Chapter Eight #2
Phillippe cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It’s almost time. All right, ladies, you might go out and join the crowds now. Sir,” he bid the guard. “Take these ladies and show them to the front.”
Lucy and Mrs. Clifton left, but not without giving Sibyl little smiles. “Good luck,” Lucy said.
Sibyl fidgeted.
“What is it, Miss Clifton? You are nervous?” Phillippe asked.
“Yes. This is such an important event. I don’t want to ruin anything.”
He laughed. “You won’t. You will be a shining star.”
“But, Phillippe, what about Miss Harvey? What she’d said to you the other day at the studio…”
The artist’s face darkened.
“You don’t think she would do anything to ruin this event, do you?
” Sibyl spoke the question that had been lingering on her tongue for the past hour.
She had dithered on whether to speak her worry or not.
But then it had slipped out, and now she felt better for having spoken but worried she might have hurt his trust in her.
Would he walk out and cancel the whole event?
Artists were temperamental personalities, weren’t they?
He patted her hand. “I have told the guards that if she arrives, not to let her in. Only people with tickets are allowed in, and this was an invite-only event. Unless they were personally approved by me, they were not to gain entry. She can threaten all she likes, but no one will steal this moment from us, Miss Clifton. No one.”
Sibyl nodded and let out a little sigh of relief. She hoped to God he was right.
Outside the little corridor, the back room space where they stood, Sibyl could hear the growing tumultuous roar of the crowd.
It was a murmur, a building sound as people’s voices grew, and then it quieted as Phillippe slipped out of the corridor through a hidden door and entered the main gallery room.
She could dimly hear his words, introducing his works.
“The few paintings and sketches I have for you today, they are the work of weeks of study, but more importantly, they show the depth and beauty of a young woman. She is unlike us and yet is to be admired. She is young, she is smart, but she has a quiet, classical beauty. She is sweet, she is kind, but that could be any young accomplished woman today.”
Phillippe continued, “No. What makes her beautiful, what captured my eye, my artist’s mind, began with her name.
She reminded me of the Muses of Greek mythology, who graced the ancient world with their talents.
And she is aptly named, for her name is Sibyl.
I hope that you find her beauty and grace as stunning and captivating as I have.
Ladies, gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to… Miss Sibyl Clifton. My muse.”
There was silence. The door opened, and Phillippe held out a hand. “Miss Clifton.”
She took his hand and stepped out into the light, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes on her as guards removed cloths from paintings, sketches, canvases, and even miniatures. There was a gasp as people stared.
She stood there and felt a tremor threaten to take hold of her. Then she decided, No. I will not fret or fear. If this is to be my moment, I will take it in style. What would a princess do?
Sibyl raised her chin and looked from one side of the crowd to another.
All eyes were on her. Then, slowly, and big, expressive, like she had seen the grand singer do, she took parts of her skirt and walking coat, treated it as if it were a fine evening gown, and gave a grand curtsy, worthy of meeting a member of the royal family.
She rose, slowly, and waited. Would the people gathered there like her or laugh? Would they abhor her? Would it all be a disaster, with her disgraced and the artist Phillippe scorned for his poor taste in muse? She looked straight ahead. There was silence, and she could hear quiet breathing.
Then there was a clap.
A person began to clap. And a second. A third.
Fourth. Fifth. Soon it was like a wave, and now dozens—no, not just dozens, hundreds of people in the crowd began clapping, and cheering, and talking, and smiling, and applauding, and then people moved forward to feast their eyes on the pictures.
Phillippe stood by, beaming, and took Sibyl’s hand. “Stay by me,” he told her. “And smile.”
Her mother’s instructions to her at parties served her well. Sibyl smiled and nodded and took her time to survey the pictures Phillippe had done. There was a reason he had taken the London art world by storm.
His paintings were exquisite, his sketches inspired.
There were paintings of her as Diana, hunting with her dogs in the woods, but painted wearing a thin hunting dress that made her appear ethereal and otherworldly.
He had done some charcoal sketches of her reading and had captured the light on her face as she turned the page of a book.
Even the miniatures, small and dainty, depicted a pretty, young woman reading, with an air of quiet domesticity.
He had not painted her as any grand or wildly stunning creature, for that was not what she was.
