CHAPTER 12
The Saturday edition of the Illustrated London News boldly predicted that the Royal Academy’s Annual Exhibition would sell over ten thousand tickets in the first week.
Julia eyed the crowds in the East Room and believed it.
She studied the throng, knowing Inspector Tennant had assigned constables to police the Academy’s galleries, and she thought she’d spotted one.
A man had his eyes on the spectators and his back to the paintings.
Sergeant O’Malley, on the other hand, seemed intent on the art.
He circled the room, inspected each painting, and stopped near the entrance to the Middle Room, joining Inspector Tennant at Mary Allingham’s Repose.
Julia and her grandfather caught up with them. She asked, “What do you think, Sergeant? If you could take a picture home, which would it be?”
O’Malley smoothed his bushy mustache and considered. “This one by Miss Allingham is Margot Miller to the life, but as for hanging it on my wall . . .”
A man behind him said, “Come now, Sergeant, show a little fellow feeling. We Irishmen should stick together.”
“Well, now, if it isn’t Mister Quain.”
The artist pointed up. “One row down from heaven is catalog number 249, Galway Pastoral by that budding genius, William Quain.”
O’Malley eyed Quain in his rumpled tweeds. “They’ll be letting the likes of you into the Royal Academy?”
“Not usually, Sergeant, not usually.” He made a two-fingered salute and strolled away.
Julia watched the artist head straight for Mary Allingham and her sister-in-law. When Quain offered his arm, Mary took it, smiling.
A line of Byron’s poetry came to Julia. “‘All that’s best of dark and bright.’”
Dr. Lewis followed her gaze. “The fair Mary ‘walks in beauty,’ indeed.”
“As for the dark,” Julia said, “I was thinking of him. I’ve framed them in my mind’s eye. His dark good looks are a foil to her golden loveliness.”
Her grandfather raised his eyebrow. “Matchmaking, my dear?”
Julia laughed. “Miss Allingham invited me to tea tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll steer the conversation around to him.”
When Mary and Quain walked off arm in arm, Tennant said, “I believe you’re on to something.”
Mrs. Allingham remained where she was, flanked by two attentive gentlemen. One took Louisa’s arm and directed her eye to a painting’s detail.
Julia said, “I wonder if this is Mrs. Allingham’s first social outing since her husband’s death.”
Louisa looked around and caught Julia’s eye. She said something to the gentleman on her arm, and he withdrew his support, bowing.
Julia crossed to Louisa, meeting her halfway. “Mrs. Allingham, it’s a pleasure to see you here.”
“My first foray into society. I thought it would be difficult, but now . . .” She looked over her shoulder, then leaned in. “Now, I find it’s merely tedious. I’ve just had a lesson in glazing. . . until my eyes glazed over.”
There’s no denying it, Julia thought. Louisa Allingham is charming. “Miss Allingham never mentioned that process, but she told me all about Repose. It’s wonderful to see it on display.”
Louisa waved around the room. “But so crammed among the multitudes—viewers and canvases alike.”
“Yes, I’ve always found it difficult to see any single work.”
“You’ve come before?”
Julia nodded. “But not lately.”
“I never did—until I married Charles, of course. My father had no interest in art, and I’m afraid it rubbed off.
Yet here I am, every year for the past ten.
” Louisa looked away. “It’s strange. A father’s indifference, a husband’s career .
. . odd, how circumstance hands us our lives.
Had I married someone else, it would be altogether different. ”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“Ah, but it’s not true of you, Doctor. You made your life. How I admire that.” She roused herself and smiled. “I must go. My guide is waiting to resume my tutorial. Will I see you tomorrow for tea?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Heads swiveled as Louisa walked through a corridor of admiring glances. Julia turned and saw Tennant watching Louisa’s retreat as well. Julia weaved through the crowd and rejoined her party.
“Mrs. Allingham is an exceptionally lovely woman,” she said.
“And in exceptional company,” Tennant said. “On Louisa’s left is Sir Francis Grant, the RA’s president. And that’s the celebrated Sir Edwin Landseer, pointing at something in the painting. Two knights vying for her attention.”
Competing for the beautiful widow? Julia looked at Tennant. “You’re very knowledgeable about the art world. I’m impressed.”
Tennant offered his arm. “I’ve had dealings with both gentlemen over security measures.”
“It’s no wonder, after the gallery attacks.”
“More specifically, someone sent a threatening letter to Sir Edwin after he unveiled a portrait at his studio called Her Majesty at Osborne. It’s hanging here and has created a storm.”
Julia said, “A picture of the queen? Why on earth?”
