Chapter Thirty-Five
August 1817
Laura’s hands shook so she hid them in her skirts.
This was ridiculous! She examined the drawing room from ceiling to floor. She knew this room and the people in it; this was not the rented villa in Palermo where she displayed her paintings and met Rabia for the very first time.
The flattery and attention Selim Omar’s wife had shown her works had been a sham – the woman was not interested in her artwork; Laura herself had been the commodity being evaluated. How little she knew then.
Instead of the thirty paintings she had for that exhibition, Laura could only offer Madame Vigée-Le Brun five. Victoria and Samuel had both gushed over them, calling them works of genius.
Kit, Jonathan and Morwena had little to add other than general admiration. Only Sophia had asked her the most important question.
“Are you pleased with them?” she asked, when Laura finally brought her works down from her studio. Her cousin’s brown eyes bore deep into her soul.
Laura wasn’t sure she liked the answer that lay deep inside her. She dodged the question instead.
“Whether I like them or not is irrelevant; what matters is whether or not Madame Vigée-Le Brun likes them.”
The cousins walked around the room, examining each painting in turn. The first two were the still life of the flowers and a portrait of Victoria – as much a gift to her brother and sister-in-law as it was a work of art. The third was a study of the afternoon ride of the bon ton in Rotten Row. The fourth, a landscape painted in Hampstead Heath.
The final was painting Laura still had reservations about showing.
It depicted a Tunisian market scene, a watercolor filled with all the shades of yellow – lemon, honey, flax, gold, butter, all blended from leftovers of yellow ochre. The painting was an exercise in monochrome technique. The figures of the traders and their merchandise – slaves and animals – all sketched in black and only differentiated against shades of yellow by the occasional splash of lurid vermillion and cobalt blue.
Sophia inclined her head and went out through the doors to the balcony. Then she leaned back in.
“She’s here!”
Laura hurried to the balcony balustrade to catch a glimpse of the renowned French portrait artist.
This woman had painted Marie Antoinette and members of the Russian royal family. She was all drama and scandal. Some claimed she seduced her sitters and shared confidences with the notorious Lady Hamilton – not that Laura could tell a thing about her from one floor up. She watched as the footman aided her from the carriage. Beneath the pert straw sunhat, Laura caught a glimpse of a riot of silvery curls.
Now in her autumn years, Élisabeth Vigée-Le Brun had returned to France, content to live a quieter life, but she occasionally left her idyllic country cottage to accept the accolades in England and France for her portraits and landscapes. She was an artist acclaimed with the greats of the ages and her visit was a privilege.
Laura felt like a schoolgirl, excited that a boring lesson was to be enlivened by the arrival of a guest. As soon as Madame Vigée-Le Brun crossed the threshold, she hurried to the top of the stairs where she stopped and gathered her composure, reminding herself she was not a child but a young woman – and, most of all, a fellow artist.
But, like a child, she fretted – Madame had to like her work. She simply had to.
“Of course, she will love your work,” Sophia whispered. “Find your courage. You’ve come so far to meet her.”
Victoria presided over tea in the drawing room, and Laura was relieved to discover Madame was a charming woman. Although not as petite as Emma Hamilton, there was still something in her of a little porcelain doll brought to life, with hazel eyes that enchanted and rosebud lips over even, white teeth. Some artists painted self-portraits as a matter of conceit, but Madame Vigée-Le Brun did so because she was an ideal subject. A beauty, particularly in her youth.
“You will forgive me for staring, Madame, I have seen the portrait of you as a young woman and I…”
Their guest took Laura’s attention with equanimity. “An artist never apologizes for what she sees. She stares, she thinks, she does more than just put paint on canvas. Art is the eyes of humanity. It is how we see the world. Without artists, civilization is deaf, dumb and blind.”
The French woman accepted another cup of Earl Grey tea and turned her own attention to Laura.
“You are an artist, are you not?”
“That is what I hope you will tell me.”
The answer didn’t seem to impress the older woman. Her nose wrinkled, accenting the lines on a face lightly covered by powder.
“If you do not know, then you cannot suppose I will provide the answer for you.”
“But, that’s why we invited you, Madame,” Victoria protested.
“Non,” she replied, turning to her hostess. “You invited me here to evaluate the merits of this young lady’s work, to see her technique, to see if she has captured the transcendent,” She returned her gaze to Laura. “Only this one can tell us whether she is an artist or not.”
