashionable, and so there’s a small chance it might be. I’d like at least totry.”
“Ah, ambition,” breathed Miss Sedgewick. “I’m delighted to see it. I knew my instincts weren’t wrong about you. Yes, I’d like you to try too. We women must always try and be trying. Will you tell me what your painting is of?”
“It is, um, an allegory. Of sorts.” She’d started to feel a little bolder, talking of her reason for being here, remembering it. Jack and his family had nothing to do with it. But Miss Sedgewick’s avid curiosity seemed endless, and she was already conscious of having revealed more than she ever had to another living creature. Also…of the exact nature of her painting, she was at a loss to know where to begin because she hardly understood it herself. Just that she wanted to express a feeling, something very real, in a medium which preferred its realism to be kept to flowers and fruit and animals, not people. “It is…in the historical style.”
Miss Sedgewick’s brows lifted. “I see.” The amusement that curved her mouth suggested she really did see—not only Lucy’s shocking ambition, historical painting being usually considered too exalted for women, but also that most historical painting…well…most paintings of that type often depicted the nude. Idealised, godlike nudes. But eventhatwasn’t quite what Lucy wanted to paint. The inherent honesty that lived inside her, that made herseeandfeelthe world so acutely, also prompted her topaintthe truth. She knew what she wanted to capture, and itwas honest, raw, and imperfect. It was naked in all senses of the word.
