The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(25)
“I only wish Papa had lived long enough to see how successful you’ve become,” Becca continued. “He would be so proud of you.”
Tears pricked Maggie’s eyes before she could prevent it. She missed her father, whose sensitive artist’s soul had been so much like her own. It hurt to think his final memories of her were of shame and disappointment. All she’d ever wanted was to make him proud, and she’d failed miserably while he’d been alive. Perhaps now, from wherever he rested, he would see all she’d accomplished in a short amount of time.
She exhaled, released Becca’s hand, and sat back. “At least he saw you happily married. He knew how much you loved Marcus.” Watching her father’s grin during Becca’s wedding ceremony had been bittersweet for Maggie; Papa’s joy at Becca’s match only sharpened the contrast of his unhappiness during Maggie’s hasty wedding.
“Yes, but you were always his favorite. And he knew how talented you were, even then.” Cup in hand, Becca relaxed on the tiny sofa. “I do so love this space. It’s quite relaxing up here.”
“I spend most of my time here,” Maggie said, “as you know. Just look at the stains on my hands.” Maggie had purchased the town house with a portion of her jointure. The best feature of her town house by far was the small glass room on the upper floor.
The previous owner had been a sculptor and he’d joined the top-floor nursery and smaller bedroom into one giant windowed studio. The space was an artist’s dream. Two dormer windows had been combined to form one long row of windows—each comprised of small squares separated by thin glazing bars—for maximum light. All of them opened with hinges to allow for fresh air when she painted. There were glass windows in the ceiling as well, and they could be vented and propped open using a long pole. With its high ceilings and privacy, the room was quiet, airy, and bright. Maggie loved it.
All she needed was this space and her paints. A pencil and some canvas. Simple things that in no way included the Earl of Winchester.
“Maggie,” Becca said, regaining her attention. “You know the work I’ve been doing with the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury. The committee has planned an event to raise money and I hoped to use some of your artwork, if you’re amenable. They’ve some other pieces, by Rowlandson, Pugin, and the like, and Lemarc’s work would surely generate some interest as well.”
“Of course. Whatever you need. I would be honored.”
“What do you think about donating some pieces under your own name? You’ve dreamed of establishing a more respectable career outside of Lemarc. This could be a most advantageous opportunity.”
The idea had merit. It would allow her greater freedom to admit her passion to the world. She would no longer need to keep her work a secret. But would Society accept her? Women artists were not as well received as their male peers. Patrons were harder to come by and commissions were scarce enough as it was. It was easier in France, where a few women, such as Vigée-Lebrun and Ducreux, had already succeeded. The English had not been as quick to embrace female artists, however.
Still, if she could do her own pieces and continue on as Lemarc as well . . . But who would purchase art by the Half-Irish Harlot? Hard to guess whether her reputation would make the art more popular or herself more of an outcast.
“I will think on it. When does this event take place?”
“A few months yet.”
“If I start working under my name, there is a chance of social recrimination, which could affect you and Marcus.”
“I shan’t mind a bit. You have a gift, Maggie, and it should be celebrated, not hidden away. Let them gossip all they like. You know the talk only leads to the sale of more pieces.”
“Afternoon, Quint. Nice of you to tidy up for me.”
Simon stepped over the usual stacks of papers and books along the floor on the way to the viscount’s desk, where his friend was studying something. Quint straightened, giving Simon a good look at today’s sartorial transgression. A violet coat over a green striped waistcoat, topped with a cravat so loosely tied it more resembled a sash. Simon cringed. He loved Quint, but the way his friend dressed would have Brummell fainting dead away in the street.
Last evening, Quint had revealed he’d made progress with the birds and asked that Simon call today. Even still, it seemed Quint was entirely taken off guard by Simon’s arrival.
“Winchester! Glad you’re here. I’d offer you a chair, but . . .” Quint gestured to the two across from the desk, which were filled with books. “Hold on and let me just get the—” Quint shuffled about, then carefully laid out seven framed portraits on the desk. When he was done, he waved a hand. “Your bird engravings.”
“Weren’t there almost twenty of them?”
“Yes, but I’ve eliminated all of the usual birds. Ones found anywhere in England, such as the partridge, magpie, woodpecker, and the like. What we have here are the only seven that matter in narrowing down where our famed artist might reside.”
“Or once visited.”
“Perhaps,” Quint allowed. “But as you’ll see, some of these birds span seasons. So if the artist only took a short vacation, he likely wouldn’t have seen summer birds and winter birds. In my opinion, the artist spent a considerable amount of time in this area, watching wildlife.”