“Richard, I . . .”
Something unspoken seemed to tremble on her lips. Hewanted to trace his finger along their edges, take her in his arms in answer to her unfinished questions. He took a step closer.
Then the coach driven by Mister Ogilvie rattled to a stop.Damnation.So, instead of doing the thing he desired, he raised her hand to his lips and wished her good night.
* * *
Mary Allingham was late on the first Monday morning in April, and she’d kept Laura Herford waiting in her carriage for ten minutes.
Mary flew down the walkway of Blenheim Lodge, carrying her hat and muff. A footman trailed behind with her paint box.
She dropped onto the seat across from her friend. “I’m sorry, Laura.” The servant handed Mary the box. “Oh, thank you, Alfred.” He closed the door. “It took me ages to find the Royal Academy’s invitation card. And now I’ve made us late!”
“No matter. Better, in fact. The first varnishing day is bedlam, and we’ll miss the opening crush.” Laura eyed Mary’s box. “Are you planning on repainting?”
“I came prepared. I’m always one highlight short of perfection.”
Laura said, “Leave your muff behind in the carriage. Some oaf with a careless brush might streak paint on it.”
“You’re probably right. The calendar says it’s the first of April, but it feels like winter.”
Mary pulled off her muff and stroked its sable before laying it aside. It had been her brother’s last Christmas gift. He’d bought a pair, and both she and Louisa cherished them.
Charles. If only he were here to share the day.
Thirty minutes later, Laura’s coachman avoided the Monday morning traffic and let them out on the far side of Trafalgar Square. They walked across the plaza and mounted the four wide steps of the National Gallery. Mary felt dwarfed by the portico’s soaring Corinthian columns.
Porters in the foyer handed out Royal Academy catalogs and answered questions. Mary decided the guides came in twovarieties: twinkling ones and grave. She had drawn the former, while the man assisting Laura had the funereal mien of an undertaker.
Mary gave her name to her smiling porter. He consulted the list at the back of his catalog and said, “Here you are, miss. You’re hanging in the East Room.” He pointed the way.
Mary flipped through her book, thrilled to find her entry on page fifteen. They’d hung her painting as one of the last in the largest of the exhibition’s chambers. There it was:Repose,and her name, Miss M. Allingham.
Laura looked up from her catalog. “MyMargaretis in the Middle Room.” She took Mary by the arm. “Come, my dear. Take a deep breath and brace yourself.”
They passed through a columned archway and into the crowded East Room. Mary had visited the annual art show as a spectator, but this was her first varnishing day as an exhibiting painter.
She stopped inside the gallery and gaped. “Good Lord.”
Over two hundred paintings crammed the East Room’s walls from floor to ceiling. One gilt-framed picture after another hung inches from the next. Scores of men and a scattering of women hovered near paintings or stood on ladders. Mary and Laura crossed the space as quickly as traffic allowed and foundReposehanging near the entrance to the Middle Room.
“A doorway location isn’t ideal,” Laura said, “but look. You’re only one row up from hanging ‘on the line,’ just above eye level.”
Mary said, “Not bad for a first-time exhibitor.”
Laura pointed to the ceiling. “I was in the rafters my first time out.”
They stood for a few moments admiring the painting. Then Mary hooked elbows with Laura. “Come. Let’s find yourMargaret.”
“The Middle Room is just through here.”
They found Laura’s painting hanging in the center of the leftwall.Margaret, like Mary’s picture, was one level above the line.
Mary touched the red star fixed to the frame. “Laura, you’ve sold it. Congratulations.”
“And I’m hanging above August Burke, a Royal Academician. The RA after his name will draw crowds and some reflected glory.”
A voice behind them said, “And there I am in the East Room, languishing high above Miss Obbard’sApple Blossoms.”
