Page 18 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
Mr Christopher Whiston, standing nearby, interpreted with habitual care. “Miss Fairweather proposes arranging her paintings to display the progression of her recent work. She hopes the sequence might speak to her development as an artist—and to the nurturing nature of the environment that has made it possible.”
Miss Violet Ashworth, ever composed, stepped forward with a subtle rustle of skirts and the kind of presence that had once hushed entire theatres. Her years in the capital’s most discerning circles had taught her not just how to hold an audience—but how to anticipate its every reservation.
“My dear,” she said gently, her voice firm with professional conviction, “we must attend not only to the merit of our offerings, but to the social impressions they produce. Our guests will come with expectations—spoken and otherwise. If we do not answer them deftly, they will fill the gaps with their own interpretations.”
Her words, lightly spoken, carried the weight of long experience. She had performed before more than one hostile house and lived to earn its ovation.
“Quite so,” Thalia agreed, warmth flickering behind her controlled manner. “We must strike a balance—inviting our guests to witness real artistry, while ensuring the atmosphere remains beyond reproach. We cannot hand our detractors any excuse to reframe our endeavours as indulgence or disorder.”
Lord Jasper cleared his throat softly. It was a tentative sound, but the sincerity behind it was unmistakable.
“If I might venture an observation,” Lord Jasper said, his hesitation evident, “the success of your salon may rest not only on the merits of the work presented, but on the company you manage to attract. The right guests—well-placed, well-regarded—might shift the entire tenor of public discourse. Criticism, when unfashionable, tends to go very quiet.”
His tone was measured, his words tactful. And yet the suggestion revealed a practised understanding of social currents, the kind that came only from long familiarity with London’s more rarefied circles. Thalia, listening, found herself suspended between two impulses: a cautious respect for his insight—and the sharp memory of why she had reason to doubt him.
“You speak,” she replied, voice carefully neutral, “as though you already have such guests in mind.”
“I do,” he said, after a slight hesitation. “My family’s connections have, over the years, acquainted me with a number of Brighton’s more… influential residents. And I believe I could secure the attendance of individuals whose approval carries weight—both in society and among those responsible for official oversight.”
The offer lingered in the space between them like smoke rising from a recently stirred fire—suggesting both a path to survival and a renewed entanglement with someone whose loyalty remained, at best, unproven.
“What manner of individuals?” Thalia asked, her tone calm but unflinching. She had never been one to evade difficulty, though she knew too well that accepting his aid would invite expectations she might not wish—or be able—to meet.
“The Duchess of Marlborough winters in Brighton,” he said, regaining some of his usual ease. “Her patronage carries considerable weight, particularly in matters of art and society. Though she is... selective.”
“And more to the point,” he continued, “Sir Edmund Thornwick serves as local magistrate. His presence at such an event would do much to counter anyunfavourable murmurs regarding the Retreat’s compliance with local ordinances—particularly if he were seen to attend willingly.”
The logic was difficult to dispute. A guest list of such standing would not only lend social lustre to their gathering, but might also silence—or at least disarm—those currently attempting to dismantle what Thalia had built.
“The challenge,” Violet said, stepping in with her usual clarity, “will be matching the calibre of our guests with the calibre of our presentation. They must see brilliance, not merely effort. And propriety, above all.”
“Indeed,” Kit added, a shade paler than usual, “we must not simply perform—we must surpass expectations, if we hope to turn scepticism into appreciation… and support.”
Ivy’s hands moved quickly, urgently. Her eyes shone with equal parts nervousness and resolve.
“Miss Fairweather believes her recent landscapes will speak for themselves,” Kit translated, “but wonders if it might be helpful to include commentary—perhaps a written statement—on her approach and the ways in which her perspective informs her technique.”
“A thoughtful addition,” Thalia said with real warmth. “It will provide context not only for the work, but for the unique way you move through the world. Let it stand as testament to the Retreat’s commitment to fostering voice, in all its forms.”
The conversation unfolded swiftly after that, energy building. Tasks were proposed and debated, artistic sequences plotted, logistical considerations raised. Slowly, what had begun as a reaction to outside pressure began to take on the structure of a plan—a vision.
“We must remember,” Thalia said at last, her voice crisp and certain, “that this is not merely a performance. It is a declaration. The Retreat does not require validation—but if validation will protect what we’ve built, then let us offer it on our terms.”
“The music room would suit a modest concert,” Violet suggested, her eyes bright with revived theatrical purpose. “Something refined. Unobtrusive. The drawing room might then serve for visual displays and conversation.”
Lord Jasper moved a little closer, still tentative.
“If I might assist,” he said, quietly. “I have had some experience with such gatherings—both formal and informal. I could help with arrangements... and with securing the guests. That is, if you would welcome the help.”
There was a sincerity to his tone that was difficult to dismiss, even now. And yet, Thalia could not help but wonder whether accepting his help would be an act of prudence—or an invitation to further betrayal.
“Furthermore,” he continued with increasing confidence as he observed their willingness to consider his suggestions, “I believe I could arrange forrefreshments and decorative elements that would enhance the evening’s elegance while demonstrating the sort of refined taste and social awareness that critics claim to find lacking in unconventional domestic arrangements.”
The scope of his offer was not lost on Thalia. It spoke of genuine investment—but also a practised understanding of their precarious position. He knew what they were up against. Perhaps more than he ought.
“Your assistance would be valuable,” Thalia said, her voice measured. “But I admit, I remain uncertain as to your reasons. A generous offer is still an offer—and yours comes at a complicated moment.”
Lord Jasper met her gaze.
