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“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Moira said, and picked up the letter she’d been reading once again.

Chapter Twenty-Three

INA LEANED BACK against her workbench with a glass of wine cradled in her hand. In front of her stood Hero and Leander. Finished.

She’d spent two days sanding the marble after she’d finished the last of the detail work. Then there’d been half a day of rubbing it down with the raw side of a piece of leather, transferring the oils to the stone to give it a soft finish. Now the marble glowed like skin, and her tragic lovers looked almost like they could move.

She took a sip of wine, trying to enjoy the satisfaction of finishing the job she’d worked at for months, but she couldn’t help the sadness that crept in. She’d hoped to share this moment with Gavin, but she hadn’t heard from him since she’d left Oak Park.

Why would he want to see you? She’d been the one to leave. Not a day went by when she didn’t regret that decision of nearly three weeks ago, but she knew it had been the right one. Better to rip the plaster off the wound all at once than to subject them both to an agonizing bit-by-bit unraveling of their marriage.

At least that was what she told herself to get through the days. The nights were infinitely harder. All alone in her room, she lay awake wishing he’d come through the connecting door. Sometimes, when she could sleep, she’d start awake, hoping it was him, only to realize the sound was nothing more than the scullery maid laying a fire in the early hours of the morning. Each time a dark disappointment would spread through her like spilled ink and she’d huddle a little further under the covers to try to block out her loneliness.

She took a long draught of wine and then stole a glance at the packing crate that sat in the corner. In her bedroom, tucked between the pages of a book, was the note Gavin had sent along with the box. She’d taken it out time after time, rereading the affirmation of his faith that she was good enough to compete along with the best sculptors in England and across the Continent. All she needed to do now was give Norris the word that Hero and Leander were done, and he’d call upon the workmen, who’d winch the work into the crate and carry it off to the Society. It was the last step before the mysterious I.R.D. made her debut at the exhibition in barely two weeks.

A knock at her studio door pulled her out of her reverie. She looked up and found Norris waiting patiently for her.

“Good evening, Norris.”

“Evening, madam. I wonder if you might be home to Mrs. Sullivan,” he said.

“Mrs. Sullivan? What time is it?” she asked.

“Just past eight o’clock,” said the butler.

“Hardly the conventional calling hour.”

“She indicated it was urgent and a matter of some delicacy,” he said.

She sighed. “I’m sure it is. Please show her in.”

“Here?” he asked. He might as well have asked, “And while you’re wearing that?” considering that she intended to receive the grand lady dressed in her work clothes and covered in dust and polishing sand.

“If she’s going to call right now, then she can surely tolerate the sight of an artist at work.”

“Very good,” said Norris.

She set her glass down and retrieved its companion from the tray Norris had optimistically brought along with her wine and sandwiches. The butler hadn’t said anything yet—he was far too well trained for that—but he and the rest of the staff must have been wondering where Gavin was. Well, they’d have to become accustomed to the idea of working for a separated household.

She was just pouring the wine when Mrs. Sullivan strolled in in an elegant plum gown shot through with silver thread.

“Good evening, my dear Lady Barrett,” said the matchmaker a touch too cheerfully. “You must forgive me for dropping in on you like this.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Sullivan. Wine?” she asked, holding out the glass.

“That would be just the thing.” The woman accepted and then turned to the sculpture. “Now, this is quite a triumph.”

Despite her melancholy, Ina warmed a little at the praise. “Thank you. I just finished polishing a half hour ago.”

“May I?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.

Ina nodded and watched as the woman circled the sculpture, scrutinizing it.

“The detail is incredible, so lifelike. And the thinness of Hero’s veil is incredible, almost as though you could believe it’s transparent.”

“Thank you,” Ina said. “I’ve admired Giovanni Strazza’s Veiled Virgin for some time now, although I’ve never been fortunate enough to see it in person. I’d hoped to emulate some of his technique.”

“The wonders of photography and its ability to increase our knowledge never cease to amaze,” said the matchmaker. “Will you be entering this in the Royal Sculpture Society’s exhibition?”