Hmm, maybe we should’ve picked a better day, Lewrie thought as their two-horse hackney fell into the queue of other carriages and grander private coaches bringing attendees to Ackermann’s Repository of Arts the next day. It was only at the last minute that he learned that this would the opening day of the exhibition, which would attract not only the idle hoi polloi out for any free entertainment, but the Quality, members of the Peerage, the famous, rich, and infamous. One peek out the window of the hackney revealed a press of people on the sidewalks from storefronts to the kerb-sides, with barely room for coach passengers to alight, and the lines in front of the shop’s doors looked to be daunting, too. At least the weather was not too threatening, the usual grey overcast, part clouds and part coalsmoke, which might end in a misty drizzle after all. Lewrie stuck his head out again to take a deep sniff, but his nose, trained to the smell of fresh water and rain on the wind at sea, failed him; all he could sense was horse manure.
After several minutes of slowly creeping forward as the queue of equipages dropped their passengers and wheeled away, Lewrie decided that there was nothing more for it.
“I fear we might as well debark here, ladies,” Lewrie told them, gathering up his walking-stick and furled umbrella. “Mind your possessions, your reticules. There’s sure t’be more than a few ‘three-handed Jennies’ about. Pickpockets,” he added, explaining how his pocket watch, chain, and fob had been lifted by an expert, right in the lobby of the Old Bailey just after his acquittal in 1801. Once on the sidewalk, he paid off the cabman, telling him that he was free to hustle up other fares, and they would hail another when they were done.
Then, they spent at least a quarter-hour standing in line before gaining admittance, shoulder-to-shoulder with people, some of whom complained of sharing a sidewalk with the working or idle poor, barely a cut above “Captain Tom of the Mob, begad!”
Lewrie was in a civilian suiting, a black coat, buff breeches, top-boots, and a maroon waist-coat, with a matching neck-stock, and a low-crowned, narrow-brimmed black hat. Madame Pellatan had gone all-in, in pink and white, a white silk shawl, a young mountain-sized powdered wig sprigged with wee birds and butterflies, with her face and neck an inch deep in powder and rouge. Thank God that Jessica had dressed so much simpler in a mid-blue gown trimmed with white lace, with an ivory satin shawl draped over her arms, with a perky visored bonnet on her head, though her hair had been done up with a royal blue and gilt rope of some kind woven into her formal updo.
Ackermann’s must have hired some toughs to keep an eye on the crowd, steering away curious urchins and the poorly dressed, giving any suspicious-looking idlers and pickpockets ferocious warning squints. At last, they gained admittance, squeezing through the doors against an outrush of previous gawkers, and into a buzzing, guffawing, tittering mob of sightseers, some of them smelling no better than they had a right to, and the air, with so many candles lit, suddenly seemed much warmer than it had been outside.
“Where do we start?” Jessica asked, frowning as she peered from one side to the other, and sidling up closer to Lewrie, out of dread, or sheer necessity to avoid being jostled. Framed paintings rose to the ceilings in a jumble, whilst the works to be exhibited stood about on easels, or braced atop the counters.
“If this is a way to show the works, it’s not workin’,” Lewrie said. “Who thought this arrangement up?” There were also some bins where unframed canvases stood to be leafed through, held up for inspection, then jammed back in. There were also open-top boxes where shifty sorts of men pawed through, laughing and nudging their compatriots.
“I almost regret coming,” Madame Pellatan bemoaned, at her most theatrical, drawing out a Chinese fan to whisk before her face.
“I think I see some sense to all this,” Lewrie said at last, and pointed to the left. “It looks as if people are startin’ over yonder, and workin’ their way round to the right. Let’s see if we can sidle over, even if we have to queue up again.”
That was the key to finding the exhibition pieces in all of that crush, though it did not allow them the space to take in any of the artworks. Step back far enough to contemplate one, and half a dozen others would step in front of them. To snake their way beyond those viewers, they would be too close to appreciate much more than the brush strokes and the colours.
Crowded, and boring, Lewrie thought, who had never had much appreciation for fine art, though he had once owned a tittilating scene of an Ottoman Turkish hareem, with tits and thighs aplenty hung in his old rented rooms on Panton Street, just after the American Revolution, but his late wife had taken one shocked look at it, given him the evil eye, and sold it off to a street monger, instanter.
