Epilogue
Two weeks later
INA STOOD IN the middle of the crowded gallery, her hands clamped on her husband’s arm to prevent them from shaking. Gavin was on her right, practically holding her up, while Lana was on her left. Christine had stopped in front of them to examine a sculpture of a woman with a water pitcher. With her stood Anne, chaperoned by Moira Sullivan, for although Mrs. Breck didn’t approve of the several nude sculptures—including that of the mysterious I.R.D. that had made a stir at this year’s Royal Sculpture Society exhibition—getting into the good graces of Edinburgh’s premier matchmaker was far more important than standing on principle.
“It’s going to be fine,” said Lana, leaning into her.
Ina knew it was ridiculous to be nervous. It wasn’t as though this was the first time the public would lay eyes on one of her works, but commissions had provided only one type of validation. Now her work was being exhibited next to some of Europe’s premier sculptors and even she had to admit it was intimidating.
“I’ll never understand why the judges didn’t award Hero and Leander the top prize,” Gavin grumbled.
“An honorable mention is far more than I’d hoped for,” she said, squeezing his arm to press her body lightly against his.
“At least on Friday half of Scotland will know who I.R.D. is,” said Christine. “I’m glad you’re letting Moray write that article about you. It’s a shame Gavin couldn’t do it.”
“Moray says I’d write far too glowing an article, and he’s probably right,” said Gavin.
“I’ve instructed my butler to purchase as many copies of the Lothian Herald-Times as he can find on Friday morning,” said Moira. “There are a few members of the Royal Academy in London who shall be receiving a copy by Saturday post.”
Ina laughed through her nerves, secretly happy that the fierce, well-connected lady was on her side—as was her incredibly supportive husband. He’d approached her with the idea to publish her real identity when they’d lain tangled in her sheets after their reconciliation. He’d calmed her nerves at the initial idea and coaxed her gently until she’d agreed. Then he’d spent a good portion of the evening thanking her all over again.
“There are so many people here,” said Anne, looking around in wonder at the exhibition that sprawled over two floors of the Assembly Rooms.
“It feels as though half of Edinburgh is here,” said Mrs. Sullivan, her fan flapping in front of her to create a breeze on the unseasonably warm day.
Ina’s smile was strained, and she looked around again for her sculpture. Hero and Leander were here somewhere. She just had to find them.
Lana squeezed her arm tight and said, “You’ll feel better once you see it.”
Ina nodded quietly and allowed herself to be led through the gallery.
Christine glanced at the program in her hand and up at the corresponding number on the wall. “It should be the next room.”
If the previous room had been large, this one was massive. The butter-yellow walls with their delicate white plasterwork were the perfect backdrop for the cool grayish marbles that dotted the room. Huge windows let beams of natural light stream in and reflect off of several massive mirrors. All throughout the room, groups were clustered around sculptures. Ladies carrying folded-up parasols chatted amongst themselves as gentlemen, who looked decidedly uncomfortable even in their summer-weight suits, accompanied them. But rather than feeling slow and lethargic, the air had a charged, frantic atmosphere about it. It was as though everyone in attendance was drawing on the energy of such creativity in one place.
“I think that’s it,” said Anne, pointing toward the middle of the room.
Through the crowd, Ina glimpsed the foot of Leander. Her Leander.
Pride cut through her nerves and her feet went willingly to the sculpture. It was unreal seeing it in such a setting as this. Her work was being displayed alongside some of the best in Britain. She’d been shaking when she nailed down the top of the crate, refusing to let Norris do it because it was her work in there. Her talent. Her breath. Her life.
Her lovers were beautiful.
Whoever had placed the work had put it directly in front of a window, and the warm glow of the sun made the natural crystal in the marble sparkle. Her piece wasn’t tall like some of the more monumental statues, but the lifeless, almost languid pose of Leander and the bent sorrow of Hero were arresting nonetheless.
It was the best thing she’d ever done, and now she was here, sharing it with the people she cared for the most.
“He’s beautiful,” whispered Lana, squeezing her tight.
She nodded and murmured a thanks, not trusting herself to do anything more.
“You can almost hear her weeping and her gown looks soft to the touch,” said Christine. “How do you do that with a hammer and chisel?”
Ina gave a shaky laugh. “How do you flit around the notes of the Queen of the Night’s arias?”
Her friend inclined her head as though to say she understood.
“Who is it by?” a pretty, plump blond woman standing a few feet away asked.
Ina froze, feeling all at once exposed and yet curious.
“It says here the artist’s name is listed as ‘I.R.D.,’ ” said the woman’s companion, his tall beaver hat dipping over the program in his hand.
“It’s extraordinarily good,” said the woman.
“A little scandalous too,” said the man who cocked his head to the side. “Shouldn’t he be wearing something?”
The woman laughed and swatted the man on the arm with the familiarity of half of a long-married couple. “He’s just drowned in a river, darling. Surely you can’t expect him to be wearing a dinner jacket.”
The man smiled rather indulgently.
“You should ask Mr. Simon who the sculptor is,” the blond lady said, referring to the head of the Royal Sculpture Society.
“Do you know, I think this is the same man who sculpted that Hercules in the other room,” said her companion.
“The artist preferred to remain anonymous, but I can’t see why,” said Gavin, leaning toward the couple with a smile.
She looked at him, rather alarmed by the mischievous tone of his voice.
“Who can ever really understand artists?” said the gentleman.
“She is rather a mystery to me, even if I am married to her.”
“Gavin!” Ina gasped out.
“She?” asked the woman with delight as she looked from Gavin to Ina. “Are you the artist?”
He swept an arm before her. “Meet my wife, Ina Rose Duncan, newly made Lady Barrett.”
“You’re not supposed to say anything until Friday,” she said, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow.
He grinned. “I believe Moray would call that ‘scooping’ the Lothian.”
“Well, this is all excellent!” the blond woman trilled. “I was just telling my husband, Lord Mercer, how much I would love to expand our collection of works by women.”
“Lady Margaret is an inveterate suffragette,” said the gentleman with a smile as though telling a joke he thought rather clever.
“Charles,” his wife chilled him. “If you say it like that, people will believe you think it a bad thing.”
“You must excuse me,” said Ina, a sweat breaking out over her brow, “but did you say that you’re Lord and Lady Mercer?”
“That’s right,” said the woman. She stuck out her hand to Ina. “Lady Margaret, Marchioness of Mercer.”
Stunned, Ina shook the lady’s hand. She’d been standing before two of the preeminent collectors of art in the country, and she hadn’t even known it.
Lady Margaret popped open her reticule and fished out a calling card. “We’re staying at the Ramsey Hotel on Princes Street until Thursday. If you’d care to join us for supper, we’ll be dining in one of the hotel’s private dining rooms. Just a group of a dozen or so of our closest friends in Scotland.” The lady looked around at the circle of Ina’s friends that had closed around them. “All of you should come. We had the pleasure of hearing you sing last Saturday, Mrs. Nell, and I’d look forward to the chance to interrogate you on the new German operas. So forceful and stirring.”
With a twiddle of her fingers, Lady Margaret flitted off, her indulgent husband bobbing merrily in her wake.
Ina looked wide-eyed at Gavin and then down at the card she still held in her hand. “I’m not entirely sure what just happened.”
“I think,” he said, kissing her on the forehead, “you’ve just found your first patron.”
“I may need to sit down,” she said.
“Let’s go home,” he said. Then he leaned in and whispered to her, “But be ready, because once we’re home I plan on dragging you to bed and keeping you there until Lady Margaret’s supper.”
She shivered and tucked her body closer to his. “Is that a promise?”
He laughed. “It is. And I always keep my promises.”