Chapter 10 #2
“That’s true for them that buys the paintings as well,” said Eunice.
“Lord Dunbar’s house was full of all kinds of pictures, and not one of them was by a good, honest Scotsman.
They all came from Italy and France and England—as if those lads know more about slappin’ paint on a piece of cloth than our own. ” She huffed with disapproval.
“Are you suggesting that we say that my paintings were created by a Frenchman?” Genevieve wasn’t certain she cared for that idea.
“I realize it isn’t the perfect solution,” Haydon acknowledged. “But if we hope to secure a showing of your work and create some interest in it, I believe that is our best strategy.”
“I think it’s very romantic,” Annabelle decided with approval. “French names sound so elegant.”
“I think they sound silly,” said Simon. “Like someone is trying to spit something up from the back of their throat.”
“I won’t do it, Genevieve, unless you are in agreement.” Haydon regarded her intently. “But I believe this is your best chance of raising the money to pay off your debts.”
Genevieve stared at her precious canvases haphazardly arranged around the drawing room.
Each one represented some private facet of her life, and by extension, her children’s lives.
She didn’t care for having her world put on display for others to gawk at and analyze and possibly ridicule.
And she found the idea of having her work accredited to some fictional man, because the fact that it had been created by a woman undermined its merit in the eyes of others, was truly offensive.
Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, Charlotte, Simon, and Jack were watching her, waiting for her to make her decision.
Their expressions were utterly trusting, as if they believed that should she refuse to sell her paintings, then she would just come up with some other way to pay her debts and keep their household going.
Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen looked more concerned.
They had a far better understanding of the precariousness of their situation.
Ultimately, she realized she had little choice.
“Very well, Lord Redmond,” she said, lamely trying to instill some fragment of formality back into their relationship. “Just tell me with what name you would like me to sign them.”
ALFRED LYTTON TOOK OFF HIS SPECTACLES, POLISHED them vigorously with his crumpled handkerchief, and then wired them around his generously sized ears once more.
“Extraordinary,” he murmured, bending to take a closer look at the painting. “Utterly extraordinary.” He straightened suddenly and jerked his spectacles off again. “You say this Boulonnais is a friend of yours, Mr. Blake?”
“An old friend,” Haydon assured him. “We met some ten years ago when I was traveling in the south of France. Of course, at that time his work was completely unknown. I had the privilege of visiting him at the crumbling old farmhouse he still uses for his home and studio. Even then, I had the sense that he was going to develop into a very fine artist. I had no idea at that time, however, just how great his talent would be.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Lytton raked his gaze over the five paintings that Haydon had brought to his gallery.
“Of course, when I wrote to him about the idea of exhibiting his work in Scotland, he was not immediately enthusiastic.” Haydon wanted the art dealer to feel as if he were achieving a remarkable coup by arranging the exhibition.
“I’m afraid it is well known that he is something of a recluse.
Never married. Rarely ventures from his home.
He deplores everyone and anything that might take him from his work, you see.
Likes to paint at all hours of the day or night, without stopping to eat or sleep.
I suppose one might say he is a bit of an eccentric, really. ”
“As so many artists are,” Mr. Lytton remarked sagely.
“It makes one wonder if madness is the price of genius.” He studied the paintings further.
“I have heard of Boulonnais,” he murmured, lest Haydon think he was not up-to-date on the current talk of the art world, “but this is the first time I have had the pleasure of actually seeing his work. There is no question that it is most impressive. His sensibility toward his subject is quite unique.”
Haydon smiled. He had anticipated that Mr. Lytton would feign familiarity with his phantom artist rather than admit ignorance.
“As I’m sure you are aware, the name Georges Boulonnais is presently being heralded amongst the salons and art dealers of Paris.
His works are sold the very day they go on exhibit, with many collectors begging for a chance to bid on whatever he might produce next.
The esteemed art critic, Monsieur Lachapelle of Le Parisien, has predicted that Boulonnais will quickly become one of the most celebrated artists of this century. ”
“One would have to be blind not to see that,” agreed Mr. Lytton.
