“I say you’re just lazy,” Barbara said.
Allingham tucked his notepad and pencil away. “Rest assured, ladies, my article in theArt Journalwill be fulsome in praise of your genius.”
“Youhave a genius for nonsense, that much I know,” Barbara said.
Louisa Allingham smiled at Julia and asked, “Tell me, Doctor Lewis, do you understand as little of art as I? Mary and Charles despair of me, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I know what appeals to me,” Julia said.
Louisa nodded. “As do I. But I’m afraid that answer is never good enough for my husband or sister-in-law. One must have complicated explanations for one’s admiration.”
Julia stopped in front of a landscape. “This one, for instance. It’s quite different from the others. The rough brushstrokes aren’t as polished. Yet, it’s beautiful.”
“I call itDown the Rushy Glen,” Mary said from behind them. “This is how painters in Paris see the world. Nature as it looks in the fleeting instant. How it changes with shifts of light, the time of day, and the density of the air.”
“Mary and her beloved Paris,” Louisa said. “Everything is better in France.”
“Ah . . . that’s because it’s true.”
Charles stepped back, appraising the picture. “You’re right to withhold it from the Royal Academy exhibition. The RA jurors would send it back and tell you to submit it next year—when it’s finished.”
“Oh dear,” Louisa murmured to Julia. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
Charles laughed, “My dear, you must stick to poetry—although I find much of it as perplexing as you find painting.”
“No, Barbara. No one knows her.”
Julia glanced over her shoulder at the speaker. Laura Herford had joined their group. She and Barbara made a mismatched pair. Golden-haired Madame Bodichon towered over the dark, petite Laura Herford.
“I’ve asked everyone I know about this murdered girl,” Miss Herford said.
“Murder.” Julia heard the shudder in Barbara’s voice. “Horrible.”
“Yes, poor girl. This Franny Riley is a mystery.”
The mirth and color drained from Charles Allingham’s face. He froze and then swayed. Mary pointed to a detail in her painting and had Louisa’s attention; conversation absorbed Laura and Barbara. Only Julia noticed Allingham’s reaction.
“I . . . I’m sorry, my dear,” Charles said abruptly. “Mary, I must leave—I’ve just recollected an appointment. Meeting a chap at the Reform Club.”
“Charles, no.” Louisa took his arm and drew him aside. “The caterers are setting up the luncheon—a celebration for Mary and her friends.”
Gently, he removed her hand and said, “Forgive me, Mary. I’ll hand out your exhibit announcements at my club.”
“But . . .”
“Keep the carriage, Louisa. I’ll take a cab. Ladies. My love.” He bowed and kissed his wife’s hand. Then he turned on his heels and walked rapidly away.
After a moment, Julia said, “It’s a shame your husband had to leave early, as must I. But I’m happy Mister Allingham seems well.”
Louisa looked at her blankly.
“After his ordeal.”
“Oh . . . yes. Thank you, Doctor. Charles is quite himself again.”
Mary spun around. “How can you say that, Lou? Charles isnothimself. He’s changed. Changeable and distracted. How he runs that publishing business . . .”
“Allingham and Son, the publishers?” Julia asked. “Is that his firm?”