There were pastorals, featuring grist mills, trees, and cattle; ruined abbeys and churches abandoned since Henry the Eighth’s years; grand and vast country estates with horses and dogs; more horses held by jockeys or stablemen, thoroughbreds and Arabians with heads too tiny to be real; hunt scenes with more hounds; the tumble-down, ivy-covered ruins of ancient Greece and Rome, though those had intriguing sunset clouds and colours; and there were ships in battle, done by artists who had only the vaguest grasp of what ships looked like, what ocean waves looked like, rows of curly-cued or saw-toothed waves marching in tidy rows, at which he scoffed.
“Alan, old son,” someone called out. “Is that you?”
“Who?” Lewrie asked, turning to look about, finding his old school chum, Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick. “Peter, you old scamp. Damn my eyes!” he cried, forgetting his vow to keep close watch over his salty tongue, and leading his small party through the crush to shake hands. “Good t’see you, again! How d’ye keep?”
“Main-well, considering,” Rushton replied, “question is, how do you keep, now you’re a householder?”
“Just temporary,” Lewrie told him. “Oh, Peter, allow me to name you to the ladies. Madame Pellatan, Miss Chenery, this is Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick, a schoolmate of mine from my brief time at Harrow. Peter, this is Madame Berenice Pellatan, a noted artist who fled the Terror with her husband from Paris.”
“Madame, pleased to make your acquaintance,” Rushton said with a brief bow from the waist.
“M’sieur le Vicomte enchanté,” Madame Pellatan intoned with a deep curtsy, and a hand out to be kissed, which Peter did peckingly, keeping a straight face though amused by her airs.
“Allow me to further name to you Miss Jessica Chenery, another artist of rising renown, who is doing my portrait,” Lewrie said, “Miss Chenery, Peter Rushton, Viscount Draywick.”
“Miss Chenery, happy to make your acquaintance,” Peter replied. “Ah, and here is Lady Draywick. Come, my dear, and greet one of my old school friends,” he said as his wife emerged from the crowd, repeating the introduction ritual afresh.
No wonder ye took Tess on for yer mistress, Lewrie thought; for your “lawful blanket’s” a fubsy Tartar.
Though there was no accounting for a man’s taste, Lewrie knew Peter Rushton of old, and had always ranked him as a fellow of a most discriminating taste when it came to women, so … how to explain his choice of wife? Surely, she must have been attractive at one time; either that, or possessed of one Hell of a dowry. Peter’s own wealth notwithstanding, Lady Draywick looked like a dowdy, older housemaid out on the town her one free day a week, dressed in her mistress’s finery. She also had a permanent frown on her phyz, which deepened upon introduction to Lewrie, and Jessica, giving Lewrie the impression that Lady Draywick suspected her husband, and all of his so-called old friends, of being so many lechering, adulterous wallowing swine, and any fetching younger mort of being a whore, or one of her husband’s kept women.
“Alan … Sir Alan, Baronet now … got sent down with me from Harrow when we set the governor’s coach house on fire, ha ha,” Peter boasted. “Hadn’t seen him in ages after he went off to the Navy, but whilst Clotworthy Chute and I were in Venice, just before Bonaparte threatened to take it, there Alan was, and we sailed out of danger on his ship. You recall Clotworthy, dear? He was in on our fiery cabal, too. Think we’re all still banned from Harrow for life, ha ha!”
“Thought they asked you back t’speak to the students,” Lewrie said. “Clotworthy mentioned it whilst helping me furnish my place.”
“Then they’re getting hellish-desperate for exemplary speakers,” Rushton hooted in mirth. “Why, they’ll be having highwaymen in, next!”
“Why did you set the coach house on fire?” Jessica asked, halfway ’twixt glee and a show of alarm.
“Oh, because the school governor was a tyrant,” Rushton said.
“The food was pig swill,” Lewrie stuck in.
“The coach house was … there,” Rushton sniggered.
“But we let the horses out before we lit it,” Lewrie assured her. “Just our luck t’be caught still holdin’ the torches.”
“Hmmph!” from Lady Draywick. “Some wit never improves with age.”
“You’re doing Alan’s portrait, d’ye say, Miss Chenery?” Peter asked. “That’d be a trial, making him appear human, haw haw.”
“I am, milord,” Jessica answered gladly, “and we’re almost done, though I fear Sir Alan finds posing too long a trial, but our sessions have proved most amusing and exciting. He’s lived a most adventurous life.”
“I daresay,” Lady Draywick drawled, sure that “sessions” with Jessica Chenery were done stark-naked.
