Chapter Ten
Sibyl paced the front room of her bedroom.
There was a knock at her door. It was a footman, who said, “You have a caller, miss. Miss Isobel Blakeney is here to see you.”
“Isobel? Oh. All right, I’ll be down directly. Thank you.”
Sibyl checked her hair and spared a glance in the looking glass on her table. Satisfied that she looked presentable, she smoothed down her skirts and walked downstairs.
Isobel was in the parlor. She turned, her face pinched, her eyebrows knit together. Something was wrong. Soft tendrils had escaped from her bonnet, but her green gloved hands were clenched into fists.
Once they were alone, Sibyl said, “Isobel. Forgive me, it’s not a good time. I—”
“How could you?” Isobel’s face grew red. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Pardon?”
“That all this time you were posing for an artist. Here I thought you were, I don’t know, taking walks or paying calls with your mother. Or doing what you normally do: read.” Isobel frowned at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh.” Sibyl sat down on one of the sofas, and gestured for Isobel to sit. She could have told Sibyl about her engagement, or when it had ended, but no. There were other matters to discuss, clearly.
Isobel looked as if she might protest, then gave a little hmph and sat down beside her. But her back was straight, her posture stiff, her gloved hands folded primly in her lap.
Sibyl said, “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. He made me promise.”
“But you could have told me. I’m your oldest friend. We tell each other everything.”
Sibyl snorted. “Like you told me about your engagement? You had barely just met Mr. Day when suddenly you were engaged, and then you wait till a dinner party to mention that now it’s off.”
“What are you bothered about? That I have admirers and you don’t?”
“No. Only that you seem to tell me things about your relationships when it pleases you, and yet you hold me to a different standard.”
“Ha! Speaking of standards, I had to hear about it from the papers, and then on the street about your little debut.” She glared at Sibyl. “Why would you take this opportunity to better your chances of marriage, when you don’t even care about finding a man?”
Sibyl’s mouth dropped open. “I…”
“That’s what bothers me the most. You act like you don’t care and go along and follow your mama’s direction like a lamb, when you know very well that I have been trying to find a new beau for ages.
Do you have any idea how much it hurt me to face disappointed hopes from my own failed engagement, only to learn that you’ve been sneaking around yourself?
How could you do this and not share it with me? It would have meant so much.”
Sibyl had thought her friend rather harsh for being so lighthearted about her ended engagement. But she took herself to task. Sibyl hadn’t talked with Isobel at all about how she’d been feeling about it all. Not really. Sibyl wondered, had she been selfish and uncaring?
Isobel huffed and paced the room. “And it’s not even… Well. You know what people are saying.”
“What are people saying?” Sibyl clenched the folds of her dress, bracing herself for bad news.
“Ha, so now you care what people think? Fine, I shall tell you. Only that you are no great beauty at all, but that you allowed yourself to be deflowered by the artist in return for a portrait. It’s in a gossip paper.
But others might reprint it.” Isobel’s words were filled with anger, but her eyes were cast downward.
“I know none of it is true. It is a scandalous falsehood. But I wanted to hear it from you.”
“Of course it’s not true. Do you really think me the type to give away my maidenhead for a picture?” Sibyl asked. The very idea was laughable.
“No. For a book, perhaps, but not—”
“You think I’d trade my virtue for a book?” Sibyl balked. “What on earth? Just how low do you think me?”
“It’s not low, it’s desperate,” Isobel pointed out. “Which, frankly, I think your behavior shows that you clearly are. Why else would you be so selfish as to ignore your friends?”
Sibyl snorted. “You really think I’d go around offering myself for books? Honestly, Isobel, you know me better than that.”
“Do I? Then why am I the last to learn that my oldest friend has been posing for an artist, and she’s the talk of the town? Why do I have to hear that she might be a dirty harlot?”
Sibyl gasped. “I would never.”
Isobel let out a noisy sigh. She looked at Sibyl and clasped and unclasped her hands.
“I promise you, I would never do such a thing. It was all a great secret, and he’d sworn us to secrecy—”
“‘Us’? So more people knew?”
“No one could know, not until the exhibition. Only Lucy and Mama knew, and that’s because they accompanied me so I had a chaperone.”
Isobel leaned back against the sofa cushion.
It was a sign that she was starting to relax, and it gave Sibyl a sense of hope.
“I’m sorry I had a moment of doubt. I just…
I couldn’t believe that you were modelling for him.