Laura let her tea go cold. This was awful, perfectly awful.
It was a mistake for Samuel to have arranged this interview. It was a mistake for her to have come back to England. She trailed behind Victoria, Madame Vigée-Le Brun and Sophia, nursing the same kind of dread and disgust with herself whenever she had had to dance or play an instrument for one of Selim Omar’s guests.
“If you will permit me, Madame Cappleman, I wish to view the paintings with Miss Laura. Alone, s’il vous plait.”
Victoria blinked rapidly and looked to her for confirmation. Laura had no idea what her expression conveyed. Panic, most likely. In the end, it was Sophia who assured her it was satisfactory.
Her works stood on easels, like soldiers at attention, facing into the soft light filtered in through the light muslin curtains.
Madame Vigée-Le Brun stood in front of the still life. She pulled a small pince-nez from her reticule to take a close look. After a minute or two, the great French artist left that painting without comment and examined the portrait of Victoria.
Pull yourself together, Laura! If she were to enter the Royal Academy’s exhibition, her works would be judged worthy or wanting in a heartbeat. If she were to exhibit at all, many people would be staring at her work. Yet this, somehow, seemed different.
After a length of time, the French woman looked up from the portrait and spoke. “I understand from your sister-in-law that you have returned to England only recently.”
“Yes. I spent time abroad.”
“Did you do anything? Did you see anything?”
Laura’s mouth dried. “I, ah, I mean, I spent time in Sicily and…”
The artist removed the glasses. “And you experienced nothing?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The older woman let out a long, put-upon sigh. “All I see is practiced technique, adequate color choice, and a schoolgirl’s sensibilities.”
Laura couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her mouth.
“I’m sure you are a delight to your friends and family, who no doubt praise you endlessly, but I am not here to coddle or to give you false flattery. I do not see the soul of an artist in these paintings.”
Laura fought a trembling of shame, and fear, and disappointment. It was a small miracle she was able to reply, “Then I am sorry to have wasted your time, Madame.”
The woman shrugged. “I said I would look at your works and I will.”
The third painting, she studied for a few seconds; the fourth, the landscape, received nothing more than a cursory glance. “I spent three years in Rome, I was inducted into the Accademia di San Luca,” she continued conversationally, either unaware or unconcerned Laura’s hope had turned to dust.
“How very nice for you,” replied Laura, bitterness dripping from each word.
“What I am trying to say to you, ma fille, is your work seems utterly unmarked by your time abroad. That, I fear, makes you a dabbler, someone who pretends to be an artist. If you can live on La Méditerranée and not be influenced by such histoire, people, and surroundings, then I’m afraid you will be nothing more than a very little talent.”
Laura looked down. Her knuckles were white, but her face, she was sure, was puce. Her disappointment of a few moments ago was now a rage. How dare that woman say she was unmarked!
“How dare you?” she repeated out loud, unaware Madame Vigée-Le Brun had approached her final painting.
“You have no idea what happened to me there. No idea! I have been scarred to the depths of my soul. I was seized and imprisoned for nearly two years in an Ottoman harem. I was violated repeatedly by a man who had the power of life and death over me. The only good thing I have left is painting. Can you blame me for not wanting it tainted?”
When she looked up, Madame Vigée-Le Brun was not looking at her; she peered instead at the last painting, the Tunisian market scene. “La! That is it – c’est de cela que je parlais!”
Her face animated, the woman turned the easel around so the canvas faced them both. Laura could feel the desert heat of its colors from where she stood.
“You are afraid of this beast that is locked in your breast? Let it out, my dear! You cannot hide from it! I see hints of it in this painting here. In this work, I begin to see the world as you see it.”
The surge of emotion that had burst like a storm had come to an end. Laura trembled as though she had caught a chill.
“I don’t understand. Are you saying my work has merit?”
“It has some – but I believe I have not seen your best work.”
The older woman approached. “I think we have some things in common.
“You see me as a celebrated painter, but I am only a woman like you. I have lost much which is precious to me. I have been homeless many times over. My friends were executed by the regime, including the queen herself. My husband betrayed me. And as for my daughter,” – the woman shrugged her shoulders – “we no longer speak. So do not pretend you are the only one of our sex who has been hurt by circumstances not of her making.”
“Perhaps you presume too much about me, Madame.”
