sale, and every time you come here you try to induce me to sell it. No matter how you toss those lashes or force tears from those priceless eyes of yours, I’ll stop painting before I let you hang my Emma inside that scandalous boudoir of yours.” He waggled a finger at her. “I’m not like that gaggle of fools outside. I’m immune to your charms, Lottie Townsend. Have been since the first time I painted you fifteen years ago.”
He pointed at a frame hanging a little higher up the stairs.
“Precious,” Finella said, walking past the portrait of the young girl, a basket overflowing with flowers cradled in her lap.
That’s me, Charlotte thought as she passed it.
Yet how could this be? She’d just made her wish yesterday, but it was as if her entire life, the one that she remembered, had never existed, while this life had played out on some other stage without her having a single memory of it.
They had climbed up to the top of the house and were standing at the threshold of Arbuckle’s studio when from down below came a ruckus.
“I have every right to be inside here. I’ve a ticket.”
Charlotte looked from Arbuckle’s furrowed brows to Finella’s gaze, which had rolled innocently upward, as if the ceiling offered more interest than the brouhaha from below.
“Mrs. Birley, I warned you—”
“Arbuckle, my dear man,” Finella said, “you must realize that gossip will only increase the value of this painting. A percentage of which belongs to my dear girl.” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking like the Finella of old when the milkmaid sent over less than a full measureof butter. “Speculation and rumor will only do so much, but a full report by an eyewitness will bring crowds when you auction it.”
“I do not paint before an audience. I am not some Grimaldi to be gawked at by a gaggle of geese and baboons.”
Finella snorted at such artistic temperament. “An audience is essential to making this sale a success, and Lottie concurs with me.”
They both looked at her, Finella nodding at her to affirm her statement, Arbuckle looking positively furious at this intrusion.
Charlotte swallowed. “I think, that is to say…” She glanced again from Finella to Arbuckle. “What I suppose would be best, at least for today,” she added for Finella’s benefit, “is that an audience might be a little distracting.”
Arbuckle snorted in Finella’s direction—not that the lady appeared to notice, for her nose was already pointed upward in obvious displeasure. “I suppose now I must be the bearer of bad news,” she sniffed before heading down the stairs toward the soon-to-be disappointed ticket holders.
“Come along, my girl,” Arbuckle said, taking Charlotte by the arm and leading her into his studio. “Mrs. Birley would sell your laundry in the Times if she thought she could make a profit.”
“She means well,” she replied, though she rather suspected Arbuckle had the truth of it; she’d seen the wink pass between Finella and Rockhurst, and she remembered how Finella had deliberately chosen the green gown this morning.
And urged Charlotte to take the earl as her new lover.
Whatever did she need a new lover for when she hadn’tthe slightest notion what to do with the current one?
“Come along, come along,” Arbuckle said, pulling her into his studio far from the echoes below, where Finella was refusing to refund the tickets she’d sold.
But all that was forgotten as her foot crossed into the artist’s inner sanctum, and she found herself awed by a world she’d never imagined. Sunshine streamed in from the windows, as well as from skylights above. The entire studio was awash in illumination.
Tripods with paintings stood patiently waiting attention at varied places in the room. The portraits were covered with Holland covers, so their contents were as mysterious as this life she’d tumbled into.
As she continued slowly into the studio, her nose wrinkled ever so slightly at
He pointed at a frame hanging a little higher up the stairs.
“Precious,” Finella said, walking past the portrait of the young girl, a basket overflowing with flowers cradled in her lap.
That’s me, Charlotte thought as she passed it.
Yet how could this be? She’d just made her wish yesterday, but it was as if her entire life, the one that she remembered, had never existed, while this life had played out on some other stage without her having a single memory of it.
They had climbed up to the top of the house and were standing at the threshold of Arbuckle’s studio when from down below came a ruckus.
“I have every right to be inside here. I’ve a ticket.”
Charlotte looked from Arbuckle’s furrowed brows to Finella’s gaze, which had rolled innocently upward, as if the ceiling offered more interest than the brouhaha from below.
“Mrs. Birley, I warned you—”
“Arbuckle, my dear man,” Finella said, “you must realize that gossip will only increase the value of this painting. A percentage of which belongs to my dear girl.” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking like the Finella of old when the milkmaid sent over less than a full measureof butter. “Speculation and rumor will only do so much, but a full report by an eyewitness will bring crowds when you auction it.”
“I do not paint before an audience. I am not some Grimaldi to be gawked at by a gaggle of geese and baboons.”
Finella snorted at such artistic temperament. “An audience is essential to making this sale a success, and Lottie concurs with me.”
They both looked at her, Finella nodding at her to affirm her statement, Arbuckle looking positively furious at this intrusion.
Charlotte swallowed. “I think, that is to say…” She glanced again from Finella to Arbuckle. “What I suppose would be best, at least for today,” she added for Finella’s benefit, “is that an audience might be a little distracting.”
Arbuckle snorted in Finella’s direction—not that the lady appeared to notice, for her nose was already pointed upward in obvious displeasure. “I suppose now I must be the bearer of bad news,” she sniffed before heading down the stairs toward the soon-to-be disappointed ticket holders.
“Come along, my girl,” Arbuckle said, taking Charlotte by the arm and leading her into his studio. “Mrs. Birley would sell your laundry in the Times if she thought she could make a profit.”
“She means well,” she replied, though she rather suspected Arbuckle had the truth of it; she’d seen the wink pass between Finella and Rockhurst, and she remembered how Finella had deliberately chosen the green gown this morning.
And urged Charlotte to take the earl as her new lover.
Whatever did she need a new lover for when she hadn’tthe slightest notion what to do with the current one?
“Come along, come along,” Arbuckle said, pulling her into his studio far from the echoes below, where Finella was refusing to refund the tickets she’d sold.
But all that was forgotten as her foot crossed into the artist’s inner sanctum, and she found herself awed by a world she’d never imagined. Sunshine streamed in from the windows, as well as from skylights above. The entire studio was awash in illumination.
Tripods with paintings stood patiently waiting attention at varied places in the room. The portraits were covered with Holland covers, so their contents were as mysterious as this life she’d tumbled into.
As she continued slowly into the studio, her nose wrinkled ever so slightly at
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