And that I knew nothing about it. When Miss Harvey and that gossip, Mrs. Jones, were talking about it at the party and you seemed to react, I thought perhaps you were jealous, that you envied her. ”
Sibyl shook her head.
“When I heard about it all, no thanks to you, I thought you were throwing yourself away on an artist, in the hope that he might marry you, and I didn’t want you to go through heartache when he finally broke it off.”
Sibyl looked up. Something in her grew fiery. “Aside from the fact that me being in a relationship with an artist is a preposterous idea in the first place, why would you assume he would end the relationship with me?”
Isobel’s mouth dropped open. She touched her throat.
“It’s not anything against you. Not at all.
You’re lovely. It’s just… These artists, they’re like butterflies.
They flit from one woman to another, as if the women were flowers, and they never stay with just one subject for long.
You’re young, and innocent, and you rarely keep your head out of a book long enough to know what day it is.
You’re a little naive at times, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t making a big mistake. ”
Sibyl gripped the sofa cushions. “I wasn’t. I haven’t been. And I resent being called naive.”
“Well, clearly, you are. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be in the London papers. What were you thinking?”
Sibyl stared at her friend. “The man wanted to… paint me.” The words out of her mouth sounded naive, even to her.
“And you never wondered why? Honestly.” Isobel continued, “My family is shocked at your behavior. You know what my mama said to me? She said, ‘I am shocked at that young woman. I thought she knew better.’ The article itself says that it’s the height of arrogance, Sibyl, and no good young woman would ever think of doing such a thing. ”
Isobel shook her head and tutted. “I honestly blame your mother. Ever since your father died, she clearly doesn’t know what to do with you and so decided this was the best option to marry you off, but it’s so beyond what is decent. I tell you, all good society is shocked by this.”
Sibyl stood, her face heated. “Don’t you dare talk about my mother and father. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“But it’s obvious, Sibyl, don’t you see? We all know it’s why you’ve sought out your books so much since he died. You’ve been living in a fairy tale, but real life isn’t like that. It’s why I came.”
“To express your regrets?”
“No, to share some advice.” Isobel sniffed. “If you want to meet eligible men, there are smarter ways to go about doing it than throwing yourself in the public eye with some saucy portraits.”
Sibyl’s blood pounded. “They are not saucy. And I may be innocent, but I’m not so clueless about life as you think.”
“Ha. What do you know about men or relationships? Besides what you’ve read about in books?”
Her face heated at the thought of Mr. Heyter and their exploration of what he’d read about in books recently. But time for that later. Sibyl had heard enough. “Isobel, I think you’d better go.”
“Excuse me? You’re telling me to leave? Your only friend?” Isobel’s eyes blazed.
“You’re not my only friend. I have others.”
Isobel crowed. “Like who? Don’t tell me you think that Miss Watson is loyal to you, when she’s been whispering with Kate Harvey? They’re as thick as thieves. Believe me, Sibyl, she is no friend to you.”
Sibyl felt her face grow warm. To hear her own thoughts and suspicions confirmed, stung. She had wondered about Margaret. And the countess had been so kind to her. Did she really not have any real friends? No, it couldn’t be. She crossed her arms, looked at Isobel, and waited.
Isobel gave a little gasp and rose. “Fine. Far be it from me to stay too long in the house of a notorious model who thinks she’s better than the rest of us.
” She tutted. “Truly, Sibyl. What were you thinking? I thought we were friends. Friends tell each other things. When I had my heart broken from my broken engagement, you didn’t even ask how I was.
You just sat there and nodded along, while Mrs. Jones and Miss Harvey talked about that artist. You didn’t even care. ”
“I’m sorry, Isobel. I should have. But I had no idea you were heartbroken. You seemed fine at the time. You seemed very interested in other men and mentioned your engagement ending casually, almost like it didn’t matter to you at all.”
“We were at a house party. I’m not about to break down at the dinner table.” Isobel seethed. “You should have told me what you were up to.”
“I already told you I couldn’t.”
“No, you chose not to. I tell you everything—”
“You do not, we’ve established that,” Sibyl retorted.
“—and this is how you repay me. With secrets and grand delusions of being admired in the London art world. I tell you, you might as well have gone on the stage and sung bawdy tunes. Everyone is talking about how much of a disgrace you are.” Isobel’s face was ugly. Her teeth were bared.