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Susan’s father had survived bayoneting in the Crimean War, and she often expressed a deeply felt pride in the courage of the common soldier. As far as Lucy could tell, Susan’s notion of common soldier compassed nothing lower than an officer with a barony.
“I don’t care if he is wicked,” said Maude. “I met him for the first time at a party months ago, and I still think he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”
“And the richest,” suggested Lucy sweetly.
“That too.” Maude pursed her lips. “But I’d fancy him if he hadn’t a penny.”
She paused.
“Or a title,” she added, with a doubtful lilt. Then she scowled at Lucy.
“Shouldn’t you attend to your picture?”
That she should. Lucy turned back to her canvas. The Duke of Weston sounded dreadful, even if he wasn’t as wicked as his brother, who, if Lucy recalled the story correctly, had managed to kill not only himself but a female companion when he capsized a stolen yacht.
Marriage, in the best of circumstances, to the best of dukes, was bound to end a woman’s art career.
The Duke of Weston was the worst of dukes. Marriage to him spelled disaster, at least for a woman who wanted to make her own mark on the world.
It was nothing to her if Maude and Susan squandered their training. Maude could fancy the Duke of Weston all she wished. Lucy preferred, though, that she do her fancying on the other side of the room where she belonged. She wanted to paint in peace.
Behind her, she could hear Maude murmuring. Susan squealed.
“No! Surely, Lady Henderson didn’t pay him . . .”
Lucy loaded more paint on her brush, grimacing. Long break couldn’t come soon enough.
• • •
When it came at last, the classroom emptied quickly, the students, the model, and Mr. Barrett streaming down the hall in search of air or refreshments. Lucy pretended to wash her brushes, waiting for the moment when she’d be alone. She didn’t have a big, bright room, let alone a house, as a studio. She treasured the little intervals in the school day when she had the classroom all to herself. All that space changed the way she thought, and painted.
Kate was the last to leave. She came up to Lucy and caught her elbow, squeezing it with appreciation as she gave her picture a brief nod.
“Will you use my burnt sienna? I bought loads.”
Kate was frank about her wealth, and generous. She and Lucy, fast friends since their days as probationers, had first bonded over their admiration of the Pre-Raphaelites. Lucy loved their pictures, the jewel-bright colors and detailed foregrounds. There was little in the way of flowers and foliage in Shoreditch for her to study en plein air, but she set herself to re-creating in paint the embroideries and frills she observed on the sleeves and bodices of her aunt’s most elaborate gowns. Kate was enthralled by the lifestyle of the painters themselves, their passionate spirits and rebellious attitudes.
We should start our own circle, Kate had declared early on in their friendship. A sisterhood!
And they’d prepared statements filled with youthful enthusiasm, outlining exuberant, sometimes contradictory, principles they hoped to embody in their work. But until one or the other of them painted something noteworthy, it was difficult to think of themselves as a real circle. Circles, for one thing, required more than two members.
Recently, Kate had begun to focus on a series of paintings she called her mirror pictures, sumptuous interiors in which mirrors reflected some portion of the room, or the figure. The Grosvenor Gallery had agreed to hang three of them, and she intended to submit three others for the Summer Exhibition. Kate, at least, was destined for a brilliant future.
“Thank you, but no,” said Lucy, smiling. “You gave me plenty on Monday.”
In truth, she’d used almost all of it, on another false start, a scene of children taking tea out of mismatched cups at a deal table in a sweet shop. She’d wanted it dim, but the low lights resulted in unintended muddiness. Nothing to do but wipe it all away.
She couldn’t bring herself to accept additional supplies from Kate so soon, not when she’d wasted what she’d just been given. She took too much as it was.
Kate opened her mouth to argue, then shrugged, letting the subject drop.
“Join me for billiards?”
“You’re mad.” Lucy laughed, rolling her neck on her shoulders, bending back with her hands at her hips. Lord, she felt as though she belonged in the Gibson Gallery. The muscles in her neck and back might have been hewn from stone. But her refusal had nothing to do with her stiffness. During long break, the male students smoked, played billiards, and debated on topics plucked from the latest issue of the Art Journal with the energy of original thinkers. We’re the real artists, their attitudes seemed to signal. You girls sit in the courtyard and eat your tea cakes.
In 1860, Laura Herford became the first female to study at the Schools, receiving her acceptance before the Academicians realized what the L.H. on her application signified. A woman. An interloper. Two decades on, male students retained their overwhelming majority. And they received better training! They attended the Life School, for the study of drawing from the nude. The Life School, which was barred to women.
Lucy struggled hard enough to feel at home in the Academy, even among the female students. She saw no need to incur more discomfort for such a paltry prize. Control of the billiards table! Who cared about that? Let the men have their silly games. Billiards was not her field of endeavor.
