Viscount in Love, page 28
That earned him a Gallic stare.
“Explain this painting to me.” Dominic pointed to the painting hanging on the wall, the wilting flowers Torie had given him for their wedding, but never really given to him. It had gone up on the wall of her studio, and sometimes he found her peering at it, almost as if she intended to wipe it with turpentine and start over.
He should probably rescue it.
Twenty minutes later he was as bewildered as if the Frenchman was talking of pears. Not flowers, but time. Not just time, but time passing, time dying, time caught in time. “Le temps qui passe,” Langlois concluded, picking up his paintbrush and going back to his hapless pear.
Chapter 36
As soon as they arrived at Huntington Grange, the duchess helped Torie set up her easel and paints before the red locomotive. The duke dragged out an overstuffed chair from the drawing room himself, for there was no butler. In fact, there were almost no servants at all.
That first day, Torie just stared at the machine: walking around it, then returning to her seat. The machine had no life or sense of time beneath its red paint and shiny curves. But it did have purpose, which was interesting.
She wasn’t alone, as the duke and duchess were busy implementing ideas they gained while meeting other steam enthusiasts around the country. They ignored her, darting here and there around the engine.
The second day, Torie began to sketch, trying to decide which angle to paint from. Not straight to the side, because somehow she had to give the painting a feeling of speed.
Nanny Grey—who had an almost saintlike patience—came outside to tell Torie that she thought the ducal children weren’t being bathed as much as they might. “No nanny and no nursemaid. The boy, Master Silvester, makes certain his sisters are fed and in bed, though of course I’ve taken charge during our visit.”
“Oh dear,” Torie said, trying to envision mentioning the state of the nursery to Her Grace.
“I’m scrubbing that room down tomorrow with caustic soap.” Nanny bustled away, looking surprisingly cheerful.
Torie went back to her drawing, finding herself thinking absent-mindedly that everyone needed to feel needed. She put down her pencil again.
Dominic needed her. He might not realize it, but he did.
It wasn’t until the third day, when she began blocking in the locomotive’s shape and thinking about color, that she realized the most fascinating aspect of the locomotive was not its color, but its creators.
Once she got the locomotive blocked in, she sketched the duchess on top of the engine, throwing her hat in the air, with the duke down below, laughing up at her.
“I like it,” Valentine said on the fourth afternoon of their visit. He was still doing his daily practice making circles, though it was difficult to measure one hour, as they had discovered that no clocks in the house functioned.
“Come here when the sun begins to sink,” Torie had advised him. “When the sky turns purple, your hour will be up.”
He squinted at her. “How will I know that it’s sinking?”
“Pay attention to the light.”
The next two days, he didn’t show up at the proper time, but on the seventh day, he appeared at precisely the moment when twilight began. And his circles were much improved.
After Val ran away, Torie sat down in her chair and looked at her sketch. She had managed to give the locomotive a sense of motion: the duchess was nearly flying off the top, and the duke was caught in mid-laugh.
Florence showed up and wedged herself into the chair. “You can see how much he cares for her.”
“He?”
“His Grace,” she said obediently. “It’s hard to remember that he’s a duke.” She lowered her voice. “His shirt is ripped, and I saw a bit of his belly at luncheon.”
“I noticed that,” Torie said. “Do you think I ought to put that detail in the painting?”
“Yes,” Florence said. “He’s the only duke with a ripped shirt. Did you know that none of their neighbors will visit, because they think the duke and duchess are too strange?” She jumped out of the chair. “I don’t want to leave.”
Huntington Grange was an odd, mad household, but like Florence, Torie felt entirely at home.
The only problem was Dom.
She lay awake at night, aching for her husband as if a part of her body had gone missing. Finally she brought up a branching candelabra that she found in the neglected ballroom and started sketching something quite different from roses or rabbits or steam locomotives: Dom’s face.
She gave him that look of leashed energy that he took with him through life. His eyes were fierce, but also tender. The dimples appeared.
Two days later, she was quite sure about her own drawing: she had captured a man in love.
Interesting.
Chapter 37
The Royal Academy of Arts was in Somerset House, a palace that used to be the official home of Queen Elizabeth—though from what Dominic remembered of his history lessons, the queen spent most of her time jaunting around the country, dragging a household of three hundred courtiers on monthlong visits to her favorite noblemen.
His Elizabethan ancestor was not so favored. In the midst of a temper tantrum, the former viscount had turned his back on Her Majesty—whereupon she threw a slipper at his head and declared she would never grace his home with her presence.
Which saved the family fortune from being bankrupted by a royal visit.
That legacy of temper had come down through the generations, along with the Kelbourne estate, a hunting lodge in Scotland, and the London townhouse.
Dominic drove his curricle up to the gate of Somerset House, threw the reins to his groom, and strode through the imposing courtyard. He was impatient to get this over with and set out for Huntington Grange.
Never mind the fact that the House of Lords was still in session.