“Do I?” She returned the pince-nez to her reticule disinterestedly. “Well, I am only in London for a few more weeks. I shall be stopping at Brighton for a few days of rest at the end of August. Call on me if you wish, and show me whether you are a real artist or just a little girl pretending.”
Later, Laura sat alone in her studio surrounded by the smell of oils and earthy pigments. She was not so much offended that Madame Vigée-Le Brun had found her work wanting. She accepted the judgment the paintings deserved. But…
How dare that woman judge her life?
Madame had compelled her to confront the very thing she had been afraid to face; demanded she stare at it.
She’d never really grasped the importance of Kit Hardacre’s blue leather journals, the ones he used to record the particulars of those he, Elias and the crew of the Calliope rescued. Now she understood.
They weren’t just numbers on a ledger or some newspaper account.
They were people. Those words were their lives.
She closed her eyes and the face of Yasmeen appeared before her. The Somalian’s lithe grace when she danced was mesmerizing. Her mercy was divine. Even when she was administering discipline on Rabia’s orders, she was fair, if demanding.
Such breathtaking audacity to kill Sheik Selim Omar, knowing it would mean death for herself.
Even now, Laura struggled to believe Yasmeen was dead.
She stared at her blank canvas. Perhaps, she needn’t be… perhaps, she could bring Yasmeen back to life. She picked up a pencil and closed her eyes once more before opening them and addressing the canvas before her.
With growing confidence, she sketched her scene – Yasmeen the dancer in full movement, the curves of her body beneath diaphanous robes, a long, dark leg exposed to the upper thigh as the skirts of her costume flared in mid-turn.
Laura worked furiously, giving movement and life to the woman who had become her friend and protector in the harem.
Already, in her mind, Laura had decided the colors she would use – blues, purples, greens. She sketched out the background, the filtered light through the lattice windows, the thick painted walls decorated with mosaic tiles, the ever-present incense burner with its distinct white smoke rising lazily to the ceiling. Watching the dance were odalisques and concubines who reclined on silk cushions, listless and indolent.
And there, in the shadows, so only the most eagle-eyed viewer would see: the imposing silhouette of the eunuch, Malik, the man who loved Yasmeen.
Laura remembered some of the stories Sophia used to tell her – of Orpheus and Eurydice, Odysseus and Penelope, and Paolo and Francesca.
The story of Yasmeen and Malik was an equally tragic love story. And she would bring them back to life. Their story would be known across England if she had her way. She would tell it in not one painting, but another and another, a whole series of paintings! Yasmeen would be vibrant and full of life despite her captivity, not because of it.
Laura didn’t need models to pose for her, she knew her subjects by heart. She worked on, ignoring the servant bearing her dinner tray. By the time she had finished her preliminary drawings, the room was in deep shadow in the grey twilight. She blinked, surprised by the passage of time. Another servant arrived, this time to light the lamps and set the fire in her bedroom.
I’m afraid you will be nothing more than a very little talent.
The words echoed in her ears and Laura felt her anger stoked once more.
She would show Madame what she saw. She would open that woman’s eyes to the truth. How dare she say she was unmarked by her experience.
Laura worked feverishly for days, barely leaving her room, and stopping only when the light had become too poor to see. She recalled that Sophia had come to pay a fleeting visit but, to everyone else, she was not at home.
Nearly two weeks after Madame Vigée-Le Brun’s visit, Laura emerged from her studio.
“I need to go to town.”
Samuel raised his head from the ledgers on the desk.
“You’re sure? I mean, of course, you should. I’m certain Victoria would be delighted to accompany you. I imagine you’ll be wanting a new dress or shoes or whatever it is you women spend so much money on. I’m so glad you decided to come along to the countess’ soiree.”
Laura didn’t recall agreeing to any such thing, but seeing the delight in her brother’s eyes made her disinclined to disabuse him. To be honest, she had no idea which countess he was talking about. Countess Hortence, she presumed.
Samuel stood and tugged the bell pull by the fire. A servant swiftly answered.
“Has Mrs. Cappleman left for town?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell my wife Miss Laura will be joining her.”
The parlor maid bobbed a curtsy and went on her way.
“I also need more art supplies.”
“Of course, of course! Whatever you need!”
Samuel approached her and gave her an awkward hug.
“I’m so pleased you’re home where you belong. I’ve been worried about you. Now that you’re back, it will be as if nothing ever happened.”