Chapter Three #2
His voice was quiet. “When I said the artist has good taste, I was being genuine. There was no false flattery.”
She gave a soft gasp. But her heart began to pound in her chest, and she wondered. His words had loosened something inside her. Like a heart carved of stone that had begun to show a hairline crack.
Mr. Heyter stepped closer. “I mean it. He should be lucky to paint you.”
Sibyl turned her back. She did not want him to see her blush. She put a gloved hand to her cheeks. They were indeed warm. And she could smell his cologne. A clean scent. She wanted to smell more.
He leaned over and said in her ear, “I do not care for the man, but I would buy his painting. If it were of you.”
This was too much. He was being too forward. Sibyl felt her cheeks warm, and she swallowed. “O-Over there, I think. I see her. Miss Watson,” she called, marching forward.
She didn’t know what to think. He had spoken out of turn, and she did not know what to make of it. She had liked when they were sparring, but somehow, their relationship had gone from feuding over books and stories to something else. Did he… fancy her?
She didn’t know. It made her stomach feel uneasy, and she felt his eyes on her as she walked ahead, moving around people.
“Miss Watson,” she said, finding the young woman. “We lost you in the crowd.”
“That’s all right. I’m easily forgotten,” Miss Watson said cheerfully. “And please, call me ‘Margaret.’”
“Then please call me ‘Sibyl.’” Sibyl smiled. “Margaret.”
“There you are, see? Not so hard. But what’s got you so affected? Your cheeks are pink.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Mr. Heyter. Something has discomposed our young friend here. You didn’t tease her, did you?”
Mr. Heyter smiled. “No, I didn’t.” He glanced at Sibyl. “It is the room, perhaps. It is warm.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Sibyl agreed. Her thoughts became entangled like a ball of yarn. What had he meant, he would buy Phillippe’s painting if it were of her? As a reminder of his opponent? To laugh and jeer at? Or something else?
“What do you think of the sculpture, Margaret?” Sibyl asked.
“I think it is very beautiful.” Margaret looked from Mr. Heyter to her. “But there is so much to admire here. Please, do not let me stop you. I have a wish to see more. Excuse me.” She drifted away.
Margaret flitted in between a group of people admiring other marble sculptures, and Sibyl wondered, What bothered her so?
Neville mentally cursed himself. The words had just popped out.
What was he thinking? How could he have been so bold, so forward?
He was like a young fool. He was acting like…
Like George. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, keeping an eye on Miss Clifton as she went after Miss Watson.
He did not know the state of his feelings at the moment and was glad when George joined him, along with Miss Harvey, who looked stony-faced.
“Where did Phillippe go?” Neville asked.
“I don’t know,” Miss Harvey said offhandedly. “These artists, they’re always running off somewhere. But I have no head for art anymore. This whole place is dull and tiresome.”
“Why? I thought you liked the exhibition.” And the attention, he thought.
She shrugged. “One can only look at so many pictures before they all start to blend together. And besides, my feet ache in these shoes. I’d much rather sit and have tea.”
“Then let us find a place where we might do so,” Neville said, holding an arm out to her.
Miss Harvey shot him a bright smile and took his arm as he led the way toward the exit. George said glumly, “I’ll find the others. Don’t leave without me.”
Neville nodded and did his best to pay Miss Harvey attention as she chattered away. But he listened with only half an ear. What was Miss Clifton thinking? He had not meant to be so bold, but the words had slipped out. And she had fled, her cheeks turning rosier by the second. He wondered.
Sibyl found Miss Watson and stuck by her the rest of their time at the exhibition. They observed many pretty sculptures. But once they were alone, admiring a bust of Pallas Athena, looking stern and fearsome in her helmet, Margaret said, “I think Mr. Heyter likes you.”
“Don’t be silly. He likes to tease me. We argue about books.”
“From what I saw, he had no wish to argue with you about anything.” Margaret arched an eyebrow. “You don’t see it, do you? Not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“He watches you. Even across the room. Like he wants to be apprised of your every move. It’s the way he looks at you, even when he’s in conversation with someone else. He wants to know your opinion about things. It’s no wonder Kate’s so jealous.”
“Kate? Jealous of me?” Sibyl laughed. “Whatever for? I have nothing for her to—”
“She’s fancied Mr. Heyter something rotten for years, ever since they were children. You didn’t know? They grew up together. He’s all she’s talked about for ages, until now.” Margaret paused. “I envy you, you know.”
Not you too, Sibyl thought. “Why?”
