Page 21 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
When, exactly, did I begin to anticipate these mornings? When did his presence become integral to the rhythm of my day?
“I may have misjudged,” Jasper admitted, his tone gentler now. “I didn’t expect to find in shared responsibility such... grounding purpose. It’s not something I’ve often sought. Or valued.”
Footsteps in the corridor forestalled further introspection, both recognising the rhythm of Miss Ivy Fairweather’s approach. She had lately made it a habit to join them briefly each morning, canvas in hand, to discuss the day’s creative and domestic schedule.
Ivy appeared in the doorway, her usual shy smile accompanied by a small painting still wet at the edges. Her dark eyes flicked between them, observant as always—perhaps more so since word of their courtship had shifted the tone of Seacliff’s household in subtle, unspoken ways.
“Miss Fairweather,” Thalia called with warmth, gesturing to the seat prepared for these consultations, “I trust your session went well? I hope the revised lighting in the conservatory continues to suit your work.”
Ivy nodded eagerly and signed with fluid grace—affirmation, followed by a question about the afternoon’s planned activities and the progress of preparations for their upcoming salon, which had become the focus of considerable household excitement as the date approached for their crucial demonstration of artistic merit and social respectability.
“She asks,” Thalia translated easily, “whether you have received confirmation from the Duchess of Marlborough. And whether such distinguished guests might expect explanations of her work—or prefer to observe without commentary.”
“I’m pleased to report,” Jasper said, his diction precise for Ivy’s benefit, “that Her Grace has confirmed her intention to attend. As for expectations—” he hesitated, then added with a smile, “—I suspect she will enjoy both the art and the artist’s insight, should Miss Fairweather be willing to share it.”
Remarkable,he thought—not for the first time—how learning to communicate with someone whose challenges differed so profoundly from my own has opened unexpected windows into the limits of polite society’s preferred forms of discourse.There was something quietly revolutionary in the way Miss Fairweather moved through the world: not despite her silence, but because of it.
Ivy’s face brightened at the news. Her hands moved quickly—eager, nervous—conveying her excitement at the prospect of exhibiting before such a rarefied audience, along with a shrewd observation that drew smiles from both her companions.
“She notes,” Thalia translated, her tone amused and impressed, “that the presence of such distinguished guests may serve to discourage further interference in our operations. Complaints tend to lose their sting, she observes, when raisedagainst an event that garners the enthusiastic attendance of society’s moral and cultural arbiters.”
“A remarkably astute point,” Jasper agreed, with a nod of genuine respect. “It confirms my sense that your residents possess not only considerable artistic talent, but a level of strategic awareness society is too quick to overlook—particularly in those who live outside conventional forms.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Kit Whiston, who appeared in the doorway with his usual theatrical flair—but this time, it was excitement, not alarm, that lit his expression.
“Lady Greaves, Lord Jasper,” he announced, practically bursting with anticipation, “I bring excellent news. A letter arrived this morning from Lord Byron’s publisher. He wishes to attend the salon—and may include commentary on Seacliff in an upcoming periodical devoted to contemporary culture.”
The weight of such attention struck the room at once. Lord Byron’s literary circle carried influence beyond mere fashion; it could elevate an artist—or an entire household—into lasting cultural legitimacy.
“Byron’s publisher?” Thalia repeated carefully, suppressing her initial rush of emotion. “Are you certain his interest lies with our work, and not simply with the novelty of our arrangements?”
“The letter makes specific mention of the quality of the art produced under your guidance,” Kit replied proudly. “And expresses particular interest in your methods—how this community fosters growth without the constraints usually imposed on creative development.”
Extraordinary, Thalia thought—how what had begun as a desperate manoeuvre to preserve her sanctuary had begun to draw interest not only from polite society, but from the very gatekeepers of cultural judgment she’d never dared hope to impress.
“And,” Kit added, positively glowing now, “the publisher hints that should the salon prove promising, it may lead to commissions—real ones—for those residents whose work stands out. It could mean both recognition and financial independence.”
The implications landed like thunder—both liberating and protective. To be seen not as charity cases but as serious artists in their own right would upend the very argument their critics most relied upon: that they were eccentric dependents rather than capable creators.
“This development,” said Jasper, clearly moved, “confirms that your salon stands to accomplish far more than social camouflage. Cultural recognition has permanence. It cannot be dismissed with gossip.”
Chapter Ten
“I must admit, Lady Greaves, that the refinement and calibre of this evening’s presentations have quite exceeded my expectations. One hears such curious accounts, of course—whispers that might suggest this establishment to be rather more unconventional than commendable. Yet I find myself thoroughly corrected.”
The Duchess of Marlborough moved through the drawing room with the sort of regal grace that commanded attention without effort, her keen eyes examining Miss Fairweather’s landscape paintings with the discerning appreciation that had made her patronage a prize sought by artists throughout England, while her obvious approval seemed to transform the entire atmosphere of their carefully orchestrated salon from nervous anticipation to triumphant vindication.
Lady Thalia Greaves observed the distinguished gathering with a mixture of pride and disbelief, for the elegant assembly that filled her establishment’s public rooms bore little resemblance to the intimate artistic community that had struggled against mounting pressures only weeks earlier, though she reminded herself that such transformation represented performance rather than fundamental change in their circumstances or the challenges they continued to face.
How strange, she thought, watching Lord Jasper in conversation with Sir Edmund Thornwick near the mantelpiece, that a desperate charade meant to protect their sanctuary had evolved into something like recognition—true recognition—of the cultural value they had nurtured so quietly and against such resistance.
“Your Grace’s kind words mean more than I can express,” Thalia replied, voice composed yet deeply sincere. “We have worked to create a space where talent may grow under careful guidance and moral clarity. Your presence here tonight affirms that such a vision is not only possible, but worthy.”
Miss Violet Ashworth approached from the music room, where her performance of selected arias had earned warm acclaim from guests whose refined sensibilities rendered their praise all the more gratifying. The years since her professional triumphs upon London’s most distinguished stages had done little to diminish her presence; rather, they had lent it a certain grace—seasoned and sure, the mark of one who knew both art and its cost.
“My dear,” Violet said to Thalia with obvious satisfaction at the evening’s reception, “I believe we may consider our salon an unqualified success. I overheard two guests inquire about commissions for Miss Fairweather, and Lord Byron’s publisher asked whether we accept unsolicited submissions from dramatists.”
The words struck Thalia like a bell: the clarity, the impact. Not just polite approval—but real interest. Legitimacy.
