Chapter 19
Two days later
The invitation came formally from Georgiana, eager to introduce Elizabeth to the Stein-Streicher piano. Mr Gardiner allowed her to visit alone, and a carriage from Mayfair arrived soon after breakfast.
Half an hour was spent in the music room, where Elizabeth enjoyed the novelty of duets with a trained pianist. It was the first time they had played together, and gave Elizabeth a new perspective on Miss Darcy, who at the keyboard became confident—although always respectful.
When coffee was announced, their other guest was with Darcy in the morning room, examining the two paintings.
Georgiana, shy again, went to her boudoir to write a letter, leaving Elizabeth and Darcy with Mr Henry Howard, secretary of the Royal Academy of Arts.
With his rough features and long chin Howard presented a daunting figure, but his manners were gentle.
‘Honoured to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet.’ His eyes lingered on her face a moment as he continued, in a quiet relaxed voice. ‘You enjoy art?’
‘Yes, although if I am honest, mostly as a window into the past.’
‘Interesting.’ He waited for her to sit, then returned to his chair and sipped coffee. ‘Can a painting not be beautiful in its own right?’
‘It would take extraordinary skill to improve on nature.’
‘I should introduce you to Mr Joseph Turner and watch the sparks fly.’ He smiled, and turned to Darcy. ‘The coffee is excellent. It is time for me to repay your hospitality.’
Howard pointed to the two paintings propped up side by side on a table opposite the window.
‘Let us begin with your second purchase, on which I have less to say. I find no reason to doubt the information on the back. Like other works by Mario Pavan it is neo-classical in style, competent, but unremarkable. You said in your note that the subject was Mario’s sister, according to the dealer. May I ask who he was?’
‘A Signor Sgaravatti, of Clipstone Street.’
Howard made a face. ‘Oh.’
‘You believe him unreliable?’
A wry smile. ‘Let us say that if Sgaravatti said grass was green, I would conclude it was pink, or some other colour.’ Howard sighed.
‘All the same, this woman could be Signora Basso, whom I met a few years ago at an exhibition. Quite possibly in 1806, the date on the back of the picture. This may be the first moment in recorded history that Sgaravatti told the truth.’
‘And the other painting?’ Darcy asked.
Howard chuckled. ‘Most interesting! First of all, if this is by Lorenzo Pavan I will eat my hat. A genuine artist like Lorenzo searches, and one can detect this quest in the brush strokes, even when studies have been done before. What I see here is an expert copy—and by chance I am familiar with the painting on which it is based. The original artist is Teodoro Matteini, a professor at the Accademia di Belle Arti of Venice, and the original painting is entitled Ragazza con Lettera, Girl with Letter. It resides in Venice, but a student brought back sketches from which I recognise the design. The date would be around 1800.’ He rose, and turned over the fanciulla painting.
‘Certainly not 1786, as inscribed here.’
‘But the official stamp?’ Darcy pointed to the circular marks on the back, bearing the label VENEZIA.
‘Cleverly faked.’ Howard sighed. ‘It’s an industry. They copy famous works, and dress them up to look like authentic works from Venice. This was probably painted in London quite recently.’
Elizabeth frowned. ‘Why name the artist as Lorenzo Pavan rather than Teodoro Matteini?’
‘Matteini is better known. You see, it’s not always wise for a forger to aim for the top. If you market a fake Canaletto, a sensible buyer will smell a rat and check every detail of the provenance.’
She nodded, trying to work out the implications. ‘Do you think the paintings could be of the same woman?’
‘I see some resemblance.’ Howard faced her. ‘If it is not intrusive, may I ask whether you …’
He broke off, and Elizabeth smiled. ‘Whether I have sat for an unscrupulous London artist? No. But I perfectly understand your question.’
‘Curious, is it not?’ Howard turned to Darcy. ‘You see, another trick beloved of copyists is to mimic a composition, using their own model. Same background, same pose, different lady.’
Darcy looked at Elizabeth. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Probably someone who by coincidence resembles you,’ Howard said.
‘As to the true artist, if I had to guess it would be Sgaravatti himself. He studied in Venice, I believe, possibly under Matteini himself. He could easily have copied Ragazza con Lettera and thus recorded the design and colour scheme. As a friend of Mario’s, he would be familiar with Lorenzo Pavan as a suitable false name. ’
Darcy gasped. ‘I think you may be right. When I mentioned the fanciulla he recognised the work, and was at pains to confirm the artist as Lorenzo.’
‘Could we challenge him?’ Elizabeth asked.
Howard shook his head. ‘We have no proof.’
‘I’m still puzzled.’ Elizabeth paused. ‘To my untrained eye this is an excellent work, far superior to the portrait by Mario Pavan. It was exhibited at the Royal Academy. How is it possible that a man like Sgaravatti could pass off his forgeries as the work of a major artist?’
‘Let me offer an analogy.’ Howard resumed his seat.
‘In music we distinguish composers from performers. Mozart was a genius. Only a handful of people could emulate him as a composer. But many musicians can perform his works competently. In art the same distinction holds. Only geniuses come up with great compositions, but a multitude of painters can reproduce their compositions on canvas, often more adeptly than the original artist.’
Elizabeth nodded, her gaze returning to the fanciulla. If painted in 1806, this lady would be about her own age, and probably English, not Venetian.
Who was she?
Alone in the morning room, Elizabeth reviewed what they had learned from the art expert.
Faint sounds from the music room suggested that Georgiana had resumed her daily practice.
Darcy had gone to his study to put away the paintings.
Returning, he sat opposite, waiting as a maid cleared away the coffee tray.
‘Some progress,’ he said.
‘Towards understanding the paintings, yes. But as to the identity of the fanciulla, nothing.’
He nodded. ‘Unless we can persuade Sgaravatti to admit the forgery. But I concur with Howard. We have no proof, no lever to make him talk.’
Elizabeth threw up her hands. ‘It seems you have been right all along. I have read too much into coincidences.’
‘I’ve stumbled on one further avenue we might explore.’ Darcy met her eye. ‘But perhaps you would prefer to forget the whole matter.’
‘Will it help with the painting?’
‘I don’t see how it could. But it bears on your father’s journey to Italy, and might even be of interest to him.
I got talking at my club yesterday evening with a gentleman who knows the Leighton family.
It transpires that your father’s university friend Henry Leighton has returned to England and owns an estate near Putney Heath, south of the river. ’
Elizabeth gasped. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘The difficulty, of course, is that we are interested in a potentially embarrassing subject—Mrs Leighton’s sojourn in Venice, and the fate of her baby born out of wedlock.
I think the best tactic would be to visit the area and call.
Tell them you are Thomas Bennet’s daughter, and see how they react.
It would be up to them to decide what they wished to confide. ’
‘How far?’
‘An hour’s ride. Since the weather is fine, we could bring Georgiana and treat it as an outing. Lunch at an inn, call at the estate, then return. I can have a message sent to Mr and Mrs Gardiner.’