Chapter Seventeen

 

Gina dressed carefully in the room she rented at Mrs. Sherringham’s boardinghouse. The narrow building was in a quiet part of Wimbledon. Her landlady assured Gina that all her lodgers were respectable people. Gina’s small bedroom was crammed with large furniture, but comfortable enough, and did for her until she had time to find something better.

Everything seemed to have happened at once. Arthur Cowper not only found a buyer for one of Milo’s paintings, it proved to be none other than Queen Victoria’s eldest son, Edward, the Prince of Wales. A keen patron of the arts, Prince Edward was to open an exhibition at the Crystal Palace on Penge Common at two o’clock. Milo’s paintings were to be hung among other notable artists, including Lord Leighton. Gina had been invited to attend the opening.

Her new tweed skirt and white blouse with the leg-o-mutton sleeves, suited her, she thought, as she cinched in her waist with a leather belt. She donned the matching jacket which had a Persian lamb collar. Not Russian sable, but it did quite as well. She studied her reflection in the mirror and angled the sensible straw hat over her brow. Not nearly as frivolous and wonderful as the blue velvet she’d reluctantly left behind at Hanover Square. But at least she had come by this honestly.

She pinned a watch to her blouse and took a clean handkerchief from her drawer. She would not think of Blair, she told herself sternly. Her nights were filled with him, his mouth on hers, his hard body pressed up against hers, and that was quite enough. Her days would be her own. If the paintings sold at this exhibition for the prices mentioned, she would be very comfortable indeed. She could afford to buy a little house of her own, tucked away in the English countryside. Her desire to return to Italy had faded with the knowledge of her mother’s sad time there after her father had died.

Gina left the train and stared up at the Crystal Palace, a huge, wood, glass, and iron building, gleaming atop Sydenham Hill. The massive glass structure sparkled like crystal in the spring sunshine. Grand fountains and cascades surrounded it, and as she approached, a gust of wind sprayed mist over her, dampening her face. She welcomed it for she thought she was dreaming.

Inside, people from all walks of life wandered through exhibits both strange and beautiful, beneath the soaring glass arch. Gina located the art exhibition just as the Prince of Wales strolled through, accompanied by his crowd of supporters. He was a large man with a thick girth, the bottom button of his coat left undone. He stopped for some time in front of Milo’s paintings, his hands behind his back in quiet contemplation.

“Is Miss Russo here?” The Prince asked.

An attendant rushed to take her arm. Gina came forward and curtsied with trembling knees before the prince.

He kissed her hand, and his beard, streaked with gray, not unlike Lord Leighton’s, brushed her skin. His warm eyes cast an appraising glance over her. He was known to appreciate women as much as art. “You are the perfect subject for an artist, Miss Russo.”

Gina curtsied again. “Thank you, your highness.”

“Mighty pretty woman,” the prince said to no one in particular as he lit a cigarette and moved on with his entourage pausing to study the works of the impressionists.

Quietly thrilled for Milo, Gina stayed long after he’d gone, enjoying the exhibition. She had paused, captured by a painting when a short man with glasses came up to her. “Miss Russo?” He removed his hat and his bald pate shone pink in the light. “Mr. Preston, at your service. Your face is now quite well-known. I wonder if you’d be interested in becoming a model for our company Pear’s Soap and be captured by the camera rather than in oils.”

She stared at him in surprise, unsure what he had in mind. “I’ve long been an admirer of your charming posters, Mr. Preston. Particularly, children at bath time.”

“They’re quite famous. We are branching out to produce a more sophisticated product in line with the coming new Century.”

He reached into his coat pocket. “My card, Miss Russo. If you are interested, please come to that address on Monday at one o’clock.”

She nodded. “I should certainly like to discuss it with you, Mr. Preston.”

“One o’clock then.” He gave a nod and put on his hat.

After the man had left, Gina smiled a little wistfully. This new venture added to the money from Milo’s paintings, plus what Frederik Leighton paid her, her cottage in the country came closer to reality. Why then, did she yearn for that other life and the one man she had ever wanted? The one her mother would have so heartily disapproved of?

* * *

 

The following Monday afternoon, Blair cooled his heels outside Lord Leighton’s house for hours, but Gina failed to appear.

The following days he alternated between anger at Lord Leighton for withholding Gina’s address, and Gina for being unpredictable, until he accepted where the anger should be leveled. He forced himself to take a good look at his own conduct. Lord Leighton’s criticism had made him more uncomfortable than his mother had ever managed.

Frustrated, he was forced to delay his search to attend parliament. Charles Stewart Parnell, the uncrowned King of Ireland, a fighter for freedom and an unsung hero, had lost his leadership of the Irish Nationalist Party, and the cause of Irish home rule had been set back.

Bitterly disappointed Blair returned to Park Lane on Wednesday evening aware he’d have to return to Ireland soon, to add his voice to others who demanded change. It was not only his duty, he had long since considered it his calling.

He had hoped first to persuade Gina to marry him. A proper courtship if it wasn’t too late. He tried to reassure himself that the way she’d been on their last evening together showed she cared for him. Might he hope she still did? He’d been such a fool, but no more. He desperately wanted to live up to her expectations of him.

To make her proud of him.