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Judith shook her head. “It’s not an uncommon story.” She gave her cheeks a final dab and returned the handkerchief to her pocket, but her eyes remained too bright.
“Lucetta was beautiful and bold.” Judith smiled shakily. “Like me, she declared early that she’d never marry a tedious boor and be under his thumb the rest of her life. My parents were incensed with her. They’d already resigned themselves to me being an artist and removing myself from the rules of society. They decided to give up on me, and so expected Lucetta to be the good and obedient daughter. She was to marry a respectable gentleman of the correct lineage and become a model wife and mother. They misjudged her terribly.”
“Bit hard on the poor gel,” Bobby said with feeling. “I’m no stranger to being pressed to follow that path. Luckily, dear Eliza and Wilfred are so fruitful. Wilfred’s children are far more valued than mine would be, in any case.” A daughter, in Bobby’s family’s view, was an appendage, useful only for making a connection with another prominent family.
“As you can imagine, Lucetta rebelled,” Judith went on. “She was always more audacious than me. Unfortunately, her adventuresome spirit landed her in the clutches of a bad man. I liked Mr. Arnott—Stephan—at first, and I encouraged my parents to leave her be.”
“But?” Bobby reached for Judith’s free hand and squeezed it. “There is a but lurking in that sentence.”
“Arnott was an artist, a photographer. Lucetta met him at one of the parties I took her to. His work was very good, and he was personable enough. I saw no harm in him. He supplemented his income, as many photographers do, by selling racy pictures to publishers, collectors, and anyone else who would hand him the money. I didn’t blame him for that—it is difficult to make one’s way in the art world, unless one has a wealthy patron.”
“Lucetta posed for him?” Bobby asked. “Of her own free will?”
“She was proud to do it. Lucetta said she was helping him. Artists must do what they can to eat, she told me. She was certain that the commission to make him rich would come along any day, and they’d be married.”
“But it did not,” Bobby supplied.
“No, which turned Stephan bitter and angry. He pressed Lucetta to do more and more pictures, and then he wanted to hire her out to undress in salon gatherings—you know the sort of thing.”
Such parties had been all the rage at one time. Unclothed or barely draped young women turned up in the drawing rooms of the rich to pose as Greek statues. Rather silly, in Bobby’s opinion, but people thought it showed they were both very modern and had good taste.
“She objected?” Bobby asked.
“Not at first. But Lucetta didn’t like having to stand perfectly still, in a draft, while gentlemen walked around her and ogled her. It was one thing to pose for a photograph alone in a studio with Stephan, another to share her body with strangers. She declared she wasn’t a prostitute and refused to do any more. But Stephan had already promised her to several more soirees and ribald parties, and he stood to lose a bit of cash.” Judith’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “He took it out on her.”
“The bounder,” Bobby growled in rage. “Did you put your boot up his backside?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Judith’s tone told Bobby she’d not gone easy on Mr. Arnott. “I got Lucetta away from him, and I spoke to friends who made London too hot to hold the man. He fled his creditors to the wilds of Canada, I believe.”
“Where there are many bears,” Bobby finished with satisfaction.
“I imagine he tried his luck on the gold fields. He was that sort.” Judith waved him away. “We’ve never heard from Stephan Arnott again, which is the best conclusion. I gathered up all the photographs and destroyed them. Lucetta helped me—she enjoyed it. But our family shut her out.” Judith gazed down at the photograph in regret. “They disinherited her, cut her completely. Told me I wasn’t allowed to have anything to do with her. Lucetta had ruined herself, and now she must live with the consequences.”
“Very compassionate of them. I take it you ignored this command?”
“Of course, I did. I loved Lucetta. I decided I’d travel for a time on the Continent and took Lucetta with me, out of their reach. She deserved a life, happiness. But while she appreciated my assistance in getting her away, she also blamed me for the family shunning her. If I’d not rebelled first—if I’d taken up the mantle of the good daughter and made an advantageous marriage—Lucetta could have had her own life—my life—without censure. In her eyes, I stole that from her. Plus, she’d met Stephan through me and my art circles. Her resentment ran deep. I know she simply needed someone on whom to take out her disappointment, but it hurt.”
“Poor Judes.” Bobby rested her head on Judith’s shoulder. “None of it was your fault.”
“I knew that, logically, but my heart said otherwise.” Judith slid her hand over Bobby’s, her leather gloves soft. “It was my fault for striding out without a care for what anyone thought of me. I left Lucetta behind to struggle and then founder.”
“Really not your fault,” Bobby repeated. “Lucetta could have cut off the blackguard at any time instead of trusting him, could have asked for your help in leaving home before that.”
“I know you are right.” Judith’s voice was strained. “Yet, I can’t help what I feel. One night, Lucetta and I had a terrible row. We were in Paris, living in a hotel. She wanted nothing more to do with me, and I told her she’d be a fool to refuse my help. We said many more things, all of which I regret now. She stormed off.” Judith let out a shaking breath. “I’ve not seen her since.”
Bobby saw her pain, which awakened a hurting in her own heart. Judith had kept this locked inside her, trying to put it behind her and move on. But she’d never truly been able to, and no wonder.
“I imagine you didn’t leave it at that,” Bobby said quietly. “You must have tried to find her.”
“Of course, I did. I remained in Paris for a long time, searching, but Lucetta was gone. None of her acquaintance had seen her—or so they said. I began checking the city morgue, just in case. Thankfully, she never turned up there.” Judith’s grip tightened on Bobby’s hand, the clasp conveying the fear she’d gone through. “Eventually I accepted that if Lucetta wanted to contact me, she would. About that time, I met Miss Morisot, the artist, and started to paint with her. I was grateful to her for her instruction and decided to stay on in Paris for several years. I never ceased looking for Lucetta, but I also never found her.”
“You met McAdam there too.” That story Bobby had heard, how Judith had posed as McAdam’s wife and flushed out assassins bent on killing men who knew how to make weapons. Exciting times.
Judith’s smile returned. “Assisting Mr. McAdam helped take my mind off my worries. I realized when hunting those men that there were far more things at stake in the world than my family troubles.”
Bobby disagreed that Judith’s worries were of less consequence than the fate of nations, but she kept that thought to herself.
“Is this one of the scoundrel’s photographs?” Bobby asked, touching the picture still in Judith’s hand. “Or a more recent one?”
