Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

“Miss Montague is about to take London by storm.” Faith was saved by Mr Westaway’s gallant pronouncement. “When I am in Germany and reading the English newspapers, I shall no doubt come upon an announcement that she’s either become the muse of a great painter or the wife of a great nobleman.” He smiled at Faith. “I believe either would be the pinnacle of Miss Montague’s ambitions.”

Miss Eaves looked dubious but then conceded, “I suppose that would be a great advancement for a parson’s daughter with nine brothers and sisters, I hope I have that number right, and yes, I have been doing my homework.” She hadn’t finished making her point though, and she strung out her response with a pointed look at everyone in turn. Faith wasn’t sure if she liked the young woman or not. While she could concur with some of her sentiments, her manner was too brash and confronting for her comfort.

Miss Eaves sniffed. “Indeed, I look forward to the time when a woman is allowed to make her own way in the world without having to rely on any man; however, I will allow that Miss Montague has shown talent and strategy.”

Sir Albion sent a pointed look in his niece’s direction. “A demure, discreet demeanour will still get a young woman a great deal further than…otherwise,” he finished with raised eyebrows. Miss Eaves was not put in her place. Faith decided she was not the kind who would ever be silenced by criticism.

However, she was glad when the collective attention of the crowd was stirred by something taking place at the far end of the room, and when Faith looked, it was to see that three paintings had been separated from the rest of the exhibits and were now lined up beside each other under lights upon the dais.

Miss Eaves gave a murmur of excitement; Lady Vernon gripped Faith’s arm, and a great silence descended upon the room. The moment was nearly upon them.

Faith exchanged a quick, nervous look with Mr Westaway, her mouth dry.

He stepped close to her. “I don’t know whether I’ll be relieved or disappointed by the outcome,” he admitted.

“You surely want to win, don’t you, Mr Westaway?” Faith whispered. “Every great talent craves recognition, even if they are unwilling to admit as much.” As a gentle hum went through the crowd, and as conversation resumed in the delay before an announcement, Faith told him, “My sister, the eldest and, seemingly, the most modest and retiring of all of us, worked twice as hard for the crumbs of praise that were few and far between in our household. But her zealousness, or martyrdom, came from the desire for recognition, purely, though she was the last to admit that she did what she did to be noticed. I know you love painting, but do you really do it only for the love of it?”

His surprise was obvious. After a moment, he confessed in a low voice, “I’ll give you the truth, Miss Montague, and this is only between you and me because we have been part of something…more important than simply creating a painting. Yes, I crave to be recognised as a great talent. But I also crave the continued love and respect of my father. That, and my desire to be a great painter, are incompatible. And so, tonight I confess to secretly wishing I might be declared the winner to bolster my own vanity in my abilities. But perhaps more than that, I wish the prize might go to someone else as it would enable me to accept more easily that this is not my calling.” He looked at her carefully, and Faith felt sure she read longing in the depths of his gaze. “You know I go to Germany in before the end of the month, Miss Montague. Nothing will make my father prouder than to see me take up this important position. I’ve been groomed to follow in his footsteps for my whole life.”

Faith felt a stab of something between pain and disappointment. Not for seeing her own dreams and ambitions go up in smoke, but for the bond between this man and his father. In all her young life, she’d never felt the kind of love and respect for anyone that would make her sacrifice her own ambitions. Granted, her scope had been limited, and she’d been at the mercy of those stronger than herself, but for these short moments talking to Mr Westaway, she wished she had an affiliation of the heart with someone that was greater than her own vanity, desires, and all those other foibles that made human beings so… fallible.

Mr Westaway’s life was built on a foundation of love and filial duty, honour and nobility.

Faith’s was built on a lie.

But if Faith only had the chance to prove to someone the inner core of nobility she was sure existed somewhere, she’d gladly make such a sacrifice for love.

She hadn’t realised her feelings showed on her face and was surprised by his sudden concern. “Are you all right, Miss Montague?”

Faith took a sip of her champagne and tried to cleanse her smile of all bitterness and disappointment. “I was just thinking how nice it would be to love and respect one’s father as you clearly do, Mr Westaway. Oh, my goodness!” She broke off suddenly as the first of the paintings on stage had its concealing sheet whipped away, and the audience gasped.

How strange it was to see herself lying in the grass amidst a field of daisies, her expression animated, her hair spread like a halo about her, the beautiful countryside as her backdrop. It was a picture of lovely innocence—even she could see that before the corroborating comment from a nearby dowager.

The next painting was good, also. A young woman was sitting on a swing holding a bouquet of flowers while a young fawn grazed nearby. It was a gladdening scene, but it had not quite the expertise as Mr Westaway’s painting, of that Faith was certain.

When the three paintings were revealed, side by side, having been selected from a field of twenty-five, Faith had expected a clear winner was inevitable. But to her surprise, and obviously the surprise of everyone else, Sir Albion stood on stage and announced the unexpected news that these three painters would be pitted against each other in a run-off. A theme had been chosen; the deadline was tight, one week only, after which a clear winner would be announced and would receive an astonishing amount of prize money.

A great deal of murmuring and a few disgruntled mumblings followed this pronouncement. Mr Westaway looked distinctly discomposed.

Faith could only stare as she felt her heart pounding in her ears.

She’d been given a second chance. Mrs Gedge was the anonymous benefactor of this extremely handsome prize, and she’d manufactured a means by which Faith could spend another week in Mr Westaway’s company.

That is, if Mr Westaway was prepared to risk the tenuous relationship of balancing his desire for recognition in the world of art with managing his father’s respect and expectations.

She sent him a furtive glance beneath lowered lashes. He was not overjoyed at the prospect of having to produce another painting if he wanted to remain a contender. The tightly pressed lips highlighted the planes of his cheekbones. He looked like a handsome ascetic deliberating over a weighty matter that had repercussions for the world.

Before they were interrupted by the advancing well-wishers, Faith locked eyes with him, and it was as if the spear of his own agony communicated itself to her for the crucial second it needed for her to subsume her own desires for the justice of his.

“Don’t accept on my account—if that has any bearing on your decision,” she said quickly. “You have your father and your career to consider.”

“Mr Westaway, you are a prodigious talent indeed! And this is the young lady? But of course, for you have indeed been faithful to the original, to such superlative beauty.”

Two whiskered gentlemen and a lady bore down upon them. “The field is narrow, but you will outshine your competitors. I remember your first unveiling, why, five years ago it must have been. And then you disappeared?” It soon became clear to Faith that the lady, who was introduced as Mrs Cannington, the wife of the tallest of the whiskered gentlemen, was an authority and leading force in the organisation. It seemed she also was more than capable of achieving Faith’s purpose, all on her own. “You are concerned you might discompose your fa

ther if you follow up on this incredible opportunity?” she paraphrased, or rather, interpreted from Mr Westaway’s brief response. “Why, I understand that Lord Maxwell is not a great patron of the arts, but he is not a philistine. And only a philistine would place such an obstacle in the way of the nurturing of a truly great talent.”

Faith was amused to see Mr Westaway blush. “Please, Mrs Cannington, don’t blame my father. I’m about to realise his greatest ambition and take up a diplomatic post in Germany. In fact, I sail in less than three weeks, so you can understand the conflict.”