Berthold’s one criticism had been that priced as it was, the print would not reach the hands of those who would most benefit from the image.
And the subjects were trivial, an exercise Psyche had set for herself out of artistic curiosity. “What would you know of fine renderings, Mr. Delancey?”
He studied his next slice of apple. “An old fellow in York gave me a few pointers in exchange for serving as his man-of-all-work once a week. I nominally called upon him as his curate, and he kindly reminisced about Paris back in the day while I refilled his coal chest and beat a few rugs. Other than that, I have what passes for a gentleman’s education and an interested eye.”
Crunch, crunch, crunch. He was just as worthy of sketching when he munched an apple as when he stretched out in all his naked splendor like a sleeping lion.
“Shame upon you,” she said. “You put into my mind’s eye the image of you swinging a broom at a rug, and I feel compelled to share something in return, a reminiscence, a little confidence. Is that a parson’s trick to inspire confessions?”
“I used a proper beater on the rug, thank you very much. Success in life is largely a matter of having the right tools. And I am no parson. I am a glorified correspondence clerk at Lambeth Palace.”
Another quasi-confidence. Psyche took a fortifying sip of sinfully rich hot chocolate and made a decision. “That was my flower girl. I have seven others, and I’m hoping to add four more and sell them as a set.” A humble experiment, a place to try on the notion of coin in exchange for art.
And an anonymous step toward the ultimate goal of portraiture commissions.
“Offering a set would increase the price and change the audience,” Mr. Delancey said, finishing with his apple. “You might consider collecting them into a calendar, which would present one image at a time rather than all twelve at once, and ensure the image remained before the purchaser for several weeks. You were careful to make those drawings simple to tint.”
“I was?”
“You could have given the girls riotously colorful bouquets, such as would make for a gorgeous painting, but you gave them one or two blossoms as compositional elements, so the focus stays on the girl rather than on the flora. Have another sandwich.”
Psyche wasn’t famished, but she suspected Mr. Delancey would deny himself more food unless she took another helping. She divided the sandwiches that remained on the tray between them.
“You should have some biscuits, sir. They’re made with sour cream, and I vow they nearly float in my belly they are so light.”
“One.” He set the smallest of the lot on his plate and took up another triangle of cheese toast.
“You’ve seen all eight prints?” she asked.
“The shopkeepers like to display them as a set. Offer a collection, and the customer will choose the one or two they like best. Offer only one or two, and you might well lose the sale. Within reason, people like to make up their own minds.”
Psyche took the second-smallest biscuit and held it beneath her nose. “Such a luscious scent. Purely lovely.”
Mr. Delancey regarded her across the little table, his expression bemused.
“What?” Psyche set down her biscuit, untasted. “Do young men never sniff a spicy treat?”
“I cannot speak for young men as a genus. Let’s leave it at that. What else are you working on besides the flower girls?”
Hazel might pose that question while idly perusing a fashion magazine. Then she’d ignore most of the reply.
Mr. Delancey would attend Psyche’s every word. “I have a few projects in progress, and I work on our assignments from Berthold, of course. I don’t suppose you’d allow me to make a sketch of you here and now? Dermot’s meddling ruined my interest in my first attempt.”
“I would happily sit to you here before class on Wednesday, but one grows curious about how you intend to get home, Henderson. The hour grows late, and you are without companions.”
“I’ll hail a cab. They drive blithely past women in need of safe transport, but there’s a cab stand two streets over. I’ll be perfectly safe as long as I’m wearing my top hat. What of you? If you’re walking the distance to Lambeth, you have farther to go and through some dodgy territory.”
He finished his chocolate, and without dipping his biscuit into it. “I’ll be safe enough.”
“You are big, bristling with muscle, and doubtless alert to your surroundings, but you are also well dressed and look as if you might be carrying a fat purse. Your boots alone would feed some families for a fortnight.”
He took one more apple slice from the tray. “I walk everywhere. I enjoy it, and the footpads leave me in peace.”
“You’d be safer in a cab.” Also warmer. What made a man wander cold, dangerous streets alone at night?
“I like the fresh air.”
Psyche glowered at him, as Aunt Hazel glowered at the pantry mouser when he dared venture abovestairs.
“I do not care that,” she said, snapping her fingers before his perfect nose, “if you drop in at the wrong bordellos or the right ones, if you inebriate yourself on blue ruin in the privacy of the night, or duck into the gaming hells that adorn London like so many ripe peaches dangling before a man’s best intentions. I ask only after your safety.”
“There are right bordellos?”
“I was married, Mr. Delancey, and my husband was no prude. Stop prevaricating. Why risk your welfare alone at night on London’s streets? You are not by nature a foolish man.”
“You flatter me.”
Psyche waited with the patience of a woman who’d been wed to one of the most determined, pigheaded fellows ever to tie a coachman’s knot in his starched linen cravat.
“I was foolish,” Mr. Delancey said, reverting to soft tones. “As a young man, I became intimately acquainted with any number of those gaming hells, to my everlasting sorrow and shame. I amassed debts far beyond what I could manage. Another party connived to aid my ruin, though even at the time, I was well aware that I was making stupid choices.”
“Mr. Delancey,” Psyche said gently, “there is a reason why the phrase ‘young and stupid’ comes so easily off the tongue. Inexperienced young people have been behaving foolishly in Town since the Romans built the city walls. Forgive yourself.”
“I have, but I also believe self-discipline is like a muscle, and the more we ignore temptation, the easier that exercise becomes, so I walk past my old haunts and keep right on going.”
Psyche put a second biscuit on his plate. “The more we deny ourselves, the more insistently our yearnings clamor for our attention. I’ll bid you good evening. You will say nothing about my flower girls?”
“Berthold doubtless already knows they are yours.”
“He’ll keep his peace,” Psyche said, rising and putting sufficient coin on the table to pay for the meal. “I’m asking you to keep yours.”
Mr. Delancey got to his feet as well. “You have my word.” He took her cloak from its peg and would have held it for her had Psyche not snatched it from him.
“Thank you.” She swirled the cloak about her shoulders, relishing the weight and swing of the garment. Male attire was such a pleasure to wear. The fit was tailored for comfort and movement, and the fabrics were rich and soft. A hat on the head was so much easier to deal with than a dratted frilly bonnet, though the occasional veil was useful. “Don’t forget your biscuits, Mr. Delancey. You face a long march.”