Chapter Four #2
Mrs. Clifton gave her daughter a half smile. “Real life is different from storybooks, Sibyl. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Even in matters of the heart?”
“Especially then.” Her mother smiled as the artist brought out a tray with tea, cracked cups, and saucers, as well as a small plate of biscuits. “Jolly good. Now let’s see you sketch my daughter.”
The quiet scratching of Phillippe’s hand over his paper and canvas had soothed her, even as the afternoon light began to fade, he had lit candles, which added a warm glow.
She’d found the entire afternoon agreeable.
She had sat and read books while he sketched.
The afternoon took a turn when there was a scratching at the door, and Phillippe opened a window to let in a black-and-white cat.
He’d called it “Belle” and scratched the feline behind the ears affectionately.
Sibyl smiled at the artist’s love for the cat and gave into a light daydream about being an artist’s wife before quickly dismissing it.
What Phillippe needed was a maid to usher in his clients and to clean up his studio, which smelled strongly of paint at times.
He had little interest in the books on his table, which appeared to have never been opened.
Sibyl longed for a man to talk about them with.
The silence was proving dull, she thought, as she watched the cat approach her mother.
At first, Mrs. Clifton was stern about the animal, until it rubbed its face against her legs and hopped into her lap. Then both were content to sit another hour, particularly when the cat fell asleep and began to snore.
But as the hour grew late, Phillippe rose from his stool, set down his sketching board, and called things to a close before thanking them for coming. “Before you go… let us discuss terms.”
“‘Terms’? Whatever do you mean?” Mrs. Clifton asked.
“Mrs. Clifton, I am inspired. Your daughter has a rare beauty about her. To the ordinary person, she is no different from them. But when she opens a book and reads, she is transformed.”
“It’s those bloomin’ stories, isn’t it?” Sibyl’s mother muttered.
The artist blinked. “She is like the embodiment of Demeter, or Aphrodite. She is… Sibyl. I mean to make her the talk of London.”
Mrs. Clifton’s eyes widened.
“You comprehend my meaning. When my sketches and paintings of her go on display, the public will be fighting for them. I rarely choose a woman to be my muse who is not imminently beautiful, smart, talented, and desirable.”
Sibyl’s eyes widened. Her, desirable? That would be nice to think.
Mrs. Clifton glanced at her daughter, skepticism in her eyes. “I love my daughter, but are you certain we are speaking of the same person?”
Sibyl shot her mother a wounded look, and Mrs. Clifton bit back a laugh. “Sorry, dear. It’s just… all you do is read those books.” She shook her head. “What Mr. Phillippe sees in you, I do not know.”
Sibyl turned her head away slightly. She had no wish to let her mother see the pain in her eyes.
“That is quite all right, madame. I sketch and paint what I see, and soon, you and all of London will see too. I promise you.”
“What is it you require of us?” Mrs. Clifton asked. “Aside from our time on a Sunday afternoon.”
Phillippe said, “Tell no one that Miss Clifton is my muse. No one must know. It is a great secret.”
Sibyl wondered idly about Kate interrupting their session the other day and witnessing his sketching her. Would she talk about it?
“What? No one is to say a word? Not even to our friends? Then how will she be the talk of the town?” Mrs. Clifton asked.
“Because I have the ear of a few people. Influential people. Once I drop a hint in the right ear of certain writers, fellow artists, patrons, and gossips, the news will spread. But not before we are ready. It must remain a secret for now. I am painting again, and I have a muse. And soon the world will learn… Her name is Sibyl.” He looked at Sibyl fondly.
Mrs. Clifton huffed. “Well. I can see you’re intent on this, but what about my girl? When will the news come out?”
“We won’t reveal her name. Not until the grand debut of my paintings and sketches.
I will let people know and then it will start.
People will begin to talk and want to know who the young lady who has caught my eye and captured my mind is.
She who walks through my dreams… They will demand to know who.
And then when they see her portrait in the gallery, they will fight over who can pay first for her picture. ” He beamed.
“And you have done this before?” Mrs. Clifton asked.
“Yes. Numerous times. It has always worked.”
“And what of the muses, the women, once you have painted them? What becomes of them?” Sibyl asked. She glanced at Phillippe’s face, and wondered, could she fall in love with him? Could she see a future for herself with him?