“We were founded by King George III in December 1768,” the director of the Royal Academy said, once Dominic had presented himself. The man had eyes like shiny sea pebbles and a boastful manner.
“Only the very best artists are allowed to join, naturally. Our first president was Sir Joshua Reynolds . . .”
Dominic let the man’s voice wash over him as he was escorted into the first of three exhibition halls. Paintings went from floor to ceiling in a dizzying array. The ones at the top had been tipped forward so they could be seen.
“Surely that is dangerous,” Dominic said, pointing to one that appeared ready to crash to the floor.
The director looked at him disdainfully. “Art must be seen.”
“Right. So who is the president?”
“King George III’s official painter, an American gentleman by the name of Benjamin West. Here he is now.”
Benjamin West had a slender nose and black hair that curled up over his ears. He was surprisingly young to be running an academy that—according to its director—was the most prestigious academy for design and art in the world.
Hopefully West had witnessed American women trampling their way into male strongholds and was open-minded enough to allow Torie to join the academy.
“Good afternoon,” Dominic said, bowing. “I am Viscount Kelbourne.”
On meeting Dominic, people generally looked nervous—if his reputation preceded him—or awed, depending on where they were in the social hierarchy.
West bowed and said, “Good afternoon.” In short, he acted like a duke, not a plain mister.
But, of course, he was American.
Dominic had given some thought to his strategy. He’d decided to lead with an offer of largesse and follow it up with a demand. “I would like to make a substantial donation to the academy.”
West brightened up and looked more interested.
“In honor of my wife,” Dominic added.
They made their way through two more exhibition rooms into West’s office, a gracious room, its walls covered with art.
“Is this yours?” Dominic inquired, looking at a painting that depicted a couple of fellows in togas walking through a crowd.
West joined him, nodding. “Socrates. The power of expressing historical events in painting—with perspicuity—is one of the most impressive powers that can be given by man to convey useful lessons to others.”
“I see,” Dominic said, moving to the next painting.
“Caesar just after being slain by Brutus,” West said. “Note the exquisite columns in the background. Rome holds the sources of true taste.”
“No flowers.”
“No.”
The finality in his voice suggested that the Duchess of Huntington had been right: flowers and kittens were considered feminine, whereas Caesar covered with blood was masculine. Dominic had a sinking feeling that West might not be amenable to his request.
He had to switch tactics. He’d make the request first and follow it up with money. As he originally conceived the bargain, West would take the bait before giving in. But this man was all about art.
West acted like a duke because presumably he was a duke in the world of art. After all, his office was in a royal palace.
When they were seated on red velvet chairs picked out in gilt—definitely worthy of a duke—Dominic began with a simple question. “Has the Academy ever considered accepting women painters?”
Unsurprisingly, West’s face expressed disapproval. He leaned forward, and Dominic reminded himself that he had no intention of losing his temper fighting with this bantam cock from the former colonies.
“The Academy has ladies among its ruling members!” West stated. “Angelica Kauffman is an esteemed history painter. Mary Moser is known for her portraits. And floral paintings.” He sat back, satisfied. “The vulgar world may consider women to be the inferior sex, but here the only qualification is talent. The art world is a meritocracy.”
“I should like my wife to be a member of the Academy,” Dominic said, putting his cards on the table. “I am prepared to make a substantial donation to the Academy’s endowment in order to facilitate her entrance.”
“Impossible,” West replied dispassionately. “Did you not hear what I just said? Talent is the only means of entry to the Academy.”
“You believe a viscountess could have no talent?”
West’s face twitched, registering the way Dominic’s voice had dropped. Perhaps it also occurred to him that a viscount had direct access to his patron, King George.
Yet he had the courage of his convictions, and he leveled a stubborn American chin in Dominic’s direction. “Talent is possible at any rank. What does your wife paint? Historical scenes, perhaps? Mythological depictions?”
“Flowers and rabbits,” Dominic said. “With the odd kitten, though I haven’t seen any of those.”
The president winced. “With all due respect, my lord, ladies make charming paintings the way cows make milk. More is required of still lifes than to be pretty. Mary Moser is considered the first significant British floral painter. Her work conveys depth and emotion.”
“My wife’s are excellent.” Dominic fixed West with a basilisk stare.
“I applaud your loyalty. If your wife would like to submit a painting for the Summer Exhibition, I will make certain that it receives a fair viewing by the Royal Academicians.”
“Is that the best exhibition?”
“It is the world’s oldest open submission exhibition,” West told him. “We began in 1769. Your wife’s sex would not be a factor.”
His face said clearly that Torie’s talent would be the problem.
“Will Mary Moser judge the exhibition?”
“She takes an active role, yes.”
Dominic had a sudden idea. Most men bought their wives a gem to soothe over a marital battle, but given the way Torie left that emerald ring around the house—though it was worth three times the diamond he’d given Leonora—she would be unimpressed.
But a painting?
“Do you have any paintings by Mary Moser for sale out there?” He jerked his head toward the exhibition hall.
