Chapter Thirteen
G yda was a bundle of nerves about the opening of the museum. She had left earlier to help with last-minute preparations. Kara was primping, determined to do her friend credit, and to be as duchess-like as possible.
“This color is a triumph on you, ma’am,” Elsie said as she settled the pointed bodice over Kara’s middle. “I don’t know how they achieved such a lovely shade so perfectly between blue and green.”
“They are doing wonders with coal tar and other secondary products for dyes right now.” Kara looked over the gown with a satisfied eye. The low shoulders featured a fall of brilliant white lace. At the top edge of the lace, a line of jeweled flowers meandered across her skin. A matching pattern of embroidery adorned the hem and the edges of the split-front skirt.
“Are you sure you won’t add another crinoline?” Elsie asked, eyebrows raised. “Wider skirts are all the fashion.”
“I need to be able to move, Elsie.” It was an old argument.
Niall, entering from his adjoining room, let out a long, low whistle.
Turning, Kara smiled at the sight of him in a frock coat, frilly linen, and his formal Clan Kerr kilt. “I would say the same of you, if only I could whistle.”
Elsie quietly withdrew, and Niall came to stand beside her. He grinned at their reflections in her mirror. “Don’t we make a fine pair?”
“Yes,” she answered seriously. “We do.” She didn’t mean their appearances.
“Almost ducal.” He planted a kiss atop her head.
“Almost,” she agreed, tilting her head up for a proper kiss. “But it’s the missing part that makes us us .”
Not long afterward, they arrived at the gala to find carriages lined up to reach Soho Square.
“Should we walk?” Kara asked. “It’s a fine evening, and Gyda urged us to come as early as we could. She’s to meet the Duke and Duchess of Stratton tonight, and she’s quite nervous about it.”
Niall handed her down and they made their way slowly to the museum. Footmen kept the gawking crowds back, but the event was obviously going to be a crush. The spacious front room was filled with a sea of well-dressed and well-heeled guests. Lord Charles’s family and friends, probably, but also some other, no-doubt-curious members of the aristocracy had turned out. They mixed with members of the artistic community, scientists, inventors, and even a few industrialists.
“Perhaps they are looking for new designs or the latest technology to adapt,” Kara whispered to Niall, nodding toward a group of fellow factory owners.
Maids and footmen circulated with glasses of wine and champagne. Kara took one, and she and Niall joined in as everyone raised a glass and toasted Ansel Wells, Lord Charles, and the success of the museum. Afterward, they drifted through the main hall. Kara noted the many attendees admiring the art, and she grinned to herself to see the crowded corner where Mr. Sculley’s work hung. People there were whispering, giggling, and peering over each other’s shoulders. She thought she spotted the artist, but he was quickly swallowed up in the crowd.
“Kara! Niall!”
They turned to find Gyda beckoning them. She stood near the performance/creative alcove. Tonight it was occupied by a jeweler and looked to be proving a popular draw. Waving, they made their way through the throng to her.
“Oh, Gyda,” Kara said. “You are breathtaking!”
Gyda and Elsie had raced to finish the Nordic gown—and Gyda looked like a Viking warrior maiden come to life. Her blonde hair was caught up in elaborate braids that hung down over her traditional dress. She wore a cream-colored underdress with long sleeves ending in substantial cuffs of buff leather. The overdress was in her favorite dusky blue, with a similar cuff-shaped bodice of the same leather. This piece fastened to straps below the shoulder with two carved tortoiseshell brooches. Between them hung the strings of colorful glass and amber beads they had found for her during their travels.
Niall looked his assistant over with approval. “I’ll wager you are making many a man here wish he were a Viking right now.”
“Let them wish it.” Gyda snorted. “I’ve already informed two fools that Viking women handled the finances, oversaw the land management, and were involved in trading goods. They owned property and could request a divorce and reclaim their dowries if a man failed to live up to their expectations.”
“I’ll wager that cooled their fantasies,” said Kara, laughing.
“Well, it certainly rid me of their company,” Gyda replied. She looked around, anxious. “It’s going well, isn’t it?”
“It looks to be a smashing success,” Kara assured her. “You may relax. Look at all of these happy guests.” She glanced about. “But where is Lord Charles? We’ve yet to speak to him.”
“He’s gone to the back rooms. They’ve set up a telegraph back there. He is urging guests to send messages from one side of the house to the other. Stayme is back there, explaining how it works and sending naughty messages to ladies.”
Kara choked on her drink.
