After a flurry of preparations, their band of four, along with Mercy and Jemmy left for London, the trip giving them several days in town before the forum convened. Beauty and Diablo came along, Patrick riding while Charlotte switched between their carriage and Beauty, too restless to remain in one spot for long.
They arrived at the Ravenscroft townhouse with little fanfare, thankful neither the papers nor the caricaturists had been alerted to the news of the committee.
All changed the following day when a small crowd clustered outside the townhouse, their faces hungry for the latest news. Visitors, including Ashworth and Devonshire, had to fight their way through the daily expanding crowd, a man daring to pelt the duke with questions.
Rhys, Rose, her sister, and Mama arrived the following day, with Devonshire and Ashworth visiting yet again. Charlotte found the noise from the crowd, the comings and goings, the constant focus on the imminent meeting unsettling.
Two days later their un-merry troupe set off for Somerset House, home to the academy. Patrick and Rhys had hired five plainclothes Bow Street Runners to accompany them on the chance St. Michaels showed. Once at the academy, they would station themselves by the exhibition room doors to capture the miscreant.
Stepping outside, shouts and cries of newspapermen assaulted Charlotte, while the caricaturists madly sketched. Thankfully, tall brawny men surrounded her, Patrick, and the others, as they made their way to the carriages stationed before the townhouse. When she slipped inside, the crowd’s focus changed to Patrick, like a murmuration of starlings, as he wheeled up the ramp into the vehicle.
Once arrived at the Royal Academy, they met their hired solicitors and barrister, though this was not a legal court. Both brothers believed their minds would slice through any deceit or obfuscation by the parties involved.
The crowd thickened as they approached the Exhibition Room, Charlotte’s heart a-thunder. This was St. Michaels’ final gambit, one in which she was loathe to participate.
A side door revealed Sir Joffrey Reynolds, who waved their group forward. Once inside, they proceeded down a short hall, Reynolds hesitating before opening the door to the room.
“Are you ready for this, my lady?” Reynolds said.
She produced a smile, noting the cluster of dear family and friends around her. “We most certainly are, Sir Joffrey.”
His eyes twinkled. “Good!” He swung open the door, and they moved into the great hall hung with painting upon painting, one atop the other all the way to the graceful arched window where the day’s soft light bled inside. On the exhibit floor sat a semi-circle of chairs flanking an empty podium, the seats occupied by Royal Academy academicians and museum trustees, along with the museum’s director.
Chills trilled up her spine.
A current academician headed their way, but Sir Joffrey held him off while escorting them to their seats. Patrick in his chair sat in the aisle beside Charlotte, and she reached for his hand. He gave hers a firm squeeze. So very soothing to have him here with her. To have him at all, in fact.
The scents of oil paint and wood hung heavy in the air, while murmurs and whispers mimicked busy bees. She searched for Turner and failed to find him, though she spotted the portraitist William Owen, artists Samuel Woodforde and Thomas Phillips, and John Soane, a professor of architecture. Charlotte recognized others, as well, all eager to view the proceedings. The hall was filled with a preponderance of men. A spurt of anger at the lack of women members, as two of the academy’s founders were women. Yet only men were now accepted into the fold. But there was Lady Ablethorp, writing away and moving her mouth simultaneously, with a few other women sprinkled about the room. Thank the stars Lady Ablethorp was a good distance from Charlotte’s front row seat, yet she’d swear a hungry gleam shone from the gossip’s beady eyes.
Henry Howard, the Royal Academy’s secretary and acting chairman for the proceedings, stepped to the podium and pounded the gavel. Several minutes passed before the crowd quieted. Once satisfied, Howard explained the purpose of the “gathering.” His term.
Fustian. This was no gathering, but a mock court, meant to expose her malfeasance.
No matter what came, Charlotte had the love and support of her family. Were she to be found culpable, she would be shunned, as would her mother and her sister, even perhaps Patrick. Her father’s paintings would plummet in value, though some quirky collectors would want a forged Pheland. The horror struck her hard.
This could not be.
And yet…it was.
“Remember, we have a strategy, love,” Patrick said.
“I do.”
“Fear not.”
“Fear? Me?” She tinkled a laugh knowing full well Patrick did not believe a bit of it.
Charlotte schooled her face as they read the charges, but inwardly she cringed, the unpleasant trait learned from their time with Lord Fielding. Heaven forfend, best to avoid thoughts of that horrid man.
A door opened, and her heart sped. St. Michaels entered the room.
Charlotte gasped, her eyes searching for the runners. Once found, she returned her attention to the baron, resplendent in formal wear, while three men walked behind him, one holding a thick sheaf of papers.
