“You could do so,” said Mr Cotton, “if you practised the art of portraiture.”
“But it is not…not quite a real person that I wish to capture. But something…true.”
“Not real but true?” said Mr Cotton, with a sceptical smile.
Lucy, embarrassed, couldn’t think how to reply. But Mrs Moller stepped in. “Mr Cotton paints the idealised Gothic. He paints dreams and visions. But I would argue that every silhouetted castle, every moon reflected on dark water, is what you describe, Miss Fanshaw. Thetruthof how we feel when we experience the wildness of the night rather than what is exactly seen. Somethingmoretrue than mundane reality.”
“I just want my art to be…honest.”
Mrs Moller smiled wryly. “If there’s one thing woman are never meant to be, it’s honest. Men wouldn’t like the truths werevealed. But…” She leant in so that the others couldn’t hear her, the conversation around them moving on as the others came over to join them. “There are ways to study what you need. Mr Thornton’s studio on Martin Lane—”
She broke off as someone refilled their glasses. Lucy fixed a smile to her face, stewing inwardly in mingled embarrassment and excitement.
To hear the problem that had dogged her spoken of so openly—admitted, acknowledged! Perhaps she wasn’t wrong or strange after all. The need to understand muscle, bone, posture, gesture… Men studied it—the female and male figure both. Lucy only had access to her own body, studied nervously by candlelight in her bedchamber, the door locked, working guiltily at her easel, fingers too tight to draw a fluid line. There were sketches…hidden sketches… The fear of their discovery kept her awake at night. The recollection of it all was hot in her blood in the crowded room, and she felt as though the whole company could—
“See how I’ve kept my distance all night?”
Lucy startled, glancing up to find Jack leaning over the back of her chair. He grinned, saying in a laughing half-whisper, “I know better than to embarrass you with my ignorance in front of your new friends. I have to say though, you look very at home here, talking so sensibly and seriously. I suspect it’s a rare treat for you to converse with people on your level. No wonder you prefer it here to Nell’s.”
She didn’t have a chance to reply before someone addressed something to him and he straightened, moving away from her chair.
Lucy stared after him until another voice, Mrs Moller again, spoke into her other ear. The lady leant close, her full wine glass held to shield her mouth, and though her voice was low and secret, it held no hint of shame or censure. “Speak to MrThornton alone. Admission to his studio is…more liberal than most. Some evenings he holds informal classes where—”
But that was as much as she could say before Miss Sedgewick broke up the parties and the card games commenced.
Twelve
One of the benefits of Jack’s story about Nora having the influenza was being saved the necessity of having to visit his sisters or worry about their whereabouts. He surelyshouldn’tbe calling on a sick house; it was folly to risk spreading the disease around. Which was why, only a few days after he’d put the plan in motion, he was annoyed to return from a visit to Jackson’s boxing gym and learn Nell was waiting for him in his drawing room.
“And Mr Blatherstock called,” Dalcher added, the butler’s second painful hit following the first in a manner the boxing master would’ve been proud of.
“Did he say why?” Jack asked, pausing in the act of removing his gloves. Blatherstock normally handled all of Jack’s business affairs with minimal input. It had always been one of his most admirable qualities.
“Only that he wishes to speak with you. From his manner, and the fact he said he would call again soon, I believe it may be of some importance, my lord.”
What a plaguey nuisance. “Wait… Wasn’t there a letter the other day? You handed me a whole bundle, and I never got through them. I think I recognised Batherstock’s stamp on one of them. They ought to still be on my desk. Bring them to the drawing room, will you? Maybe I can read it while my sister talks. It’ll pass the time, at least.”
A professional to his core, the butler made no response to this latter remark, and Jack climbed the stairs. He found Nell standing impatiently by the window in his drawing room.
“Why you insist on living in this dreary bachelor house when you could live in the big house at Grosvenor Square, I don’t know,” was how she greeted him. He crossed to the small table near the fireplace and poured himself a drink.
“And saddle myself with the headache of all those additional servants and housekeeping duties? No thank you.I already have more business to think about than I care to.”
On cue, Dalcher entered, a bundle of letters on a tray, which he put down on the table at Jack’s hip with a small bow and the sombre announcement that there were, in fact,twoletters from Blatherstock.
Jack picked them up as Dalcher left, frowning as he broke the wafer on the latest.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Nell. “Conduct your business while I’m here, by all means! It’s not as though the carriage is waiting or the horses growing cold.”
“And don’t mindme,” muttered Jack, “attempting to keep an eye on the family fortune.” But he tossed the letters back to the tray with a sigh. “Tell me what emergency has brought you here. Your maid’s run away with the footman? You’ve finally spent all of Ashburton’s money? Nora’s decided Min is actually a fairy changeling?”
Nell sniffed, seeming to decide that making a reply to any of this was beneath her. Instead she gave him a disapproving look,mouth pursing as she noted the hand wrapped around his drink as he took a sip.
“GentlemanJackson. Pshaw! Look at your knuckles. How you can enjoy making a mess of your hands at that ruffian sport is beyond me.”
“Lots of things are beyond you, Nell. I wouldn’t let it bother you.” He ignored her scowl. “Whyareyou here, spreading influenza across half of London?”
She looked at him as though he was stupid. “But there is not really—”
