Somewhat later in the day, someone whose opinion carried far more weight than her brother’s uttered similar sentiments to Cecilia.
“My dear, you really must get out more.” Countess Lieven gingerly set down her cup of tea among the clutter of brushes and pots of pigment on the table next to the sofa in Cecilia’s studio, as she scanned her friend’s face anxiously. “You are working far too hard, and that will only make you dull and cross. If you do not have care, you will end up looking like an antidote. And we would not want that to happen.”
“The endless crush of routs and balls would make me dull and cross, not painting. You know that as well as I do.”
Dorothea Lieven leaned forward, her narrow, clever face alight with concern for her friend. “Yes, yes, I know, but balls and routs are not the only amusements to be had. Just because you find most of the conversations at these affairs nothing but tedious gossip does not mean that the metropolis is utterly devoid of intelligent diversions. What about the opera?”
Cecilia looked skeptical.
“I know, I know. Everyone else attends the opera to see or be seen, but you could actually listen to the music. That is it! Come, promise me that you will join us in our box Saturday evening. It is
La Clemenza di
Tito
, which is surely serious enough even to appeal to your refined tastes. Say you will do it. I promise you, we shall talk of nothing but the most erudite and stimulating of topics, and we shall be quiet as mice while the music is being performed.”
Cecilia was no proof against such genuine concern so kindly expressed, but later, after bidding her visitor adieu, she stared critically at herself in the looking glass. Was she really a dead bore, as her brother accused her of being—or, worse yet, at least as far as Dorothea Lieven was concerned, an antidote?
Yes, there were the faintest lines visible at the corners of her mouth, and they were not from smiling. Her skin seemed pale, especially in contrast with the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, and her eyes looked lifeless. Where was the clever, energetic girl who had sat dreamy-eyed on the terrace of the Villa Torioni, listening to the songs of the birds and the hum of bees as she absorbed the exotic scents, the soft breezes and the golden Mediterranean sunshine?
When had she stopped enjoying life?
She glanced over to the corner where her picture—so generously restored to her, and still wrapped in Holland cloth—was propped up against a pile of canvases. Her lips tightened as she thought of how it had come to be in the Earl of Charrington’s possession. Everyone else in her life had abdicated their responsibilities, and she had assumed them by default: that was when she had slowly begun to lose her joie de vivre.
It had not been intentional, of course. She had just begun concentrating on her painting, on turning out portraits to pay the bills, and, eventually, she’d had little time or thought to spare for anything else. And no one—not Neville, not even Dorothea Lieven—seemed to understand that the situation was not of her making. It had not come about because of her choice, but because of necessity.
Nor was anyone really doing anything to help. They could voice all the concerns they wished to voice about her not enjoying herself—her need to find more diversion or amusement in her life—but no one was doing anything to help her find the time or the money to do so. Except one.
A slow smile softened the tense lines of her compressed lips. Sebastian, Earl of Charrington was helping. Preoccupied though he might be—at least according to his fiancée—he understood all the difficulties she was facing, and he was doing his best to help her. Not only by giving her important commissions, but by giving her commissions for work that would challenge her artistic capabilities, spark her interest, and help her grow as an artist and a person. And while it was true that he was giving her more work, instead of offering her the entertainment or diversion that the others were suggesting she so desperately needed, it did not feel like work. She was doing it for herself—for her own growth and satisfaction, to enhance her own reputation—not simply to pay the
bills, though the figure he had offered her was certainly handsome enough to pay a cartload of bills.
Thinking of the Earl of Charrington reminded Cecilia that she still had some more measuring to do. What could offer more diversion than a brisk walk to Grosvenor Square on such a lovely day? And what could be better than finding a bit of diversion in the course of fulfilling her obligations?
And perhaps you will see him,
a treacherous little voice in her head suggested—a voice that she instantly dismissed as being worse than ridiculous. But it was true that every time she saw the Earl of Charrington, she felt warmed by his friendship and encouraged by his belief in her. In all his conversations with her, he had made it plain that he considered her to be a person worth knowing—a person worth admiring, whose company was both enlightening and enjoyable.
