Lancaster and York. At least their roses weren’t pink.
She despised pink.
Truly, was there ever a more insipid color? It neither made the bold statement of red nor whispered the purity of white. Yet she was convinced that His Grace would be the happiest of all men if she wore nothing but that color. Pink, he seemed to think, was singularly feminine.
It was simply not her.
Candlelight flickering around the room, she set up the larger of the two seasoned canvases that Miss Alexander had sent with her to London and stood staring at the creamy surface before sketching out the basic scene. It would be a huge clash, the battle lines wavering, bodies strewn from here to the far horizon, her most glorious work yet. And maybe, in the foreground, a single trampled rose. She set to work laying it all out.
But she could not seem to concentrate on her painting either. She kept looking at the soldiers on the battlefield and wondering how they felt. Were they frightened, fighting brothers, friends? Did they feel alone? Abandoned? Did they wish their mothers were close by, whispering encouragement, soothing fears?
She did.
Emily set down her tools and reached for her locket, opening it for a moment to gaze at the tiny portrait inside. If only she could paint something of worth, something that would make Lady St. Gregory welcome Emily into the Royal Society with open arms. What could be finer than the company of other artists, people who thought like she did, people who understood and respected her? She could not let Lord Robert spoil that future for her. She would not.
She took a deep breath and got back to work.
8
On Bond Street Without a Chaperone
Late the next morning, Emily was trying to determine precisely how blood would pool around a decapitated body when the footman announced she had visitors. Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne were eager to hear what she’d learned from her servants, but Emily only agreed to tell them after they promised to pose for her battle scene.
She would have preferred to use the footmen. Unfortunately, the last time she’d asked, two had become so carried away that a Chinese vase had been damaged, and Warburton had asked her not to involve the staff again.
As it was, only Daphne could stand straight and valiant enough to do Emily any good as a model soldier (though she was pleased to discover that Ariadne made an excellent corpse). Priscilla insisted on playing a duchess watching from the edge of the battlefield. Emily pointed out that duchesses, or most dukes for that matter, seldom went to war, but Priscilla was adamant, so Emily let it go at that.
“So,” she said as she studied the angle of Daphne’s chin, “we know that Lord Robert Townsend has no money and likes the ladies all too well.”
“Definitely not hero material,” Ariadne said, raising her head into a patch of sunlight that turned her hair to gold.
Emily wanted to disagree, but she couldn’t, so she merely ordered Ariadne to lie back down like a good corpse.
“It isn’t enough,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “A great many people find themselves with less money than they’d like. That doesn’t make them criminals.”
“But how is Lady Emily to know?” Ariadne asked from the floor.
“An excellent question,” Emily replied. “Please forgive me, Ariadne, but I deviated from your plan. First thing this morning, I sent one of our footmen with a note asking if Lord Robert would come calling this afternoon. I thought perhaps I’d get him to take me to see the Parthenon Marbles.”
Ariadne smiled. “An excellent strategy. Draw him out.”
Emily sighed as she stroked her brush across the oil on her palette. “I thought so. Unfortunately, he already answered me. He is too busy today to assist me but will take me to see the Marbles tomorrow. The footman reported that Lord Robert must shop this morning, and this afternoon he will be preparing to attend the Marchioness of Skelcroft’s ball.”
“Well, I like
She despised pink.
Truly, was there ever a more insipid color? It neither made the bold statement of red nor whispered the purity of white. Yet she was convinced that His Grace would be the happiest of all men if she wore nothing but that color. Pink, he seemed to think, was singularly feminine.
It was simply not her.
Candlelight flickering around the room, she set up the larger of the two seasoned canvases that Miss Alexander had sent with her to London and stood staring at the creamy surface before sketching out the basic scene. It would be a huge clash, the battle lines wavering, bodies strewn from here to the far horizon, her most glorious work yet. And maybe, in the foreground, a single trampled rose. She set to work laying it all out.
But she could not seem to concentrate on her painting either. She kept looking at the soldiers on the battlefield and wondering how they felt. Were they frightened, fighting brothers, friends? Did they feel alone? Abandoned? Did they wish their mothers were close by, whispering encouragement, soothing fears?
She did.
Emily set down her tools and reached for her locket, opening it for a moment to gaze at the tiny portrait inside. If only she could paint something of worth, something that would make Lady St. Gregory welcome Emily into the Royal Society with open arms. What could be finer than the company of other artists, people who thought like she did, people who understood and respected her? She could not let Lord Robert spoil that future for her. She would not.
She took a deep breath and got back to work.
8
On Bond Street Without a Chaperone
Late the next morning, Emily was trying to determine precisely how blood would pool around a decapitated body when the footman announced she had visitors. Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne were eager to hear what she’d learned from her servants, but Emily only agreed to tell them after they promised to pose for her battle scene.
She would have preferred to use the footmen. Unfortunately, the last time she’d asked, two had become so carried away that a Chinese vase had been damaged, and Warburton had asked her not to involve the staff again.
As it was, only Daphne could stand straight and valiant enough to do Emily any good as a model soldier (though she was pleased to discover that Ariadne made an excellent corpse). Priscilla insisted on playing a duchess watching from the edge of the battlefield. Emily pointed out that duchesses, or most dukes for that matter, seldom went to war, but Priscilla was adamant, so Emily let it go at that.
“So,” she said as she studied the angle of Daphne’s chin, “we know that Lord Robert Townsend has no money and likes the ladies all too well.”
“Definitely not hero material,” Ariadne said, raising her head into a patch of sunlight that turned her hair to gold.
Emily wanted to disagree, but she couldn’t, so she merely ordered Ariadne to lie back down like a good corpse.
“It isn’t enough,” Priscilla said with a sigh. “A great many people find themselves with less money than they’d like. That doesn’t make them criminals.”
“But how is Lady Emily to know?” Ariadne asked from the floor.
“An excellent question,” Emily replied. “Please forgive me, Ariadne, but I deviated from your plan. First thing this morning, I sent one of our footmen with a note asking if Lord Robert would come calling this afternoon. I thought perhaps I’d get him to take me to see the Parthenon Marbles.”
Ariadne smiled. “An excellent strategy. Draw him out.”
Emily sighed as she stroked her brush across the oil on her palette. “I thought so. Unfortunately, he already answered me. He is too busy today to assist me but will take me to see the Marbles tomorrow. The footman reported that Lord Robert must shop this morning, and this afternoon he will be preparing to attend the Marchioness of Skelcroft’s ball.”
“Well, I like
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