Chapter 4
“‘Fortune favors the bold,’ they say. Obviously, they have never met Lady Caroline Lovell.”
—Lawrence Sinclair
The main exhibition hall in Somerset House soared three stories to an ornate cove ceiling. It was ringed with clerestory windows, allowing a splash of sunlight to illuminate the myriad canvases that were hung from the floor to the ceiling. Their ornate frames butted up against one another, like seasick passengers on an overcrowded ship, jostling elbow-to-elbow along the rail. The tops of the uppermost paintings canted inward, so the works might still be viewed from the floor far below without too much distortion. The arrangement created the illusion that the very walls were leaning in toward the milling crowd.
There was such a press of bodies in the great hall, Lawrence despaired of catching the slightest glimpse of Lady Caroline. Elegantly garbed cits and dandies paid court to young ladies, who were flirting with their fans and making doe’s eyes when they thought their chaperones weren’t attending. Groups of young people wandered from one painting to the next, gave the canvases cursory glances, and then returned to their flirting. Several stout matrons, most probably the inattentive chaperones, had found seats on benches situated in the center of the hall. These ladies viewed the canvases hanging near the high ceiling through opera glasses, exclaiming to one another over the artistry in each work and praising the budding talent. All the while, they were oblivious to the romances budding a few feet from them.
“I see what you mean, Bredon,” Lawrence said without looking back at his friend, who must have followed him in and was no doubt standing a little behind him. “There’s very little afoot here that has to do with art.”
“Indeed. Then pray, sir, do tell me what you believe is afoot.”
He turned to find Lady Caroline gazing at him, the corners of her pink lips turning up ever so slightly. Ears burning, he belatedly remembered his manners and whipped off his hat.
“Lady Caroline,” he said as he gave her a sharp bow from the neck. “I am most pleased to see you here.”
“Mr. Sinclair,” she responded with a quick curtsy, her mildly amused expression still intact. “Now that we have established our identities, may I point out that you see me nearly every night at the supper table?”
“Yes, that’s true. But it’s not the same as…well, we’ve never had the opportunity to…what I mean is… you and I have exchanged precious few words…you see…since I became your brother’s houseguest.”
“Perhaps that’s a good thing because words seem to be a sticking point for you.” Her smile broadened, but he didn’t sense any malice behind it. It was an indulgent sort of smile, a smile that said it was all right for him to take his time expressing himself.
He’d never had trouble speaking to women before, though he was never able to gather a crowd around himself as Bredon could. It made no sense that the mere presence of this one, the one he most wished to impress, should render him hopelessly tongue-tied. Yet, because of her smile, some of the tension drained from between his shoulder blades.
“When I came upon you, you seemed to be talking to yourself,” she said. “Would you care to explain what you meant?”
“About?” For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.
“Exactly,” she said. “You implied that the exhibit wasn’t about the art. What else would it be about? I ask you.”
He couldn’t very well say it was about elaborate mating dances that would put peacocks to shame. That wasn’t an appropriate thing for a gentleman to say to a lady. Besides, he was as guilty as the other would-be lovemakers in the hall. He’d come with the intention of tracking this goddess before him as stealthily as any deer stalker. And then, he planned to…he planned…
Somehow, he had lost his train of thought, lost himself in those eyes of hers. The lovely whites showing beneath her warm irises seemed to be shaped like little canoes as she gazed up at him. Her pupils expanded, darkening their warm amber shade and pulling him farther into—
“Mr. Sinclair? Are you quite all right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m…I’m fine. I was merely…” He might be fine, but he sounded not quite bright, even to his own ears.
Lawrence had hoped fate would allow him a few moments of private speech with Lady Caroline so he could duly impress her. Now he was throwing away his chance because he couldn’t corral his thoughts. He felt powerless to stop himself from floundering.
He wondered if this was how it would feel if he were to hurl himself from the topmost spire of Westminster Abbey. The rush of wind, the exhilaration of being airborne, the—
“Yes?” she prompted.
The abrupt smack when I hit the cobblestones.
Lawrence swallowed hard and gave one last try at making sense. “If the exhibition were strictly about the art, wouldn’t all the works be displayed at eye level? I mean, how does one give adequate attention to the paintings situated higher on the walls?” he asked, finally coughing up a coherent thought.
As elegantly as a cat coughs up a hair ball.
“You have a point, Mr. Sinclair. It is a challenge to view all the paintings equally, given the way they are displayed,” she acknowledged, “but there are so many worthy artists associated with the Academy, it would be unfair to deny any of them a showing.”
He liked her sense of fairness, but he wondered if the artist whose work was hugging the ceiling would consider its showing equitable. Then, like a shaft of heavenly light parting the clouds, a good idea descended upon him.
“I would consider it a great honor if you would show me your favorite work, Lady Caroline.”
She chuckled.
“Did I say something amusing?”
