Hattie slumped back into the pillows. “Never mind, my dear. I cannot fault your reasoning. But what life have I now? Look at me. Under my parents’ roof, I can’t even choose my gown or the style of my hair in the morning, nor how much I eat at dinner or whose company I keep. Why do you think I so often try to dress vicariously through you with fashion advice? As a wife, I would at least reign over my own household.”
Catriona nodded. “But do you wish for independence from your parents, or for marriage?”
“Is there a difference, for a woman in my position?” she snipped. “I’m not in possession of a trust fund like Lucie. I don’t have a father like yours, who is content to remain a bachelor and to employ you as his assistant. I do know that I’m not suited for living as a spinster.”
“I shouldn’t have brought my own worries to this conversation,” Catriona murmured, already shrinking back into her shawl quite as though she had only now become aware how far she had ventured from her shell.
A pang of remorse went through Hattie like an electric jolt. “I adore our conversations,” she said quickly. “And I will miss them badly. It’s why I’m irritable today. What are you worrying about, will you tell me?”
Catriona smoothed her shawl with ink-stained fingers. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m chatty,” Hattie said, “but I can keep secrets.”
“I know,” Catriona replied, smiling now. “Why don’t you tell me the first thing you should do if you ruled your own household?”
Clearly, Catriona wished to keep her own counsel, so she said, “First I’d give my entire wardrobe to charity. Then I shall live my dream: I shall travel across France with only my watercolors and my dearest friends—you must come. Paris has the best bars and the most scandalous literary salons, and in the South, you can look across a sapphire-blue sea.”
“Have you ever been to a bar?” Catriona asked curiously.
“No. But I hear the best ones are in Paris, and all of them are frequented by renowned artists.”
“I should join you,” Catriona agreed, “but wouldn’t you want to travel alone?”
“Alone?” Hattie made a face. “What would I do on the Montmartre or in Marseille by myself? I would feel lonely and then I would get myself into trouble when accepting unsuitable company. Also, I loathe being in charge of the logistics. Loathe it.”
“Well, we are taking Lucie along,” Catriona said. “She excels at logistics.”
Their sisterly conversation ended when Aunty emerged from her chambers, well rested after a nap and adamant that it was time to oversee the packing for London.
Hattie put her cheek next to Catriona’s during the good-bye. “Would there be any harm in joining the gallery tour, you think?” she whispered.
“Not if you stay by your mother’s side,” Catriona whispered back.
“Why am I not surprised?” her mother muttered when they spotted Mrs. Hewitt-Cook at the center of the small crowd that had gathered in Mr. Blackstone’s entrance hall. “However, I had not expected to see Oaksey here.”
Lord Oaksey was the only aristocrat in attendance, but the group was comprised of several members of the middle upper class: wives and sons of wealthy industrialists. Glaringly absent, however, were other single young women of her station.
“Oaksey owns one of the largest private collections of Renaissance paintings in England,” Hattie said softly. “He must have been very curious.” Curious enough to risk the potential etiquette breach of acknowledging Mr. Blackstone. Her own nerves were dancing and her mouth was dry, back here at the scene of her latest transgression.
“Mr. Greenfield and his business politics,” her mother said in a low, disapproving voice. “Sometimes I wonder whether age is already addling his brain.”
Silently, Hattie agreed. It seemed Julien Greenfield, too, had tired of his current position and was hungry for more, but when a man had already reached the pinnacle of essentially everything, his idea of more veered toward the eccentric, such as racing to monopolize a beastly investor as a point of principle.
While they exchanged greetings with the other attendees, Mr. Richard Matthews fluttered toward them, and Hattie’s stomach dropped. But Mr. Blackstone’s assistant, dressed in a highly fashionable burgundy jacket, gave no indication of recognizing her during his introductions; his eyes were darting over her impersonally, then he announced that the group should please follow him to the refreshments in the reception room.
Hattie’s pace slowed when relief gave way to a treacherous disappointment. There was a distinct possibility that Mr. Blackstone wouldn’t show. She had been well prepared to face him for once, in her favorite dress of pale lilac damask with three rows of white tassels across the skirt. Are you tempted by the exhibition or by another scandalous encounter? It seemed it was the latter. The truth was, despite hot mortification, she had enjoyed debating Mr. Blackstone by the buffet a week ago. She had spouted words unthinking, like a fountain, under his steady gaze, as she did when she was nervous, but the colors of the lunchroom had burned brighter, the scent of the food had been spicier. Her whole being had felt … keen. Exhilarated. Alive. The sensation after escaping Mr. Graves magnified tenfold. She wanted to feel it again.
Ahead of her in the corridor, the group slowed when passing an open door. Her mother was right up at the front, having unwittingly abandoned her while engaging Lord Oaksey in conversation. “Look, a Degas,” came Lord Oaksey’s voice. “Freshly imported from Montmartre, I reckon.”
Impulsively, Hattie took a step back against the wall, into the shadow of a statue. When the group had vanished around the corner at the end of the corridor and their chatter faded, she hurried to the door on light feet. As suspected: it was the side entrance to the gallery. The room stretched deep and wide under a vaulted glass ceiling like an inner courtyard. It was noon, with the sun high in the sky and the vast space filled with bright white light. The odor of beeswax polish lingered in the air.
She advanced on tiptoes. The main entrance was to the right. On the left wall and ahead, paintings hung evenly spaced. Lord Oaksey was correct: there was a Degas, the motif of ballerinas in white dance costumes unmistakable. Her own reflection was creeping along in the square-shaped mirrors set into the right-hand wall; presumably they helped illuminate the room on cloudy days by reflecting the natural light. Mr. Blackstone should have the roof covered—while gas lamps weren’t ideal, the sun would damage the artifacts over time. Then again, it was the perfect light for keeping the white oil colors from yellowing too quickly …
She found the Ophelia at the center of the left-hand row, and her mind went quiet. The young woman was floating beneath the arching branches of a weeping willow, half-shrouded in the billowing fabric of a gown embroidered with stars. For a breath, Hattie was there by the riverbank, inhaling cool, damp air and the earthy smell of decay. Subtle shades of green surrounded her, dotted with the deep blues and reds of wildflowers. Ophelia’s face was bathed in a dreamy glow that placed her right in the liminal space between the living and the dead.
She knew Millais had painted the landscape part at Hogsmill River, near Surrey, rather than take a sketch and then finish the painting in his studio. His model for Ophelia, then Miss Siddal, a paintress in her own right, had caught a terrible cold while lying in an unheated bathtub. Yet none of the factual knowledge diminished the magic emanating from the scene before her. She knew other interpretations, by Alexandre Cabanel, for example, and they were jarring and barely hid the usual moralizing lesson that mad, beautiful women inevitably faced demise. But Millais, he had given Ophelia serenity. Her pale hands lay quietly on the surface of the stream, the palms open toward a sky outside the frame. Her half-lidded gaze was calm, her lips slightly parted. There was a suggestion of bliss in her surrender.