Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

“Miss Montague, Sir Albion was asking for you.” There was Crispin, smiling, encircled by admirers, and now drawing her and Lady Vernon into a gathering that included the patron of the society and his wife. They welcomed her warmly, reiterating their earlier words.

“You have succeeded very nicely in unleashing brilliance from this gentleman’s brush, Miss Montague,” said Lady McKinley. “There is no doubt about tonight’s winner.” She waved her hand at the three paintings lined up side by side on the dais. “Perhaps you will not go to Germany after all, Mr Westaway.”

Faith glanced at her husband-to-be. Much as she wanted him to have the opportunity to devote his career to his art, Germany factored importantly in her plans.

“A shame your father is not here to see this.” Sir Albion’s nod encompassed the gathering as a whole. “He would understand that the public admires an artist in the same way they appreciate their need for a clever diplomat.”

“I hope my father will come to understand that, too. But alas, he is not here, and I have not yet won the prize.”

It was only a matter of time, of course. Only a matter of time before a hush fell upon the crowd as Sir Albion ascended to the dais and made his pronouncement.

It was about to become real. All t

hat Crispin had dreamed of would come to pass. All that Faith had ever dreamed of would come to pass also. She had to cling to that belief, or she’d have nothing. Crispin loved her, and she loved him. They were young, good for each other, and free to marry.

Her thoughts had been running over this like a mantra, when she became conscious of the buzz that swept through the room. She felt a surreptitious squeeze of her bare arm, above her long gloves and below the puff of her silk and chiffon sleeve as Crispin passed her, signalling his excitement, his connection with her before cutting a swathe through the room on his way towards the stage.

Dear lord, he’d been declared the winner.

People congratulated him, and Faith felt an empathetic surge of excitement to see him so recognised. As she stared at the scene from the centre of the room, amidst strangers and well-wishers, the lovers and scions of the art world, and society as a whole, a feeling of the most intense desire swept over her. She wanted to belong.

She wanted Crispin more, but to belong to Crispin, to have his heart truly and completely, she needed to belong and be accepted by this world.

Crispin addressed a hushed crowd. Proudly, Faith heard him convey his thanks for the support he’d received; his pleasure at the fact the crowd endorsed the judge’s choice and finally, with the room erupting into polite but enthusiastic congratulations, she intercepted his look from over the top of the heads of the throng.

Brief, but intense. Yes, they would marry in secret tomorrow. Nothing could stand in the way of their love. And when he boarded the packet for the first leg of his journey to Germany, she would be there too. Unobtrusive and veiled, certainly, but discretion was essential if they were not to be hounded by those who believed a penniless debutante was not good enough for him. No, nothing would part her from his side.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss Montague.” He bowed over her gloved hand and kissed the back of it, and sensation speared her like a physical lance.

“I just did my job, Mr Westaway.” She smiled and was about to say more when they were interrupted by a familiar American accent, mid-Atlantic, as Faith had heard it described. “Please tell me how you would define that, Miss Montague. Your job, I mean.”

Miss Eaves arrived in their midst, her expression eager as she held a pencil poised above a notebook. Her gown was plain but expensive; however, she clearly had a penchant for feathers as six ostrich plumes waved in her coiffure as she moved.

“I hope you don’t mind my interrupting, but my uncle has tasked me with writing up the story of tonight’s win for the Artist’s Magazine.”

Faith glanced at Crispin who seemed unperturbed, still buoyed up by his success. “Of course not. It’s a great honour and a great surprise, both to receive the prize and to have it mentioned in such an illustrious publication. But your question was directed at Miss Westaway.”

Having been given licence to speak freely, Faith said, “I perfected the art of stillness sufficiently for Mr Westaway to recreate the fiction that I was floating, drowned, in a lake. Other than getting a little cold and bored at times, I really didn’t do anything.”

Miss Eaves scoffed at this. “No need to be so self-effacing, Miss Montague. I’m sure the physical trials caused more irritation than cold and boredom. I’m here to write the real story. Once I’ve heard from you exactly how cold and bored and filled with discomfort you were, and then added how elated, or otherwise, you must feel now, I shall turn my full attention to Mr Westaway.”

The young woman rolled her shoulders as if she couldn’t wait to start scribbling, and Faith and Crispin shared a smile over her bent head once she’d scratched a few notes.

“Is this your first piece, Miss Eaves?”

Miss Eaves shook her head. “I’ve found a variety of pieces with which to fill the magazine over the past three weeks. But this is my first important profile piece. The size of the prize and the secrecy surrounding its benefactor has had the art world agog. Is that a word you English use in polite society?” She looked unperturbed, rushing on without waiting for an answer. “My uncle calls me brash and likes to edit my stories himself, but I’m the reporter on the ground. There aren’t too many of us. Women, I mean, doing this kind of work, but the world is changing, and whereas a few years ago I’d have been a curiosity, now that is not the case. At least, not where I come from.”

“I think things are slower to change in England,” Faith murmured. “Traditions are strongly adhered to, including a woman’s place.” She stared at her toes. “A woman’s respectability counts for more than her intelligence,” she added, more to herself, though Miss Eaves picked up on this immediately.

“Oh, in America too, but there is much greater license and freedom from where I hail.” Her pencil paused, and two blackbird-like eyes regarded Faith. “I’ve been fascinated by the difference in the way people think here, how people get ahead, what is accepted. Lord, but I wouldn’t like to live my whole life in this country as the unmarried woman I am, keeping my head down, not being allowed to work. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about me. Mr Westaway, please tell me what inspired you to choose the type of painting you did? I believe you received a bag of props and had to create something from that. What did you have to incorporate? Each painting is significantly different though yours stands out, naturally.”

“Rose petals, Miss Eaves.”

Faith saw his clouded brow, and recalled his discomfort when he’d been confronted with the crimson flowers. His discomfort had clearly grown when Lady Vernon had made her suggestions, but with water as an essential medium, it was only natural that the petals had been arranged to float about Faith’s prone form.

When they were alone together later tonight, if it could be managed in secret, she’d quiz him about it. There was so much they each had to learn about the other. But she’d observed a multitude of men during her years at Madame Chambon’s, and there was a sincerity about Crispin that was lacking in the many braggarts and pumped-up blades who’d crossed that threshold.

Crispin’s warm smile enforced every hope she had for the success of their marriage. When Miss Eaves departed having written her piece, and Lady Vernon was occupied in conversation with Sir Albion and his acolytes, he trailed her to the alcove where she’d sought a modicum of privacy.