“Unusual but beautiful?”
“Yes . . . I find they often go together.”
Julia looked up at something in his voice and saw a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. The room felt suddenly warm, and so did her cheeks. His gray eyes held her gaze. Eyes she’d thought of as granite shone as if lit from within. She drew a breath to reply, but her mind was blank.
She blinked and looked away. “Where is my grandfather . . . ?”
Tennant leaned in and gestured. “There he is, standing next to Johnny Osborne.”
As if he had heard him, the reporter from theIllustrated London Newslooked up and made an exaggerated bow in their direction.
“As insufferable as ever,” Julia muttered. “I hoped I’d seen the last of him.”
“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. The man’s a human limpet.”
“More like a rash with an annoying itch. No amount of scratching will get rid of him.” Julia sighed and offered her hand. “Thank you again.”
My pleasure,he thought, smiling to himself as she walked away. Tennant watched her deftly fend off the reporter, extricate her grandfather, and thread her way through the crowd. He lost her and crossed the floor to look at Mary Allingham’sRepose.
He couldn’t see the sitter’s full face or the expression in her eyes. Margot Miller looked away from the viewer, her gaze fixed on the scene outside the window. Still, Tennant knew her thoughts. Mary had painted the woman’s longing for something beyond her reach, a subject he understood all too well. Tennant wondered how much of the picture’s effect was Margot’s contribution. Quain had said the best models were actresses who channeled the painter’s intentions.
Margot Miller . . . how many parts did you play?
* * *
On Sunday, five women gathered in the drawing room of Blenheim Lodge.
The Allinghams’ invitation to tea included Julia, Laura Herford, and her niece, Helen Paterson. Mary passed around plates of crumpets and cucumber sandwiches, but Julia noticed that her sister-in-law ate nothing. At first, Louisa sat quietly with her gloved hands on her lap. Then, gradually, she roused herself to take her share in the conversation.
The discussion turned to art, and Mary congratulated Helen Paterson on her recent admission to the Royal Academy’s art school.
“I’m following in my aunt’s footsteps,” Helen said. “Doctor Lewis, did you know Aunt Laura was the first woman admitted?”
“No, I did not.”
“You and she are fellow pioneers,” Helen said.
“My niece stays with me while she studies,” Laura said, “although it gives her mother pause. My sister imagines that artists consort with all manner of disreputable people. Aesthetes, bohemians, opium smokers, and the like.”
Helen laughed. “That only slightly exaggerates my mother’s attitude.”
Julia tried and failed to imagine Miss Herford as a denizen of London’s darker corners. Middle-aged, wearing a black dress with a prim, white collar, she looked like someone’s governess.
Laura said, “I see you’ve hungDown the Rushy Glen.It looks wonderful on that wall.”
Helen Paterson looked at the painting over her shoulder. “From the poem?Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen. We dare not go a hunting—oh.” A smile spread. “Allingham, of course.”
“William is a cousin,” Louisa said. “He’d be flattered that you know his verses by heart. The next time he’s in London, we’ll introduce you.”
Mary said, “He’s our one poetic relative in a family of painters, so Louisa cherishes him.”
Julia asked, “What did you think of the Annual Exhibition, Miss Paterson?”
“Overwhelming. One could hardly take it in, but . . .” Helen smiled. “As a watercolorist, I must lament the Academy’s preference for oils.”
“Oh, I agree,” Mary said. “Watercolors are such a demandingmedium. With oils, you can scrape away mistakes and paint over them.”
Louisa put down her cup. “And tinker endlessly. I’ve watched you fiddle with canvases I thought were long finished. And as for varnishing day . . . after months of work, is it necessary?”