“Landseer painted the widowed Victoria in a private setting, looking despondent. Some viewers see an insult to both Her Majesty and the monarchy.” Tennant shrugged. “Why, I can’t fathom. And then there are the whispers . . . the painting has added fuel to the rumors.”
Julia said, “What rumors?”
“About the queen’s, ah . . . relationship with the other figure in the painting, her Scots servant, John Brown.”
“Oh, surely not,” Dr. Lewis said.
“As you say, sir. It seems unlikely, but tongues wag about it.”
Dr. Lewis flipped to the catalog’s index. “Landseer, Landseer. . . catalog number 72.” He looked up, smiling. “Excuse me, my dear. I must inspect this artistic outrage before we leave.” He patted his granddaughter’s hand and walked off.
O’Malley asked, “Have you spotted Mister Whistler about the place, sir?”
“Not yet. Any other candidates?”
The sergeant opened his catalog. “Number 113—Bacchus by Simeon Solomon.” O’Malley cocked his thumb. “Middle of the far wall, you’ll find it. I’ll see what turns up in the other rooms.”
Julia eyed Tennant curiously. “What are you and the sergeant looking for?”
“The originals of pictures in Allingham’s collection.”
“And you’ve found a few?”
“At least two are altered versions of paintings on display, including this one.” Tennant moved to a canvas at the right of the door. “Symphony in White. It’s curious because the RA bars artwork from earlier shows. How, then, could a copyist know them so intimately? It’s a puzzle.”
Julia squinted at the signature in the lower corner and straightened abruptly. “JA Whistler? You suspect him?”
“His initials don’t match any on Allingham’s list, but I’d like to hear his explanation. He’s in Paris at present but expected back any day.”
Julia looked closer at the two figures in the painting. “That copper-haired girl on the sofa. She isn’t . . .”
“Margot Miller? No. But there’s no doubt about the Allingham copy. She’s the girl in that version.”
Julia shook her head. “All the secrets she took to her grave.” She turned to him and smiled. “Thank you for today. You know, I haven’t visited since I returned from Philadelphia. I used to come every year with my grandmother.”
“And I with mine. She bought several of the exhibition’s paintings over the years. They hang in the house she left me, including a late-career Turner, the prize of her collection.”
“A Turner? Good Lord, what a treasure!”
“It’s an unusual picture . . . a hazy seascape, more fog and clouds than water, and just the suggestion of a mast lost in the mist.”
“Unusual but beautiful?”
“Yes . . . I find they often go together.”
Julia looked up at something in his voice and saw a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. The room felt suddenly warm, and so did her cheeks. His gray eyes held her gaze. Eyes she’d thought of as granite shone as if lit from within. She drew a breath to reply, but her mind was blank.
She blinked and looked away. “Where is my grandfather . . . ?”
Tennant leaned in and gestured. “There he is, standing next to Johnny Osborne.”
As if he had heard him, the reporter from the Illustrated London News looked up and made an exaggerated bow in their direction.
“As insufferable as ever,” Julia muttered. “I hoped I’d seen the last of him.”
“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. The man’s a human limpet.”
“More like a rash with an annoying itch. No amount of scratching will get rid of him.” Julia sighed and offered her hand. “Thank you again.”
My pleasure, he thought, smiling to himself as she walked away. Tennant watched her deftly fend off the reporter, extricate her grandfather, and thread her way through the crowd. He lost her and crossed the floor to look at Mary Allingham’s Repose.
He couldn’t see the sitter’s full face or the expression in her eyes.
Margot Miller looked away from the viewer, her gaze fixed on the scene outside the window.
Still, Tennant knew her thoughts. Mary had painted the woman’s longing for something beyond her reach, a subject he understood all too well.
Tennant wondered how much of the picture’s effect was Margot’s contribution.
Quain had said the best models were actresses who channeled the painter’s intentions.
Margot Miller . . . how many parts did you play?
* * *
On Sunday, five women gathered in the drawing room of Blenheim Lodge.
The Allinghams’ invitation to tea included Julia, Laura Herford, and her niece, Helen Paterson.
Mary passed around plates of crumpets and cucumber sandwiches, but Julia noticed that her sister-in-law ate nothing.
At first, Louisa sat quietly with her gloved hands on her lap.
Then, gradually, she roused herself to take her share in the conversation.
The discussion turned to art, and Mary congratulated Helen Paterson on her recent admission to the Royal Academy’s art school.
“I’m following in my aunt’s footsteps,” Helen said. “Doctor Lewis, did you know Aunt Laura was the first woman admitted?”
“No, I did not.”
“You and she are fellow pioneers,” Helen said.