“No, you merely asked for the impossible. One can’t have a favorite work of art,” she said. “At least, not for very long.”
“Why is that?”
“I believe it is because we bring something of ourselves to each canvas. If I’m feeling poorly, even the most wonderful work will find a dull reception in me. Conversely, if I’m in perfect charity with the world, every canvas I see holds a wealth of charm.”
Perhaps Bredon is right. I am a book filled with blank pages. At least, as far as his sister is concerned. “Are you truly that changeable?”
“As a weathercock,” she answered gaily. “Aren’t you?”
“No,” he said in all seriousness. “I know myself well enough to know what I like. And when I find what I like, that doesn’t change.”
He gave her a direct look that, surprisingly enough, seemed to unnerve her a bit. For the first time since he’d met her, color rose in her cheeks. She swept her gaze downward for the space of several heartbeats. He wondered if it were possible for someone like her to suffer occasional moments of awkwardness, too.
Then she raised her eyes to his and tipped her head to one side, as if she were trying to gain a fresh perspective on him.
Her pink tongue swept her lower lip.
Why does she do that? It doesn’t seem particularly dry in here. And why in blue blazes am I looking at her lips in the first place?
It was considered the height of rudeness to fixate on a particular feature of a lady, but in all fairness, she was giving him a fixated look of her own. Then, apparently satisfied by her careful perusal of him, she lifted one of her delicate eyebrows.
“Well, then, my unchangeable Mr. Sinclair,” Lady Caroline said, “perhaps I will show you my favorite work.”
“At least, the one for today,” he said, pleased that she had agreed because it would mean more time to speak with her.
However, he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. He’d undoubtedly been weighed on some sort of feminine scale and come out on the positive side.
Yet it was more than that. Somehow, there’d been a spark, a connection leaping between them. Surely she’d felt it, too. Why else would her cheeks have turned rosy like that?
He wondered if, like the exhibition, their conversation had not really been about art at all.
No matter. When she blessed him with another of her brilliant smiles, he decided not to question his luck further. They strolled side by side along the perimeter of the great hall.
Not touching, of course. Not so much as the sleeve of his jacket brushed against the thin shawl that draped over her shoulders and down her lithe arms.
But he was acutely aware of her nearness and fancied that if they were standing still, he’d feel the heat of her body radiating toward him. Warm as sunshine or a cheery blaze or—
Stow it, Sinclair, he ordered himself. It was just that sort of fanciful imagining that made him fumble his words and look a fool.
Lady Caroline stopped before a landscape near the corner farthest from the door through which he’d entered.
“Here it is,” she said. “This one caught my fancy.”
Lawrence tore his gaze from her and fixed it on the canvas before them. On it, a series of arches supported a bridge of three stories spanning a river. It was a realistic enough representation to suggest an actual locale.
“Oh!” Lawrence said. “I know this place. It’s called Pont du Gard.”
“You’ve been there, I see. Alas, I can only read about such things, or gaze at paintings of them,” she said wistfully, but then her smile returned, and she went on excitedly. “Just imagine how clever the Romans must have been to build an aqueduct of such monumental size. And what’s more, after nearly two thousand years, it still stands.”
“The henges on the Salisbury plain are far older,” he said, feeling the need to tout English cleverness as well.
“Fiddle-faddle! Those henges are half-tumbled-down collections of stones compared to this ancient wonder. And the Roman ruins had an actual purpose. Who knows what the henges were for?”
“Perhaps they were meant to be art. Does art have a purpose?”
“This one does. At least, it’s quite clear what the artist intended to show.” She waved a gloved hand toward the amazingly accurate depiction of Roman engineering. “And besides, just look at the fascinating countryside around the aqueduct. And that beautiful river.”
“It’s the Gardon River,” Lawrence supplied. Helpfully, he thought.
“Of course, you’d know its name, too,” she said with a huff and crossed her arms.
Now what had he done? She seemed vexed with him, and just when he thought he’d been bringing something of substance to their conversation.
“The south of France is lovely,” he said, “but it’s no lovelier than our English countryside.”
“But you’ve missed my point. It’s French. It’s someplace else. Other. Than. Here.” She separated the words to give them emphasis. “Because of that, the flora and fauna there must certainly be more…well, by rights, they ought to be…you know what I mean, different from…” One of her hands flailed a bit as she struggled to capture her thoughts.
Lawrence’s chest burned in sympathy. He wasn’t the only one who fought to get the right words out sometimes. Though during his brief association with her, Lady Caroline had never experienced difficulty expressing herself before.
It was too much to hope that he had the same disturbing effect on her that she did on him.
Of course, if neither of us can put together a cogent sentence, we’ll have a great deal of difficulty getting on.
Sounding exasperated, she finally said, “Surely in your many travels you’ve been moved by the beauty around you.”
