CH 9 The Royal Academy of Art Exhibition

"Percy! Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Mamma," he lied. He had, in truth, been absorbed for the last several minutes in recalling his glimpse of Helena Damerel as she'd appeared the previous afternoon ensconced in Lucian Hartshorne's glossy phaeton and being expertly driven by his lordship through Hyde Park. The pair in their passage had created quite a stir and caused heads to turn in admiration and not, as Percy was himself forced to admit, without reason. They made an attractive couple, the marquess distinguished and manly in his handling of the reins, and Helena, beautiful and regal as a queen beside him.

Her Grace of Claiborne regarded him suspiciously, but deigned to continue, "I have made inquiries, and have learned much to Miss Harcourt's credit and nothing, apart from her having a rather silly grandmother, in her disfavor. Her father's people are very respectable — not noble, but of the landed gentry — and her mother's family is of the highest professional class. As for looks, she is very much in her cousin's shadow, I grant you, but she is passably pretty and has, I'm reliably informed, a sweet and biddable disposition. Her dowry is said to be sizable, somewhere in the neighborhood of 8,000 pounds. She is worth your consideration, Percy."

He silently cursed the polite impulse which had spurred him to ask Georgina Harcourt to dance and had thus brought the girl to his mother's attention. He was now all but obliged to pay her some court, and, Miss Harcourt being very close to her cousin, this effectively prevented him from acting on his strenghtening resolve to keep his distance from Helena. "You make a valid point," he conceded dutifully. "I shall make a push to know her better, and, as it happens, can make a start this very afternoon. She and her uncle will be joining the party Callie got up to visit the Royal Academy of Art exhibition."

The duchess, who had doubtless anticipated a certain resistance if not outright recalcitrance, beamed in approval. "Excellent!"

Though they were only minutes past the appointed hour, Percy and Simon were the last of their group to arrive at the National Gallery, and, given the horde of visitors in attendance, had some trouble locating their companions in the Great Room. They spotted them, finally, standing before Sir David Wilkie's controversial painting of The First Council of Queen Victoria and actively debating its merits and flaws. "The portraits are not good likenesses of the men he purports to portray!" Callie could be heard to object as they approached. "Why, only look at Lord Melbourne! He's unrecognizable! Oh! Simon, Percy! There you are at last! We'd almost given you up."

"Apologies," Simon said blandly, before nodding round in response to more congenial greetings.

Percy had promised himself he would pay Helena no particular attention, and yet his eyes, as if with a will of their own, flew immediately in her direction. Looking the vision of spring in a leaf-green gown, her exquisite face framed by a wide-brimmed bonnet, she met his gaze and acknowledged him with a smile at once so sweet and shy, he was completely disarmed into smiling in return. She dropped her gaze demurely and Percy, his sister commanding his attention and demanding to know if he didn't agree George Hayter's portrait of the Queen was vastly superior to Wilkie's, was forced to look away.

Their party complete, it was soon breaking up into couples and threesomes, as, their interests and attention spans varying, they moved at different paces around the room. Callie, carrying Helena and Walter Flavell along with her, disappeared with them into the throng, and, the Carstairs and Simon stopping to examine every painting, even to craning their necks to see those hanging just under the ceiling, Percy found himself falling into step with Miss Harcourt and Will Hendred.

"I suppose, my lord," Miss Harcourt ventured, "this is not your first Royal Academy exhibition?"

"No, indeed," he replied. "Is it yours, perchance?"

She nodded. "I can't think why we never thought to come before. It's marvelous! Only…" She waved a dainty hand at the paintings hanging so tightly packed together that scarcely an inch of wall could be discerned between them. "It's rather overwhelming! There's so much to see, I hardly knows where to look."

"It is a lot to take in," Percy agreed.

"There are some two hundred works in this room alone, according to the catalog," Hendred said, gesturing with said object. "And two hundred more in the next."

"You needn't see everything today," Percy said. "You can always return a second or even a third time. The exhibition runs through the end of July, after all. For today, you might just let your eye wander and see what captures your attention."

Miss Harcourt, it proved, was drawn to sentimental scenes, particularly if they featured small children and their pets. She went into especial raptures over a sweet little spaniel sitting up at his young mistress' feet and gazing up at her adoringly, a rose like an offering clamped between his jaws. For his part, Hendred preferred landscapes, and not those of the tame English countryside but those of sun-drenched, vibrant Italy, of which there were a surprising number. "They bring back happy memories of my travels," he explained, and it did not take much prompting on Percy's part to spur the man into sharing some of his recollections. He was in the midst of describing a masked ball he'd attended in Venice when he was suddenly brought up short by a painting of a quaint rural scene. He stood a moment transfixed, and then said in delight, "Do you know, I believe this is the very inn Walter and I stayed in when we were passing through Umbria! Incredible! Walt has to see this!"

