Chapter Four
Neville started to feel a headache coming on. A dull ache at the back of his head, moving to his temples as Miss Harvey’s voice grew louder.
He peered at his companions, propping his head up with his hand.
He sat on a fine, blue-striped sofa, his right arm leaning on a cushioned armrest, beside his sister, Penelope, whilst George looked on.
Miss Margaret Watson sat on a chair across from him, looking with a slight smile at Miss Harvey, who, for the last five minutes straight, had not stopped talking.
“You wouldn’t believe how smug she was.”
“That sounds remarkably like jealousy, Kate,” Margaret teased.
“I saw her smile. Her coy, little, ‘Oh, good afternoon.’” She mimicked with a timid hand up to her mouth.
George smirked and opened his mouth to speak, but Miss Watson shook her head. “Best not. Let her talk herself out. She’s bound to need to draw breath soon.” She grinned at Kate, who continued as if Margaret hadn’t spoken.
Neville glanced at Miss Harvey. “What are you talking about? You have seen someone who offends you?”
“Only Miss Clifton. I fail to understand why men like her so. She is no great beauty, and has no superior charm, intellect, or wit. She is nothing more than your average young woman and has no special talent she can claim. So what makes her so special, aside from that she is a great reader? She has no singular talent.”
“I think you are more wondering why he would invite her to—”
Kate threw a pillow at Miss Watson and it hit her in the face. “Oh!”
“Never you mind, Margaret.” She shot a dagger-filled look at Miss Watson.
Neville glanced at the ladies. “Who is inviting Miss Clifton to what?”
“Nothing,” Kate said quickly, with a look at her friend. “Just overheard them talking about other exhibitions of his art. That’s all. Why would an artist like Phillippe befriend her?” Kate gritted her teeth.
“Perhaps he sees something in her that you do not,” Neville said, then he frowned. “What do we know of this artist, George?”
George held his hand up. “I am no judge of art or artists. I only like to admire the female from.”
That earned him a warm smile from Miss Watson and a huff from Kate, who asked, “Why do you defend her, Mr. Heyter? Has she charmed you into being her knight errant?”
He snorted at the idea. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Ha. Am I? I don’t think so. It’s she who is being so silly, flaunting herself at every opportunity.” Kate tossed her head of pretty, blonde curls.
Neville massaged his right temple. He wouldn’t mind seeing Miss Clifton flaunt some things, but that was not suitable to be spoken aloud. He glanced over at George, who looked bored. “Billiards?”
“God, yes.” The men rose and exited the room. As he was second out the door, Neville heard Margaret say, “Too much, Kate. You’ll drive him away if you keep doing that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The more you keep talking about Miss Clifton, the more you put her at the forefront of everyone’s minds. You keep making her special. Hasn’t it occurred to you that the way to make someone less impressive is to not mention them at all?”
Neville hung outside the door for a moment, listening.
“You talk in riddles, Margaret. What is this time? You mean I should not talk about her so that the others might forget her?”
“Exactly. And then when her name does come up, they won’t see her as special at all. Then if she tries to make herself seem important, she’ll just seem pathetic and desperate. Not good looks for young women.”
“Ha. You’re right. Thanks, Marge.”
“What are friends for?”
Neville hurried away on tiptoe as the women approached. He did not like this. And here he’d thought that Margaret had befriended Miss Clifton. He was slightly sad to be proven wrong.
At home, Sibyl received a note from Phillippe, inviting her to come to his studio. She put down the card.
“More sketching? Goodness. He must not have been very good if he needs to sketch you again.” her mother said.
“Ugh, can you go this time, Mama? It was so dull. She just sat there and he sketched her. For ages.” Lucy gave an affected yawn, which turned into a real one, which made Sibyl smile.
If they hadn’t been at tea, she would have thrown a pillow at her younger sister. As it was, they were having a comfortable time sitting on the sofa and chairs in the main parlor and decorum was to be upheld.
Their mother sighed. “All right, I will go. But we cannot stay very long. I have errands to run.”
That afternoon, once tea was finished, Sibyl and her mother took the family carriage to docklands, to his studio. He was expecting them and this time threw the door open with a wide smile. “Miss Clifton, why, you have brought your mother. How delightful.”
“How do you do,” Mrs. Clifton said with a polite nod. “Now about these sketches you are doing—”
“Yes, yes, you must come see. Come, come, I will show you.” He offered her mother his arm as if they were at a ball, and brought her inside, leaving Sibyl to shut the door behind them.