“Because unlike you, with your firm opinions about books and art, I am easily ignored. I don’t have Kate’s prettiness or bubbly personality, nor your looks or intellectual insight about stories. I don’t read, I sculpt.”
“But that is a gift in and of itself. You must be talented to have such a hobby.”
“Ha, not hardly. I sculpt and paint, because my father runs an art studio in Islington and had no time to look after a small child, so art is what I did to get his attention because nothing else would. But women cannot be taken seriously as artists.” Her voice held a trace of bitterness.
“So what do you do?”
“I help my father keep the studio. I sweep the floors, bring in new pupils, help set up the rooms and clear them away, and assist my father with the business. He’s talented at the craft and instruction, but doing the day-to-day work isn’t his forte.
And my mother… often takes herself to the Continent for her health, or to the seaside. ”
“Is she very poorly?” Sibyl asked.
“Not at all. She is just convinced that she is, and that the smallest amount of time away from London, and I daresay us, will relieve her.” This last bit came out in a rush. Margaret looked at her and bit her lip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to speak so. I love my mother, truly.”
Sibyl smiled at her. “It’s refreshing. My mother normally tells me to smile whenever there’s a young man about, and it’s happened so often, my mouth aches. I dread smiling now.”
It was Margaret’s turn to laugh. “I did hear something about that from Kate…”
The young women laughed together and spent another half hour at the exhibition before finding the others for tea.
But Sibyl could not shake the feeling of being watched, and when she glanced over, it was to meet Mr. Heyter’s eyes.
She refused to look at him for the rest of their time together and made her farewells with a feeling of relief.
The next day, Sibyl received a note at breakfast. A footman, Gerald, held out the letter on a tray. “For you, miss.”
Her eyes widened.
“A letter for her? Who would be writing to you, Sibyl?”
“I don’t know. Isobel, maybe?”
Her mother nodded. “Well, go on. Read it.”
Sibyl took the letter and thanked Gerald, who soon disappeared. She slipped her bread knife under the thin wax seal and opened it. The note read:
Dear Miss Clifton,
I knew you had the soul of an artist the moment I saw you.
I would very much like to paint your portrait.
Say you’ll be my muse. Come to my studio today in the afternoon so I can do some preliminary sketches.
Bring along a chaperone or a friend if you like.
But please, do not tell a soul other than that person.
Best,
Phillippe
The artist’s name was written in an elaborate scrawl that took up more of the page than it should have.
Sibyl smiled at this subtle demand for attention, as well as his request for secrecy and set the letter aside, only to have her mother scoop it up.
Mrs. Clifton swiftly read its contents and her mouth dropped open.
“What is it, Mama?” Lucy asked.
“Why, it’s…” Mrs. Clifton looked at Sibyl. “What on earth?”
“I met the artist, Mr. Phillippe Mercuse, at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s the other night, along with the girls. He simply likes others to call him by his Christian name once they are introduced.”
“I see. You didn’t mention this to me.”
“I forgot.”
“And just who is this Phillippe? He wants to sketch you?” her mother asked.
“Yes, as I said, he’s an artist.”
“What? Phillippe Mercuse wants to paint you?” Lucy dropped her napkin on the table. “Oh, my Lord. I have to come with you. Mama, can I go? I want to meet him.”
“What? Lucy, why do you want to go? I thought you hated art,” their mother said.
“I do, but not artists. Not him. He’s supposed to be ever so handsome.” Lucy shot Sibyl a look of envy. “And he wants to paint you. Why?”
Sibyl shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Are you paying him?”
“No. He came to me and suggested the idea, but I wasn’t sure,” Sibyl said.
“Well, now it seems he’s assuming you’ll agree.” Mrs. Clifton tapped a finger to her mouth in thought and wiped away toast crumbs from her chin with her cloth napkin. “I don’t know… I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well, I have,” Lucy said, “and I tell you he’s wonderful. Everyone who’s anyone wants to be painted by him. I’m only fifteen and yet I know that. Just because you don’t like art, Mama…” Lucy shook her head.
Mrs. Clifton shot her youngest daughter a look. “Just yesterday, you weren’t interested in going to the Royal Exhibition and now this. You’ve changed your mind fast, I see.”
Lucy didn’t comment, merely sipping her tea. “Please, Mama. Let us go.”
“Well, I think it’s up to Sibyl. The invitation did come for her. What do you think?”
Sibyl nibbled a bit of toast and raspberry jam. “I don’t know. It could be fun.”
“Oh, please, Mama, let her go. I’ll go with her. I swear, it’s safe. Promise.” Lucy practically jumped in her seat.