Page 6 of Portrait of a Lady
And in the opinion of his instructor, Hugh proved abysmal at mastering them all.
Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he blew out a frustrated breath. The mop of sable strands was never quite as neat as they ought to be—but then, neither was his person as a whole. Messy hair, loose, haphazardly donned clothing, fingers that were always stained with paint and charcoal; all were trademarks of his appearance. Though, his clothingwasfar finer these days than any he’d been able to afford two years prior. That he paid no mind to caring for them as he ought—or at least hiring a decent valet to do so—was nothing short of ludicrous according to his fellow Gentleman Courtesans. However, Hugh had no time for valets, the latest cravat styles, or Byronese curls. Not when he spent most of his days closeted away in his townhouse wearing a smock and surrounded by canvases, paints, and chemicals.
Art was his life, his passion, and when such a thing took its position in the forefront of a man’s mind, there remained room for little else. Especially when one wished to make art more than something he studied or indulged in as a hobby. It was Hugh’s wish to make his way in the world as a portraitist; something he would never succeed at if he could not learn how to properly draw a pair of goddamned hands.
“Oh, Hugh, there you are.”
Hugh glanced up to find another of his instructors walking toward him, a bright smile spread over his wrinkled face. Hector Crosby had studied art abroad before becoming one of Europe’s most esteemed portraitists, and now spent his days molding young men to follow in his footsteps. Upon first seeing Hugh’s works several years ago, the man had taken an interest in his education as well as his success as an artist. He went out of his way to offer wisdom and encouragement outside of lecture sessions, a great honor considering how many painters would give anything just to gain Crosby’s notice.
“Good afternoon,” Hugh said, as the instructor halted and changed directions to fall in step with him.
“I suppose you have just left Corbett’s lecture,” his mentor said.
Hugh issued a gruff snort. “Was it my suicidal expression that gave me away?”
Crosby chuckled, the deep sound echoing off the high ceilings of the foyer just before they stepped out into the gray afternoon. They paused within the central vestibule, which separated half the north wing housing the Royal Academy from the other half, which contained the Royal Society. Beyond a neatly kept courtyard, the Strand stretched on, clogged with vehicles coming and going.
“Come now, surely it isn’t as bad as all that?”
Turning to face Crosby, Hugh retrieved the portfolio from under his arm and flipped it open to today’s series of practice sketches. Turning the book so his mentor could study his work, he pursed his lips.
“You were saying?”
Crosby scrutinized the drawing, his bushy, graying eyebrows drawn together. “Hmm…”
The instructor was never short on words, unless he found himself looking upon a piece of art that was complete and utter shite.
“They’re terrible,” Hugh grumbled, pulling the book away and snapping it closed.
Crosby cleared his throat. “They show a marked improvement over your previous attempts.”
“Tell that to Corbett. He told me if I were going to draw hands that atrocious, I ought to consider limiting my work to paintings of bakers so that my subjects are always wearing mitts.”
The old man looked as if he wanted to laugh at that, his face reddening and his pale blue eyes twinkling...but he refrained. “Corbett is a crotchety old grouch. You shouldn’t allow him to upset you.”
“That he is,” Hugh agreed. “But he happens to be right.”
“I’ll have you know it took me years to master hands. They are, perhaps, the most difficult part of one’s body to get just right. Despair not, any improvement, however small, is a step in the right direction. As always, I remind you that an artist’s education is never complete. Even a man of my advanced years could still be considered a student of the arts. True artistry takes time, practice, and patience. If my opinion counts for anything, I think you one of the most promising students I’ve ever had the privilege to teach.”
Guilt assailed Hugh as he realized he must come across as an ungrateful boor. Five years ago he’d stood on the Strand staring up at Somerset House while wishing he had the right connections to be elected as a member of the Academy. Three years ago he’d been a starving artist attending classes before long afternoons of sketching public house patrons for a twopence each just to be able to afford to feed himself.
Now, not only were his pockets flush and his belly full, his education was propelling him steadily toward his greatest dream. Under the tutelage of a man like Crosby, he stood poised to launch himself into the world as an accomplished painter.
“Your opinion counts for everything as far as I am concerned.”
Crosby placed a hand on Hugh’s shoulder and smiled. “You flatter an old man. Now, tell me, how is your painting for the Summer Exhibition coming along?”
Hugh stifled a groan at the reminder of the upcoming event. Each summer saw Somerset House overrun with visitors clamoring to view the pieces chosen by a jury of instructors and artists. Its purpose was to display the work of the most promising students, and many an artist’s career had been propelled by inclusion in the Exhibition. Yet, for each year Hugh had submitted his work he’d been met with rejection—a fact that had seen him fretting over this year’s piece since before Christmas.
“Well enough, I think,” he hedged. “I am taking my time with it to ensure it is fit for submission.”
Crosby nodded, but his expression said he could see through Hugh’s false confidence. “Very good. Perhaps you’d like me to drop in and take a look? I want to see your work displayed this year, but it must be up to scratch. My vote only counts for so much.”
“I would appreciate any help you could offer me. If you are free this evening, perhaps you might come for dinner? I’ll show you what I’ve been working on after.”
Never one to turn down a good meal, Crosby patted his round belly and grinned. “I would be delighted. Shall I see you around eight this evening?”
“Perfect,” Hugh replied. “Until then.”
