“Hmmph. I confess, I hadn’t considered that.” The dowager furrowed her brow. “You think that’s how he does it?”
“It’s the most logical explanation.” Charlotte allowed a small pause. “What makes you think A. J. Quill is ahe?”
“Oh, pish. What woman would dare to lampoon the high and mighty? It would require . . .” Alison’s voice suddenly trailed off.
It took another instant for the penny to do a last spinning somersault through the air and drop to the floor.
“Oh, no. No. Surely you’re not saying . . .”
“You were asking how I came to know Wrexford,” replied Charlotte. “If you recall, he was the prime suspect in a heinous murder—”
“Yes, of course,” interrupted Alison. “And A. J. Quill was savaging his character, which fanned the flames of speculation.”
“A. J. Quill wassatirizinghis character,” Charlotte corrected. “The earl has conceded that it was a fair portrait, as he had been deliberating baiting the pompous Reverend Holworthy in the days leading up to his death.”
“I believe that the authorities wondered how the artist depicted the murder scene with such accuracy,” mused the dowager.
“As did Wrexford,” replied Charlotte. “Which, to make a long story short, is how Raven and Hawk came to assault His Lordship.”
Sitting back with a wry laugh, Alison shook her head. “Ye heavens, how did I not see it? Now that I think of it, so many of the little details in A. J. Quill’s caricatures should have struck me as familiar—the way of depicting curling hair, the exaggerated shape of a nose, a lady’s scowl.”
“One of the many lessons I’ve learned about human nature is that we tend to see what we expect to see,” she murmured.
Alison nodded but maintained a pensive silence.
Charlotte stirred her now-cold tea, unwilling to intrude on the dowager’s thoughts. Shock and surprise were likely some of the emotions swirling inside her head. Were disappointment and revulsion also among them?
As Alison’s first reaction had indicated, there were boundaries past which a woman trespassed at her own peril....
Courage was one thing. Foolhardiness was quite another. And unlike herself, Alison had never been a fool. Outspoken, yes, but aware of just how far she could step without putting her foot in forbidden territory.
The dowager cleared her throat, but only as a prelude to shifting in a whisper of silk.
As more seconds slid by, Charlotte realized how much the dowager’s support meant to her. Alison had believed in her, had thought her dreams worthy.
“Please allow me to explain a bit more,” she ventured. “It was Anthony who created A. J. Quill in order to make ends meet when he didn’t get the painting commission he expected on returning to London from Italy. He was good at it.”
A pause. “When he died, I decided to pick up his pen, as it offered the opportunity for more income than scrubbing floors or sewing piecework. As you know, I could never stitch a straight seam.”
Charlotte didn’t dare look up from her lap, for fear of what she might see in Alison’s expression. “I was good at it, too. Not just the art, but the ideas behind the lines and colors. I felt I could help make sure that the rich and powerful were held accountable for their actions. I also wanted to be a voice for those who had no one else to speak for them, and focus attention on social injustices.”
She knotted her hands together. “No doubt I’ve made more than my share of mistakes, but I have always tried to do what was right, not merely to pander to what the public might want to hear.”
“Hmmph.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Charlotte hastily. “But—”
“I doubt it,” responded Alison, finally rousing herself to speech. “I am still searching for the words to articulate my . . . my . . .”
Charlotte steeled herself. A tongue-lashing from family had always been painful. But coming from the dowager, it would cut to the quick.
“My profound admiration and respect for your talents and passions,” said Alison. “And how you have worked against all odds to use them for the Higher Good.”
“I-I feared you might think I had no right to throw stones when I myself am so flawed.”
“My dear Charley, none of us are perfect, but you . . . you have always demanded more of yourself than anyone else has.” The dowager reached out and took her hand. “So strong, so capable,” she murmured, brushing a soft caress to Charlotte’s ink-stained fingers and palm. “I’ve never been prouder of you than I am at this moment.”
A tear fell from Charlotte’s lashes, and then another, and another. “Lud, I never cry,” she murmured, blotting her cheeks with her sleeve.
