Page 7 of Portrait of a Lady
The two men parted ways, with Crosby going back inside and Hugh making his way across the courtyard. The dreary gray clouds obscuring the light of the late afternoon sun only added to Hugh’s despondent mood. He wanted nothing more than to return home and lock himself away so he could practice sketching hands or put in a few hours of work on his painting for the Exhibition. But, the message Benedict had sent that morning burned hot in his coat pocket, reminding him he must make at least one stop before shutting himself away for the rest of the day.
It could be avoided no longer. His previous keeper had recently broken off their arrangement, so his friend and founder of the Gentleman Courtesans would insist it was time for him to secure another. Hugh wasn’t exactly hurting for funds, having managed his earnings quite well over the past few years. The idea of going into business as a paramour to the ladies of thetonwith deep pockets had seemed ludicrous at first, something that ought to have been good for a lark, a few laughs, and a hilarious story or two. However, Benedict’s assertion that the Gentleman Courtesans could become a truly viable source of income for them had proven true.
In the two years since they’d begun taking on clients, Hugh had been kept by three lovely women and had enjoyed their company, as well as the obvious boon of having a warm, willing woman in his bed more often than not. His first lover had let a townhouse for him, so that he could move out of his suite of bachelor’s lodgings and dwell closer to her own fashionable Mayfair address. With his knack for negotiation, Benedict had convinced his second keeper to continue paying the rent once the first had finished with him. The third had taken up where she’d left off, ensuring that Hugh could remain comfortably in the home.
He’d earned enough money within the first six months to pay off his accumulated debts, fill a room in his townhouse with supplies with which to practice his craft, purchase new clothing devoid of holes and tailored to fit him, and procure a phaeton and pair. He no longer worried how far the sale of one painting or another would have to last him, and now lived in relative comfort while pursuing the dream that had cost him his family.
His father cutting him off had not been enough to deter Hugh. Not even when his allowance had dried up and he’d depleted his savings. Not even when his siblings and their spouses had followed the earl’s lead, giving him the cut direct in public and refusing him entrance into their homes. Not even when his father had come to him with an ultimatum: put aside his dream in exchange for being allowed back into the fold.
Since he’d been a boy of seven drawing pictures of horses and trees, all Hugh had ever wanted was to be an artist. The desire to paint, draw, and even sculpt felt as much a part of himself as his dark hair and eyes, as essential to his well-being as water, food, and air. He was nothing without being able to express himself through his art. If giving up the life of luxury and indolence that came with being an earl’s son was what he must sacrifice to live happily, then so be it.
The Gentleman Courtesans had given him the freedom to live as he pleased, while keeping him from life as a penniless beggar in the process. For that much, he would always be grateful.
However, he had to admit to himself—if no one else—that he’d started to grow weary of the entire thing. His fellow courtesans would ridicule him if they knew, asking him how he could ever get tired of bedding wealthy women. But, dependence upon another person was the one thing he’d never wanted. He’d rather die than go crawling back to his father, and he found relying on the generosity of his keepers only slightly less degrading.
In the beginning, he had agreed to Benedict’s proposal thinking that he would only need a single keeper to save him from starving while he prepared a painting for his first Summer Exhibition. However, the jury had rejected his work, leaving him with nothing to do but set his sights upon the following year’s event. Hugh had been driven solely by the conviction that all it would take was having his work displayed in the Summer Exhibition. If one of his paintings was seen by the eyes of important people, he was certain they would wish to sit for him. All he needed was one person of influence to commission a portrait, and the rest would follow.
But the second year had seen him slapped with yet another rejection, and he’d found himself moving from arrangement to arrangement in an attempt to keep his head above water. He had refused to give up and felt deep in his bones that this year would behisyear. He would follow Crosby’s advice to make his painting the best work he’d ever done, and get it accepted into the Exhibition. Then, he would go on to become an artist who could support himself on the earnings from his portraits. He would earn enough to support a wife who would give him children—a family of his own so he could forget the emptiness left in him by the absence of his parents and siblings.
But, no well-bred woman would attach herself to a man who sold his body and carnal talents for money, nor would he want her to. A hopeless romantic he might be, but Hugh had always imagined he’d love the woman he married. He would adore her and want no other lover for as long as they both should live. Which meant remaining a courtesan was not a viable option for him.
As he approached his thirtieth year, he found himself wanting that sort of future more and more. The only thing standing between him and said future was a bloody painting and the approval of the turgid old men who would decide whether to display it in the Exhibition.
