But this place was public, and it would be dangerous for Lucy to forget herself.
They had barely wandered the length of one wall before Lucy caught the pitch of a familiar voice. Her brother and his coterie were massed in front of one of the largest paintings, hung right at eye level, a desirable placement that spoke of the judges’ strong approval. The artists in front of the piece, however, seemed less in awe of its genius than one might have expected. Arms were being flung with abandon, and gestures made toward particular parts of the canvas.
The group was plainly midargument already, but if Lucy waited for the debate to end she’d be waiting until the next century. “Stephen!” she cried instead, pulling Catherine gently forward.
“My dear sister!” Her brother was looking well, as he always did after a spell in the country: all bright eyes and ruddy cheeks and the air of a burden lately lifted. He pressed a kiss to Lucy’s cheek and bowed over Catherine’s hand when she was introduced. “It is an honor and a delight to meet the woman who was such a constant correspondent of my father’s—and who has lately taken my rather wayward sister under her wing.” He shot Lucy a sharp glance.
Lucy’s pleasure at seeing him went brittle, and she had a sudden terrible urge to stamp her foot and pitch a tantrum like she hadn’t done since she was four years old.
Catherine only smiled serenely: all her earlier shyness hidden carefully away beneath her countess’s poise. “Your sister is brilliant, Mr. Muchelney. The honor is mine, that I can enjoy her company until she has a chance to share her genius with other scholars and scientific minds.”
Stephen blinked, surprised by Lady Moth’s staunch defense.
Lucy felt pride and self-consciousness war with each other to burn in her cheeks, and wondered: If she were to burst into flame right here in the gallery, how many great artworks would perish with her?
She turned to the large painting they were arguing over, hoping for a distraction. “Tell me why this one has gotten you all so stirred up.”
Stephen spun on his heel, so eager was he to follow the change of subject. “It’s Kelbourne’s latest:Lord Elgin Approaching the Parthenon.”
Lucy gazed up at the painting, slightly longer than her arms could span: the Parthenon’s ancient form took up most of the upper portion of the canvas, shining white and crumbling nobly against a background of rose and gold clouds. Below and to the right stood a solitary figure in a deep burgundy coat: one leg was planted up and forward, and two hands were clamped behind his back as he surveyed the ancient temple.
Stephen’s best friend, Mr. Banerjee, leaned forward, a gleam in his eyes. “The question, Miss Muchelney, is whether the painting is a sunrise or a sunset. Is our hero arriving or departing this land of legend?”
“Surely it’s the latter,” said one of the artists.
“Preposterous. Look at the shade of that light. Rosy as the dawn.”
“Dawn? Hah! That is obviously the rich, heavy gold you get at day’s end when the light has had time to steep.”
“Pardon me,” Catherine interjected softly but firmly, “but it must be a sunrise.”
Everyone stopped and stared, even Lucy.
“How do you know?” an artist asked, tones laden with suspicion.
Catherine gestured to the section of brightest light, to the left of the row of columns. “Because that is where the sun rises when you view the Parthenon from this angle.”
Mr. Banerjee’s voice was all eager excitement. “You speak as though you’ve been there.”
Catherine smiled. “I have.”
“So it is a sunrise,” Mr. Banerjee said decisively, and frowned. “And what is the significance of the sunrise, do you think?”
And so the argument played on, with Catherine adding occasional notes to the painterly chorus.
Lucy hid a smile and drifted away to look at the rest of the Exhibition. She’d never thought painters could spend more time talking than painting, but they never seemed to run short of opinions.
“Oi, Miss Muchelney!”
Lucy spun round at the sound of the voice, and found herself looking at a big, broad-shouldered man with a face like a boulder and a boxer’s broken nose. “Mr. Violet!” she cried happily, holding out her hands.
Peter Violet grasped her hands in his—not with a gentleman’s chivalrous grace, but as one would grip someone’s hand to seal a bet.
She felt the strength of it all the way down to her toes, and grinned. “It’s wonderful to see you. Are you showing anything this year?”
“A couple things,” he said, in the low-street London accent he’d never shed. “Are you here with Stephen?”
“Stephen and—a friend,” Lucy said.
