Her vulnerability was like a gaping wound and the future like a black, angry, dangerous void waiting to hungrily devour her. She’d be like all the other girls at Madame Chambon’s, with closed heart and open legs, submitting to a line-up of meaningless sexual encounters just so she could keep body and soul together. And then the moment she was no longer giving value, if she got sick or her looks were marred or faded, she’d be thrown into the gutter to fend for herself.
All because she’d not managed to do one simple thing—entice Mr Westaway enough to at least give the appearance to Mrs Gedge that he’d fallen in love with her.
She dusted her décolletage with a rabbit’s foot loaded with fine powder while her brain whirled feverishly. Perhaps she could win him over using honesty. That would be novel?
“I know you’re disappointed he didn’t fall in love with you, Faith, but is he nice, this Mr Westaway?”
“He’s lovely.” Faith had no hesitation in answering. “I like him very much, and if it wasn’t so vital to…everything…that I make him fall in love with me, I’d say I liked him too much to want to make him fall in love with me, if that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t make sense at all.” Charity shook her head. “But then, nothing much makes sense.”
With a sigh, Faith rose. “How do I look?”
“Like an angel, truly! You don’t need bows and furbelows. In fact, you’re more striking without, and I can now see exactly what was in Mrs Gedge’s mind. Oh, but I do hope it works tonight. If Mr Westaway doesn’t fall in love with you just by looking at you, he’ll never fall in love with anyone!”
With this bolstering pronouncement ringing in her ears, Faith prepared to make her grand entrance at the Grand London Art Exhibition, arriving in Lady Vernon’s hired carriage, which was waiting for her discreetly a little distance up the road.
She hadn’t thought she’d be excited at the outcome. There was no outcome that promised what she needed without some compromise, and the fact she’d simply sat for a painting meant nothing when the real purpose behind the whole charade had come to naught.
Yet, as the double doors opened to the hallowed precincts of the Royal Society of Artists, a frisson of very real expectation skittered up the back of Faith’s knees and lodged in her stomach. Mr Westaway’s talent was undeniable. The painting had been exceptional. He deserved recognition.
And when across a crowded floor of patrons, mostly whiskered older men in sombre evening attire, Faith caught a glimpse of Mr Westaway, she was suddenly a jumble of nerves. He was in conversation with a lady and a gentleman, and he was laughing, a drink in his hand, and all eyes seemed to be on him. She noticed people around her indicating him with nods and veiled gestures, and her excitement grew.
People knew already that Mr Westaway was good. That they had a fine artist in their midst. She wasn’t imagining all this.
While the crowd pulsed around her, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked so handsome, so self-assured. So right at home in his domain and Faith felt so proud of him.
As Lady Vernon gave her a little prod to keep her moving, she was addressed by a small, forceful young woman with a jaunty little feathered hat holding a notepad whom she recognised before the strong American accent gave her away.
“Miss Montague, I’m going to make you famous!” The confidence and enthusiasm in Miss Eaves’s tone were in striking contrast to the way Faith felt.
“I don’t want to be famous. I’m English,” she said, making the young woman throw back her head and give an unladylike guffaw.
“Uncle, Miss Montague says she doesn’t want to be famous. But I tell you, she’s going to be after Mr Westaway wins this show hands down, and I write her story.”
The gentleman with a long white beard and sombre, impressive bearing—which belied any relationship to the young lady who’d just addressed Faith—nodded at Faith as he introduced himself as Sir Albion, the patron of the Society. “Write your story, Amy, but don’t tell anyone it’s going to make them famous. It’s a vulgar notion, I might add.”
“Indeed, most vulgar,” Lady Vernon muttered, her nose twitching as if she actually did have a barometer for what was morally acceptable. It was difficult for Faith to keep her own nostrils from flaring in disdain. Instead, she inclined her head and said with her most demure smile, “Notoriety is for those who seek it, and I certainly do not. If Mr Westaway is to be commended for his painting, I am simply happy that I assisted in some small way.”
Sir Albion looked at her with approval. “I marked him out as a great talent many years ago, but I feared he’d lost his passion. Clearly you, Miss Montague, have reawakened it. Ah, here comes the gentleman in question now.”
“My ears are burning.” Mr Westaway looked a touch self-conscious as his gaze flickered from Faith’s face to his esteemed patron as he acknowledged the ladies with a small bow. “But I’d not expected to have such strong competition when the time frame was so limited. Some of the finest are competing for the grand prize.”
“The challenge of a time frame and the inducement of such a grand sum of money makes their enthusiasm not so surprising, for all that we like to think ourselves above such considerations.”
“We all need to eat, Sir Albion.”
“Indeed we do, Miss Montague,” Sir Albion said, raising his eyes, before glancing at his niece. “Amy here thinks she owes it to herself to do that through her own merits. A very progressive thought indeed. Clearly, things are different in America.”
“Things are changing, Uncle, both here and across the Atlantic where less and less is it considered vulgar for a woman to advance herself through honest toil and her own endeavours.” Miss Eaves puffed out her chest importantly, and the little bird on top of her jaunty hat did a trembling dance of agreement. Faith stifled the urge to laugh, which was prompted more by her nervousness in being in such close proximity to such influential people. Influential because her fate lay in their hands more than they could know.
“There is no competition; we do know that, Mr Westaway,” Miss Eaves said with conviction, and everyone looked at her in surprise causing the young lady to shake her head. “I don’t know the outcome, if that’s what you think, though my uncle does. The patron of the competition—who is anonymous, by the way, though word has it that she’s an extremely wealthy American—has already judged the entries. In my opinion, though, there is no competition. Mr Westaway is going to become a famous artist, and Miss Montague is….” She looked enquiringly at Faith. “What do you hope to achieve out of all this?”
Sir Albion gave a gruff laugh. “Too direct by half, as you’d say yourself, Amy. One doesn’t ask young ladies such things. Certainly not in company.”
“Why, because their intentions can only be one thing? And it’s vulgar to express that we all know what that is? Surely, we all want to succeed and profit, and get ahead. And what’s the harm in that? It’s human nature! So why should we not be allowed to voice such things aloud?” Undeterred by her uncle, she looked enquiringly at Faith, demanding it would seem, an answer.
Faith glanced at Lady Vernon for inspiration, but Lady Vernon appeared as caught off balance as she herself.