Determined to take at least some pleasure from the walk, Cecilia allowed herself to linger on Bond Street, pausing to look in shop windows here and there and even going so far as to picture herself in a bonnet artfully displayed to its best advantage in the window of Prother and Company. Surely the straw-colored silk lining would be vastly becoming to her, and the green satin trimming and bow would highlight the color of her eyes which, artist that she was, she knew to be her best feature.
Her maid, Susan, accustomed to moving along at a brisk and businesslike pace whenever she accompanied her mistress, glanced at Lady Cecilia curiously. It was certainly not like her to give a second thought to the enticing establishments on Bond Street, much less gaze longingly at bonnets in shop windows almost as though she were considering purchasing such a thing.
The maid was in complete agreement with her mistress, however. The bonnet in question was an enchanting creation with the tips of the feathers dipped in green to match the ribbons, and far too frivolous for a woman who usually insisted on simplicity and, above all, serviceability in her dress. While it was true that Lady Cecilia always presented a picture of quiet elegance, her maid was of the opinion that it verged in the severe, and could be vastly improved with the softening influence of a few seductive feathers or a mildly flirtatious bow now and then.
“There; I
told
Somersworth that higher crowns were all the rage and that no self-respecting husband would allow his wife to appear in a bonnet like the one I am wearing. I look an absolute quiz.” A petulant voice interrupted Cecilia’s fit of abstraction.
“My dear, you simply cannot expect a gentleman to appreciate these things. Just tell him that you must have it, and there is an end to it. That is what I do with Harleston. He is usually most obliging and happy to indulge me, but he simply has no sense of fashion.”
Cecilia had been wondering, somewhat wistfully, what it would be like to purchase a bonnet simply because one wanted it, or because it would make one feel beautiful, without regard for anything else like price or utility. Now, with a queer fluttering of her pulse, she wondered what it would be like to have a gentleman present it to one—a husband, naturally. What would it be like to be handed a box and be told to open it and try it on because
I
want to see how lovely you look in it?
She had never really thought about having a husband before, because she had been so intent on making a way for herself in the world and building her reputation as an artist. Or, if she had thought of it at all, it had been as an encumbrance, something to be avoided because it would take time away from her chosen profession or threaten her hard-won independence. It had simply never occurred to her that having a husband might mean having someone who wanted to indulge her. Being indulged by the right sort of person might actually be quite enjoyable—quite enjoyable, indeed.
Cecilia’s breath caught in her throat and her face grew warm at the thought. Then common sense reasserted itself. If one were supremely lucky, one might find such a husband. But why count on luck, which was notoriously fickle, when you could rely on yourself? And that was just what she was doing, and she was proud of herself for doing it.
Holding her head, in its very serviceable bonnet, high, she marched up Bond Street, turned into Brook Street and proceeded at such a pace that by the time she reached Grosvenor Square, she was quite out of breath and so intent on her own thoughts that she nearly collided with the mansion’s owner on its steps.
Chapter Eighteen
“Lady Cecilia! How delightful to see you. I was just leaving, but do come in.” Sebastian smiled down at her in such a way that all the disturbing thoughts of indulgent gentleman that she had successfully banished during her walk now came rushing back with a vengeance.
“My lord, I did not expect... I mean, I. only came to take some more measurements. Please do not let me interrupt you.”
“On the contrary, I count it extremely fortunate that I did not leave a moment earlier than I did. It is always a pleasure to talk to you. Come, let us go to the ballroom. Mr. Wilkins has just stepped out, but perhaps you will accept my humble assistance as you take your measurements. I do not know exactly, for I am not experienced in such things, but I would venture to guess that measuring goes a great deal more smoothly if two people do it, rather than one.”