The monster took a seat in the first row, across the aisle, thankfully far from her. More murmurs arose, increasing with much chatter and several oohs and ahhs from the fine figure St. Michaels commanded. Objectively, the man was striking, but all Charlotte saw was that grotesque doctor’s mask, a far more accurate reflection of his twisted self than his handsome visage.
A whisper in her ear. “That cretin was always filled with self-importance.” Her mama’s words appeased her somewhat. “His father was the same. Little men with big heads and small…”
A bubble of laughter rose, and Charlotte clamped her jaw tight.
Howard introduced the baron and gestured him to the podium. St. Michaels shook his head, motioning to the man beside him. The stern-faced older man struggling with his bundle of papers moved to the stand beside Howard.
Charlotte wished to scream. She did not, of course, but oh how she wanted to.
In a sonorous voice, Howard referenced the three paintings and their provenance, two of which hung in the Royal Academy of Arts’ permanent collection and one belonging to the British Museum.
Howard waved a hand at two men standing before a closed door, then detailed to the crowd the three paintings’ provenance, whilst the men retrieved a large painting, a seascape hung at British Museum.
Charlotte recognized the painting, of course, a work her father had done just before his death, his second to last, the final depicting Halafair Hall. The memory made her weepy, her emotions on high alert.
St. Michaels’ representative, Abbot, tall and thin with a mighty beard, began to expound using Jonathan Richardson’s system of art criticism to find inconsistencies with her father’s style in the work. Given Richardson’s utilitarian bent and weak arguments, art historians and critics now discounted his ideas for judging works of art. Yet here they were.
Abbot ripped the painting apart, claiming how such an adept artist as Pheland would never have painted the seascape before them. The man’s sonorous conclusion rang around the hall in a resonant baritone.
Charlotte rubbed her forefinger and thumb over and over, pinpricks of fear pinching her nerves.
Behind her, a flurry of movement.
Good Heavens! Mama had stood.
Howard lifted his gavel, but paused, for he seemed to recognize her mother and laid the gavel back on the podium. The room was silent as Mama began to speak.
“I am Countess Fielding, formerly Lady Halafair, wife of Reginald Pheland, Lord Halafair. I watched my late husband execute that work. It was his second to last painting, and was sold to the Earl of Cholmondeley, who is now the Marquess of Cholmondeley. From there I cannot tell you where the painting traveled before its arrival at the British Museum. But I can attest that my late husband, Reginald Pheland, painted the seascape in question.” Her mama waved over Secretary Howard and handed him a piece of paper. “A copy of the receipt given to the Earl of Cholmondeley for the painting.” Her mama sat.
Patrick chuffed, and Charlotte was tempted to join him, for the commission had a choice of calling her mama a liar or of accepting her words. How ironic that the first painting in question was, indeed, executed by her father.
The men flanking the podium rose to confer, heads bobbing like chickens pecking at seeds. Her hands grew damp beneath her thin leather gloves.
The men consulted, and how tired was she of seeing men decide everything. At last, they returned to their seats, and one of the committee whispered in Howard’s ear.
The chairman nodded and banged his gavel. “The committee has concluded Lady Fielding’s testimony and receipt assures the authenticity of the work.”
Charlotte melted with relief. Two to go, and with each murmur and cough and shuffle around the room, Charlotte’s apprehension rose. She wished she’d worn a veil to hide her expression, for her face had begun to feel as if it were a plaster mold.
Patrick leaned close. “Fear not, Lottie. We shall win the day.” He bussed her cheek, tickling it with his tongue. Shameful man. She must not smile at his antics.
A second large work draped in muslin was presented next. Once the bearers reached the easel, they set the painting upon it and lifted the cloth.
A bucolic landscape stared back at her, one painted by Charlotte. Lord Wrexum had purchased the piece perhaps five years earlier during the time she studied with Turner. It seemed forever ago and she noted subtle issues with the painting, ones that reflected her style rather than her father’s, inconsistencies few would recognize. Nonetheless…
“Do illuminate us, sir,” Howard said to Abbot. St. Michaels stood for no apparent reason. “Why do you and Lord St. Michaels claim this to be a forgery by Viscountess Hawthorne?”
St. Michaels jabbed a finger toward Abbot. “He knows!”
Murmurs at St. Michaels’ odd behavior.
Abbot stroked his beard as he neared the work, his pointer gesturing to a sheep, a haystack, and an outbuilding.
“The great artist and collector, Jonathan Richardson, comes to mind, for I shall use his exceptional “An Essay on the Theory of Painting” to critique the work. I find these three elements unfailingly weak. Is that a sheep or a blob of white? The outbuilding seems to be out of harmony with the piece as a whole, while the haystack lacks grace. These elements caused the baron and myself to question the work’s authenticity, given Pheland’s mastery.”
