Chapter Three
The next morning at breakfast, Sibyl’s mother had much to say.
“Well, I hope you enjoyed yesterday evening,” Her mother munched on toast and orange marmalade.
“I have engaged Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s services, but the woman seems to know everything going on at once.
I asked her to arrange a meeting with you and a suitable gentleman, and she said you were already going with your new friends to the Royal Exhibition.
I said, ‘What new friends?’ and she laughed, as if I were making a great joke,” Mrs. Clifton said, shedding toast crumbs everywhere.
“Actually, Mama, Mrs. Dove-Lyon is right. I do have plans to attend the Royal Exhibition. I made some new acquaintances the other night…” Sibyl started.
“Oh, really? Who?”
“Miss Margaret Watson and Miss Kate Harvey, whom we saw the other night at Mrs. Sprout’s. I met Miss Watson last night at the Lyon’s Den.”
Her mother, who trusted her close friend Mrs. Sprout’s taste in most things, gave a firm nod. “All right. You can go. But do not stay out too late. I am trusting you.”
Lucy looked relieved and let out a little breath. Sibyl winked at her.
Tuesday came around faster than she’d expected, although that was likely because Sibyl was re-reading the “The Lady of the Lake” by Sir Walter Scott. She rather thought the idea of a woman being so desired was romantic and wished she might inspire such depth of feeling and passion in a man.
The thought of Mr. Heyter’s face briefly appeared in her thoughts, but she shook her head. None of that. She didn’t even like him. Why would she have been thinking of him?
That afternoon, Sibyl dressed well, in a light-purple dress and a tan walking coat, with a beige bonnet and lavender-colored ribbon.
She carried a small, embroidered reticule, and with a pair of trim brown leather walking boots, she was ready.
Her hair was coiled up inside her bonnet, and she took a family carriage to the exhibition, with instructions to return there in an hour’s time.
She paid the entry fee and went inside, looking for her new friends.
Miss Watson and Miss Harvey soon found her.
Miss Watson wore a white dress with a teal-blue Spencer, whilst Kate wore a light-pink dress and a yellow walking coat, with a tall, peaked bonnet and blue ribbon.
With her blonde hair, she looked very pretty, indeed.
“Good afternoon.” Miss Watson greeted Sibyl, and they shook hands again. Kate nodded to her. “Finally, we were waiting for you. The men haven’t arrived yet.”
But a moment later, she looked over Sibyl’s shoulder and said, “Ah, there they are. Good afternoon!” She waved and hurried toward them.
Miss Watson smiled. “I think she fancies him, or maybe his friend, but has not made up her mind yet as to whom she wants more.”
“What do you mean?” Sibyl asked.
Miss Watson turned her around. “Mr. Heyter, of course. And his friend Mr. Percy. They seem kind and friendly.”
At the sight of Mr. Heyter, Sibyl tried not to meet his eyes but couldn’t help herself. Something fluttered in her chest at the sight of him. She rather felt drawn to Mr. Heyter, like a moth to a flame, or a bee to a rose. She wondered what he was thinking.
The man himself faced Kate, but he was looking elsewhere. Namely, at her. Their eyes met from across the room, and he inclined his head. Mr. Percy, beside him, waved.
The two groups met.
“Ladies. What a pleasant way to spend an afternoon,” Mr. Heyter said, bowing.
The ladies curtsied, and the men bowed.
“Yes, indeed. Let us all go in,” Kate said, taking both Mr. Heyter’s and Mr. Percy’s arms in hers, with herself in the middle. Mr. Percy said something to her, and she laughed, her eyes shining. She said something to Mr. Heyter, who smiled thinly.
“What’s so funny?” Sibyl asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just our little joke,” Kate said, giggling.
The artist, Phillippe, appeared. “Good afternoon,” he said in heavily accented French. “Good to see you all again.” His eyes alighted on Sibyl. “I am so glad you are here.” He bowed deeply and took her hands.
“So am I,” she said, charmed.
He led her away, and the group followed.
Sibyl glanced over her shoulder. Kate looked delighted, Miss Watson, amused. Mr. Percy looked pleased while Mr. Heyter looked mildly disgusted, but that might have just been his mood.
Sibyl couldn’t be sure and so decided to stop worrying about what the others might have thought and just enjoy herself.
She let the artist steer her into the gallery and over to a large room, full of paintings, from landscapes and still lifes to portraits.
The paintings on the walls went up to the very ceiling, and it was hard not to be impressed.
Sibyl was conscious that Phillippe was talking, but she stood there, glancing upward at the paintings. She felt almost struck wordless by the sheer beauty of the sketches and portraits brought to life on canvas.
