Chapter Nine
Sibyl’s mouth fell open. The painting, the beautiful painting, slashed. Her thoughts instantly went to Phillippe. Was he all right? She had to know.
People were in an uproar. Phillippe was emotional, and, tears in his eyes, he gently lifted the canvas up with the help of some servants. The gash in the canvas was clear, and a shining object fell out of the back.
“What’s that?” Sibyl pointed.
“Why it’s a…” A person started.
“It’s a hairpin,” said another.
“It’s yours,” Sibyl said to Kate.
“Me? Why would you think that?” Kate glanced at her.
“I know it’s yours. You were wearing it earlier tonight,” Sibyl said.
“What are you saying, that I did this? That’s a gross accusation. And completely false.” Kate’s voice rang out.
“All right, what is going on here?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon demanded.
“Miss Harvey was just outside being rude about our success, and now the painting has been damaged. I think she did it, and on purpose,” Sibyl said.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon glanced at Sibyl. “That is serious. Do you have any proof?”
“It’s her hairpin that caused the damage.”
“No, it isn’t,” Kate said. “The painting fell; everyone saw it. If it weren’t for your shoddy ropes coming untied, it’d still be up there. Not that it matters.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon cocked her head. Beneath her black, gauzy veil, it was difficult to make out her expression.
“It matters a great deal, Miss Harvey. My ropes are not shoddy, and we hang pictures and chandeliers all the time. It is most odd that this painting would fall, especially when it was suspended by two thick ropes.”
“Well, I didn’t do it,” Kate said.
“Then why did your hairpin fall out of the painting?” Sibyl asked.
“Miss Clifton…” Mrs. Dove-Lyon began.
“What the young woman says is true, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” The countess stepped forward. “I recognize that hairpin too. Miss Harvey was playing with it out on the balcony just a few minutes ago, when she was insulting Miss Clifton. Rather jealous, I think.”
“Insults are of no consequence. People say what they please here.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned back to Kate. “Is this hairpin yours?”
“I…” She looked ready to protest but eyed the pearl hairpin. “Yes. But it was an accident. I was almost hit by the painting too. It clearly flew out of my hair and struck the painting. Bad luck is all.” She gave Mrs. Dove-Lyon an innocent look, her eyes wide.
“That is most unfortunate.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to Phillippe. “My dear friend, can you restore it?”
“I can try. I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. This is a tragedy.” He looked close to tears and sniffed. “I will take it with me.”
“Of course.” The Black Widow of Whitehall motioned for two servants to come and help take the painting away. People began to disperse and went back to talking amongst themselves, when Kate muttered, “If you ask me, the painting looks better now.”
Sibyl’s eyes widened. Had she really just said that?
But she wasn’t the only one who’d heard. Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned around. “Excuse me. What did you just say?”
Kate had the audacity to smirk. “I mean, it’s not like it was ever a masterpiece, was it? It’s just a silly painting of a girl. Much as you might like to dress up a horse, it’s still a horse. You know?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice was steely. “Miss Harvey, while I do believe in letting people say what they like, I also believe in decorum and civility. You have not kept a civil tongue, and you have damaged a priceless painting. I do believe you have outstayed your welcome. Do collect your things and take your leave.”
Kate’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kicking me out? When it’s she who is behind all this? You should be removing her, not me.” She pointed a jabbing finger at Sibyl.
“And why is that?”
“Why, she’s nothing but a two-faced, fake, inconstant person who pretends not to like such things when all she wants is to be seen and admired. It’s wrong. She should be ashamed of herself.”
Sibyl stared. She hadn’t realized Kate’s jealousy would go to such lengths. “I’m sorry for you.”
“What? Sorry for me? How dare you?” Kate strode up and slapped Sibyl’s face. The slap rang out and stopped all conversation.
That earned an outcry from the crowd. Men instantly took Kate in their arms, holding tight. Her face was red. “This is all your fault. Just you wait and see. You’ll be sorry. All of you!”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice rang out, sharp and chilly. “Gentlemen, please remove Miss Harvey and see she gets a carriage home. Find her chaperone and let her know they are leaving, immediately.”
The men led Kate away, who was shouting insults and the occasional obscenity. Margaret stood by and looked at Sibyl. “I’m sorry.” She went after her.
