“Good.” Like some tongue tied boy, Huntley could think of nothing else to say.
Farrell stood back to consider his work. “I’ll block in the background. Mauvoreen, take a break. I expect Mrs. Featherstone has the kettle on. Since you arrived, I’ve never drunk so much damn tea.”
“Very well.” Slowly, Miss Foster stood and placed the ivy circlet on the stool, her devastating eyes focused on Huntley. “I supposed you had forgotten all about us.”
He stiffened. “Miss Foster, I do believe you missed me.” Unexpectedly, his mood lifted.
Huntley followed her downstairs. Why even the back of her long neck, and the chestnut curl that brushed her shoulder, sent a frisson of warmth through his loins. With a grim expression he reined in his imagination. Miss Foster modeled for an artist in his employ. On his honor, she should be treated with professional courtesy, but, hypnotized by the subtle sway of her hips, his resolution weakened. Never had he felt as alive as when in her presence. A vague idea took shape. His blood sang when he saw her, what harm in a little pleasure? If he made her his mistress, the blood surged in his groin, she would have funds, a protector, and he kept his independence. The idea had appeal on all counts and many men of standing kept a mistress without impugning their standing. After all, it wasn’t as if Miss Foster was chaste.
That half hour spent taking tea with Miss Foster was quite possibly the most awkward of his life. He had sat across the table like a constipated idiot, too tongue-tied to speak and when he did, banalities spilt out. It was with some relief that he took his leave, bid Mr. Farrell farewell and emerged back onto the street. Seeking his carriage, he was too distracted to notice the same shifty character, back in position leaning against the railings.
Safe within the confines of his carriage, Huntley thoughts grew more rational.
Not for years, since Caroline Bloxham in fact, had he desired a woman with such unremitting obsession as he did Miss Foster. On the minus side, she was not of his station, but on the plus, she seemed intelligent and well-read. As his mistress she would gain security, a life of her own away from the chaos of Farrell. He would set her up in a house with a generous allowance. She would have more freedom than a married woman, and he would have Eulogy in his bed. The idea had merit. And unless much mistaken, Miss Foster felt a mutual attraction. Why that kiss in Mrs. Parker’s parlor, he brightened, she had positively melted under his touch. If one kiss could inflame him so, then what of the nights of the delights to explore? The idea of Eulogy’s welcoming smile, of her arms around him, sent anticipation coursing down his spine.
The more Huntley considered the idea, the more he liked it.
Taking a mistress was not something Huntley generally approved of, but with Miss Foster already being despoiled, truly he would be more protector than user. The thought of such magnanimity cheered him. With his mind made up he just needed Miss Foster to consent, and women being the vain creatures that they are, he decided it wisest to prepare the way with a courtship of sorts. He could use the rouse of tutoring her, of improving her knowledge of art, as a means to an ends and then, in time, make her his.
Chapter 9
In the spotless parlor, two women worked companionably at their sewing, in the soft summer light. Warm enough to be pleasant, without the oppressive humid heat of midsummer.
“Yer sighing, Miss Foster. Is summat amiss?”
A warm breeze drifted in through the window, ruffling the new voile curtains.
“No, not at all… it’s just that this is the first summer I’ve spent away from Easterhope.”
“Well then, happen as you should mekk the most it.”
“Perhaps.”
“What is there to doubt?”
Head bowed over her sewing, Eulogy paused.
“Oh, nothing. Only Mr. Farrell has been more than generous with the money he paid me. I don’t want to take advantage.”
“The way I sees things, tis you that is his inspiration. A partnership if yer like. If it pleases him for you to have pretty things, to dress more appropriate, then let him have that pleasure.”
“I suppose.”
Eulogy resumed stitching.
“Besides, you work hard with the house. You do so much for the pair of us. Tis little enough thanks.”
The monies from the sale of The Winter Queen had done a great deal to increase their comfort. Newly purchased rugs, fresh bed linen and plentiful firewood, to name but a few of the comforts they now enjoyed.