“What are you thinking?” a familiar voice asked.
“How privileged I am to be here and see this,” she said, still glancing upward.
“Better than a book?” Mr. Heyter asked.
“Different. In a book, my mind constructs the pictures of the story as I read it. Here, the images are already portrayed, and even the Biblical scenes, it is so fascinating to see them through the eyes of the artists. I never appreciated what a skill it was.”
She didn’t need to look at Mr. Heyter to know he was smiling. Somehow, she just knew.
“You have an artful soul,” Phillippe said, standing on her left side. “Come, let me show you my paintings.”
“Thank you.” Sibyl followed him to another room as he walked, not looking back. He was expecting them all to keep up with him, she realized.
“Miss Clifton,” Phillippe said, “here are my works.” He held up a hand and gestured to the wall.
There were large paintings, depicting women in various scenes. He told her, “That is a countess. She had me come to her and I stayed two months at her estate. She paid me handsomely, but she wanted me to paint her in a famous scene.”
Sibyl looked closer. There was the woman herself, posing at a card table, surrounded by three men, who all looked gross, unkempt, and drunken, but she sat demurely at the table with a cat on her lap, looking at the viewer from behind her cards, with a little smile.
Sibyl had no doubt that if the scene were true, the lady card player knew exactly what she was doing, and her three opponents were about to lose their shirts.
“I like it.”
“You do?” Phillippe asked.
“Yes. You’ve captured the countess, and it’s like she’s looking right at me.”
He clapped. “Aha, yes, you understand. You have the mind and soul of an artist, I am sure of it.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Kate said, coming up behind them. “It takes more than a few compliments on paintings to develop a true appreciation for art.”
Sibyl’s cheeks felt warm. She looked at Kate. “You may well be right. I probably don’t deserve the title. But I know what I like. And I like this.”
Phillippe beamed.
The others joined them, and Mr. Percy walked beside her as Kate drew Phillippe into conversation. “Careful, Miss Clifton. I think you’ve charmed Phillippe. We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t steal you away to pose for him.”
Sibyl laughed. “No chance of that, I assure you. I am certain he has many women willing to model for him.”
“You sell yourself short, I think, Miss Clifton. It is not a matter of who chooses him, but whom he chooses to paint. From what I hear, our painter friend is most discerning in his choice of muses.”
“But surely to survive, he would have to take commissions and paint whatever people asked of him?”
Philippe, whom Sibyl was sure had heard everything, merely winked.
“I am sure he does, or at least did, when he first started out. But now? I wonder,” Mr. Percy said.
“I think it is romantic to be chosen by an artist,” Kate said, smiling at Phillippe. “Not everyone is. It’s a mark of distinction to be recognized as such a beauty.”
“Maybe,” Sibyl said. “But what if the artist does not like the model he paints? What if he decides to paint what he sees and shows every boil, every blemish, and wrinkle?”
“I assure you,” Phillippe began, a hand held to his heart, “I do not do that. There are some older men and women who fear I will show their outward appearance to the world. But I do not overly beautify my subjects. I seek to draw out their true natures and inner beauty. That is what leaps from my brush.”
Mr. Heyter smiled.
“What think you, Heyter?” Mr. Percy asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“I could not say. But I think if it is true, and the painter does think of asking one of the young ladies here to be a model, then he has good taste.” He looked at Sibyl as he spoke.
Sibyl laughed. A little thrill ran through her. “You are too kind.” She glanced at Mr. Heyter and said, “There is no need for false flattery, truly.” She looked around. “Where is Miss Watson?”
Strangely enough, the young lady could not be seen.
“We should find her. It’s not right that she be alone,” Sibyl said.
“I’ll go look for her,” Mr. Percy said.
“No, I’ll go.”
“We’ll go together,” Mr. Heyter said.
She started walking. “I don’t know where she could have disappeared to.”
“I think Miss Watson said she was fond of sculpture,” Mr. Heyter said.
“Is that when you two were out on the balcony at the Lyon’s Den?” Sibyl asked.
“Now, how would you know that? I thought you were busy dancing with George.”
“I was. But I have eyes too.”
“That sounds remarkably like jealousy, Miss Clifton,” he said.
“Not at all, Mr. Heyter. Just an observation,” she said with a smile. But it was too quick, and Sibyl wondered, what if he was right? Had she been jealous?
“Miss Clifton,” Mr. Heyter began.
“Hmm?” Sibyl looked around, but there were so many people milling about. It was hard to tell one person from another. So many women in their walking coats and bonnets, along with well-dressed men. The Royal Exhibition was filling up.