“Mademoiselle Jessica has the ability to render her subjects more true-to-life and realistic than anyone I have ever seen, m’sieur vicomte,” Madame Pellatan stuck in, feeling ignored. “Her likeness of the Baronet simply leaps off the canvas.”
“It’ll be done soon,” Lewrie told them, “and you and Lady Draywick should come over for an un-veiling. Your brother, Harold, too, if he’s of a mind. My cook is a marvel, and is sure t’lay on a fine feast, in celebration.”
“I say, that’s sounds jolly, what, m’dear?” Rushton said to his wife. “Clotworthy, too, since he said he furnished your place in such a grand manner. I wonder, Miss Chenery … have you any paintings in this exhibition?”
“None submitted to the Royal Academy, milord, though I have been tempted to try, under an assumed name, of course,” Jessica replied, in an impish way, “I have left several pieces at Ackermann’s on consignment, but I fear you’d find them un-suitable, unless you wish fanciful paintings done for children.” She looked all round, up to the rafters, and could only spot one of hers still hanging, of a squirming puppy in a young girl’s lap, trying to lick the girl’s face.
“Ah, yes … pretty,” Rushton said, sounding let down. “A pity my children are mostly grown. Amusing, though.”
“Miss Chenery has been very successful with her fanciful art,” Lewrie boasted. “Even illustrated a children’s book, right?”
“For money?” Lady Draywick sniffed.
“Yes, milady, for money,” Jessica shot back, her dander up.
“And why not?” Lewrie felt compelled to defend her. “Anyone with great talent, even a woman, should never hide it under a bushel basket, or be expected to sketch relatives for free.”
“Well, I…!” Lady Draywick began.
“Hah! Modern outlook, Alan. Quite right, too!” Peter rushed to intervene. “More show to see. You will excuse us, Sir Alan, Madame … Miss Chenery. Send me a note when you’re ready to display your portrait, Alan. Good day,” he said, bowing his way from them, and dragging his dis-approving mate with him, still clucking in irritation.
“Thank you, Sir Alan,” Jessica said, bestowing upon him a warm smile. “For defending me, and for your sentiment.”
“Meant every word of it, Miss Jessica,” Lewrie replied, feeling as if he’d done something noble, for a rare once. “What a fubsy…”
“Yes, Lady Draywick is a … well, whatever one wishes to call her can’t be said in public,” Jessica stammered, on the verge of some foul language.
“Ah, but in private, now!” Lewrie teased, returning the impish smile on her face, and delighting that he could amuse her. “Ye know, for all the years I’ve known Peter, this was the first time I ever met his wife?”
“Well, perhaps some rocks are better left un-turned,” Jessica slyly japed. “One never knows what lurks beneath them.”
“Oh, well said!” Lewrie encouraged. “You’re gettin’ the hang of it. I don’t know whether I’ve corrupted you, or wakened a talent long un-used.” And that was rewarded with another smile on her face, this one warmer and fonder, and Lewrie was surprised by the flood of warmth that that awakened in his chest.
“Oh, is that a David?” Madame Pellatan exclaimed, pointing to the far side of the gallery. “He was a dear friend of ours, before we had to flee Paris. I’d know his work anywhere! But, how can it be here, in England? His Belisarius is so well known. We must see it, Jessica!”
“Who?” Lewrie asked as he was dragged along in Madame Pellatan’s wake as she ploughed through the crowd like a charging bull.
“Jacques-Louis David,” the older lady said over her shoulder, “a most famous painter! Oh,” she sniffed, crestfallen as she got a better look at it. “Quel dommage, it is only a copy, and done much smaller than the original. An exceptionally good one, but … pity the buyer who is taken in. How dare they sell it as the original!”
Madame Berenice droned on, despite it being a copy, about the composition, the musculature depicted, so much blah-blah to Lewrie that he lifted his gaze to other works hung high above, hoping for a promising nude or two, but no such luck.
“The dynamic nature of it,” Madame Berenice went on, “and the lifelike character. It is an example of ingratitude to those who serve the state. Belisarius depicts a successful Roman general who has suffered the ingratitude of a heartless emperor, reduced to begging on the streets to support himself and his daughter. Jessica, see how dramatically the faces, the bodies are rendered? The human form must be studied in detail, what lies under the skin, else all will appear stilted and forced. The Italian, DaVinci, did just as meticulous studies for his paintings, his sculptures.”
“And medical books help,” Jessica commented. “Yes, anatomy books,” she added, to answer Lewrie’s quizzical look. “I have a set that I found in a used-book dealer’s bin. Skeleton, sinews, muscles, and veins … some illustrations done in colour. Almost as good as attending medical school anatomies, which of course I could never do! I’ve found them most useful.”
