Chapter 6
Six
Susanna smiled as she entered the main gallery of the Royal Academy of Arts.
The room that had been near bursting at the end of April held only a smattering of people.
The May weather, though still not as warm as past years, was enticing people outside.
Afternoon light streamed in from the large semicircular windows at the top of the tall room.
Paintings of all sizes and colors were stacked from floor to ceiling with almost no wall to be seen.
She often wondered how those artists whose paintings were ten feet above eye level felt. To be chosen for the exhibition was an honor, but what was the use if your painting was placed too high to be properly admired?
“Let us first to the Waterloo painting,” Aunt Blackwall said, gesturing to a large canvas on the far wall.
“Certainly.”
They made their way to the now-familiar image of the famous battle.
They had visited the Exhibition four times since its opening.
Aunt enjoyed taking in each and every painting at her leisure.
This year she was particularly captivated by the military paintings and returned to them again and again.
There were several to choose from; Wellington’s great victory had proved a popular subject for the committee.
Susanna was less interested in the art and more in her fellow visitors. With its inexpensive entry fee, the Royal Academy Exhibition attracted delightfully varied guests from the upper reaches to the middling sort and even the occasional tradesman.
She would dutifully stay by her aunt’s side while her eyes wandered the room in search of something diverting—two lovers on the couch sitting closely, or an elderly gentleman talking loudly to his companion.
Once she observed a heated but quiet argument and spent half the day wondering what it was about.
Having had her fill of the painted battlefield, Susanna merely glanced at it before looking over the room. Movement at the entrance drew her attention.
“Drat,” she muttered and hastily turned her back on the two gentlemen that had just entered.
Why must Rosie always appear where he was not wanted?
Aunt made no comment, likely too absorbed to notice Susanna’s discomfort.
Staring blankly at the red-coated soldiers surrounded by smoke, Susanna wished Rosie and his friend would disappear.
Since running from him at Ackermann’s, Susanna had continued to come across Ambrose Hartley all about London.
They had fallen into a pattern of nodding across a crowd but never speaking.
A ridiculous degree of formality given their history.
Susanna did not want their estrangement to become permanent, but neither could she bring herself to speak to him.
Despite—or perhaps because of—her fondness for the man, she could not quite forgive his rudeness.
His words had sunk deeper than she would ever admit.
“If you wish to greet Mr. Hartley, you have my leave,” Aunt Blackwall said, breaking into Susanna’s thoughts.
Aunt was far too observant.
“I do not wish it,” Susanna said.
“I thought not,” Aunt said.
“The painter has made rather too much of the sky,” Susanna replied and gestured to the canvas. She had no interest in hearing Aunt’s thoughts about the matter.
Aunt Blackwall chuckled. “True. It rather dwarfs the battle. But I think that is what I enjoy most.”
As Aunt spoke of perspective and color, Susanna furtively looked about the room. Rosie and his friend were standing near the entrance, with their backs turned to her. They were examining the pair of large paintings by J. M. W. Turner. If she was careful, a meeting might be avoided.
Aunt Blackwall paused her lecture and sighed. “You cannot be forever hiding from the man.”
Susanna frowned. “I’m not!”
Aunt raised her eyebrows.
“Perhaps I am,” Susanna admitted.
And in acknowledging it, she realized she was tired of hiding from him. She was no coward and she had nothing to be ashamed of; she was the injured party. Still her heart picked up speed at the thought of a conversation.
“If you will excuse me, Aunt, I will go and greet Mr. Hartley.”
“I will accompany you.”
Susanna was surprised and grateful for her aunt’s offer.
Arm in arm, they turned from the painting. Rosie and his companion were still standing before the pair of Turners.
As they walked, Susanna lifted her chin and scolded her heart. It was only Rosie. When they were a few steps away, she spoke in an over-bright voice. “Mr. Hartley, what a surprise.”
The two men turned as one. They were of a similar height, but Rosie was skinnier and lighter than his friend.
Rosie looked genuinely astonished as he greeted them. He quickly did his duty and introduced his companion, Mr. Leonard Stanton.
Susanna recognized the name. He was one of Rosie’s school friends. He was different than she had imagined, with deep brown eyes, dark hair, and a serious countenance.
“Mr. Stanton,” Susanna said. “It is so good to meet you. I have heard much of you over the years.”
Mr. Stanton raised an eyebrow. “You have?”
