“I think you will find, young Horatio, that this is Somerset House.”
He shrugged and wiped his nose. “Same meat, different gravy.” And he clambered to undo the steps.
“Shall we?” Casper extended an arm.
Her glove with its frayed embroidery reached out and fitted perfectly.
Waitingas the duke acquired a catalogue, which included plans and index, Evelyn perused the steep narrow staircase which led attendees to the Great Room where the finest paintings were hung.
Memories assailed of her previous visit to the exhibition. To view Father’s first canvas that had been accepted in the days when he painted elegant ladies’ portraits, not half-nude wantons selling their wares.
“I’m all aflutter to see them naked sculptures,” Flora enthused, licking her lips. “I’ve heard there’s a bronze Jupiter having his wicked way with a Europa who looks exactly like m–”
“Let’s begin with the paintings,” Evelyn gushed as the duke returned with the catalogue, and before Flora could protest and drag them to the Model Academy, Evelyn manoeuvred for the stairs, hat down and elbows out.
She stumbled, knocking into–
“Forgive me, Ma’am. It is rather a squash.” That drawled accent and she instinctively gazed up into the face of an elderly and distinguished gentleman.
Oh, lud, no.
When she’d visited as a child, Father had been delighted at being placed in the inner room with Fuseli and she’d raced up the staircase to view it, knocking straight into the Academy President. The handsome Mr West had righted her and patted a curl, his exotic accent causing her to giggle.
Evelyn tucked an escaped red curl beneath her voluminous hat. “My sincere apologies, Sir.”
“Mr West,” boomed the duke from her side whilst shaking the gentleman’s hand. “How do you do?”
“Quite well, Your Grace, I thank you, although it’s grey days like this that I miss Pennsylvania. Surely spring will arrive soon. And who is your delightful companion?”
“Mrs Swift, may I introduce Mr West, the Art Academy President.”
The gentleman bussed the back of her hand. “Charmed, I’m sure, Mrs Swift.” And cocked his head. “Have we met before?”
Evelyn gulped. He was eighty if a day but had the eyes of a hawk and she cursed her misfortune. “Er,” she squeaked. “I once attended years past.”
His gaze slid to another damn runaway curl and she hastily shoved it within the confines of her hat. Truly, one could fit three sacks of potatoes in the hideous creation, yet it refused to contain her locks.
“That must be it,” he murmured…with a wink. “I’d never forget a girl with the hair of a Titian masterpiece.”
The gentlemen warmly shook hands once again and bidding adieu, they all weaved up the giddy-inducing stairs until with a deep breath they emerged into the light-filled galleries of the upper floor.
Oil and frame crowded the walls, flooding the eye with vistas and colour; vast masterpieces hung cheek by jowl, three foot above the head for maximum visibility, whilst smaller works cluttered the lower positions.
Lesser-known artists had to be content with being placed so near the roof, one required the supplied binoculars to study detail, although they were tipped forward from the wall surface to lessen the glare of feeble daylight which peeked through the high-up arched windows on all sides.
A trill of elation escaped her – of home and the past.
“I’m glad this gives you pleasure.”
And through moist eyes, she beheld the duke smiling. Evelyn yearned to hug him, then smother his noble physog with joyous kisses for this thoughtful outing because even though she’d hidden so much from him, he’d noted her delight in art and endeavoured to arrange an entire morning away from his precious desk…
Such a rare gentleman.
And all she could do was return his smile.
They whirled in wonder, with Rothwell pointing out artists he patronised, and they discussed the two Turner’s, the duke preferring the refinement of these more formal Classical paintings whereas she enjoyed the rougher and wilder seascape she’d viewed in 1804.
More than a few attendees nodded at the duke in recognition and gazed at Evelyn in speculation as they sauntered the Anti-room, but no one approached for a chinwag or clapped him on the back in welcome, and she supposed his exalted position in life was in fact a solitary one.
