Gillespie and I by Jane Harris Page B

—the lady in the black frock and veil, with the birdcage?’
    He turned to look at me, in surprise. ‘But—what? You’ve seen that, then?’
    â€˜Oh yes.’
    â€˜But—that picture was shown only the once.’
    â€˜I know—I was there, at the Grosvenor. Did someone buy it, then?’
    â€˜Yes—an anonymous collector, no less.’
    I clapped my hands together. ‘Anonymous? How thrilling!’
    However, Ned had stopped in his tracks. ‘Excuse me—I’ve just realised, I’ve been terribly rude. I remember your face now, from that night. I beg your pardon.’
    â€˜Oh, not at all—you’ve no reason to remember me.’
    â€˜Ah, but I do remember,’ he insisted. ‘You were wearing an elaborate hat—a very tall, nice hat—and a—a very striking blue dress. Yes, I remember now—there was that dreadful curator—your hat annoyed him, it was in the way—and then I lost a collar-stud. Forgive me for not recognising you at first. You see, when my mother introduced us, I just assumed you were one of the ladies from her church.’
    â€˜Ah—not I! To tell the truth, I’m what you might call a freethinker.’
    Ned glanced over his shoulder, and then gave me a lighthearted, conspiratorial look. ‘Aye, well, just between ourselves,’ he said, in a low voice, ‘I’m not a great one for the Kirk either.’
    I laughed, and he smiled at me. ‘Sorry, miss, but what was your name again? Those openings are such a trial to the nerves: I never remember what anybody says.’
    â€˜No need to apologise—we weren’t actually introduced. My name is Harriet Baxter. But—please—call me Harriet.’
    â€˜Harriet, it is. How d’you do?’
    He shook my hand. Such a lovely moment: the first time that I had ever heard my name upon his lips, and then, that shy, endearing smile that he gave me, after he had spoken. His eyes, although sad, were of a rare and startling blue: at that instant, I could not have named the colour, but with the hindsight of years, I would describe their shade, that afternoon, as ultramarine.
    I glanced down as he released my hand, noticing first the muscular span of his wrist, and then I saw, scribbled all across the back of his cuff, a pencil sketch of the hot-air balloon, which must have been what he was doing earlier, when I had assumed that he was winding his watch or fiddling with a shirt fastener. It may sound silly, but I found this quite thrilling: that he would spoil his cuffs by drawing on them showed a refreshing lack of vanity, not to mention an appealing, devil-may-care attitude to convention.
    We fell back into step and, moments later, came into view of the multitudes swarming in front of the main building. The place was busy, even for a Saturday. Ned’s glance darted here and there as we headed towards the Eastern Palace.
    â€˜I’m interested to hear you’re sketching the Exhibition,’ I told him. ‘Such an inspiring subject. The urban landscape! The smoke! The city dweller! The crowds!’
    â€˜Aye,’ he said, doubtfully. ‘But nobody wants to buy paintings of the city. They’d far rather hang haystacks and cottar’s gardens on their walls. And a man has to make a living, Miss Baxter, especially with a family to support.’
    I recalled the little scene that I had witnessed earlier: Ned’s brother, borrowing money. Was that a regular occurrence, I wondered? Certainly, to judge from his clothing, Kenneth Gillespie had expensive tastes to maintain. And how many of the others did Ned have to provide for? His mother was a widow, it seemed; Mabel remained unmarried; and there were also Annie and the children to feed and clothe.
    â€˜I expect there are many demands on your purse,’ I remarked.
    When Ned made no reply, I glanced at him and found that he was staring at a gentleman who was seated