Cecilia blinked, and then quickly recovered herself. “Why yes, it is easier, and thank you. But surely you have more important things to attend to,” she temporized, remembering that the constant unavailability of Barbara’s fiancé was Neville’s excuse for escorting Barbara to the Egyptian Hall. However, now it certainly did not appear that the Earl of Charrington was too preoccupied with business affairs to pay attention to anything else.
He smiled down at her. “Perhaps some people might think so, but at the moment I cannot think of anything more important to me than assisting you.”
Cecilia wondered why she had ever thought him arrogant or cold. She found the charm in his smile truly irresistible, and his interest in everything she did infectious. Furthermore, the look in his eyes as he gave her his arm up the stairs utterly banished all the doubts that had been plaguing her since breakfast. Her brother might consider her an antidote and a dead bore, but the Earl of Charrington made her feel as lovely and as attractive as any Incomparable.
“I am doubly glad to see you today, because it gives me the opportunity to speak to you about the paper by Davy that I gave you. Have you had a chance to read it?”
“I did, but I am sadly afraid that some of it was so technical as to escape me. But I did find the discussion of the reasons for some pigments deteriorating more rapidly than others to be particularly useful. You are disappointed, I see, but I
did
warn you that my talents do not lie in the sciences or mathematics. But tell, me, my lord, what did you think of the paper?”
“I found it most interesting, though to my mind, he did not go far enough.”
“Far enough?” Cecilia raised a questioning brow.
“Well, basically, the whole issue of color is even more elemental than the question of pigment, for, elementally speaking, it is a matter of the amount of reflection or refraction of the light on the particles dispersed in the pigment that gives it its color. Therefore, it is not simply a question of the chemical properties of the pigment itself, but of the size of the particles as ... but I see I am boring you. I often do—bore people, you know. If the truth be told, I am rather a dull fellow.”
The sheepish grin that accompanied this admission suddenly made him seem warm, vulnerable, and more endearing than anyone Cecilia had ever met. “No, not at all. It is
I
who am the dull one, I am afraid.”
He thought for a moment, and then continued. “Well, to put it simply, the more light that is absorbed, the darker a thing is. Take black, for example; it is not so much a color as the almost total absorption of light, while white reflects almost all of it.”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly.
“In colored pigments, then, the light is selectively absorbed; it is the reflected light that gives the pigment its hue. So to my mind, color is more a matter of physics than chemistry. It is chemistry that governs such aspects as solubility and stability, which, though they may be of equal importance, are, for me at least, of far less interest.”
Cecilia could not help smiling at his earnestness and intensity. His absorption in the question and his eagerness to share it with her were far more charming than all the flattering speeches that he could have made—speeches that most women demanded as a matter of course. Most of the gallants Cecilia had observed over the years were so self-absorbed that the compliments that they paid to the objects of their admiration were not designed to bring pleasure to their recipients so much as to draw attention to the wit and cleverness of the gallant himself.
Such was not the case with the Earl of Charrington. He was genuinely interested in not only the topic, but in her opinion of it, and that interest was far more flattering than any of the Spanish coin she had been offered over the years.
Cecilia tilted her head consideringly for a moment before she responded. “I suppose that, to me, it is more a question of one’s feeling about fame and posterity than anything else.”
It was Sebastian’s turn to look puzzled.
“It seems that much of Sir Humphrey’s paper touched on the lasting nature of the pigments used by the ancients. If one is concerned about the immediate effect of one’s paintings, then color, or your physics, is most important. If, however, one is thinking not so much of immediate fame, but of immortality, the durability of the materials one uses is critical, and that is more a matter of chemistry. I myself could never presume to think that any painting of mine, especially a portrait, would have value beyond the life of the subject of the portrait, so I would be forced to admit that physics is more important to me.”
Sebastian regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “I have seen the size of the windows in your studio, and the direction they face. You are obviously accustomed to painting with the best possible light, but you have no way of knowing how much light will fall on a picture once it has left your studio. Colors that appear brilliant and jewel-like in your studio my appear dull and dark when hung over a mantel in a room with inadequate light. How do you allow for that?”