“Then I’ll never let you near a surgeon’s scalpel, or even the steak knives,” Lewrie japed. “Talk about stayin’ on your good side!”
“Oh, Sir Alan, you are so droll!” Jessica replied, touching him on the sleeve for a second. “You could never get on my bad side!”
There was a gap in the crowd in front of the David, allowing Madame Pellatan and Jessica to get closer, prating of brush strokes, whilst Lewrie was cut off by several fancily dressed couples swanning in between. Before he could sidle through to rejoin them, a young fellow in high Beau Brummell fashion leaned over Jessica’s shoulder and made a comment, using the press of the crowd as an excuse to put himself against her bottom, chuckling and leering.
“Excuse me, sir!” Jessica snapped, whirling to face the man.
“I said there’s better muscles to be seen in the flesh, my dear,” the fop repeated.
“You groped me, sir!” Jessica hotly accused.
“Pushed ’gainst you,” the fop shrugged off. “Quite by accident. Perhaps you’ll like me better, after you get a chance to know me. A guinea, shall we say, sweet’un?”
“You’ll like me a lot less, after I knock your damned teeth out,” Lewrie growled as he got up to them, and Jessica was quick to come to Lewrie’s side, a bit behind his left shoulder.
“Beg pardon, you…!” the young fellow began to bristle up.
“You will leave the young lady alone … sir!” Lewrie warned him. “Get ye gone, now, before it costs you more than you can spare.”
“I was only making idle conversation, most innocently,” the young man glibly crooned, shamming sweet reason. “I was jostled, and meant no offence.”
“You were not!” Jessica retorted. “You groped me, and made improper advances, and prop … propositioned me!” she stammered.
“I’m sure that you’re mistaken, girl,” the young man sniggered.
“Bugger off,” Lewrie snarled.
“Or what, sir?” the fellow shot back, full of confidence, even seeming to enjoy the confrontation.
“Boy,” Lewrie sneered, “I’ve probably killed more men than you’ve had hot dinners, and one more, especially one like you, makes no significance. Now, bugger off before I rip your head off and shit down your neck!”
The young fellow lost his confident, cocky smile. His face twitched in alarm, and he finally noticed the scar on Lewrie’s cheek, taking it for the mark of a successful duellist, the sort that sought out reasons to cross blades or blaze with pistols. And those eyes glaring into his, they were so cold and Arctic grey!
“Here now, no need to…,” he gulped.
“You will apologise for your boorishness,” Lewrie demanded, “then get yourself gone. Now, while I’m still feelin’ charitable.”
“Sorry, Miss, my mistake, apologies,” the fop stammered, doffing his hat, stumbling back into the crowd, under Lewrie’s glare all the way to the door and the street outside.
“Oh, sorry,” Lewrie said, letting Jessica go, for in defence of her, he’d put a possessive arm round her waist, as she had put a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, no, do not be sorry, Sir Alan!” Jessica insisted, “That was wondrously done, and I am so very grateful for your assistance, and your defence of my honour.”
“Well, sorry ’bout the language,” Lewrie said with a shrug, and a sheepish smile.
“What a despicable cad!” Madame Berenice spat.
Hope she don’t mean me, Lewrie thought.
“Rip his head off, and … oh, my word!” Jessica tittered, put a hand to her mouth, but could not help breaking into laughter, as if in sudden relief.
“Such despicable manners in the younger people in these times,” Madame Pellatan declared, sweeping her hands over her gown, her wig, re-settling her shawl, and checking her reticule fussily, as if she had been the one groped and propositioned. She looked red in the face, as if she had found Lewrie’s threat beyond the pale, if no one else did.
* * *
After several hours at Ackermann’s gazing at pictures and discussing their merits (two hours longer than Lewrie would have liked!) they left the gallery and flagged down an empty hackney to take them to the chop-house in Savoy Street that Lewrie had recommended.
Jessica was most pleased with their outing, for upon enquiring about the pictures she had left with Ackermann’s, she’d been told that two of them had sold, and that her share of the proceeds was £8/7/4! So it was a joyful, bubbling early supper conversation that they had.
The restaurant did not dis-appoint, either, with lobster and seafood crepes drizzled with a creamy lemon sauce for Jessica; veal medallions with pasta in sour-cream gravy with loads of paprika, and asparagus for Lewrie; and for Madame Pellatan, succulent sliced duck in a brandy-orange sauce, with goose liver pâté, and dribbles of salty dark fish roe in imitation of caviar that she declared was almost as tasty as any repast she’d enjoyed in Paris in the good old days.