They were not long in finding Flavell. He was standing with Helena before Turner's sprawling landscape of classical Greece, his head cocked at a sharp angle as if, by viewing the painting from this unusual perspective, he might make better sense of it. "I know the man's been hailed as a genius," Flavell was saying doubtfully as Percy and his companions came within earshot. "But dashed if I can see it. What's there to admire in all those blurry temples sunk in a murky haze?" He broke off as his friend stepped up beside him, and, Miss Harcourt and Percy taking up positions next to Helena, he said, "Oh, there you are! What do you think?" He indicated the painting with a wave of his hand. "A masterpiece, as Miss Damerel will have it, or rubbish? I'm leaning toward the latter."

Hendred gave the canvas a summary once-over and said, "It looks a right mess to me. What do you have to say in its defense, Helena?"

"Only that you and Mr. Flavell are judging Mr. Turner on terms that are not his own," she replied. "He will not compare favorably to artists like Wilkie or Hayter who aspire to represent the world faithfully but, then, that is not his object. He aspires to evoke an emotional response. His theme here is the 'glory that was Greece' and how better to represent that bygone splendor than to bathe the scene in a golden light and to dot the landscape with a wealth of grand, almost ghostly structures?"

"All right," Flavell said grudgingly. "I guess I see your point. But, what is all that confused activity in the foreground? You have Demosthenes and his group on the left and a procession of women on the right with, I suppose, the Phryne of the title in the lead. What's the connection?"

"Phryne was…" Helena began with assurance, only to color up and break off.

"The most famous courtesan of her day," Percy supplied.

Helena flashed him a grateful smile. "Yes. She was extremely wealthy and influential as well as being a great beauty. The juxtaposition of Phryne and Demosthenes is, probably, meant to recall Demosthenes' taunting his bitter rival Aeschines by claiming his mother plied the same profession."

"The dog!" Flavell said.

Miss Harcourt turned to Helena in awe. "Imagine you knowing all that!"

Helena smiled deprecatingly. "It's what comes of having an uncle who's England premier authority on Greek and Roman literature."

"Ah!" Hendred said, with a nod. "Cousin Aubrey, of course. Sir Aubrey Lanyon," he added for Flavell's benefit. "Teaches up at Cambridge, and is known, so I hear, as the 'Scourge' by his students."

"Wait!" Percy put in. "Sir Aubrey Lanyon is your uncle, Miss Damerel? I had him, briefly, as a tutor. I was one of the undergrads he terrorized!"

Helena smiled more broadly. "He's not the most forbearing of men, it's true, and he makes no exception for his nieces. As a child, the only way I could secure his attention was to ply him with questions about ancient Greece and Rome. As I grew older, to gain his approval, I read a great many classics — Plato's Dialogues, Homer's Illiad and Odyssey, Euripides' plays…"

"In the original Greek?" Flavell teased.

Helena, not having caught the joking tone, replied artlessly, "Not at first, no."

"Not at first," Flavell repeated, his eyes going round. "Are you saying you read Greek?"

A flush rose in Helena's cheeks, and, flustered, she answered quickly, "Only a little and not very well."

Hendred, bless him, remembered in that moment that he wanted to show Flavell the Italian inn painting, and, Miss Harcourt being curious to witness Flavell's reaction, the three turned back into the room, leaving Percy and Helena alone.

A short silence fell. Percy was the one to break it, venturing neutrally, "You were eloquent in your defense of Turner, Miss Damerel. I take it you admire the man?"

She cast him a look soft with gratitude. "The artist, yes. I do believe he's the foremost painter of our age. We are fortunate to have one of his early Venice watercolors at Stoborough House. It hangs in my father's study."

"Lucky man." He gestured to the paintings further along the wall and inquired, "Shall we go on?"

They strolled together unhurriedly from one row of paintings to the next, taking in the artwork largely without comment. They had paused to consider a rather gory historical painting and were again moving on when Helena volunteered in a hesitant voice, "My lord…"

He cut a glance her way, but her head was bowed, and her bonnet hid all but her mouth and chin. "Yes?"

