Chapter Five #2
She was often angry about art. She had never noticed that before, and half hated, half loved, that he had spotted that within her. The injustice of the art world, the way it restricted almost anyone from entering, the snobbery, the ridiculous expense.
He saw that in her. And understood it. But did not seem to be angry in return.
Calliope swallowed and said, ‘I… Art should not be gatekept like a royal garden. It should be open. Accessible to all. Gloried in by everyone.’
‘Owning art does not oppose that,’ the Marquess of Laidley said with a shrug. ‘All my townhouses and my manor in the country are open to the public, for a small fee paid, I think, to my housekeeper. At least art, once purchased by me, does not disappear for ever.’
This was ridiculous. She could not be having a conversation of such intimacy with a gentleman! Calliope forced a smile. ‘Good day, my lord.’
She strode as fast as she could without making a scene out of the room towards the exit—but she was not fast enough.
However, it was not the Marquess of Laidley who prevented her from continuing.
‘Oh,’ Calliope exhaled, halting before a huge canvas.
Goodness, it had to be at least ten feet wide and perhaps six feet high.
The fishing boats in the foreground were enormous, the scene stretching along the bay and featuring men mending nets and women packing up fish.
There was life, movement and joy in the piece, so much so that it was quite extraordinary.
The blues—just like the blues she used, or at least the blues she attempted to use.
The choices of light, the movement within the brush…
Calliope barely noticed when a figure moved beside her.
‘Dear God,’ breathed Montague.
It was so obvious. So painfully clear, it was actually agonising he had not noticed it before. And here he was, considering himself a Glenarm expert!
Miss Calliope Oliver was the mysterious and secretive artist going by the name of Glenarm.
It made complete sense. The same palette used—the blues were identical! A striking element of Glenarm’s work was his—what was he saying, her signature use of that cerulean blue. There was not a single Glenarm painting without it.
All the Glenarms he had ever seen were of beach scenes, or London. Where did Miss Oliver hail from? London. Where was she now? Brighton.
And then there was the most striking evidence that lay before him. Montague’s gaze flickered between the rapturous expression on Miss Oliver’s face and the painting on the wall. She was delighted to see it. To see her own art in a gallery.
Montague could have fallen over, he was so rocked by the realisation. Miss Oliver was painting masterpieces and selling them under the false name of Glenarm—presumably because ladies were not taken seriously as true artistes.
No one knew who the mysterious Glenarm was. No one had ever met him. Even the art galleries that sold his work had admitted to his man of business, after several pounds had changed hands, that no one had ever encountered him.
And now Montague knew why.
‘Is it not dazzling?’ whispered Miss Oliver.
It took all his self-control not to nudge her arm and wink. Honestly, did she not think it was a bit much, praising her own work like that?
Still, Montague had to admit, the piece Miss Oliver had chosen to draw his attention to was perhaps the best Glenarm he had ever seen.
It wasn’t just the scale of it. No, it was the choice of locale, the way he—blast it all—she had chosen to include working class people like fishermen and their wives.
It was a perspective upon seaside living that was so rarely depicted in art.
But she had seen it. She had seen it and painted it, and done so in a most spectacular way.
Montague swallowed. This discovery was…well, it made Miss Oliver all the more enticing, as though he needed further inducements to propose.
Miss Oliver was the secret artist Glenarm. And only he knew.
‘You like it?’ Miss Oliver asked, her cheeks flushing.
Oh, you minx. Montague was going to relish this. ‘It’s acceptable, I suppose.’
‘Acceptable!’
Montague tried not to laugh as heads turned towards the woman who had almost shouted her disgust at his remark. ‘You think it better?’
‘I think it near a masterpiece, but then, what would I know?’ Miss Oliver sniffed. ‘I am a mere woman.’
Yes, she and the mysterious Glenarm were definitely one and the same person, Montague decided. Well, what luck. Now all he had to do was tempt her to reveal herself. If she didn’t have so much pride, he could…
Perhaps that was it. An appeal to her pride.
‘It is good, yes,’ Montague said aloud in a lazy, somewhat uninterested tone. ‘But I believe I could concoct something fairly similar.’
He was almost certain he could not. It had been many years since he had picked up a paintbrush with any level of professionalism, but he had been rather good when he had taken it seriously.
Miss Oliver, much to his delight, had actually turned from the painting and was gawping in astonishment. There was no other word for it. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide and there was an expression of such incredulity in her face that Montague struggled not to grin.
‘You think you could paint anything like this Glenarm fellow?’ she breathed.
Montague had to hand it to her, she was doing a marvellous job at pretending she was not Glenarm.
How long had she been doing it? Was this the first pseudonym she had tried, or were there other paintings out there in the world that should be emblazoned with ‘Miss Calliope Oliver’ but had instead been sold under a different name?
‘I think if I had Glenarm himself before me, I would say so,’ Montague said with a teasing air, his stomach twisting as he spoke. ‘But as I only have you here—’
‘Only me!’
‘—I will say I certainly think I can paint better than you,’ he finished, a parting shot directly aimed at her pride.
The shot hit home. Miss Oliver’s lips pursed together, her eyes narrowed now as she beheld him with something perhaps a little warmer than contempt. ‘You are ridiculous.’
‘If you do not think you can beat me—’
‘This is not a competition!’ hissed Miss Oliver, cheeks flushing as she suddenly became aware of the good number of people staring at them.
Montague did not need an excuse to step closer to the fiery young woman, but he lowered his voice just in case. ‘Care to make it one?’
God, she smelled of jasmine and sea salt. Had she been in the sea this morning? Surely not…
He had expected Miss Oliver to lean away and disdain his foolish statement immediately.
He had expected her to laugh, perhaps, or remind him she was the one who had come to Brighton for her art.
Part of him almost expected her to whisper the admission that she was the great Glenarm and she would in fact wipe the floor with him in a painting competition.
But Miss Oliver did none of these things. Her focus flickered to his mouth in a most disconcerting manner, then back to his eyes with a challenge in her pupils that made Montague’s blood hum.
‘Make art into a competition?’ she said slowly, grasping her reticule with both hands. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
Montague had not been sure what he had meant. His pulse was quickening, all blood flow directed most inconveniently from his brain and towards his loins. It was getting more difficult to think with each passing second but he did not need to think with Miss Oliver.
No, his instincts had led him right, from the very first moment he had met her. He had not known she was Glenarm, but he had noticed her and realised that she was something different. Something special.
He needed a wife and now there was not anyone in the whole of Brighton who would suit quite as well as Miss Calliope Oliver.