Chapter Fifteen

London

 

Gina should be relieved that Blair had rejected her. But her heart ached, and she felt dreadfully lonely. She’d come to a desperately low point in her life, abandoning her principles for him. If he’d taken her as his mistress, she would have been forever changed, and she doubted she’d be happy with that. She had to come to a decision. It wasn’t right to stay here with him gone. The maid and butler danced attendance on her, but she knew they considered her to be on a lower rung of the social ladder. They probably sniggered behind her back. And the staff were so efficient, there was nothing left for her to do. She’d never lived the life of a lady, she liked to be busy and when Mary asked her for the umpteenth time if there was anything she required, Gina wanted to scream. She bit her tongue and made up her mind. She had no intention of becoming a burden for Blair to have to deal with on his return.

The next morning, she rose early and dressed in her old apple-green gown, placing a tam-o-shanter over her hair. She swathed a plain brown shawl around her shoulders. The poorer and more insignificant she looked, the better.

Gina slipped out of the apartment. She was more conspicuous walking alone in this wealthy part of town than the crowded streets of Shoreditch. As she crossed the square, gray morning light filtered down through the tall buildings, leaching the street of color. The bare trees looked skeletal, and a chill wind rustled the dead leaves along the path. She shivered and pulled the shawl tighter, regretting her decision not to wear the blue velvet coat with the Russian sable collar. Somehow it hadn’t seemed right to wear those clothes.

The noise deafening, the roads a tedious crawl of carriages, cabs, and omnibuses. Gentlemen on business ogled and winked as she passed. Ladies dressed in their finery walked in pairs accompanied by their maids, hawkers yelled, and merchants pushed their wheelbarrows piled with fruit and vegetables.

Gina kept an eye out for Ogilvie’s cruel face in the crowd, as she walked along Oxford Street to Great Russell Street and entered the gallery displaying two of Milo’s paintings.

The man with the handlebar mustache greeted her more warmly this time. “I’ve had remarkable success with your father’s work,” he said, offering her a chair. “They have both been sold for a very decent amount.”

Gina sank into the chair as the lassitude of exhaustion swept over her. She realized how worried she’d been. “How much?”

“One hundred pounds.”

She frowned. “For each?”

The man gave his mustache a twist. “For both. I was surprised to find buyers, but Mr. Russo’s work has a certain charm. Regrettably, they have already become old-fashioned. Art is making great strides toward the new Century.”

“Bah!” Gina scowled at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Milo was a genius!” Gina was more incensed that he was denigrating Milo’s work than cheating her. “His work will still be great at the end of the next Century.”

The man laughed hollowly. “You are his daughter, of course, you would think that.”

“It is the opinion of men far more expert than you!”

He opened a drawer and withdrew some banknotes. “If you wish me to sell any more of Russo’s paintings,” he said, avoiding her glare as he handed her the money, “I might do you a favor and consider them.”

Gina carefully counted the notes. “A painting of Milo’s brought four hundred pounds at auction. As you well know.”

The man shrugged. “That’s as may be. Markets fluctuate. And as I said before, your father’s paintings are less popular now that he’s dead.”

She tucked the money into her purse. “It will be a pleasure to know you have missed out when the rest of Milo’s paintings fetch high prices.”

She stood in the street, unsure what to do next. Three of Milo’s paintings were stored with his friend, Arthur Cowper in Holland Park. She would have to go there. Arthur would advise her. She clutched her purse. At least she now had money and, although far less than she’d expected, it bought her more time.

Gina entered the gate of Arthur Cowper’s newly built home, where a gardener planted shrubs.

“Gina!” It’s good to see you! Come inside and meet my wife, Lilly.”

Lilly was a pale young woman with curly brown hair. Swags of crimson velvet at the windows and lace antimacassars decorated the parlor. Amateurish tapestries hung on the walls and china figurines marched along the mantle. Lilly accepted Gina’s praise for her new home with a dreamy smile, then turned her attention to baby Arthur sleeping at her breast.

The proud father led Gina through to his studio. The smell of oil paint greeted her at the door, thrusting painful, nostalgic memories back into her consciousness. As Arthur pulled out Milo’s paintings, she searched in her purse for her hanky.

“That blighter cheated you,” Arthur said bitterly. “He knows full well that the work of an artist of Milo’s caliber becomes more valuable after his death.” He brought out a painting of Milo’s and placed it on the easel. A girl sat at a loom, her image reflected in a mirror. Behind her was a glimpse of a river through a window. “Tennyson’s poem, Lady of Shalott. One of his best, I think.”

“Tennyson’s best?” Gina dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. The painted red apple on the table tugged at her heart. How excited she and Milo had been about the future when she sat for that painting.

“Milo’s best, of course.” Arthur looked concerned as she blew her nose. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Yes, for a few days.”

He stroked his orange beard. “You can stay here. You’re more than welcome to the attic room.”

She smiled. “You are kind, but I couldn’t impose.”

“Nonsense. Milo would want me to help you.” His gaze returned to the paintings again. “I’ll send these to my patron–see what he thinks, if you wish.”

“I’d be very grateful, Arthur. I must find work. Perhaps you need a model?”

Arthur grimaced. “Lilly’s a bit difficult about that right now. Since Arthur was born. She used to model for me, see.”

“You’re a good friend, thank you for offering to help,” Gina said, glad that she didn’t accept his offer of the attic. “I’ll come back for the paintings when I’m settled.”

Arthur walked with her to the door. “Can you return in a week? I hope to have good news by then.”

