‘He was a Roman, he just married a Welshwoman.’
‘That’s worse. They wore sheets.’
‘I think your choice of colours is very creative, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie interceded. ‘Not many people would have thought of putting saffron together with puce like that.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Max muttered. ‘I think your aunt is trying to catch your attention, Bryanston, so run along now.’
Bryanston half-turned in alarm, restricted by his high shirt points.
‘Have some pity, man. Between my aunt and Lady Pennistone I am being reduced to emotional rubble. You clearly have a kind heart, Miss Trevelyan, convince the cold brute to join us.’
He grinned appealingly at Sophie, but before she could respond Max took her elbow, urging her towards the entrance of the Exhibition Room.
‘Go charm your aunt before she writes you out of her will, Bry.’
‘Good day, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie said properly as they moved forward, but the laughing smile she directed at Bryanston was so vivid Max wasn’t surprised that his friend remained standing on the steps with his hand held dramatically to his breast in what might have been a very successful Byronic pose if not for his irrepressible grin. Max considered enlightening Sophie as to the lack of wisdom in encouraging the likes of Bryanston when he realised it was too late, he had clearly lost her attention.
They had entered the great Exhibition Room and she stared in awe around the enormous space, her head back and lips slightly parted. He had been here so often, he had forgotten how powerful the impact of entering the enormous hall could be during the Summer Exhibition. For someone like her it must be overwhelming. Hundreds of gilt-framed paintings jostled each other on the walls of the enormous space, lit by the wide, arced skylights that dominated the ceiling. Dozens of fashionable men and women were moving idly around or seated on the low olive-green sofas in the centre of the room. The cavernous buzz of voices swallowed her gasp of surprise. She took a step forward and then, as if suddenly conscious of his presence, she turned back to him.
‘Oh, thank you for bringing me here. You needn’t stay, I know you would prefer not to. I shall be just fine now. Good day, Mr Harcourt.’
Max hesitated, wondering if he should correct her, but since he had suffered under one title or another from the day he remembered himself there was an appeal in being just plain Mr Harcourt. This woman knew nothing about him but that he lived near her and had a sister, and unlike most of the young women he met she didn’t seem to have an agenda for him other than wanting to sketch him. Being Mr Harcourt made everything simpler, lighter. In a few days she would probably be back on her way home and he would never see her again. What was the harm in taking just a few more minutes to enjoy one of his favourite places in London in the company of someone who actually appreciated the artwork itself rather than the spectacle of people on the strut? Ten minutes and he would be on his way. There was no harm in that.
‘Come. I will show you my favourite,’ he said.
She directed a questioning look at him and then gave a little nod and he took her hand and placed it on his arm again and led her towards the other side of the enormous room. As they walked her gaze swept over the paintings, drinking them in, her lips parted as if on the verge of a smile, but he could feel the tension of her hand on his arm. He drew her to a halt just where the room led off into another corridor where a silk cord marked a barrier.
The light from the skylight was not as pronounced here, but Turner’s painting still stood out from among the more ponderous landscapes and portraits. It was labelled Venice, looking east from the Giudecca, Sunrise and its deceptive simplicity and limited palette also made it stand out. It was mostly washed sky and sea in pale pink and golden yellow and a long line of Venice’s skyline traced in purplish blue in the distance. She drew away from him, moving towards the painting, taking it in and then moving back again, forcing a portly couple to make way for her without even noticing them. Max moved so he could watch her face, the smile that bloomed slowly, suffusing her face with joy. Finally she turned to him, her eyes filled with pleasure and even some sadness.
‘I had no idea anyone could do that. He is utterly unfettered. It is quite unfair to have him crowded here like this. There is nothing here like it. I see why you love it,’ she said, her gaze locked back on the painting.
She stood there for a long moment and then with a sigh she turned away to examine the other paintings. She hardly seemed to notice that he placed her hand on his arm again, her attention fully on the paintings. Surprisingly he didn’t mind being taken for granted. Her face was so expressive of enjoyment and awe, it was enough to just watch her revelation and to answer the questions she occasionally directed at him about the artists and the paintings which became more frequent as they advanced.
When they had completed the circuit of the room he led her down a corridor to the Academy’s Council Chambers.
‘Come, I want to show you something.’
Guests could not usually enter this part of the Academy, but she would appreciate seeing Angelica Kauffman’s allegorical murals, as much for their quality as for the artist’s gender. But they had barely entered the chamber when a portly man who had been standing talking with a small group of men and women turned and noticed them and promptly gave a shout of greeting and headed in their direction.
‘Oh, hell,’ Max said ruefully under his voice. ‘It’s a good friend of my uncle’s and a relentless gossip. Once he starts asking questions, we will never escape. Wait here, I’ll get rid of him.’
He moved forward to intercept the man, grasping his elbow and deflecting him from his trajectory. As they moved towards the other end of the room, the man’s voice rang out merrily.
‘Max, old boy! What have you been up to? How is Charles? Still having a high time out with the ladies in Venice? The old dog!’
Max answered the barrage of questions about his uncle’s activities in Italy as best he could and drew the conversation to a close with a promise to remember him to his uncle. Then he turned around to an empty room.
‘You looking for that pretty little thing you came in with? Saw her head to the inner rooms.’
‘What?’ Max exclaimed and without even bothering to say goodbye he headed towards the doorway at the other side of the room. Damn the girl. It was just like her to go to the one place in the whole Academy she was absolutely forbidden to enter.
He found her easily enough the moment he entered the inner room. She was staring in wonder at the tightly packed nude paintings and studies that covered most of the wall space.
‘For heaven’s sake, you can’t come in here!’ Max said sternly, grasping her arm and drawing her towards the door at the other end of the corridor.
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? I would have thought that was obvious! This part of the Academy is not for well-bred young women.’
She turned to him with the amused twinkle in her eyes he was becoming very familiar with and which did nothing to lower his guard.
‘I know that’s what people say, but that is rather ridiculous, isn’t it? There’s hardly anything here a woman hasn’t already seen. If anything, I would have thought this wasn’t a room for well-bred young men.’
Max had to make a considerable effort not to laugh at this rather original view of the matter. She really was absurdly peculiar.
‘Besides, I just saw two very nicely dressed young women pass through here,’ she pointed out.
‘They may have been nicely dressed, but I doubt they were well bred.’
‘Oh! Do you mean they were...lightskirts?’
‘I mean that unless you want to find yourself classified alongside them, we should return to the main exhibition,’ Max said, exasperated as much at