Chapter Ten #3
“I don’t believe that for an instant, and Miss Clifton’s situation is not the same as your aunt’s and neither are they the same person. Show me the letter.”
“It’s at home.” Crumpled up into a ball and left for the servants to toss into the nearest fire. He didn’t want to see it again. But he’d read it a dozen times and had committed its words to memory. Not that he’d wanted to.
“You know what I think?” George asked. “You’re a coward.”
Neville looked up from his glass. “What?”
“You heard me. You make yourself out to be this great gentleman, with the correct manners, with a care for his family’s good name.
But what good is a name when a person is without support?
Without those who stand by them? You say you care for Miss Clifton, and I believe she cares for you.
But right now, all doors will be closed to her.
What would you do if it were your sister in her shoes? ”
Neville blinked. Penelope? The very thought was unimaginable. Unthinkable. The girl would never put herself in such a situation. But… “I’d go to the editor immediately and demand a retraction. He must know he’s dragging her name through the mud and ruining all her future prospects.”
“Miss Clifton’s father is dead, I believe, and as far as I know, she has no nearby male relatives to fight for her. She is alone in this.”
Neville’s temper rose. An ember burned inside him.
A previous thought reoccurred to him. What if Miss Clifton were not at fault after all?
What if she had done nothing to warrant the rumors and what if…
they were only rumor and hearsay? Malicious gossip?
He rose from his seat, then sat back down.
“I don’t know what to do. Her letter said she didn’t want to see me. ”
“Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t. I’d want to hear it from her own lips if it were me.” George shrugged. “But you know, maybe there’s another young lady you could fall in love with. Although I doubt you’ll find one who loves reading as much as Miss Clifton.”
Neville’s head shot to George. ‘Love’? He loved her?
He cradled his empty glass in his hands.
He hadn’t thought that far, and now his thoughts were becoming softer, dull around the edges.
The brandy, drunk so quickly, was having an effect.
Particularly as he’d already polished off half a bottle of red wine.
His stomach gurgled unhappily. He lurched to his feet.
“Where are you going?” George asked.
“To find her.”
“Good man. I’m coming too.”
“Why?” His words slurred.
“Because, mate, you’re slightly drunk. Not the best shape for the young lady to see you in. Best sober up first. Don’t want to be sick on her shoes.” George grinned.
All that day, Sibyl did not go out. The family did not entertain callers, for none came.
After a good cry, Sibyl washed her face, straightened her dress, brushed her hair, and tried her best to stay calm. She went downstairs and sat in the family study, trying to think.
She tried picking up her book, going to her favorite tome of fairy tales, but not even that would comfort her.
They were just words, ink on a page, and seeing their familiar phrases felt cold and distant in response to her mental turmoil.
What would become of her? No one would want her now.
Was she ruined forever? Not even Mr. Heyter wished to see her, and she desperately wanted to see him and explain. She just wanted to see him again.
But she could not. She sagged in the round-backed chair facing the desk and leaned her elbows on the desk, resting her chin on her hands. She stared off into nothing, when there came a clatter of a carriage, and a sharp series of knocks at the front door.
She sat up. Could it be? Could Mr. Heyter be calling? She rose from the chair and wandered into the foyer, as a footman announced, “Mr. Phillippe Mercuse and Mrs. Dove-Lyon, to see Mrs. Clifton and Miss Clifton.”
Sibyl nodded. Their faces looked very grave.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked very forbidding in black, wearing a black veil as usual over her black walking dress, and Phillippe looked smart but chastened in a cheap coat and waistcoat that smelled faintly of paint.
His hair looked rumpled and his cravat hastily tied, as if he’d just tumbled out of bed.
She curtsied to both. “Please, won’t you join me in the drawing room?” Sibyl instructed the footman to bring her mother and led the way.
Once they were all seated, and Mrs. Clifton had joined them and rung for tea, Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “I will not take up much of your time. I wanted you to know that I have called on the editor of the paper and demanded he write a retraction.”
“About time. How dare he write such horrid things about my girl?” Mrs. Clifton said.
“It happens, unfortunately. This editor is notorious for printing gossip and not checking his facts, in favor of getting readers and salacious headlines.” She coughed delicately. “I believe you are acquainted with his daughter, Miss Kate Harvey.”
Sibyl frowned grimly. “Yes. I know her. And I know her father is the editor of a paper. When I saw her listed as a source, ‘KH,’ I knew it had to be her. I don’t know any other KHs in my acquaintance.”
“Yes. She played a role in this, as you know. I thought her little interruption and rudeness at the party the other night was the sum of it, but I had no idea her jealousy was so strong. The damaged painting and the newspaper article are just part of the picture. From what I gather, she has been threatening to cause trouble for some time.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon turned to Phillippe.
Phillippe bowed his head and rested his hands on his knees.
“It’s true. She has come to my studio many times, wanting me to paint her.
I tell her I don’t paint just anyone—they must be special.
They must have that certain something. But she does not listen.
