They did look well together, Catherine couldn’t argue with that: Lucy’s height and slenderness balanced by Mr. Violet’s craggy bulk.
The countess swallowed hard against the ashes in her mouth. “You seem to think your sister nothing but a burden, Mr. Muchelney,” she said, hating the gravel at the bottom of her throat. “Let me assure you, the day she leaves me is not something I look forward to.”
Beside her Mr. Banerjee twitched, his own face tight with a peculiar sort of intensity.
Stephen Muchelney tilted his head as he looked at her—a gesture so like his sister’s that Catherine had to catch her breath. “What would you think, Lady Moth, about having my sister’s portrait painted? Then you’d always have something of her to treasure.” He grinned boyishly. “I happen to know an excellent portraitist presently in need of commissions.”
He meant himself, of course. So either he had guessed that Catherine and Lucy were something other than simply friends—or it was blindingly obvious even to a total stranger how much Catherine cared.
Catherine didn’t want to imagine what her face looked like just now. She could feel the strings of politeness’s mask pulling tight, and the porcelain going brittle and thin. “Pardon me,” she murmured, “but I think I will take a turn about the house and view some of the other paintings.”
She walked away and found another frame to stand in front of, but could not tell you what colors had been used on the canvas or even what the subject was. She stared straight ahead, but her vision was turned inward, upon the wounds and ruins of her own heart.
Foolish, to have let herself dream so much! Catherine had been so comforted by the freedom of knowing Lucy couldn’t ask to marry her, that she had lost sight of the simple fact that Lucy might very well think of marrying someone else. That was what Pris had done, after all. It’s what so many young women did, even the ones who loved other women—look at Aunt Kelmarsh, who’d loved Catherine’s mother deeply but who had nonetheless been married and widowed twice over in the course of her long and interesting life.
She’d been in such high and tender hopes, today, being presented to her lover’s brother as though that might signify something about the nature of their connection. As though it meant Lucy cherished her a little. But Mr. Muchelney did not even seem to know about Lucy’s preferences—was that a deliberate blindness on his part, or had Lucy taken care that he shouldn’t know? Brothers had such power over their younger siblings, particularly sisters, and most particularly when that brother was head of the family.
And Stephen Muchelney wanted his sister to marry Peter Violet. Would he cut her off if she refused? Catherine could save Lucy from penury; the girl wouldn’t end up starving on the streets. But what if Lucy came to resent that dependence? What if Catherine, watching Lucy turn cold and bitter, became a brittle, anxious tyrant like George had been? She felt nearly tyrannical already, some wild part inside her howling with pain and rage even now, here in the heart of the polite and civilized world.
She was so wrapped up in these fears that she almost stumbled headlong into Mr. Frampton. “Lady Moth!” he said. “Are you quite alright?”
She forced a smile for him, then felt it take true hold. He was familiar, and kind, and his concern steadied her. “Just a little overwhelmed, I think,” she said. “There are so many people here!”
“There are,” he agreed, peering down at her. His smile was sincere but a little tight, and there were worry lines in the corners of his dark eyes.
So she took him by the arm, and saw some of those worry lines fade. “Come, sir,” she said. “Let us find the quietest corner and the humblest painting. Its creator will appreciate our attention more than any of the judges’ darlings, I’m sure.”
His lips curved in amusement. “That’s one way of making an inexpert opinion valuable.”
They turned their back on the chattering crowd and wound through the rooms of the Exhibition in search of silence and quietude. Catherine caught sight of a small, mud-colored painting in a corner of the last gallery that looked like it would do, but halfway across the space she was forced to halt because Mr. Frampton had jerked to a stop as if his feet had put roots down into the floor.
His face was shocked, his lips parted as he sucked in a breath and held it.
Catherine followed his gaze and saw nothing but a portrait of a merchant. A Frenchman, according to the title—a weaver. He sat at a desk among the detritus of his trade: spools of thread, measuring sticks, bolts of fabric, a large loom frame hovering behind his shoulder. One of the merchant’s hands was gripping a pair of calipers, and beside him, newly finished, lay a stack of cards with holes carefully punched in. A few other such cards were strung up on the machine behind him, waiting only for the handle to be turned.
The brushwork was fine and the colors well chosen, but Catherine couldn’t see why this painting should have struck Mr. Frampton like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky. “Do you know this man?” she asked.
The mathematician shook his head, eyes never leaving the portrait. “Not at all. But he’s given me a miracle.”
Catherine had lived all her life among scientists. She knew the sound of revelation when she heard it. And she knew what to do next. “Do you need to write something down?” she asked, and began digging through her reticule for the pencil and notebook she always kept handy.
Mr. Frampton looked at her, some miracle still shining in his eyes. “Thankyou,” he breathed, and began scribbling and sketching at once—in the back of the notebook, far away from her own botanical sketches and plant studies. Very thoughtful, even in the grip of inspiration. George had once scribbled calculations over a full-page sketch of Captain Lateshaw, and had never even seen the need to apologize.
Catherine suppressed a smile and left Mr. Frampton to his work. No doubt he would be occupied for some few minutes. She would come back in a quarter hour and see if the dream had relinquished him then.
She wandered a little farther on her own, still reluctant to return to the crowded main gallery. A stairway lured her outside to a small terrace that fronted the river, boats and barges trundling through its murky waters, and waves lapping up against the very foundations of the house. The sky above was still roiling with clouds, but the river made a break in the buildings, as though some great knife had sliced through so all the layers of the city could be seen. A brisk wind brought Catherine the scents of land and water, refreshing after the crush of perfumed, perspiring humanity within Somerset House.
Near the terrace edge, hem dancing in the breeze, sat a woman with an easel. A little older than Catherine, maybe, to judge from the silver that streaked a few of her dark locks where they escaped her simple cap. She was sketching the view, hand flying with confidence over the page. Catherine crept closer as soundlessly as she could, peering avidly while the woman’s pencil conjured boats and waves and the sweep of the sky, quickly and with feeling. She seemed to know just which lines were important and should be made bold, and which ones should be skipped as unnecessary. She stopped, cocking her head to consider her work thus far—and a flutter of Catherine’s skirt caught her eye and broke her concentration.
The countess flushed. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”
“No trouble,” the woman said, though her mouth pressed thin with something close to annoyance. Catherine noticed her clothing was serviceable but not expensive: broad cotton rather than silk, dyed soft green but mended here and there where only a careful eye could see. She wore no jewelry, but her eyes were hard and bright as gems. Something about the way she kept herself angled to face Catherine saidshopkeeper.
As quickly as it had appeared, the annoyance on her face smoothed out into polite blandness. “Are you enjoying the Exhibition?” the woman inquired.
“Very much,” Catherine said. “The landscape with Lord Elgin will be in my thoughts for some time, I think.”
“Ah, yes.” The other woman turned to the sketchbook on her easel and quickly flipped through to an earlier page. There in penciled shadow was Lord Elgin, an extraordinarily faithful reproduction of the painting Catherine had just been admiring. “This one?”
