CHAPTER 18
Eva dropped the letter of introduction into her reticule, then made her way to Sarah’s sitting room. They would all be on their own today. Gareth had business with Lord Ywain, so he would not escort them around town.
A decision had been made to take the opportunity to pursue their own interests.
Wesley planned to visit some men of business that he knew.
Sarah wanted to shop, and would take her maid as company.
Rebecca had chosen to tag along with Eva while she paid a call on Mary Moser, the woman painter she had long admired.
“You must take the carriage,” Sarah said when Eva arrived.
“You are the one likely to have packages. Rebecca and I will ask a footman to bring a hired carriage around.”
“I will agree, if you promise to be careful and to fight off any young men who start following our perfect gem.” She beamed in Rebecca’s direction. “Of course they all notice her, and some look at her too boldly, to my thinking.”
“I will fight them off myself, Sarah,” Rebecca said. “I do not see much in the young men roving the streets that would be appealing to any girl.”
“They certainly do not look to have the substance of Mr. Mansfield,” Sarah said while she tied on her bonnet.
“Nor the artistic soul of Mr. Trenton,” Rebecca said.
Sarah shook her head in exasperation, then looked around for her reticule. “Where did I—”
A rap on the door interrupted. Her maid hurried over to see who had come. A white letter passed out of a footman’s white glove. With an expression of surprise, the maid brought it to Eva.
Eva examined the letter. She had never seen anything quite like it.
The paper must be the finest made. Thick, heavy, and rich, its finely laid surface might have been velvet under her fingers.
An elaborately engraved escutcheon decorated its outside.
With Rebecca and Sarah hovering near her shoulders, she opened it.
The finest hand had written a personal invitation for Miss Russell to attend a ball being held by the Earl and Countess DeVere next week.
“Well, I’ll be—” Sarah muttered in a voice full of awe. “Do you think a mistake was made and it was intended for Rebecca?”
“Of course, no mistake was made,” Rebecca said. “I think a countess knows that if one addresses a letter to Miss Russell, it will go to the eldest sister.”
Eva was not so sure. A mistake made more sense than this coming to her.
“You must go,” Rebecca said.
“I am not sure I must, or that I want to. It makes no sense that I received this. I do not know these people, nor do they know me.”
“Someone arranged it, then,” Sara said. “Mr. Fitzallen perhaps.”
“If so, you really must go, Eva,” Rebecca said. “It would be rude to refuse, after all his hospitality. And it is an earl’s ball.”
“But we will not even still be here next Tuesday.”
“We will be now,” Sarah said. “I’ve no idea what you will wear. I brought a ball gown, just on the chance that it would be needed. It will hardly do for such as this, however, no matter how hard we try to improve it.”
A bit of pique penetrated Eva’s astonishment. Surely Gareth knew she would be ill-equipped for such an invitation. She could hardly attend wearing her blue pelisse.
She stood, tweaked her bonnet’s rim, and pulled on her gloves. “I will decide later what to do. I cannot think now. Come along, Rebecca.”
“I’ll be seeing if any dressmakers do fast orders,” Sarah called after them as they walked to the stairs. “And I’ll look in the warehouses for lace and such.”
“What trouble and nonsense,” Eva muttered.
* * *
The house on Upper Thornhaugh Street appeared handsome if modest. Eva handed her card and Miss Neville’s letter of introduction to the servant who came to the door. She and Rebecca waited a good while before the woman returned.
“My lady will see you, but it cannot be for long.”
Eva’s excitement built with every step up the stairs.
They were not taken to a drawing room or library.
Instead the servant opened a door on a bedchamber.
An elderly woman sat in a big chair beside the bed, covered in a blanket.
Anyone who saw her would know she was ill, even without the scent of a sickroom that defied the spring breeze leaking in the window that had been set ajar a few inches.
The servant moved two chairs nearby. The elderly woman raised her gaze from Miss Neville’s letter. A wry smile formed. “Welcome, Miss Russell. Who is your companion?”
Eva sat in her chair and introduced Rebecca to Mary Moser, one of only two women who had been made members of the Royal Academy of Arts thus far, and one of its founders. Although she had married years after she had established her reputation, everyone referred to her by her maiden name.
