With a scowl, she drew away and turned her attention to the half-finished commission on the opposite easel.
A fluffy black cat disdained her.
A fluffy black cat which would pay ten guineas.
The vicious moggy had refused to sit for more than a clock strike during preliminary sketches, but Lady Struthers had insisted that Master Puffwuff be depicted reclining upon a damask-silk chaise longue with a virtuous and noble visage.
In fact, Master Puffwuff had rather resembled an irate pasha about to dispense with someone’s head so Verity would be forced to borrow the required detailing from one of the household’s many cats, all belonging to Aunt Theo.
She shifted the canvas of her sullen subject to better catch the light, although light was not such a problem in her third-floor art studio as she’d had sections of wall removed where possible and replaced with numerous panes of glass set within wooden frames. Light poured in and it felt as though she worked in a leafy haven, for it not only overlooked their garden but also St James’s Park beyond and Birdcage Walk with its many plane trees.
Each morn, Verity, her aunt and her cousin promenaded the park together, admiring how the change of seasons transformed nature or debating whether breakfast was preferable with a cinnamon roll or a hard-boiled egg.
The door latch clicked but Verity’s gaze did not stray from Master Puffwuff. Black cats were the devil to paint as one had to rely so much upon texture and infinite shades of grey or else it would simply end up as a blob of black.
“Don’t you ever wish to paint something other than cats and war?” Her cousin Sephi leaned towards the canvas also, nose and violet skirts both twitching.
Verity added another whisker in gypsum white. “Like what?”
Sephi rolled her eyes. “As I might just have mentioned once or thrice, like those botanical illustrations you used to do.”
“And as I’ve replied once or thrice, Persephone,” she groused, using her cousin’s full name with intent as Sephi loathed it, “that was years ago.” Her principal excuse for not doing botanical illustrations anymore was pitiful, so she selected a truism. “And what’s the point? A horticulturist will never employ a female illustrator over a male. Mary Lawrence had no option but to publish her work on passion flowers herself.”
“Well, use a moniker then.”
Sephi was like a rolling boulder some days, not easily diverted.
“After all,” her cousin continued, “you use a moniker for your battle ones, the subject matter being so unsuitable for our delicate minds.” She snorted. “Indeed, men don’t even believe we can read of such things without plunging to a swoon. My father used to remove certain articles, you know, when I wanted to readThe Timesleaving me with adverts for face lotion.” Sephi’s lips twisted to a snarl. “But my point, if I may return to it, ispassion. Illustrating flowers used to be your passion.”
Verity cleared her throat, placed her brushes in the cleaning bottle and unpinned her painting smock. “Shall we go to the balcony? I could do with some fresh air. All that turpentine makes my head spin.” She led the way to the glass-filled doors, pushed them wide and stepped into the September sunshine – all open, just the way she liked it.
Cousin Sephi leaned her elbows on the metal balustrade, and not for the first time of late, Verity noted the smudges beneath her eyes, an exact colour match for her vine-black pigment.
“Are you not sleeping well?”
With a scowl worthy of Master Puffwuff, Sephi pushed back corkscrew locks of auburn hair, her blue eyes pale in this lowbright sunlight. “I dislike autumn. It gives me the mubble-fubbles.”
Verity tipped her eyes to the garden below. A corner of which, abutting the house, was taken up by the tile-roofed conservatory that Father had installed years ago but the rest… Well, that was a glorious array of autumnal shade and shine.
This summer had been a small improvement upon the last – that is to say, it had merely rained every other day – and the garden had certainly appreciated the occasional respite.
In Town, tidy paved paths and geometric beds wereà la modebut Verity allowed nature to hold sway within her plot. Oh, she lent a guiding hand, but shrubs spread over their confines, flowers were allowed to set seed and leaves coated the lawn in a tapestry of molten red and burning copper. The gardener was frequently at sixes and sevens with her.
And then she remembered.
September had been the month of her cousin’s ruin, some three years past now.
There did exist libertines who retained enough morals to leave maidens be, but there were others who delighted in their ruin, seducing with glib words of love and marriage and forever. A young Sephi had been low-hanging fruit, her father’s coldness bequeathing a thirst for affection, whilst her bold yet innocent nature had allowed her to drop as a windfall neatly into a lecherous libertine’s palm.
He’d told her all would be well. She’d possessed no idea what he’d meant…or what he’d been doing.
Too late she had discovered his duplicity. Too young, she had been ruined and humiliated.
Verity patted the slender hand that rested on the balustrade when, all of a sudden, gruff curses caused them both to lean over.
From here, they had a view into the farthest reaches of their neighbour’s garden, and with many a bellow, moan and inventive oath, two tradesmen from a delivery cart in Birdcage Walk were hefting a blue-patterned chaise down the garden path. Gold wings adorned its clawed feet, four Egyptian hawk heads glaring from each corner, while brass scrolls inlaid the gleaming mahogany.
“Did you find out where Mrs Tait’s money comes from?” Sephi whispered. “Those Egyptian whatnots are hideously expensive, even though they’re all made in Shoreditch. And as for that conservatory roof of glass, well…”