It all was washed down with lashings of Rhenish, claret, or sauvignon blanc, and a sparkling Portuguese wine in lieu of champagne with dessert, which was hot apple pie and cheddar, drizzled with sweet cream, and port or brandy to linger over, Lewrie could not help himself from expounding on cuisines he’d experienced; Chinese, West Indian, Creole in Spanish New Orleans, Hindoo, Portuguese and Spanish, Neapolitan and Genoese cooking, and the tasty things, some exceedingly humble, that he’d discovered along the coasts of the Carolinas.
* * *
“We must thank you, again, Sir Alan,” Madame Pellatan said as their hackney drew up in front of St. Anselm’s manse later that evening, “for a … pardon!” She paused to stifle a weary, drink-sodden yawn. “For a most delightful outing. Merci, merci beaucoup!”
“My pleasure, Madame,” Lewrie told her, “I had an enjoyable time, too.” He opened the coach doors, hopped down, and folded down the metal step, ready to assist her down.
“Merci,” Madame Pellatan said once on the sidewalk, though a tad unsteady on her feet, using her furled umbrella as a prop.
He turned to assist Jessica, and she took his offered hand as she gingerly stepped down, holding on longer than really necessary, even giving his hand a squeeze.
“Yes indeed, thank you, Sir Alan,” Jessica said with a warm smile. “For your generosity, your company, your gallant defence, and for a marvellous supper, and … for everything!”
“You’re most welcome, Miss Jessica,” Lewrie replied, daring to lift her hand to his lips to bestow a lingering kiss upon it. “For my part, I had a grand time today, as well.”
“Shall we come by tomorrow morning, to finish your portrait?” she asked, gazing up at him with her eyes alight.
“Looking forward to it,” Lewrie told her, “though at this point, I could hang my uniform coat on a mop-stick and let it stand in for me. Buttons, medals, epaulets, and all, hah?”
“Oh, no, you must still wear it, Sir Alan,” she said with a wee laugh. “Remember what we discussed today, about the shape of the human form, clothed or not. Your image would end up looking lop-sided, else,” she teased.
“Well then, I and my coat will be at your complete disposal,” he assured her. “Good night, Miss Jessica, Madame Pellatan,” he said, doffing his hat to both, with a slight bow from the waist.
Of a sudden, Jessica got up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Good night, then, Sir Alan,” she cooed, “and thank you, again, for a wondrous day.”
He saw them safely to their door, made sure that they gained entry, then went back to the hackney, chest swelling with … what?
It was all he could do not to have returned her kiss, swept her into his arms and kissed her properly. Her light scent of clean hair and lavender water had almost made him giddy!
“Where to now, sir?” the cabman asked.
“Twenty-two Dover Street,” Lewrie said as he got back in, savouring the memory of his arm round her slim waist for a moment.
“Ah, same street where th’ widow Nelson lives, then?”
“Hmm, what?” Lewrie asked.
“Th’ Admiral’s widow moved there, sir,” the cabman said as he flicked reins and clucked to his horse. “Poor old lady.”
“I was told Nelson himself lived there for a time,” Lewrie said.
“Never did, sir,” the cabman insisted. “He set his poor wife up in Dover Street, but moved himself in with the Hamiltons, and that Emma, somewhere in Grosvenor Street. Someone told ya wrong, sir.”
That Penneworth sold me a bill o’ goods, the shit, Lewrie told himself. He sat back against the hard, leather-covered bench, his mind returning to his pleasant reveries of the day, and images of Jessica; oohing over one painting, frowning in dislike at another, how animated and lively she was, how daintily she’d dined.
Great, she can eat with a knife and fork! he thought, ready to burst out laughing; Hell of a recommendation!
He wished that his portrait was never finished, that he could continue his delightful daily association with her for as long as he could, even beyond the day that Admiralty recalled him to service.
How to propose a continuation…?
Propose? He thought with a start; My God! Brr!
He found himself touching his cheek where she’d given him that peck, wondering if there was something more to that gesture than mere gratitude, or a mild fondness. Did he dare find out, and what would he do if she laughed him off as a generous, amusing old colt’s tooth, but a colt’s tooth after all?
It’s madness, it’s daft but then, I s’pose I am as daft as a March hare, he confessed to himself; over her!