ROUT CAKES
Take Flour and mix with Butter and Sugar and Currants clean and dry. Make into a paste with Eggs and Orange Flower Water, Rose-water, sweet Wine, and Brandy. Drop on a floured tin-plate and bake them for a very short time.
My mother said these cakes bring luck, and indeed, I fed them to my husband the day he proposed! Serve to ensure the success of your rout or any other event you'd like to see turn out well.
—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1765
FINALLY, THE day of the reception dawned. Corinna arrived at Lady Avonleigh's town house, where an ancient butler ushered her inside. Her knees were shaking. Lady Balmforth, who shared the house with her sister, came over to greet her and bring her to the drawing room.
"Welcome, my dear. Where is Mr. Hamilton?"
"He…ah…he couldn't come," she said, which was the truth. Mr. Hamilton couldn't come, as he was in Wales, and Sean couldn't come in his place, either. "I haven't seen him the past few days, Lady B. Apparently he's very busy."
That was true, too. She hadn't seen Sean since she'd finished the portrait.
"Well." The older woman huffed, sucking in her already thin cheeks. Lady B was as skinny as Lady A was plump. "My sister is not going to be happy about this."
Some of the ladies' friends were already there, exclaiming over Corinna's paintings. Lady A and Lady B had taken all the other pictures off their peach-painted walls and hung Corinna's art there instead.
Everything in their house seemed to be peach. The color unfortunately clashed with some of Corinna's work, but there was nothing she could do about that. Nothing but cross her fingers and hope that the artists would like what they saw when they arrived.
Alexandra showed up next, a platter in her hands. "Rout cakes," she explained. "They're supposed to ensure the success of your rout."
"It isn't my rout. In fact, it isn't a rout at all. It's a reception."
"It's a fashionable gathering, and as Lady A's home isn't overly large, it's bound to be a crush. That's a rout in my book." Alexandra leaned to kiss her sister's cheek. "You look nervous."
A sarcastic retort hung on the tip of Corinna's tongue, but she felt too frazzled to make jests. "I am," she admitted instead. She abruptly realized that, other than the rout cakes, Alexandra held…nothing. And there was a decided lack of squeaky wheels. "You left Harry at home."
"Babies don't belong at routs." Alexandra set the platter on a side table of mahogany inlaid with lighter, peach-colored wood. "Show me your newest painting."
But before Corinna could do so, Juliana walked in. Then Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth. Then more of Lady A's and B's friends, and their other sister, Lady Cavanaugh, and the first of the artist judges.
Suddenly, it was a rout.
Corinna could barely move among all the people. Lady A pushed through the crowd to give her a hug, enveloping her in camphor and gardenias. "Our honored guest! Where is Mr. Hamilton, my dear?"
"He couldn't come."
"Well. I…well. I never—" More guests were arriving, cramming the drawing room. Her plump cheeks quivering with indignation, she turned to the nearest new arrival. "Have you heard, Mr. West, that Mr. Hamilton isn't coming?"
Benjamin West! The president of the Royal Academy! Corinna found herself speechless with terror, which was not a good thing, considering the man looked mightily confused.
"I'm sorry to hear that, madam, but it's hardly a surprise, considering he's currently in Wales."
"When did he leave for Wales?"
"Last month, I do believe."
"Last month? I think not." Lady A looked even more confused than he did. "Lady Rachael," she called, motioning her over. "Did we not see Mr. Hamilton last Saturday at the Billingsgate ball?"
"Why—"
"No," Corinna cut in, sending her cousin a pitiful, pleading look. Although Rachael didn't know the truth, surely she'd respond to such obvious silent begging. "That was Sean Hamilton, remember? Sean, not John." Before Rachael could disagree or Lady A could protest further, Corinna clutched Mr. West's arm and began pulling him toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire.
Though she was no shrinking violet, she surprised herself with that kind of boldness. But she didn't see where she had much of a choice. She had to get Mr. West out of there before—as irreverent Rachael would put it—all hell broke loose.
"Will you have a look at my newest painting, Mr. West?" she asked, coming to a stop before it. "As I'm considering submitting it to the Summer Exhibition, I'd surely appreciate your thoughts."
Before commenting, he studied the picture quite a while. Corinna studied him. He was balding, what was left of his hair was gray, and he looked rather dour overall. But not really unfriendly, she decided with some relief.
Mr. West was famous for his paintings of recent battles that depicted their heroes wearing modern dress rather than traditional, classical garb. Since Corinna thought it rather silly to paint contemporary men sporting flowing Roman robes, she heartily approved—and she hoped his willingness to take the less traveled road meant he was more open-minded than most.
"It's very nice, Lady…Corinna, is it?" he said at last in his disarming American accent. "Your basic techniques demonstrate fine skills. But I'm not certain your model's form looks quite realistic."
"His form?"