"I… I want, while we have this chance, to apologize to you for my atrocious behavior when you called the other day. I was most uncivil, and you did not deserve it. I have, sadly, no excuse to offer. The fact is, I was out of sorts and took my ill-humor out on you. It was unpardonable of me, and I am most heartily sorry."

Helena had stopped and faced him to say these final words, and Percy saw that her regret was wholly genuine and her contrition real. Her chagrin was so sincere, and his heart so lightened by the apology, Percy was moved to set her immediately at ease. "I thank you for the explanation, but you are too hard on yourself by far. The fault is likely mine for calling so late in the day. You must have been tired from entertaining all afternoon and at the end of your tether. Given the circumstances, it is no wonder if you were less than perfectly gracious."

Percy had the pleasure of seeing the shadow disappear from Helena's face and the glow of relief light her eyes. "You are too kind, my lord. I am forgiven, then?"

"There is nothing to forgive. It is past and forgotten. Now, what do you say? Shall we continue on to the next room, or wait for our friends?"

Helena's reply was preempted by a voice calling out, "Clairborne! Miss Damerel! Well met!" The Marquess of Hartshorne, followed closely by Miss Beryl Stanhope and her mother, stepped up and nodded his hellos. "Enjoying the exhibition, are you? I must admit, speaking for myself, I am less than impressed. The quality of the art is notably inferior to what it's been in previous years. There's hardly a painting or sculpture worth acquiring."

"You were quite taken with MaClise's Wood Ranger," Miss Stanhope made so bold as to remind him.

"That is true," he allowed. "A fine work in its way. I need not ask you, Claiborne, but Miss Damerel, are you perhaps already acquainted with my companions, Mrs. Roger Stanhope and Miss Beryl Stanhope?"

Helena smiled openly at the two women. "I have yet to have that pleasure, my lord."

Hartshorne proceeded with the introductions. Helena extended a cordial hand to Mrs. Stanhope who accepted it in a limp grip and then to Miss Stanhope who offered no more than her fingers to shake. The ceremony over, Miss Stanhope lifted her chin a notch and said frostily, "You are in error, you know, Miss Damerel. We have met, you and I."

Helena's brow drew down in confusion. "Have we? Are you quite certain? I have no recollection of it, and I can't believe I would have forgotten you."

"Oh," Miss Stanhope said carelessly, "there is nothing very wonderful about it. It was many years ago, we were girls. I happened to be spending the summer with my aunt — Mother's sister — in your neighborhood of Yorkshire, and Lady Damerel was kind enough to invite me along with my cousins to a children's party at the Priory. One of your sisters' birthdays, I believe."

"If it was in June, that would be two of my sisters: Cassie and Iris. They were born on dates so close together, they always share a celebration. Imagine your having been at one of their parties! Your aunt," she said eagerly. "I must know her, then. May I ask her name?"

"Of course, but we shall have to leave it for another time. I would not bore Lord Hartshorne and Lord Percy with such personal reminiscence, and I do believe in any case that we were on the point of leaving when we ran into you. Is that not so, my lord?"

"Indeed. We've had a thorough look around, and now there's an appointment I absolutely must keep." He tipped his hat to Helena and Percy. "Good day to you, Miss Damerel, Claiborne. Ladies," he said, gesturing for them to precede him. Before they had quite moved off, Miss Stanhope, with a pointed look over her shoulder, slipped her hand securely into the crook of Hartshorne's arm.

It was on Beryl's part so obvious a gauntlet thrown that Percy was tempted to laugh, but the puzzled, slightly wounded frown on Helena's face sobered him. Sensing his gaze on her, she attempted a smile, but it fell sadly flat. "I don't know why it should be, but I have the distinct impression Miss Stanhope doesn't like me."

"She is cool toward everyone," Percy said in an effort to boost her spirits. "That is simply her manner. You needn't take it as a slight."

Helena's expression continued troubled. "You may be right — I hope you are — but I sensed… I don't know… a real animosity." She gave her head an impatient shake, and said with forced cheerfulness, "But I expect I am just being fanciful. What reason could she have to dislike me, after all? We have only just met."

Percy could have enlightened her in a few words, but if Helena were so little self-aware as not to perceive that Beryl feared and loathed her as a serious rival both for her crown of reigning beauty of the ton and for Hartshorne's affections, he did not feel it was his place to tell her. Fortunately, their friends rejoining them in that moment, he was spared the necessity of comment, and, in the pleasure of examining the drawings and miniatures in the next room, Beryl Stanhope was forgotten.