She thinks I am nothing but a two-bit painter, and that I can be bought.
But she is wrong. Maybe once upon a time, but not now. And not by her.” He gave a firm nod.
“I think it is time you come clean, Mr. Mercuse,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “About why you chose Miss Clifton as your model.”
Phillippe nodded and opened his mouth, just as servants arrived. “Ah, tea.”
Mrs. Clifton frowned at the interruption and motioned the servants forward, pouring tea for the guests in little china cups. A small tray of sweet cakes and biscuits was provided, and once everyone had a steaming-hot drink and a biscuit, Phillippe launched into his tale.
“I am not from this country, as you know. I am from France. A small part of the country, a little village outside of Marseilles. It is beautiful, but as a painter, I wanted more. When the war broke out, I painted generals and scenes of military battles, but I also acted as an interpreter and helped the English, particularly when I came across a small group of soldiers traveling under cover in Wissant.”
“‘Wissant’? That sounds familiar. Why do I know that name…” Mrs. Clifton said.
“Because there I made the acquaintance of a talented mapmaker, an Englishman. Mr. Nathaniel Clifton.”
Sibyl gasped and almost dropped her teacup. The hot liquid slopped over the edge, and she set it down on the saucer on a small table beside her, wiping her fingers with a napkin. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Her father had known Phillippe? She gripped her knees to keep from trembling.
“No, please. It is I who should apologize. I have kept this secret for far too long,” Phillippe said. “You see, we became friends and traveled together, even taking passage to England on a ship. The HMS Baccus.”
Sibyl’s hand darted to her mouth, as her mother gasped. “We know that ship.”
“Yes. It sank off the English coast. I was the only survivor. But the paper never knew, and never reported it. For all anyone knows, every person on that ship died. The only reason I survived was because of Mr. Clifton. He saved me that horrible night. I was swept ashore and was presumed dead. It was Mrs. Dove-Lyon who found me and alerted the watch.” His look at the grand lady was earnest, as he turned back to Sibyl and her mother.
“Before he died, he said that if we survived this mess of a storm, that he’d take me to Kent and introduce me to his family, his wife, and his daughters Mary and Lucy, but especially his middle child, Sibyl, who loved to read.
He begged that if he did not survive, I would do what I could for them. ”
“But we never heard from you,” Mrs. Clifton said with a tearful sniff.
Phillippe said, “No. It was months before my health recovered. Mrs. Dove-Lyon took me in and nursed me back to health. She realized I had no one and helped establish my position as an artist. I made enquiries and traveled down to Kent, but it is such a big county, by the time I went there myself, I could not find you and when I did finally hear something, the last I’d heard, you all went to London. I gave up hope of ever meeting you.”
He sipped his tea and straightened his shoulders, almost as if to fortify himself.
“But then that night, at the Lyon’s Den, Mrs. Dove-Lyon whispered to me that she’d found you, almost by chance.
A Mrs. Clifton, relatively new to London, and her daughter Sibyl, a young woman who loves to read, who was looking for a suitable match. ”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave Sibyl a gentle smile.
“I knew it at once, that this was the Lord God giving me a chance to make amends, and to heed a dying man’s final wish.
I had to do something to repay my debt to Mr. Clifton.
Nothing would ever bring him back”—he said over Mrs. Clifton’s loud sniff—“but perhaps I could help the young lady Sibyl make a good match. What better way than to paint her?”
“But this wasn’t just a painting,” Mrs. Clifton said. “We would have paid you for that. This was more. You made her more.”
“True. Your husband saved my life. In return, I must give her a great one. I thought, I am known for my discerning taste in models. I will make her one, announce her as my great muse, and the suitors will come. She is pretty and sweet, but when she reads, there is something in her eyes that shines, in her face, it is so expressive. She is beautiful then, and I knew I wished to paint her.” He looked at the matchmaker.
“It is down to Mrs. Dove-Lyon for showing me the way.”
“Then it wasn’t just happenstance,” Sibyl said. So she did not have any incredible quality or special characteristic that set her apart from the other young women of her generation. She was simply a means for the man to repay a debt. “So it was all a plot from the beginning.”
“Yes, but with the very best intentions,” Phillippe said.
“We wanted to give you a chance to attract suitable men, and many wealthy men collect art. It was a great idea. I just never thought that Miss Harvey would be so jealous, or act on her threats. I thought she was all talk and no action. I was wrong.”
“But now what can we do? Sibyl has been laughed at, our family name is a joke, and her looks are being derided as nothing more than common. What can we do to restore her reputation?” Mrs. Clifton asked.
“There are no more invitations, no balls or parties. No suitors have come. Your plan has failed.”
“Not entirely. Miss Clifton, I believe you made the acquaintance of a popular singer, a countess, if I’m not mistaken,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
“Yes, the Countess d’Arbley. A good woman, although I fear was a trifle rude with her the night of your party,” Sibyl said.
“She is a very good sort of person, despite what some may think.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon tapped her nose. “Leave it with me, and all shall be well.”