Not as much as I’m moved by the beauty at my side, he thought but dared not say. A crowded exhibition hall was no venue for a declaration of that sort. She’d think him mad if he let such a thought slip from his lips.
“And not simply because it is beautiful,” she went on, “but because it is not familiar, because of its…otherness.”
“I think I understand,” he said.
Otherness was the problem. She was Lady Caroline and would ever remain so. She was the epitome of otherness. If his uncle had his way, Lawrence would be Mr. Sinclair to his dying day, barely hanging on to the edge of Polite Society by his fingernails. He cast about for something to say that wouldn’t widen the gulf between them.
Clearly, she didn’t want to talk about art. The only reason she’d been drawn to this particular canvas was its foreign subject matter. Her eyes had danced when she spoke of distant places.
Perhaps it was time to take her to one.
“When I was in France, I saw some beautiful sights. Often in the most unexpected places. I remember early mornings,” he said softly as he sank into his vivid memories. “My horse’s breath ghosting the air, frost sparkling on the field, and each blade of grass doubled by its own sharp-edged shadow. Small things really, but of such beauty, they made my chest ache.”
“My word, Mr. Sinclair. Who would have thought it?” she said, clearly astonished. “You have the soul of a poet.”
He shook his head. “No, not really. I’m just one who’s had a good deal of time to think.”
“I’ve heard it said that memories of dramatic, even horrific events seem more intense than others,” she said. “You’re speaking of things you remember from your time in military service, I believe.”
He nodded. “How could you tell?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Teddy told me you served with great valor at the Battle of Waterloo and elsewhere. But a number of years have passed since then, and, I must say, the details you shared seem very fresh.”
“I suppose they are. Going into an action has a way of focusing a man.” Before a battle, his senses had seemed heightened. He’d been acutely aware of everything. Each little detail had seemed so terribly important as he drank them all in. The creak and jingle of his mount’s tack seemed loud enough that surely his counterpart across the field must have heard it. The light was both softer and harsher, the colors so vibrant they hurt his eyes. His skin prickled at each sensation, thigh muscles flexing as he settled deeply into the saddle. The air was ripe with gun oil and leather, horseflesh and damp wool.
And beneath it all, an acrid, low note of fear.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, Lady Caroline asked, “Were you ever afraid?” Then she quickly shook her head. “How impertinent of me. I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”
“Why? Don’t you want to know the answer?”
“Well…”
“Yes,” he admitted. “The answer is yes.”
Her brows drew toward each other. “My, that was quick. Do you not care that others may think you a coward?”
“I care that you may, but if you do, you’d be wrong,” he said. Their conversation had veered so far away from art, he was sure it would never make it back, but he felt the need to explain himself, lest she think he bore a white feather and despise him for it. “Being afraid doesn’t make one a coward. It only shows one has a bit of sense.”
“I had not thought of it like that. You may be right.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “But if being afraid doesn’t make one a coward, what does?”
“Running away,” he said. “It’s a question of what one ought to do. I had a duty. I owed it to my king, my commanding officer, and to my comrades in arms to give my best in every action. The men who served under me deserved an example of steadfastness. I strove to give them one. No matter my feelings, running away was never an option.”
“So, do you always live up to this sense of…of oughtness, for want of a better word?”
“I endeavor to do so, yes, my lady.”
She narrowed her extraordinary eyes at him. “Even if it runs counter to your own wishes?”
“I had taken an oath. My wishes did not signify.”
Her lips tightened into a thin line, and he was reminded for a moment of her friend, Horatia Englewood. The thought was disturbing, but then she flicked out her little pink tongue again and swept her bottom lip. Any resemblance to Miss Englewood fled away.
“What if you hadn’t taken an oath?” A determined line formed between her brows. “What if others merely expected certain things of you, things to which you had not expressly agreed? Would you feel honor bound to set your own will aside simply to please them?”
Any pretense of discussing the artwork before them had clearly flown out the high clerestory windows. This question was of obvious importance to her, but he had no idea why.
“I suppose,” he said carefully, “it would depend on who was expecting something from me.”
“Such as whom?”
He almost said my family, but because his had expected precious little of him, he feared the words wouldn’t ring true.
“If the person was someone I valued, someone whose opinion mattered to me,” Lawrence said in measured tones, “I would certainly do my best to see that I lived up to their hopes.”
“At the expense of subjugating your own will?”
“If the person was important enough to me, yes. It seems the height of selfishness to think that my will should hold sway at all times.”
A stricken expression passed over her features. His gut sank. His words had missed the mark somehow. He was about to apologize for causing her distress, but then the injured look disappeared, and she lifted her chin.
“Well, then, Mr. Sinclair. It appears you were sadly missing on the day the good Lord handed out spines. Good day, sir.”
Lady Caroline bobbed a perfunctory curtsy, turned on her heel, and left him standing by the painting of Pont du Gard.
“Bredon was right,” he muttered. “This was definitely not about art.”