As Gina walked down the path, Arthur called after her. “You might ask Lord Leighton over at Leighton House about work. He’s at number twelve Holland Park Road. He might be looking for a model. He’s just lost his favorite. And he’s the kind of chap that will help if he can.”

“Thank you and God bless you, Arthur.” Gina blew him a kiss.

She needed somewhere to live. She would not stay more than a day or two at the apartment.

As she crossed Hanover Square, she was tempted to enter St Georges Church to pray, but she continued on, sure that her recent behavior had removed her from God’s favor.

Mary hurried over to her when Gina entered the apartment. She sniffed and looked down her nose at Gina’s gown. “You might have asked me to help you dress this morning, Madam.”

“It’s safer to negotiate the London streets dressed like this,” Gina said, suddenly feeling very tired.

“You could have taken a carriage, Madam. Mr. Dunleavy left word for a hansom to be at your disposal,” Mary said as she followed Gina up the stairs.

Gina entered her bedroom. She might make use of the carriage when she left. But after that, she refused to be beholden to Blair Dunleavy.

“Would you like me to take down your hair and brush it, Madam?”

“No thank you. I’d like to be alone, Mary.”

“As you wish, Madam.”

With a frustrated rustle of starched petticoats, Mary returned below stairs. Gina pulled off her boots. She rubbed her feet, sore from walking miles as tears escaped to run down her cheeks. She scolded herself for giving in to self-pity. But it didn’t help.

Gina threw herself down on the bed, and buried her head in the pillow, weeping bitterly for Milo, and the sad state she found herself in. She whispered Blair’s name. When he returned, he would find her gone.

***

Gina reached Leighton House by mid-morning the next day. She paused in front of the elegant, red-brick establishment, straightening her hat before knocking. A maid in a black dress, frilly white apron, and cap, opened the door. She shook her head. “The master don’t like to be disturbed when he’s working.”

“I only need a minute of his time.”

“I have my orders.” The maid began to shut the door.

“It’s important to him. It’s concerning his art.” Gina held her purse against a small stain on her skirt, aware her appearance didn’t encourage confidence. She refused to wear the clothes that Blair had bought her.

As the maid hesitated, a man’s voice came from within. “Who is it, Alice?”

“There’s a young lady here to see you, Lord Leighton.”

“Oh? Show her up to my studio.”

Gina stepped onto the glazed tiles in the hall. It was like entering another world. She took in the sunken fountain and raised her eyes to view the silvery cupola overhead. Paintings covered the walls and oriental screens and classical sculptures decorated every corner.

The maid led Gina upstairs past treasures from every part of the globe.

Gina caught her breath. The studio was an enormous light-filled space crammed with more art treasures. Tables were covered with drawings and sketches. A tall, rather handsome man with a full, graying beard stood at an easel. He turned to wipe his hands on a cloth and frowned. A nervous tic formed in his cheek.

“How do you like my Arab hall?”

“It’s wonderful. I’ve never seen anything to equal it.”

“Nor likely to, I shouldn’t imagine.” He twirled the paint brush in his long fingers. “Alice is quite correct, young lady. I do not like to be interrupted in my work.”

“Milo didn’t either,” Gina said.

He raised gray shaggy eyebrows. “Who?”

“My step-father, Milo Russo.”

“Russo. Yes. I heard about his death. I’m very sorry for you, lass. He had a distinctive style. The art world will miss him.”

“Milo’s friend, Arthur Cowper told me that you were in need of a model.”

“I am as it happens. My model just got married.” His alert, brown eyes studied her.

She saw no sign of admiration or lasciviousness in his measured gaze. “You’re not English.”

Gina met his gaze unflinchingly. “I was born in Tuscany.”

He dropped the brush and came to place a finger beneath her chin. “I like that angle. Your almond-shaped eyes are most unusual. I lived in Florence for a time. Hai parenti in Italia?”

Gina shook her head. “Nessuno.”

An orphan, now eh? Then I’m doubly sorry for your loss.” He continued to study her. “You have the right appearance for my work.”

He returned to his painting. Beside him, a table held brushes and paints, canvasses, an unfinished sculpture, and a multitude of books. The floor to ceiling windows opened onto perfectly manicured gardens. In a corner, a small black and white terrier lay in his basket. His tail thumped.

“Meet my lazy friend, Raphael.”

Gina bent to pat the dog and he licked her hand. She rose and went to examine the painting on the easel, studying the composition with an expert eye developed over years of living with a painter.

“Persephone returning from the underworld,” Gina said softly, caught by the pearly, golden light. It was a powerful work. “Milo would say the brushwork is eccezionale!”

He looked pleased, and the tic on his cheek disappeared. “When can you start?”

Grateful, Gina smiled. “I must find a place to live first.”

“That’s right.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “You are now homeless. Come and live here.”

“Oh. I couldn’t.”

“Of course, you can. See how comfortable it is.”

“You are very kind.” It seemed a peaceful home, and she’d be safe here while she decided what next to do. The house was like a painting itself, from the marble gazebo and cast-iron furniture in the garden, to the statues and potted orchids in bronze urns around the marble-tiled floor. Through the window, the sky looked bluer than she remembered. It seemed like a different sky to the one that hovered over Shoreditch.

“No trouble at all. Although I might be tempted to have you sit far too long.” He smiled and extended his hand. “Tomorrow?”

Gina smiled back and shook his big hand. “Tomorrow then.”

The next day, Gina gave Mary the sea-green gown that Blair had bought her. She left the rest where they hung in their splendor in the armoire and took only what she’d brought with her. She couldn’t resist the lavender parasol trimmed with point-lace, however.

She availed herself of the hansom, traveling to Leighton House in style. It was just payment for the damage Blair had done to her heart.