“Is that all you can think about? Eva, Mr. Stevenson is cheating you. I thought he acted most suspicious when he gave you all that money. But he is giving you ten shillings, then sending them here to be sold for many times that amount. That man said they expected this to get knocked down—I guess that means sold—for at least three hundred.”
Three hundred pounds? Eva had trouble swallowing the idea. When she did, her stomach turned again.
“Rebecca, it will sell for that much because it is being sold as a picture by Cuyp. Not me.”
“But you painted it. You should see more than ten shillings out of it.”
Rebecca was missing the bigger quandary. The moral one. If they walked away without a word, someone would be cheated at the auction.
“Are there any others?” She turned to look at the wall they had not yet visited.
“None that I can see.”
“Perhaps this was a mistake.”
“Ha.”
Thathaechoed her own thoughts.Dear Mary Moser, I write to thank you for your kind reception and advice. Unfortunately, I now find myself in Newgate while I await trial for theft through fraud after being implicated in a scheme to sell counterfeit pictures by the great masters...
She walked over to the man in the corner. He greeted her nicely, but his gaze shifted at once to Rebecca when she came up alongside.
“I need to explain that a mistake has been made.” Eva pointed to the picture, then to the pamphlet. “That is not by Cuyp.”
“We are quite sure it is. A fine example of his art too.”
“No, it is not. I am more sure it is not than you are sure it is, because I painted that picture.”
He made a polite smile. Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “I’m sure you did, Miss.”
That was it. Nothing more. He did not believe her, but he would not insult her by disagreeing, so he just smiled and smiled. Which left her standing there like the addled fool he thought she must be.
She took Rebecca’s arm and strode into the middle of the chamber.What to do?
“He thinks you could not paint it because you are a woman,” Rebecca said.
“No, he thinks I could not because he believes Cuyp did.” She faced the painting. “It does look very good there, in that light. Far better than it ever did in our library.” An inappropriate glow of pride flushed her.
“Perhaps if you told Mr. Fitzallen, he could convince them.”
“What would I say to him? That the most amazing course of events has occurred? That I took a painting out of his property without permission, copied it, sold the copy in Birmingham, and now, lo and behold, it was for sale at a London auction as the original? Why should he believe I was not complicit and made the copies for this purpose in the first place?”
“Because you are his friend? And because you are telling him the truth?”
“The magistrate who is called will not be my friend. Don’t you see how this looks? I made those copies in secret. No one knows about them except you. Even that will be suspicious now.”
“Do you suppose the others that came to London are likewise being sold as originals, elsewhere?” Rebecca asked.
The thought of that caused Eva’s stomach to turn dangerously nauseated.
Rebecca gave her a little embrace and patted her shoulder. “It is just one painting that we know about for certain. Whoever buys it probably has a huge collection that includes other forgeries, and will never know. Especially if the original stays in that attic. You probably should never tell Mr. Fitzallen about the pictures up there, however.”
They went to the door. Eva looked back at the painting. It glowed in the light, casting its own radiance. That goblet appeared so real one feared it might break.
Despite her concern over the painting’s misuse, pride lifted her heart. Maybe Jasmine Neville was correct, and women were not taught to have sufficient ambition. Perhaps she, Eva Russell, possessed more talent than she gave herself credit for, and should aim not only to improve, but also to excel.
In the least, one thing could now be said. If Christie’s listed her picture as a Cuyp, she was not only a middling copyist. She was a damned good one.
***