She was distinctly ordinary and loved reading.
He brought that love, that expression, out in her and showed it as an inner beauty and strength that made her seem almost angelic.
Other portraits of his were bolder. Phillippe had painted a scene of her lounging by a pool with other Greek muses, almost ethereal in ghostly shades and a toga, and in another, lost in the woods with wild satyrs looking on.
In each picture, Sibyl was shown as either sweet and innocent, or naive with a bright goodness that was pure, lovely, and youthful.
He had done a service, making her seem more than she was, Sibyl realized.
“Phillippe, I cannot thank you enough,” she told him. “You have done so much. It is remarkable.”
“Ah, that makes me glad. Thank you, dear Miss Clifton.” He patted her hand.
“Now, I do believe there are some people who wish to make your acquaintance. Do answer as many questions as you wish, and then tonight, there will be dinner and dancing at the Lyon’s Den.
As a little treat, Mrs. Dove-Lyon is holding a party in our honor.
Only those who love art are invited. And your portrait will have pride of place in her gallery.
She already commissioned a portrait of you. ”
A private event. In her honor? This was too much. She said so, and was gently chided.
“No, Miss Clifton, it is not enough. It will never be enough. But it is something.” A brief shadow crossed Phillippe’s face before it disappeared. “Now, Miss Clifton, I would like to introduce you to the editor of The London Times.”
And so it began. Sibyl answered questions about working with Phillippe, how wonderful and kind he was, how her mother and sister would escort her and stay there as chaperones while he sketched and painted her, but even then she’d had no idea what scenes he had been painting.
It had all been very mysterious. It was daunting being interviewed by journalists and her cheeks ached from smiling so much, but this, she realized, was genuine. She was honestly happy.
If only Mr. Heyter could be here to see it, she thought. What would he say?
That evening, Sibyl and her mother dressed in finery to visit the Lyon’s Den.
They gained entry and once divested of their cloaks, joined the ladies in the upper observation gallery.
There were many well-dressed women already present, talking and playing cards, and upon seeing Sibyl, they flocked to her.
“The muse!” one said. “Miss Clifton, how good it is to meet you properly. I say, is this your first time at the Lyon’s Den?”
Another asked, “How much did you pay to have him paint you? What are his rates?”
A third asked, “Did you have to pose for very long? I heard it takes hours and hours for artists to capture the image of a person.”
Sibyl opened her mouth to speak, then realized many of these women just wanted to be seen talking to her. More than one flitted away like butterflies as soon as they’d spoken and being surrounded, Sibyl began to feel overly warm and a trifle flustered. “I…”
“Ladies, ladies, let the girl breathe. My goodness,” a familiar husky, feminine voice said.
“Why, it’s the Countess d’Arbley,” a woman said.
“Oh, she’s ever so grand,” breathed another.
Sibyl turned. The countess that evening was dressed in a red-and-black creation that looked absolutely sinful.
It was divine, and Sibyl envied it enormously.
The woman had all the curves to make a sack look salacious, but her smile was kind.
She embraced Sibyl and said in her ear, “Relax. The moment you seem nervous, they will gossip.”
Sibyl breathed, “They’ll gossip, anyway, won’t they?”
The countess laughed uproariously. “Yes, my dear Miss Clifton. Best give them something good to talk about.” She took Sibyl’s hand and said loudly, “It is so good to see you again. Come, let us join the festivities, shall we? I know of a few handsome men who are simply dying to meet you.”
Sibyl’s mouth dropped open, and the countess winked at her and gave the crowd of ladies a grand smile. “Do excuse us.”
And with that, the countess led Sibyl down the stairs. “Best to keep them wanting more. They’ll gossip, anyway, but at least you’re on to more interesting sights. Now, come let us see.”
The pair went down to the main gambling room, where musicians played, and many men and women mingled, gambled, and talked, all while drinking. Over against the wall hung a stunning portrait of Sibyl on prominent display.
It was the one Sibyl had seen before in the Royal Exhibition, of her painted as the Greek goddess Diana, leading the hunting dogs in the forest. As she looked closer, there was a moment of otherworldly clarity about her expression, as if she’d been caught.
Her eyes looked out upon the viewer, like a moment in time.
“I love that picture of you. It’s breathtaking,” the countess said.