Twenty-Two
Lucy’s maid went with her in the hired hackney, silently disapproving the whole expedition. Miss Sedgewick had only smiled when Lucy, stammering, told her of her invitation to “draw with Mr Thornton.” If Caroline knew what the Friday sessions entailed, she didn’t acknowledge it, but airily said it sounded like a very good idea.
“Mr Thornton is an excellent patron to have, my dear. I commend you on your success. You’ve impressed him most highly, it seems.” But there was a gleam in her eye that suggested she did, in fact, know what went on in Mr Thornton’s studio.
Well, reasoned Lucy, if she did, so much the better. She’d made no objection, but had rather encouraged her to go, hadn’t she? So Lucy took that for approval and pretended not to notice her maid’s frown when she left her in the dubious sanctuary of Mr Thornton’s parlour.
But Lucy’s air of unconcern was a performance for her maid’s benefit. As she followed Mr Thornton further into his establishment, she was trembling with nerves, her heart racing.
Mr Thornton made polite conversation about her journey, to which Lucy scarcely knew what she answered. They walked down the hallway and through several deserted and innocuous looking rooms. There was art on the walls, glorious art, wild and bold, but the greater distraction was the humming sound ahead, which resolved into the deep murmur of many voices—men’s voices—coming from the double doors ahead. It was accompanied by the increasing smell of tobacco smoke.
Her thoughts were all a juddering mess, and she couldn’t help the tiny gasp of surprise she gave as she checked on the threshold, Mr Thornton holding one of the wide double doors open for her to pass through.
It seemed to be a ballroom at first, there were so many bodies within and so much glittering candlelight. But then she saw the room was long but narrow, with a line of windows along one wall, red velvet drapes drawn, and more windows built into the ceiling. It was a picture gallery. Or had at least been built for that purpose.
The busy confusion of people was concentrated at one end of the room—the end where she was paused, gaping, in the doorway. There must have been three dozen men, most of them stood at easels gathered in an oval around another man. And that man stood on a cloth-draped platform. That man was naked.
Lucy averted her eyes, only able to cope with the overwhelming scene in small stages.
There was Mr Thornton, first of all, looking back at her with a smile. Not mocking, but sympathetic to her discomfort. He did the best thing he could have done, which was to make no mention of it, saying politely instead, “Stand there, Miss Fanshaw, and let your eyes adjust to the light. I’ll set you up an easel, there are several spare, and look, there is space enough next to Mr Cotton. He is no stranger to you.”
He left her and walked to the shadowy far end of the room, which seemed scarcely lit at all compared to the brilliance where she stood. But she could see tall chests of drawers, heaped equipment, stacks of canvases, a great many busts on shelves, and what appeared to be a variety of drapes and odd bits of costumery, from ancient suits of armour to exotic headdresses.
Timidly, she drew her attention back to the men at their easels, skimming her eyes over the nearest few because all of them had turned to look at her and she couldn’t meet their eyes. But she was well aware of the exchanged glances, the raised eyebrows, and the whispers. The hum of conversation had entirely stopped.
Across the circle, on the opposite side from where she stood, was Mr Cotton. He nodded in greeting, no surprise or censure onhisface at least. And then, just as she was gathering her nerves to look at the naked man in the centre of them all, her attention snagged on a figure standing at an easel three over from Mr Cotton’s.
It was a woman. And she, too, was looking at Lucy. She lifted her hand, a friendly gesture of solidarity, and Lucy returned the action, her heart lifting and simultaneously sinking. Because the other woman was veiled.
Veiled.Why hadn’t she thought of that? She could have worn a veil and never revealed her identity at all. But she was so unaccustomed to beingnoticedthat the thought of hiding her face had never occurred to her. Fool. Idiot. But Mr Thornton hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps he hadn’t realised he’d need to. It should’ve been obvious.
Well. It was too late now. The veiled woman went back to her work, and Lucy’s tense shoulders dropped as she forced out a breath.
Mr Thornton returned, and the promised space next to Mr Cotton was found. Lucy, acutely self-conscious, fumbled her sketchbook into place, fingers so clumsy she nearly dropped it.She’d only brought pencils, uncertainty and nerves keeping her plans small. Just some quick sketches, any sketches at all… But the pencil was cold and enormous in her grip, unwieldy as a tree branch, and there was a blush already on her cheeks as she lifted her eyes to the centre of the circle, sure, ridiculously sure, that everyone was looking ather,even though there was only one object of study in the room.
And there he was. A man, entirely naked, stood upon a draped box, one foot raised on a draped stool.
The first naked man she had ever seen.
He was about fifty or sixty years of age, with abundant wavy silver hair and a beard that reached the top of his chest. His middle was rounded, but the small overhang of stomach and the coarse thatch of more silvered hair didn’t obscure the…the male appendage. Lucy’s eyes caught there for a moment, on the unfamiliar little bobble of flesh. She’d seen it many times in drawings and on statues. It didn’t look very different in life, only a little more…uneven. It was the deep ruddy colour of a farmer’s cheeks. One who drank far too much.
With a silent exhale, she turned her attention to her blank sheet, deciding that though it looked better in pale, elegant marble, and much less…organic…she was here for the truth. All of it, ugly or otherwise.
There. She had looked. She was here. The worst, surely, was over.
Honestly, what was all the fuss about?
But her hand was tense as she lifted it and the line it left barely visible. Allof her was tense, not just her hand, but her shoulders, neck, and back too. It was impossible to draw well like this, but she tried anyway, line after line, curve after curve, eyes lifting to the model and back so often that, soon enough, it no longer felt strange or surprising.
As she started on a second sketch, much better than the first, her self-consciousness eased. She began to lose herself, as she so often did, in the art, in the hunger she always had to catch what she saw and bring it to heel, drag it from her mind, from the light, from the ether, and bring it to life on page or canvas. This was the world asshesaw it.
It was a magic trick, taking the transient, passing world and fixing it forever in one place—fixing it more beautifully, more perfectly than the distracted eye ever saw in reality. Sayinghere, here is what it is, this is the truth of it, right here.
And yes, it was the world, and yes, she wanted its truth, but it was also her interpretation. Her opinions. They could be loud and steadfast on paper.
She forgot about Mr Cotton, forgot Mr Thornton, paid no attention to the few glances and curious looks still directed her way. She forgot the man was naked—he seemed to have forgotten it himself and was staring absently out over the heads of the artists, his expression as idle as a man watching sparrows in the park. It was only flesh and bone. Everyone had a body. It was the most natural thing in the world.
So she drew and looked and drew, relaxed now, letting her attention sometimes wander around the room, to the cornicing and gilding, to the haze of tobacco smoke that hung around the chandeliers. The candles lit the fug in interesting ways, like mist. She’d like to learn how to replicate that effect in paint or pastel. Halos and coronas, dazed and dreamy…