“Well, it is nice to have a new dress.”
“Aye, the old un weren’t fit for company. Especially the likes of Mr. Huntley.”
Miss Foster looked up sharply. “He is Mr. Farrell’s patron, nothing more.”
“Well, he does seem to call an uncommon amount and prefer your company.”
“He desires to broaden my education in matters of art to aid Mr. Farrell. That is all.” Eulogy grew indignant.
“Aye,” Mrs. Featherstone raised a grey brow, ‘is that so?”
“His interest is in helping Mr. Farrell.”
“And that’s why he calls so often? When tis you that makes his face light up?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what do you mean?” She bristled.
With a private smile, Mrs. Featherstone threaded her needle. “I’m no expert, but I don’t reckon as most patrons make such regular house calls on their artist.”
“Mr. Farrell is finding his feet and given what occurred in the past, Mr. Huntley is being cautious” Why, she asked herself, did she feel so defensive?
“Is that so?”
“You keep saying that, and I don’t know what you mean.” Even so, Eulogy felt her cheeks coloring.
“Dear, I’m a great deal longer in the tooth than you, and it’s as plain as day that Mr. Huntley has a partiality to you.”
A whole cage of butterflies seemed to flutter in Miss Foster’s chest as she pushed aside the muslin. “I’ve knotted the thread again. I seem to have thumbs for fingers.”
“Aye, well happen you could do with a break.” Mrs. Featherstone regarded her, knowingly. “Pop downstairs and put the kettle on.”
With sudden energy Miss Foster jumped up. “Now that is a good idea.”
Relieved to escape Mrs. Featherstone’s scrutiny, Eulogy made her way downstairs. She crossed the hall and spotted a letter on the door mat. After finding it addressed to her, she broke the seal and read. A deep flush travelled down her neck.
“Mr. Huntley! Escorting me to The Royal Academy…tomorrow afternoon!” Her eyes flashed at the thought of the paintings and mixing in society. It was what she had dreamed of at Easterhope. But her hand trembled. “I cannot accept.” She bit her lip, pushing the letter into her apron pocket. It was not seemly to let Mr. Huntley escort her. People would get the wrong idea. Her pulse leapt. Unless of course, Huntley’s intentions were honorable and he did have feelings for her. What if Mrs. Featherstone was right after all? Dare she hope? Just the thought of Huntley set her pulse racing. But it would not do. Men of his station could have no serious intentions for women of her lowly station. If only he knew the truth!
Distracted, she almost missed the second letter, pushed half way under the hall mat.
She scooped it up and peered at the unfamiliar writing: an untidy backward scrawl that sent an illogical shiver shuddering down her spine.
But unlike Huntley’s note, this was no friendly missive but short, terse and signed ‘A Friend’, whilst meaning the exact opposite. The letter advised Miss Foster, that if she valued her health, she should leave London with all haste. This time her heart tripped with alarm. She leant against the wall, her head reeling. After calming her nerves, with shaking hands she re-read the letter.
The message was clear, the intent malicious. Someone wished her ill. But who could want such a thing? Some enemy from Farrell’s past? That seemed unlikely; he was an amiable chap, if pitiable at times. Huntley had the biggest cause to dislike him and even that had been overcome. She checked off who else she knew in London. It was a short list: Huntley, Mrs. Palmer, Farrell and Mrs. Featherstone…and Lord Devlin.
Leaning heavily against the door, her head throbbed. She could not believe such a thing. Surely her own brother would not threaten her! Why would he do that? It was unthinkable. She hadn’t even called again. But as the minutes ticked past, try hard as she could to think, no other option presented itself.
Eulogy tucked the second note with the first, and with quiet resolve decided to quiz Farrell, as a matter of urgency, about the mother and brother about whom she knew so little.
The following afternoon, despite her best efforts to remain calm, Eulogy squirmed with excitement as the carriage pulled up outside Somerset House.