“Miss Fenton is a close friend of my sister.”
Susanna smiled sweetly to cover her annoyance. When they were children, he had called her Susie. Why did he insist on this ridiculous reserve?
“Grace loves to share the exploits of her little Rosie,” Susanna said.
At the nickname, Mr. Stanton’s lip twitched.
“Why, I recall—” Susanna paused as Aunt Blackwall squeezed her arm.
“Now, Susanna, let us not stand here reminiscing,” Aunt said. “I wish to hear the gentlemen’s opinion on Mr. Turner’s work.”
Both men glanced back at the paintings they had been admiring.
The nearly four-foot canvases depicted the same lush Greek countryside but at different times in history.
In one painting, an entire classical city covered a hill while a group of ancient Greeks filled the foreground.
In the other, the city was gone, only a ruined temple remained, and the ancients were replaced by a shepherd and his flock.
It was an affecting pairing and never failed to make Susanna a tad melancholy.
“We were discussing how completely Mr. Turner has captured the light of the Mediterranean,” Mr. Stanton said. “It’s as if we are standing on the island, looking at the scene.”
“That is precisely what fascinated me.” Aunt Blackwall nodded. “The colors of Greece are so perfectly rendered.”
“Now you are all making me jealous,” Susanna said. “For I am the only one who has not seen Greece for myself.”
“Do not envy our Grand Tour,” Mr. Stanton said with a dismissive wave. “It was of short duration and fraught with inconveniences, indignities, and near drowning.”
Susanna smiled at his complaining. “You make it sound positively miserable.”
“Leonard exaggerates.” Rosie clapped his friend on the back. “He left out the wonderful things we experienced. Why, the beautiful structures more than made up for the unpleasant bits.”
“You forget I am not enamored of buildings like you.” Mr. Stanton folded his arms.
“Are you still interested in architecture?” Susanna asked Rosie.
“Is that surprising?” Rosie replied. “It is a perfectly genteel interest.”
“And what do you make of Mr. Turner’s temple?” Aunt Blackwall brought the conversation back to the topic at hand.
Susanna half listened as Rosie spoke of the different order of columns and the grace of the pediment. He was clearly knowledgeable and passionate. Suddenly she understood why there were so many building sketches in his notebook.
That she had been unaware of his continued interest proved his claim that their association as children did not make them friends as adults.
But a mere acquaintance would not have known that as a lad Rosie built miniature buildings on school holidays or that his brother used to see if the models would float in the mill pond.
They were something between stranger and friend. She knew Rosie. Could she become acquainted with Ambrose? It would help if she thought of him as a man and not a little boy.
“Have you been to the library?” Susanna asked when there was a lull in the conversation. “That is where the winning architecture drawings are displayed.”
“I have not,” Ambrose said. “My previous visit did not afford the time to see everything.”
“Then you must see them today,” Aunt said. “Susanna will accompany you. She has seen all the paintings half a dozen times and I have no doubt would welcome something new.”
Ambrose glanced at Susanna and she nodded.
“I am sure to enjoy it better with your explanations,” Susanna said.
She suspected he was thinking of protesting when Mr. Stanton spoke.
“That is an excellent plan. Then you won’t be forced to trail after me.”
“But I promised to show you the highlights,” Ambrose said.
“A task much better suited to me,” Aunt said with a smile.
“You see I am well looked after.” Mr. Stanton waved his hand in a shooing motion. “Go. Look at the drawings.”
After a brief goodbye, they exited the gallery onto the small landing. Susanna glanced at Ambrose as they paused and pressed against the wall to allow a small group to enter. His smile was encouraging; perhaps he would enjoy spending time with her.
With the stairway clear, Ambrose offered his arm and they descended the famously narrow staircase. Their shoulders brushed with each step.
“It has been a long time since we last spoke,” he said.
“Several months.”
“And I wish to say that I regret the manner in which I conducted myself.”
Susanna had not expected an apology, had not realized she wanted one until the words were spoken.
“Thank you, it is very good of you to admit your fault,” she said.
Their steps echoed on the last few stairs. She released his arm when they reached the first floor.
“I am surprised that you skipped the architectural drawings on your last visit,” she said.
He shrugged. “My companions only wished to see the paintings.”
“It is thoughtful of you to fulfill their wishes but a pity they did not give you the same courtesy.”