But then he scratched at his armpit and sneezed, sounding like a trumpet, and it made the cat flee the room.
Sibyl and her mother jumped at the sound.
Maybe not such a good choice for a romantic partner, for she could never get used to his sneezes.
Sibyl thought briefly of Mr. Heyter, and how he had watched her so intently that afternoon at the Royal Exhibition.
And his words to her, saying he would buy a painting if it was of her.
The attention had made her blush. It had been so forward.
It had made her feel desirable. She grew warm to think of it.
Phillippe looked at her. “My muses, they are so many. These women become the darlings of society. Some marry well, while others rely on the fame and fortune and bank on being desirable. It lets them move in society however they choose.”
“I see. So we aren’t to say anything.”
“Nothing at all. Act as if you are just hearing the news along with everyone else and help spread the word. Then it will all come out.” He tapped his nose. “Tu comprends?”
“Yes.” The women bade their goodbyes and entered the family carriage.
“Well,” Mrs. Clifton said, leaning back against the teal cushioned seat. “What do you make of that, Sibyl? You, a darling of society, eh?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’ve never had the opportunity before.”
“And I daresay you won’t ever again. Best make the most of it. Just think, this could help you get a handsome suitor. Or a rich one. Preferably both.”
Sibyl idly wondered what Mr. Heyter would think of this. But she couldn’t shake a nagging thought. Why her? Why had the artist chosen her as his muse? It made no sense.
That evening, however, Mrs. Clifton and Sibyl received an invitation to dine with the Joneses, a family whose matriarch had gone to finishing school with Mrs. Clifton.
The Joneses were proudly welcoming all family and extended friends, as their son Malcolm had recently married a beauty from Kent, who apparently was a voracious reader.
Sibyl instantly felt wistful, a trifle jealous and hopeful at the same time.
Wistful, that such a reader might now be faced with wifely duties and the expectation of motherhood to occupy her time, rather than a good book. What lively discussions they might have had!
Jealous, that this Kent beauty, whoever she was, had managed to find a suitor who appreciated her love of reading.
She was finding it difficult. But she was also hopeful that this new bride might be willing to talk about books with her and perhaps share some friendly advice.
That cheered Sibyl the most, the idea that she might find a new friend.
That early evening, she dressed with care, wearing a light-blue satiny dress with delicate folds that made the dress whisper around her legs. With her white stockings and smart shoes that she often reserved for dancing, she was ready.
Until her mother saw her outfit and said, “Sibyl, this is just a family dinner. Not a ball. What you’re wearing is too fine. I half-expect you to pull out your satin gloves at any moment. Go ask Greene to help you choose a suitable dress.”
Chastened, Sibyl went back to her room. She’d known her dress was a bit finer than what one would wear to a simple dinner, but she’d wanted to impress.
Never mind. She was just changing into an old favorite, a sea-green dress with smart but conservative white trim around the hem and bodice, and put on a simple gold cross for decoration.
She met her mother downstairs in the small foyer of the townhouse and put on her cloak, a dark forest-green one with a hood.
“Much better.” Her mother gave an approving nod.
But when they arrived at the Joneses’, the people there were discussing a little rumor.
Sibyl and her mother were introduced to the party, which were a group of already married couples, as well as some familiar faces, including Kate Harvey.
Sibyl took pleasure in seeing Isobel there among the guests and moved toward her.
“Good evening,” Isobel said, curtseying. She took Sibyl’s arm and whispered, “I’m so glad you are here. I don’t know what I would have done without a friendly face to see. I say, who is that?” She looked over Sibyl’s shoulder.
Sibyl saw Mr. Percy, Mr. Heyter’s friend, who bowed to her.
Isobel squeezed her arm. “He’s coming this way. Do you know him?”
“Yes,” Sibyl before greeting the gentleman in question. “Mr. Percy.”
“Good evening,” Mr. Percy said jovially. “Well met, Miss Clifton. I didn’t know you’d be here. Old Robert and I go way back. We were friends at university. And who is your pretty friend?”
Isobel beamed. She gave Sibyl a pointed look.
Sibyl frowned at her friend. Isobel was engaged, after all. But decorum demanded an introduction. She said, “Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Isobel Blakeney. Miss Blakeney, this is Mr. George Percy.”