Page 128 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Stella reached to touch the canvas, only to draw back her hand at the last moment. “It’s extraordinary,” she murmured. “The way you’ve brought the changing light into every facet.”

“You approve, then?”

She continued to stare at the painting, visibly awestruck. “Everyone must do so. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It should be,” he said. “It’s a portrait of you.”

Her gaze found his. Her eyes were glistening with emotion. She held out her hand to him and he took it. Their fingers threaded together in an intimate clasp. “I little knew what you intended when you first asked to paint me.”

“I little knew, either.” He drew her down onto his lap. She was a soft, womanly bundle in his arms, her curves unconstrained by corset or crinoline. “It’s yours,” he told her.

Her eyes widened. “But you can’t give it to me. You’re going to submit it to the Royal Academy. To sell it one day and—”

“Sell it? A portrait of my Stella? Never. Not for any amount—”

She threw her arms around his neck before he could finish, her mouth claiming his in a passionate kiss.

“You can still submit it to the Academy,” she said, several scorching moments later. “Not because of me, but because of your talent. This piece is going to make the whole of the London art world stand up and take notice.”

“Do you know,” Teddy said, drawing her lips back to his, “in this moment, the art world is the last thing on my mind. The only good opinion I care about is yours.”

“You have it.” Stella kissed him again. “And my heart.”

Teddy’s own heart thudded heavily in answer—his love for her shining as brightly as she did. “And you have mine,” he vowed huskily. “Always.”

Epilogue

Eighteen months later…

“They’ve displayed it beautifully, haven’t they, my love?” Stella stood beside Teddy, admiring the placement of his portrait on the wall of the Berners Street Gallery. It had been hung at the sight line, a small plaque beneath it proclaiming its title: Electra Descending.

“A good thing, too,” Teddy said. “It appears to be what most everyone is here for. A shame if they couldn’t find it.”

Ladies in elegant silk gowns and gentlemen in frock coats and top hats strolled past the portrait. Some stopped to stare in guarded appreciation. Others frowned with disapproval. Many more exchanged scandalized whispers.

This wasn’t the painting’s first public showing. In March, Teddy had submitted it to the Royal Academy, along with three of his best seascapes. The Academy had accepted the seascapes, to Teddy and Stella’s joy, but the portrait of Stella as one of the Pleiades had been summarily—and somewhat disdainfully—rejected. One member of the Academy’s selection committee had called it “too controversial in its style” and another had referred to it as “an incomplete effort.”

Teddy and Stella’s belief in the piece hadn’t faltered. They had taken it to France in the spring, where it had predictably been rejected from the Paris Salon as well. From there, it made its way through various private galleries and independent exhibitions, first garnering mild praise (“not without promise”) and then robust acclaim (“a stunning achievement”).

Finally, back in England, the portrait still retained the glow of the modest fame it had garnered on the continent. Many had come to see it in Berners Street, both to admire and to ridicule.

“Scandalous,” a lady murmured to her husband, as the pair of them wandered by.

“The use of light and color enthrall,” a gentleman in a waggish neckcloth and velvet jacket remarked to an artistic companion. “But it’s an impression rather than an expression. That is where it fails.”

“Yet the piece holds raw power,” the younger gentleman replied. “The brushwork is reminiscent of Turner.”

Teddy and Stella exchanged a meaningful look. Turner was still Teddy’s hero. To be compared to him was high praise indeed. It made any criticism pale by comparison.

A familiar gentleman, with unruly hair and a dark mustache, made his way through the crowd to join them.

Stella recognized him at once. “Oh look,” she said to her husband. “Mr. Whistler has managed to come after all.”

Teddy and James Whistler had struck up a warm acquaintance over the past year, first via correspondence and then through several dinners, both in Maiden Lane and at Whistler’s home in Chelsea. Though their artistic styles differed—with Teddy focused on light and color, and Whistler committed to muted shades and precise brushwork—they nevertheless found cause to support each other.

“Jim!” Teddy smiled. “How do you do?”

“How do you do, more to the point?” Whistler shook Teddy’s hand. “Mrs. Hayes.” He bowed to Stella. “The portrait has been presented well.”