Huntley alighted and as he handed her down, the touch of his hand set her skin alight. Never, she reflected, had he seemed more handsome, in a cutaway frock coat, his chest broad as a rooster’s. Unwavering, his dark mossy eyes fixed on hers, in a way that made her vulnerable and exposed.
“Somerset House, in all its glory.” He gestured to the neo-classical building before them.
“Oh.” Eulogy wrinkled her nose. “But what is that awful smell?”
A rare flash of amusement crossed his face. “That’s what I like about you, Miss Foster, you say it as it is. And that smell, is stale herrings from the wharves. Come, let us get away from it.”
Before she knew what was happening, Huntley tucked her hand cozily in the crook of his arm and gave it a squeeze. Her heart skittered alarmingly.
“You have my word there are only pleasant smells inside.”
“It’s so…grand.” She stared up at the façade of row upon row of arched windows, staring back with arrogant regard. “There is nothing to compare at Easterhope. It is a little daunting.”
“Come.”
Huntley’s closeness cast a spell over her, as arm in arm they ascended the steps.
“Mr. Huntley. Miss.” The doorman touched his hat.
They entered a cool marble lobby the like of which Eulogy had never seen before: crystal chandeliers, gilt-framed mirrors the size of a carriage and frescoed walls. They edged forward through the crowd to a marble staircase, down which spilt the hubbub of conversation. With the press of people they made slow progress, and not for the first time Eulogy felt grateful for Huntley’s steadying hand.
“This is even busier than Easterhope’s Spring Fair.”
“And that’s why I’m here to protect you.”
Something stirred inside and Eulogy wondered at this new emotion. But as they progressed, the more she saw of the silks, jewels and feathers adorning the assembled ladies, the more her gown, which half an hour ago had seemed daring with its scooped neckline, began to seem frumpy and plain.
As if reading her mind Huntley whispered, “These women need jewels to adorn them whereas you are a natural beauty.”
Suddenly, the room lacked air and Eulogy resisted the urge to fan her flaming cheeks. They reached the exhibition hall. Heat hit first, followed by muggy air thick with perfume then the disordered jumble that confused the eye.
“Oh my goodness!”
From floor to ceiling a collage of overlapping frames dueled for attention. A giant puzzle of landscapes, portraits, miniatures and frescoes crammed together in a riot of color. Nothing at all like the polite rows of paintings Eulogy had expected.
“So many!”
Huntley grinned at her astonishment. “It’s not as disordered as it first appears. You just need to know how to read it. Those pictures on eye level are the noteworthy pieces. Up higher,” his gaze drifted to the ceiling, “are artists of the second order. That’s part of the fun you see, spotting overlooked talent…and arguing about the taste of the hanging committee.”
“I see.”
Jostled by the shifting crowd, Huntley wrapped a protective arm around her waist. Eulogy glanced at him in surprise.
“People will notice.”
“Not in this crush and I promised to protect you.”
Her heart raced, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed.
“Besides, I’ve brought you here for a reason. Come.”
Bemused, Eulogy did as he bid, placing her trust in Huntley as he crossed the busy gallery floor.
“Here we are.”
“What am I looking at?”
“Straight ahead, don’t you see it?”
Eulogy blinked as a strangely familiar scene swam into focus. She recognized Farrell’s free flowing style, an oil, a study in light and shade. The painted depicted herself fussing Gilbert, Mrs. Featherstone’s pride and joy. It was a picture of gentleness, trust and contentment between girl and cat. Amongst the extravagantly pompous portraits of the great and worthy, this painting was like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day.
“But how?” she asked, open mouthed. “I have no recollection of posing.”
“It’s Farrell’s idea of a doodle.” Huntley beamed. “He painted from memory and Mrs. Featherstone brought it to my attention. Secretly I submitted it to the Academy and voila! We both thought it would help Farrell’s confidence to be exhibited again after all these years.”