Sibyl followed them inside to see that he had sketches and canvasses, with a large painting taking shape. He had done a first rudimentary sketch of a woman leading dogs in the hunt, wearing a great hat and fine dress, with many hunting dogs at her feet. She perched on a horse, sitting sidesaddle.
“Why have you chosen my daughter? What is your interest in her?” Mrs. Clifton asked.
The artist froze. He blinked rapidly and uttered, “I… I am an artist.”
“Yes, yes, I know. But why have you singled out my daughter to sketch? Did she pay you? Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“Oh, you know the great lady. No, she did not pay me. She does not. We have a friendship, and she knew that I have been lost.”
“‘Lost’?” Sibyl repeated.
“Yes. Lost at sea, you might say.” He looked almost surprised to see her there, as if he’d forgotten her. “I have been searching for my next muse, and that night at the Lyon’s Den, I bumped into Mrs. Dove-Lyon and she told me of a young woman I might like to meet.”
Sibyl cocked her head at him. How much of his interest was unique?
Was it planned? A ploy by Mrs. Dove-Lyon?
She had little romantic interest in the man.
The fact that he had a handful of books in his studio gave her hope, but she sensed the artist’s interest in her was as a painting subject, and nothing else.
He was friendly and cheerful, often flitting around his studio like a bird hopping around a garden, but he was no great reader, she surmised, and Sibyl longed for a romantic partner with whom she could discuss books.
Phillippe said, “She knew that I long for inspiration, to find my next muse. For me, it starts with a name.”
“‘A name’?” Mrs. Clifton said.
“Yes. My muse cannot be so simple as a Mary, Joan, or Elizabeth. These great names belong to queens, but I do not want to paint royalty or historic martyrs. I long to paint women who are real, unique, who have names that are fantastic, like out of a Greek tragedy, or a storybook.” His gaze passed to Sibyl.
“When Mrs. Dove-Lyon mentioned she knew of a young woman I should make the acquaintance of and told me your name, and bid me look upon you, I knew. I had found my muse at last.”
Sibyl let out a breath. Was it true? He’d found inspiration in a name?
Her mother’s practicality broke through her reverie. “And you do this often? You are inspired by names?”
“Yes.”
“So what will this arrangement be, then? You sketch my daughter, paint a few pictures, and expect us to pay?” Mrs. Clifton had not managed her household and husband’s successful mapmaking career for nothing.
“No, Mrs. Clifton. Not at all. I would give one piece to you, as a gift, and then the others go on display. In the royal exhibition, perhaps, or a private gallery, with invitations sent to my patrons.”
Mrs. Clifton pursed her lips together.
“Please, Mrs. Clifton. Your daughter, she has inspired me to paint again. I have been uninspired for many months. I paint scenes—and people. I draw out their beauty. And your daughter is the muse I have been looking for.”
“Please, Mama. I would like to,” Sibyl said.
The idea of sitting for an artist, even if he only liked her name, intrigued her.
It would be some small accomplishment, she supposed.
An amusing diversion she might tell Isobel about later…
She paused in thought. Telling her mother and sister to get their help as chaperones was one thing, but she suspected that telling Isobel would be something Phillippe would rather she avoid doing.
Isobel was her oldest and dearest friend, but perhaps she might keep it a secret and reveal it later as a surprise.
Besides, Isobel was likely too busy to care much about her sitting for an artist, as she would be busy choosing her wedding clothes.
“All right. But you are not being here unchaperoned. You either sketch her in a studio with other people around, or she has a chaperone here.”
“Yes, madame. Of course. I would not dare risk any impropriety.” He clapped a hand to his heart.
Mrs. Clifton surveyed him through narrowed eyes. She’d not yet made up her mind about him, Sibyl could tell.
“Very well. You may sketch. Where do I sit?” She looked around.
Phillippe blinked again and sprang into action. “Right here, madam. Would you like some tea?”
“Yes. I would.”
He hurried away to a small kitchen. As he bustled about with the tea things, Mrs. Clifton said to Sibyl, “Just think. Your picture could be hanging in the Royal Exhibition.”
Sibyl nodded. “It’s an honor he chose me.”
Her mother agreed. “Yes. Although I do wonder if Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a hand in this. Is this part of some scheme, perhaps?”
“I wondered if you two had cooked up something,” Sibyl said.
“Me? No. I simply explained the situation and paid her for her trouble. Simple as that. We are women of business, after all.”
Sibyl blinked, slightly taken aback by her mother’s candor.