Mary’s eyes narrowed as she examined Rebecca. “Lovely. Have you come to town for the Season, child, so men die from heartbreak over you?”
Rebecca shook her head. “We came to see the art and sights. I would not want anyone to die from heartbreak in any case, and I would hope my mind and character would be at least as much interest as my face to a man.”
Mary chuckled, and waved the letter. “I think Jasmine has been influencing you. How is she faring up there in her rustic abode? Terrorizing the locals with her strong opinions?”
“She is quite the original still,” Eva said. “We are both grateful for her generosity.”
“She says you are an artist. With whom did you study?”
“Only a talented governess, but I work on my own. I think I have improved. I have done copies of fine pictures, and Miss Neville has offered me others from her own collection for further study.”
A very polite smile grew on Mary’s face while Eva talked. It was the kind given when a conversation had taken a boring turn.
“You will not remember me,” she added quickly. “I wrote to you once. Eight years ago.”
“Did I write back?”
“Yes. You gave me advice. You warned me how hard it was for a woman to be a painter. How marriage would compromise any such career. How the best training would not be available.”
“I wrote all of that, did I? The last part is true. Life studies, for example, are not available. We are all too modest to draw the nude form from life, especially the male body, it is thought. Rubbish, of course. Yet without the rigor of such exercises, figures will always look a bit like cotton dolls. As for the first part—did you not think it odd advice, considering I had myself married?”
“I confess I was not aware of that at the time.”
Her gray head rested back on the chair. Her eyes closed.
“We both knew within weeks we had made an error. We took lovers and survived. However, I made that step late in life. I had already become all I would ever be as an artist by then.” Her head straightened and she looked at Eva.
“You are not married. Did you forgo it because of what I wrote to you? I do not think I want such a permanent decision on your part on my conscience during my last days.”
“Be assured my marital state had nothing to do with you. In fact, I almost married. Since I did not, however, your words have influenced me to see my situation for its benefits. I do not seek fame like yours. I only hope to improve, so I can create on canvas or board what I see in my head.”
She received a long look for that. Then Mary began coughing. The fit turned violent, affecting her whole body. The woman servant came over to calm her, and poured some potion from a little bottle into a glass that she held to her mistress’s lips.
The medicine worked quickly. The body under the blanket relaxed. The gray head lolled. The servant caught Eva’s eye.
“We will leave you now,” Eva said, standing. “You were very kind to agree to receive us.”
Mary’s eyes opened. “Will you be in town when the Exhibition opens?” Her voice came breathless and slurred.
“We will be gone by then, I am sorry to say.”
“Pity. Do your copies of Jasmine’s collection, and draw often. Hire a man to model for you, if you can find one willing to pose unclothed. With time you will improve, if you have talent like Jasmine thinks. It is a worthy goal.”
“Thank you. We will see ourselves out.”
Back on the street, she and Rebecca paused.
“I think she is dying,” Rebecca said.
“I think so too.”
They walked down the street, subdued. Slowly the sun and breeze lifted them out of their sad reveries.
“Eva,” Rebecca said with an impish smile. “Which of the men in Landgon’s End do you think will pose nude for you?”
* * *
As soon as Gareth entered the presence of the Duchess of Devonshire, he decided he did not mind at all that Ives walked beside him. He wondered if Ives felt the same way about him.
With difficulty he forced out of his thoughts the subject that had occupied him all morning and most of last night.
He needed to charm answers out of the duchess, not address her with the surliness that colored his mood.
Having left the house without seeing Eva had not helped.
He was not accustomed to jealousy, and the effects of it sat badly on him.
To say the last duke’s second wife knew her exalted status would be an understatement.
She sat regally in a blue upholstered chair designed to complement her size and form.
Her eyes regarded them much the way medieval queens must have looked at serfs.
Considering that Ives was the legitimate son of a duke, and a lord in his own right, that took a good deal of boldness on her part.
But then, this woman had made her way into that chair by playing a very long, calculated game.
Ives’s manner as he greeted her struck just the right note of respect without descending into deference. Her thin smile suggested she would like the latter.
“We have come on a matter of personal interest to the Prince Regent,” Ives said. “It is possible you can help us with an inquiry undertaken at his request.”
“If you are going to use a preamble like that, I suppose I must help if I can.”