“I am most grateful to you, Mr. Blake, for bringing your association with this wonderful artist to my attention. I have no doubt that I will be able to sell all five of these paintings. The Duke of Argyll is perpetually looking for interesting work to add to his already impressive collection, and I shall be pleased to invite him for a private viewing as soon as possible. I’m sure we can arrange an exhibition of any other works Monsieur Boulonnais may choose to send to me. ”
“How refreshing to meet a man who is only interested in promoting art within his community, rather than realizing his maximum potential for profit. You are a credit to your profession,” Haydon told him.
Mr. Lytton blinked, confused.
“I have no doubt you will get an acceptable response here and I respect you for wanting to keep the exhibition within Inveraray instead of arranging for a much larger showing at your affiliate gallery in Glasgow.” Haydon rose as if their meeting was finished.
“There is no question that once a burgeoning artist such as this is introduced to the art world in a major city, the spirituality of the art becomes lost amidst the frenzy of exposure and profit. One need only look at what happened at Monsieur Boulonnais’s latest showing in Paris to understand. ”
Mr. Lytton’s eyes widened. “What happened?”
“Why, every work was sold within hours, with people begging the dealer to accept bids of two and three times the listed price. Such spectacles may draw celebrity and financial gain to the gallery, but in my opinion they do little to preserve the sanctity of the work itself—as I’m sure you must agree. ”
“To a certain extent, yes.” Mr. Lytton swiftly began to reassess his potential profit on the venture.
“But I also believe that great art deserves to be shared with as large an audience as possible,” he qualified carefully.
“Moreover, such an enthusiastic response can only help to secure an artist’s financial future, which in turn provides him with the time and the means to create more momentous works.
I can assure you, Mr. Blake, that I am thinking only of Monsieur Boulonnais’s welfare when I suggest that perhaps we are being hasty in limiting ourselves to an exhibit in Inveraray.
I feel upon reflection that an exhibition in Glasgow is far more appropriate.
If you are in agreement, I would be happy to arrange it. ”
Haydon looked doubtful. “Do you really believe that will be better?”
“Absolutely. An artist of the caliber of Monsieur Boulonnais should be introduced to the Scottish art world in a major city of industry and refinement. Glasgow is a far better choice for his inaugural exhibition. Shall we aim for a date in, say, eight months?”
Haydon thought about the bank’s impending foreclosure on Genevieve’s house.
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid Monsieur Boulonnais is quite temperamental, and such a delay would only give him time to change his mind,” he said, apologetic.
“But even my gallery is fully booked until summer of next year. I couldn’t possibly arrange an exhibition of Boulonnais’s work before then,” protested Mr. Lytton.
“Then I’m afraid I shall have to decline your offer of an exhibition,” said Haydon.
“I have at this moment over twenty paintings in my possession ready to be exhibited. As there is no shortage of dealers in Paris anxious to take them, Boulonnais has instructed me that if they cannot be shown immediately here, then I am to return them to France. It is a pity we could not come to some arrangement.” He extended his hand.
“Twenty paintings, you say?” Mr. Lytton’s myopic eyes fairly danced as he considered his share of the profits on such a sale. “In that case, Mr. Blake, let us see how quickly we can have them crated and sent to Glasgow. I do believe I can arrange with my associates to find some space to hang them.”
JACK SCOWLED AT THE WORDS ON THE PAGE BEFORE him, looking as if he might tear the leaf out at any moment and shred it in frustration. Finally he slammed the book closed and shoved it across the table.
“I’m finished.” He folded his arms and regarded Genevieve defiantly.
“Would you like me to review any of the words with you?”
“I know them all,” he assured her, his jaw set.
“But we always read until teatime,” objected Simon, peering up from his book. “The clock says we’ve another fifteen minutes yet.”
“I don’t give a damn what the bloody clock says,” Jack snapped. “I’m finished.”
“I don’t want to read anymore either,” said Jamie, wanting to be supportive of Jack. “Can we do something else now, Genevieve?”
Genevieve hesitated. If she told the children they had to continue reading it would now seem like a punishment, and she didn’t want that.
“You may put your books away and spend the next few minutes drawing, if you wish. Since you are finished for the day, Jack, would you mind coming with me? I want to show you something.” She rose and went down the corridor to her father’s library, leaving him to follow.