Beside her, Gyda stiffened. “Don’t look, but Charles’s mother is approaching. She seems baffled by me, but she brightened considerably when I told her I was close to the Duke and Duchess of Sedwick.”
Kara made a face. “We will try to behave.”
“Will we?” asked Niall.
“Niall!” Gyda jabbed him with an elbow.
“Fine, then. I am entirely too hungry to play nice. I see a tray of veal baskets over there. I’m going to make inroads on it, and then I’m going to go and proposition Stayme over the telegraph and sign it Victoria Regina .” Laughing, he moved off, but then stopped and looked back. “Gyda, did you order veal baskets tonight just because you know they are my favorite?”
“Yes,” she grumped. “Not that you deserve it.”
He stepped back, then took her hand and kissed it before backing away. “You are extraordinary. Don’t forget it.” He looked significantly over her shoulder before turning away and fleeing.
“Coward,” Gyda said affectionately as her name was called.
“Miss Winther, there you are.” The Duchess of Stratton went around a group of chattering guests to get to them. “Won’t you introduce me?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Kara nodded politely as Gyda made the introductions. Her friend did it with nary a witticism or sassy remark—a sure sign of her anxiousness.
“Your Grace,” Kara said smoothly. “What a delight to see you again.”
The duchess looked surprised. “Have we met before?” Her entire manner seemed one of puzzlement, as if the event and its purpose was something so outside of her experience that she could find no solid ground.
“Indeed, we have. Several months ago, at one of the queen’s receptions.”
“Oh, of course.” The woman clearly did not recall it, but she struggled on. “Miss Winther tells me that she resides with you at your estate.”
“Indeed. We could not do without her, her humor, or her many skills.”
“How…how nice. Bluefield Park, is it not? I have heard of its great beauty. It’s quite famous for it, isn’t it?”
“Thank you. It is quite beautiful, I admit. It has always been grand, but my mother was a great stewardess of the estate and made many improvements. I try to live up to her example.”
“I did know your mother, a little,” the duchess said. “A lovely woman. She had a sharp wit and varied interests, and yet she was such a lady.”
Kara knew a veiled criticism when it was thrown at her. She’d long ago developed the ability to let them slide off. She glanced at Gyda, who rarely let such jabs go and instead returned them in double measure. But her friend merely shifted and smiled wanly—and Kara had never seen her care so much about impressing someone. It spoke deeply about how much she must feel for Lord Charles Osbourne.
Well, then. Kara would do what she could to help. She turned a smile on Gyda. “Oh, but you must invite Lord Charles and the duchess to come to tea sometime.” She smiled at the woman. “We would love to welcome you.”
“I… Thank you.”
Clearly, the duchess had expected the invitation to come from Kara, and they had thrown the woman off balance once more. But Kara would show her how much a part of the family her friend was.
The duchess cleared her throat. “I would, of course, be delighted to visit, but if the recent months are any indication, then I suspect my son will be occupied for quite some time in the running of”—her hands fluttered—“the museum,” she finished weakly.
“We have been very busy indeed,” Gyda replied quickly. “And likely will be for the next few weeks, perhaps a couple of months, as the place gets on its feet and routines are established. But I suspect once that happens, both Ansel and Charles will see the wisdom in hiring a director. Ansel will wish to go back to his painting, and it seems to me that Charles so enjoys his travel, exploring old crafts and art and new industry, that I cannot see him giving it up for very long.”
The duchess looked pained to be reminded of her fourth son’s odd interests. Among her brood she numbered the very proper heir, spare—currently serving in the Royal Navy—and a third son—studying for the church. Charles, with his fascination with lacemaking, art, and industrial machines, was likely viewed as the broken cog in her well-oiled family. The only one not conforming to expectations.
In this area, Kara could help.
“But how wonderful it must be to have a son with such passionate interests. Not only that, but one with the will and determination to pursue them so boldly—and successfully, as we see tonight. You must be very proud, indeed.”
“I… Yes, of course.”
Kara leaned in and lowered her voice. “Do you know who I would not be surprised at all to see spending time here?”
“Who?” asked the duchess, clearly worried about the answer.
“Prince Albert. This seems just the sort of enterprise he would approve of,” Kara said with a nod. “You know he insists the royal family must have the finest education, including languages, arts, and sciences. And he clearly showed his preference for this sort of event with his work on the Great Exhibition.”
“Oh, yes. He did, didn’t he?”