This year would be the year...and this new keeper would be his last
Miss Evelyn Coburnstepped down from her carriage, clasping her hands together to still their shaking. It would not do to allow her anxiety to show. She was only a young woman visiting one of London’s most premier modistes with her hired companion. They blended in with the other chits coming and going from Cavendish Square. Some were walking along while footmen trailed in their wake holding packages wrapped in brown paper, others stepping in and out of their carriages or hackney coaches. No one but Patience and herself knew the true purpose for their visit to the dressmaker’s shop, and no one ever would so long as she acted naturally. After all, whispers of the discreet services offered out of one of the shop’s back rooms were just that…whispers. Only the women who’d ever experienced what was offered knew the truth, and as a group they proved dashed secretive about the entire thing. In order to secure an audience, one must be referred by a friend and follow a very specific set of instructions. Failure to obey them to the letter would result in feigned ignorance on the part of those involved, and refusal into a very exclusive clientele.
It could not come to that. She was determined to see this through until the end.
Catching sight of her reflection in the shop window, Evelyn thought she looked rather pale—more than usual, her porcelain complexion taking on a ghostly pallor. The dark mahogany hue of her hair peeking out from the confines of her bonnet only made matters worse, as did the cheery, rosy-cheeked countenance of her companion. Patience looked like a child despite being several years older than Evelyn, her girlish face framed by a few golden curls laid against her forehead and the soft pink of her own bonnet. While her companion looked as if she were headed into a circus tent, Evelyn felt she looked as if she would soon face an executioner.
The door to Madame Hershaw’s swung open, and two young debutantes came bounding out with a sour-faced matron on their heels. Evelyn stepped aside to let them pass. Patience flashed a wide grin while looping an arm through hers, though Evelyn found it impossible to return the smile. She felt as if she might retch, spilling the contents of her stomach all over the walkway.
“Come, Miss,” Patience murmured, giving her a gentle tug. “Let’s get you inside.”
Evelyn shook herself out of her fearful stupor and forced her legs into motion. If she stood about woolgathering on the street, she’d be sure to draw attention to herself—something that would only make her feel even more wretched. She’d been painfully shy since birth, according to her mother, who had never ceased lamenting having a shrinking violet for a daughter. It was why she remained unwed at the age of five-and-twenty, and why this visit to Madame Hershaw’s proved necessary unless she wanted to die untouched. She did not have the wiles that other ladies seemed to have been blessed with, nor the boldness to go after what she wanted by conventional means. The men of thetonoverlooked her as easily as they might a potted plant, making it far too difficult for her to think of them as prospective husbands. At this rate, she’d never be wed, never know the secrets of the marriage bed.
So, there was only this, striding into the shop to ask for a discreet audience while hoping she would not disgrace herself by fainting or vomiting or falling mute.
She took a long, slow breath as they entered, finding themselves surrounded by bolts and swatches of cloth, all standing out in vibrant hues against the stark white silk draping the walls. One lady perused various ribbons, holding them up against her chosen fabric with the help of a shop girl. Another stood upon a raised platform while an assistant worked to hem a creation of decadent maroon satin.
“Good afternoon!” chirped an older woman dressed in black, her graying hair pulled into an efficient bun atop her head. “Welcome to my humble establishment. I am Madame Hershaw.”
She stood taller than Evelyn, with a rail-thin frame and large eyes that peered at them through a pair of brass-rimmed spectacles. The sharpness of her features made it appear as if the tight knot also worked to pull her skin taut, making the angles of her cheekbones and jaw stand out.
Evelyn forced a smile, still clinging to Patience as she addressed the modiste. “Good afternoon. I am Miss Coburn, and this is my companion, Miss Berney.”
The woman inclined her head, sweeping a hand toward several bolts of fabric resting on a nearby table. “May I interest you in a morning gown made of this lovely, hand-embroidered muslin? It is newly arrived from India; the highest quality to be found. Oh, and you simplymustinspect this Belgian lace. Lovely, is it not?”
Evelyn smoothed reverent, gloved fingers over the lace the modiste held up for her perusal. Her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth as she searched for the words she must speak if she wanted entrance to the back room. Avoiding the woman’s stare, she drew her hand away and stared about her surroundings. The other clients paid her no mind, the assistants busy at their work. She was perfectly safe, as invisible as she’d ever been. No one ever paid her any heed, and she took comfort in that now.
“Thank you, Madame, but I was hoping for something a little...different. Something for wear in the evening.”
The modiste nodded, putting the lace aside and taking hold of her arm to guide her across the room. “But, of course. Tell me, dear, will you wear it to the opera, or perhaps a dinner party, or a ball?”
Evelyn cast a desperate look over her shoulder at Patience, who gave her an encouraging nod. Her companion had talked her into coming here after Evelyn had confided that she’d been considering it for weeks. When Patience latched onto an idea, she became like a dog with a bone, and would not allow Evelyn to back out now. However, it was up to Evelyn herself to go through with it, to say the right words.
“You see, there’s a particular gentleman I wish to impress,” she managed, her voice low and strained.