Abbot took his seat beside St. Michaels with an air of self-satisfaction.
Charlotte wanted to retch.
A well-dressed rotund man rose from a seat at the back of the room, and the committee chairman waved him forward.
He stood before the painting. “I am Sir Robert Smirke, as most of you know.”
Murmurs flew, and Charlotte leaned toward Patrick to whisper. “He is one of the academicians. I have met him, but I do not know him well.”
“Might he be in league with St. Michaels?” Patrick whispered back.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Though he is an esteemed professor of architecture.”
“I possess two Reginald Pheland paintings,” Sir Robert continued. “One of which is quite similar to this one in question. I cannot agree with Lord St. Michaels or his representative.” He bowed to the baron and the committee as well.
“I see the haystack,” Sir Robert continued, “as a buttress for the pair frolicking beneath it, its color congruous with their clothing. In reference to the outbuilding—while appearing ramshackle, and I do not disagree with this—note how it leans toward the mighty oak that towers above it. I see this as a sign of a harmonious coupling. Finally, the sheep.”
Voices rose amongst the crowd to near cacophonous levels, arguments bursting forth like shooting stars, only to dissipate, wherein others began.
“I agree!” shouted one man.
“Ridiculous!” hollered another.
“Excellent work!” screamed a third.
Howard’s gavel pounded with no change in volume.
“Quiet!” Patrick boomed in his captain’s voice. “Now!”
The room went silent.
“Thank you, my Lord Hawthorne,” Sir Robert said. “As I noted, the sheep is merely a marker, pointing the way to the frolicking couple, to enhance the artist’s message.”
“And what message might that be?” barked St. Michaels, flailing his arms as he rose from his seat.
Sir Robert seemed taken aback by the baron’s hostility, and he brushed invisible specks of dust from his waistcoat. “The message, my lord, references the delights of the countryside, how it assuages the heart and soul, as is evidenced by the light pouring through the clouds to beam onto the joyful couple. Can you not see this?”
“Of course I see it, you idiot!” St. Michaels’ said.
Murmurs of shock wafted around the room.
Abbot stood. “The painting is all wrong for Pheland. It is a fake pretending to be what it is not.”
Sir Robert shook his head. “I fear I must disagree, sir, for I see this work as a hallmark of Pheland’s mastery and style.”
Abbot threw up his hands and sat, but the baron began to gesticulate, waving his arms, and though Abbot tried to calm him, he failed.
Howard ignored the fracas and thanked Sir Robert, who returned to his seat. “Does anyone else wish to speak?”
Met with silence, Howard gestured to the committee, their heads bobbing again until a member rose and whispered to Howard.
The secretary stood before the painting. “The committee verifies the work entitled Harvest Time is by late Reginald Pheland.”
Charlotte released a breath as murmurs and whispers ensued whilst Howard signaled for the third painting, which was set on the huge easel, where the much smaller work looked rather silly.
Howard flipped back the muslin. “This work is entitled Fox Caught.”
Charlotte froze, her hands clamped tight.
Disgruntled murmurs wove through the room, for it must be difficult to see the painting from the farthest rows.
Charlotte saw it clearly—a hunting scene where dogs ripped apart a fox—the painting Charlotte loathed. Memories crowded in, where St. Michaels demanded she repeatedly paint the hunt, and she had done so, this one of three, the third purchased by a runner at Rhys and Patrick’s behest.
St. Michaels stood, but Abbot pulled him down again, whispering in his ear. Abbot approached the painting, pointing that damned stick at several portions of the work.
The chatter continued until, to her surprise, Mr. Turner rose from his seat. “Sirs.” He bowed to Abbot, then the baron. “Lord St. Michaels, is this not one of the two paintings you recently donated to the Royal Academy? Might I ask how you acquired it?”
“Why, directly from Lady Hawthorne, Mr. Turner,” Abbot said.
“It looks to be Lord Halafair’s work,” Turner said. “And I have had the privilege of viewing numerous Pheland paintings.”
“Lord St. Michaels believed it an original, as well,” Abbot said. “At the time.”
St. Michaels bounded from his seat, across the hall, to the painting. “Can you not see? It is a fake!”
He lifted the painting, eyes lit with mania, turning it to the audience. He moved in a circle, the audience and the committee wearing shocked expressions. “She painted it!” He pointed to Charlotte. “It is a fake! A fake!”
He walked toward Charlotte, painting thrust forward. She reared back.
“I watched you paint it, did I not!” he screamed at her before Howard’s gavel pounded and Abbot corralled the baron. St. Michaels went silent, blinking rapidly, as if seeing the audience for the first time.
The cat had fled the bag.