“Those paintings are not for sale.” West rose from his chair, a cardinal sin in a world in which he ranked so far below a viscount. Dominic stayed where he was.
“How much would one of Moser’s flower paintings sell for?”
“I could not speak to the cost of her paintings; you’d have to contact the lady or her agent. The Times reported that Queen Charlotte commissioned Mary Moser to create a floral decorative scheme for one room in Frogmore House. She paid nine hundred pounds.”
Dominic was stunned.
As a duke, West oversaw a lucrative empire.
“If you will forgive me, my lord, I must return to the academy proper, where students are sketching from life.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow.
“A naked man. Art is the representation of human beauty, ideally perfect in design, graceful and noble in attitude,” West said, diving suddenly into eloquence. Then he added, more prosaically, “Our female academicians are not invited to join those sessions, nor do they attend committee meetings and dinners. Of course, they have no wish to find themselves among so many men.”
No wonder Torie had avoided these pompous idiots.
Dominic caught himself. How often did he label people fools and idiots?
Frequently. He had to stop.
He rose. “Thank you for your introduction to the Academy, President West.”
West looked gratified by the use of his title. “May I have the viscountess’s name? I’m afraid in my world we do not memorize Debrett’s.” He tittered.
“My wife is Viscountess Kelbourne.”
West managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes, but how does she sign her paintings?”
“Sign?”
“In the lower right corner, generally, but sometimes on the back.”
“I have no idea. Would she sign with her given name? Victoria.”
“Her full name,” West prompted. “Mary Moser, for example. The artist is married, but she exhibits under the name by which she became famous.”
Dominic didn’t like the idea of Torie using any name but his. Still: “My wife’s maiden name is Victoria Sutton.”
West said in quite a different voice, “You are jesting, Lord Kelbourne.”
“I assure you that I am not,” Dominic replied. He turned away, taking another look at the room and its paintings filled with restless groups of men. He preferred Torie’s roses. Hell, he preferred Valentine’s rabbits and Florence’s deranged trees.
“I wish you good afternoon,” he said, bowing.
“Viscount!” West’s voice was incredulous and shrill. “Your wife—your wife is Victoria Sutton?”
Dominic froze. “Yes.”
“Who signs her work V. Sutton?”
“I have no idea,” Dominic said. He kept his expression calm only by a fierce exertion of will. “I gather that you do know my wife’s work.”
“The Academy issued an honorary invitation to Miss Victoria Sutton when the lady was not yet seventeen,” West said flatly. “Since then, she has exhibited in every Summer Exhibition, as well as any others when we can persuade her to honor us with a painting.”
Dominic’s voice emerged weightless from his chest. “I see.”
“You came here to try to buy entry for one of the greatest floral painters in England, likely the greatest, given that Mary Moser is losing her eyesight,” West said. “I thought you were speaking of a witless woman who paints daisies onto the back of a piece of glass.”
Dominic remembered his vow. “Those ladies are not witless. They are not encouraged to paint Caesar. They are only taught to paint daisies.”
“With apologies, Lord Kelbourne, you are the witless one, given your ignorance of your wife’s genius!” West snarled, with all the fury of a queen whose courtier had rudely turned his back. “I have personally begged your wife to meet the Academy students for a mere half hour, to explain her current work on time.”
“Time,” Dominic repeated, thinking of the three petals he had labeled “meticulous.”
“Miss Sutton will not sell her works. She claims that she will only give them to people she loves. I personally conveyed an offer of two thousand pounds from an American collector, and she turned him down. I know of only one artist—one!—who has had the luck to carry out extended conversations with her. What Monsieur Langlois reports of her thoughts on time dazzles and amazes.”
“I see.”
“You don’t. I myself try to capture a moment, say the moment when Caesar dies. I give the depiction as much reality as possible. I try to put history on a canvas. Miss Sutton works with ideas: rather than the precise moment a flower dies, she paints its suspension in time.”
In Dominic’s opinion, this particular duke would never get closer to admitting that there was a queen in his world.
And he, Dominic, was married to Her Majesty.
“Constraints are visited on aristocratic women that the rest of us will never endure.” West looked Kelbourne up and down. “One of those is presumably marriage to a man with so little respect that he doesn’t even know whom he wedded!”
“I agree.” Dominic bowed. “Good afternoon, President West.” He turned around and walked out.
Chapter 38
On the way to Huntington Grange, Dominic didn’t sleep overnight in an inn, as his family had done. He drove himself in his curricle, changing horses every ten miles throughout the night. Luckily it didn’t rain, and the miles spun by under his wheels as he followed the road by the light of the moon.
He thought hard the whole way about the word fool and what it had meant to him as a boy—and to Torie as a girl and then as a woman.
He also thought about her extraordinary achievements.
And his own.
Since that long-ago relative insulted Queen Elizabeth, his ancestors had taken no part in guiding the country from which they benefited so much. His father didn’t even take up his seat in the House of Lords. The most important bill of Dominic’s career appeared doomed for the moment, but he had championed other bills that protected the nation’s justice system and its finances.