Sibyl’s shoulders faltered. She stood alone. The countess stood by her and put a hand on her right shoulder. “It’s all right, dear. The painting will be restored, if possible. And all this adds to your allure.”
Sibyl turned to the woman and blinked back tears. “Is that all you care about? Being alluring and mysterious at all times?”
The countess’s mouth dropped open. Her hand fell away. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”
Sibyl shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Excuse me.” The countess swept away in her soft rustle of skirts, smiling and giving come-hither looks to onlookers. She soon had a crowd of admirers following her to a game of faro nearby.
Sibyl let out a sigh. Embarrassment filled her. What an evening. She wanted to apologize to the countess, to wring Kate’s neck, but most of all, she just wanted to be alone and forget the night had ever happened. And her cheek stung. She held a hand to it.
“Miss Clifton, are you all right?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.
“Yes, I’ll be fine. It was just a slap.”
“That’s not what I am talking about.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked at her kindly, or so Sibyl thought.
It was rather hard to tell past the veil.
“The night’s events were unfortunate, but it doesn’t have to end that way.
Do take a moment to compose yourself and return.
I’m sure there will be many young men who still wish to dance with you and talk to you. ”
“Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“You might find the Lyon’s Den garden a place of quiet solitude right now,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I sometimes go there when I need to think. It is private and most pleasant in the evening.”
“All right. Thank you.” Sibyl followed the matchmaker’s directions and went out through a door and corridor, where a bouncer who introduced himself as Puck, like out of William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, led her into a charming walled garden.
It bore well-trimmed hedges, benches, a small pond, and even a few trees.
The pond had a few floating lily pads, and in contrast to the noisy sights and sounds of London, this place did offer a quiet solitude.
The night air was cool against her skin and felt delicious.
Sibyl sat down on one of the stone benches and tried not to cry.
But the tears came, and she slumped over, shaking with tears, her good posture dashed. It was a few minutes before she became conscious that she was not alone. There was a subtle cough nearby, and then a man’s voice said, “Don’t cry.”
Sibyl turned, her eyes having grown used to the darkness. Small lamps lit up the trees, so it was possible to see, but she hadn’t heard the gentleman approach. Outlined in darkness, he extended a handkerchief to her.
She accepted it and dried her eyes as he sat beside her on the bench. Sibyl sat up straight and wiped her eyes, then her nose, and offered it back to him, but he said, “Keep it.”
She gave a quiet thanks and folded it, looking down at her lap, then at the small pond.
“I saw what happened. Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m very well, thank you. Do excuse me.” She rose, when he touched her hand. “Miss Clifton, wait.”
She glanced at him. “Mr. Heyter?”
He smiled.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I came here to see you. I had hoped that we might spar over books and literary taste, but then I find that you are the center of attention, but not for literature. Please, sit.”
She sat back down and sniffed.
He took her left hand in his. “Miss Clifton, why didn’t you tell me? Why not tell me that you were Phillippe’s muse?”
Sibyl shook her head. “I couldn’t. Not when I know how you feel about women who pose for artists, who seek such public attention.
You think them vain, selfish creatures, and I…
I couldn’t bear to be thought of like that.
Not by you. I think well of you too much, you see. I value your opinion. I couldn’t—”
He pulled her into a kiss.
Her lips parted. She instantly felt warm and confused, and sensitive, and… Oh.
He kissed her lips, her neck, her chin, gently, tenderly. They were like a balm to her sorrow. He said, “I want you to feel you can tell me anything. Anything at all.”
“But what if you think me selfish, and vain, and…”
He met her gaze and held her shoulders. “Then I would be a fool and would deserve no small amount of pecking by all the fishwives in London for not appreciating you. You are a beauty, Miss Clifton, inside and out.”
“That’s just because you have seen my portrait,” she said shyly.
“I’ll be honest. I’ve seen all your portraits,” he admitted.
“You have?”
“I heard about the thoroughfare at the Royal Exhibition and heard from George that I might want to go see. He had a spare ticket. So I took it and slipped into the crowd. I had no idea you had… That is… That you had inspired such artistic pursuits.”
“And you’re not… embarrassed by me?” she asked.
“How could I be? You inspired an artist. And if the people of London are to be believed, a very good one.” He smiled then but lowered his eyes. “I hope you do not think less of me. I came here tonight with no other object. I had to see you.”
“Why?”