“Everything Charles has curated here seems wonderfully suited to Albert’s interests. I predict he will become a regular visitor here,” Kara said knowingly.
“Do you really think so?” The duchess straightened and looked about. “That would be a fine thing for Charles, would it not?”
“Everyone can see that it took a unique perspective and a great deal of vision to make all of this happen. Not to mention hard work. I don’t think there is anything the prince consort would admire more.”
“Yes. I think you must be right,” the duchess said, growing more enthusiastic. “And so I shall tell his father.” She nodded at the crowd around them. “In fact, I think I shall do so right now.” She cast a friendlier look upon Gyda. “Do invite me to tea, my dear. I feel sure we have much to talk about.”
As she swept away, Gyda clutched Kara’s hand. “Odin’s arse, but you are diabolical,” she whispered. “And brilliant. Thank you!”
Kara waved a hand. “It doesn’t take a genius to understand that most mothers wish to be proud of their sons.”
“She clearly didn’t know what to make of all of this, but you put her on a whole new path.”
“She just needed a nudge to look outside traditional notions. It’s a small step, but hopefully, it will lead to more.”
“Wait until Charles hears! He will be so grateful!” Gyda pressed her hand.
“I do look forward to spending more time with him. But just now, I’m ready to go and squeeze in to see Mr. Sculley’s work. I only saw the Lord Palmerston the other day.”
“The one depicting Dickens running down a hopelessly twisted path, spouting flowers out of his mouth, has some of his fans up in arms,” Gyda told her.
“Did you know that Sculley is the artist who lives in the same building as Tom Hawkins? The same one we met that night?”
“What? No.” Gyda glanced toward the far corner, where the crowds still gathered around his work. “We knew he would prove to be popular. Ansel says it is sure to get the museum mentioned in the papers.”
“Let’s hope it draws the public in, then,” said Kara. “And let’s hope I can find the man and have a word with him. I’d like to ask him if he’s noticed any activity around those rooms.”
“Come along. He’s likely lurking about, listening for reactions to his work and revealing himself as the artist. He seems the sort to enjoy the attention.”
They started toward the crowded corner.
“Oh, look! There he is. Mr. Sculley!” Kara called.
But the artist did not respond.
“What’s wrong with him? Why is he being so rude?” Gyda said, exasperated.
The man was pushing his way into the crowd toward the wall, shoving people out of his way. Drinks were spilled. Protests rang out. Ladies shrieked in indignation. Sculley ignored them all. He thrust his way through to the wall and began to take down one of the paintings.
“Here, now!” Gyda started toward the commotion. “Stop that! You understood the arrangement, sir! The art stays throughout the length of the contract you signed with the museum!”
Sculley looked over his shoulder at her as disgruntled viewers began to drift away. “No, no.” His eyes were wide. “Not this one.”
“If you have an offer to purchase it, sir, you can make the sale when your agreement with the museum is over,” Gyda declared. “That was the arrangement.”
He yanked the painting down. “No. You don’t understand. I made a mistake. I should never have—”
“I’m going to get Charles!” Gyda announced, spinning away.
“I’ve no choice in the matter!” Sculley shouted after her.
“Hold a moment, sir. I don’t know what has upset you, but I need a moment of your time.” Kara had followed, and now she craned her head to get a look at the painting. She thought it was a depiction of the legend of Osiris and Set. Egyptian lore was not one of her strong points, but she knew enough to recognize the battle between the Egyptian gods. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “You’ve made them both into women, haven’t you?”
Osiris’s typically mummified legs had been transformed into white skirts. Her elongated crown was slipping off, and she brandished her crook and flail at her opponent. For her part, Set was aiming a staff at her enemy. Her typical jackal-like features had been pushed back, as if they were a mask, revealing the woman’s ferocious scowl as she battled…herself. Kara realized both the figures wore the same face.
Wait…
“Mr. Sculley!” Her voice rang with force and authority. “Give me that painting!”
“No! Oh, no,” he moaned. He looked utterly panicked. “You mustn’t. Just let me go without a fuss or—”
Kara snatched the painting away from him. She knew that face. Both of those faces. “I’ve got to find Niall,” she muttered, turning away from the back corner. A few people were still looking at Sculley’s paintings, but most had moved off in a huff. Kara, still staring at the painting, began to stride toward the last place she’d seen her husband.
But as she stepped away from the corner, she didn’t find Niall. Instead, a maid stopped right in front of her, an empty tray in hand.
Not a maid.
Kara retreated. “Petra Scot,” she said quietly.