“Sculpture! Well then, are you familiar with the great Catherine Andras? I have, by some miracle, persuaded her to attend today’s modest gathering.”
Maxwell had only heard Andras’s name in passing—she had done several wax effigies for prominent members of theton, including Princess Charlotte of Wales—but he knew little enough about her.
Thalia’s eyes, however, lit up. “Catherine Andras? Here?”
“As I live and breathe. Come, she is holding court upstairs.” He beckoned them both forward, and Maxwell found himself content to follow Thalia as she moved through the rooms toward the grand staircase.
The place was just as bohemian as he had imagined, with different art forms taking place in different rooms. Just as Sir Thomas had attempted to recreate, only his ‘artists’ had been insolent young men, and the subjects, unfortunate women, paid and brought in for the purpose of exposing themselves for ‘art.’
Here, women were as often the artists as the subjects. An older gentleman was midway through an animated discussion on the merits of landscaping versus still life with an elderly lady wrapped in a shawl.
A man and a woman intertwined themselves in the middle of another room, posing sensually as a young woman, spectacles sliding down her nose, sketched frantically.
Maxwell glanced at Thalia to see how she was taking all this, but she barely seemed to notice the near nudity. She did, however, glance at him and say, “Passionefeels accurate after all, don’t you think?”
“Did you not have a life study?”
“Whom could I ask? Anna and Simon? It might be harder to explain to Simon why I need him, and I doubt Anna would appreciate me using her husband as inspiration. At least not for a public piece.”
Maxwell had the sudden and urgent desire to ask if she would object to another muse, one who might not mind committing him to whatever medium best suited her. He would not mind posing. If anything, he would enjoy it.
But there was no opportunity for him to ask before they entered the room with Catherine Andras. The woman was in her forties or thereabouts, with lines around her eyes, and when she spoke, it was with a gentle Irish burr. Time living in London, and holding court with the Queen, had given her a sense of gravitas and elegance, but Maxwell could see at a glance that she had not been born to it.
She sat in the middle of the room, demonstrating something with a fine set of instruments in her hands.
“I prefer to add those small details which distinguish a piece,” she said to her avid listeners.
Unlike many of the other members of this gathering, she wore a conservative dress, looking as though she had been invited out for tea rather than an exclusive party for artists.
Thalia’s hand found his. “She is my inspiration,” she whispered. “She has found distinction in a man’s world and has been recognized across England and beyond for her skill. One day, I should very much like to be like her.”
“Are you not already?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Oh, my works are fads. I have not had anyone especially notable take notice of me, and I will soon die out, I’m sure.”
“Ihave taken notice of you,” he said dryly. “How notable were you aspiring to be, pray?”
She sent him a pretty, dimpled smile. “Oh, royalty at least.”
“You have high aspirations.”
“Almost impossible for a lady to achieve and still retain her reputation! And yet I find I do aspire toward it.” She leaned a little into him. “Iamglad you like my sculptures, however.”
“How gratifying.”
She laughed, and when Plainchett ushered her forward and introduced her, Maxwell hung back, content to see herinteracting with the people she evidently considered her kin. Catherine greeted her warmly, and the two immediately began talking, with Catherine gesturing at her wax models, evidently explaining something about them.
A strange sense of pride lit in Maxwell at the sight of Thalia holding her own in this room of established artists. He had never aspired to the arts—that was not one of the skills he possessed—but he had an appreciation for the talent it required.
He found it hard to believe that Thalia, so young and keeping her ability a secret from her father, was already so very good.
Plainchett came to stand beside him. “When you wrote to me and asked for a favor, I thought she would be another of your mistresses.”
Maxwell spared Plainchett a single disparaging glance. “I don’t bring my mistresses to events with me. That’s hardly their purpose.”
“Ah, so she isn’t.” He nodded. “The question then is what is she to you?”
“An acquaintance.” The words sounded like a lie even to him. If she were a mere acquaintance, he would never have gotten invested enough to bring her here. “There is nothing going on between us.”