"His body, under his clothing. Not quite natural, I'm afraid."
Her heart turned to lead in her chest. She'd done her best, considering the Academy refused women access to anatomy lessons. Maybe she should point that out to him. As the Academy's president, maybe he would see how unfair that was, how detrimental to a lady's chances, and decide to change the Academy's rules.
No, that would never happen. And he might consider such a request to be very bad form. She'd never get elected to the Academy if its president thought she was vulgar.
On the other hand, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Lord Lincolnshire's form looked perfectly fine. West was known for painting all of his subjects with large almond-shaped eyes, so maybe he wasn't one to judge. Although his portrait clients thought those eyes most dashing—and doubtless commissioned him for that reason—it wasn't accurate, after all. Some of them had narrow, squinty eyes, or small round ones.
"Thank you very much for your opinion," she told him as sweetly as she could. "I surely appreciate it, and I shall take your thoughts under consideration."
Suppressing a sigh, she returned to Rachael after he took leave. "Well, that didn't go well."
Rachael's sisters came to join them. "Who was he?" Claire asked.
"Benjamin West, the president of the Royal Academy. He said Lord Lincolnshire's body doesn't look natural beneath his clothing."
Elizabeth glanced over toward the painting and shrugged. "Looks fine to me. Rather impressive, in fact."
"He did say my techniques demonstrate fine skills. And maybe he's wrong about the other, but that doesn't really matter, does it? Either way he won't vote for my painting unless I change it."
"His is just one opinion." Rachael touched her arm. "There are other committee members, aren't there? How many in total?"
"Nine. The president plus eight elected Academicians."
"So you have eight more men to influence. Seven if you count Mr. Hamilton as being on your side. And he should be, considering you've become friends with him."
"I'm not sure friends is an accurate description of our relationship." But although Rachael didn't know the truth, in a sense she was right. The real Mr. Hamilton should be on Corinna's side, considering how hard she'd been working to keep his uncle happy. And he believed each work should stand on its own and not be judged by the gender of its creator. "However, I think he probably will vote for me," she decided.
"So you've already balanced Mr. West's negative opinion with a positive." Rachael smiled; but then her brows drew together in a frown. "Why did you claim you didn't see Mr. Hamilton at the Billingsgate ball on Saturday? That he was Sean Hamilton, not John? I've heard you call him Sean, and Lord Lincolnshire calls him that as well, but it's just a nickname, after all."
"Mr. West seems to think Mr. Hamilton is in Wales for some reason. I didn't want to argue with the president of the Royal Academy. Better to go along with what he said, I was thinking."
Rachael exchanged puzzled glances with her sisters. "I don't know about that."
Corinna gave what she hoped was a casual shrug, then smiled at Lady A, who was approaching with another man in tow.
"I cannot understand why everyone thinks Mr. Hamilton is in Wales," the older woman muttered darkly. And then more graciously as she drew near, "Mr. Mulready, I'd be pleased for you to meet Lady Corinna Chase. Lady Corinna, this is William Mulready."
Mr. Mulready looked much younger than Mr. West, probably not a decade older than Corinna herself. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear," he said in an accent that reminded her of Sean.
That thought made her smile. "Oh, Mr. Mulready, your painting in last year's Summer Exhibition was my absolute favorite!"
She wasn't making that up; the enthusiasm in her voice was genuine. And judging from the man's expression, he rather liked hearing it. "Which one, my dear?" he asked.
Academicians were allowed to display six paintings each—works that were hung without question, without being judged by the committee. "The Fight Interrupted. I adore the seventeenth-century Dutch masters, and it reminded me of their work. An updated version, if you will."
"I too admire the Dutch masters," he said, sounding like he also admired her for admiring them. "Their work inspired The Fight Interrupted."
Encouraged by how much better this was going than her last conversation, Corinna started inching Mr. Mulready toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire. "I also much admire your wife's landscapes, Mr. Mulready."
"Elizabeth does lovely work."
"Since you married a female artist, may I assume you don't disapprove of us?"
He laughed, apparently enjoying the saucy question. "A valid assumption. I've had a look at your paintings, my dear. Your own landscapes are quite remarkable."
Oh, this was going astoundingly better. "Here is my latest portrait. What do you think?"
"Lord Lincolnshire, isn't it?" Cocking his head, he perused the picture. "I think, Lady Corinna, that you've truly captured the essence of the man."
Corinna couldn't help but grin. She couldn't think of a more wonderful compliment than hearing she'd captured the essence. That was exactly what she tried to accomplish, not only with this portrait but with all of her paintings.
And the score was now two to one. Mulready and Hamilton on her side, and only Benjamin West on the other. Clearly her chances were good.
She loved William Mulready.
Until she heard the next words out of his mouth. "But he seems a wee bit…stiff."
"Stiff?"
"Yes, stiff. I've had the pleasure of meeting Lord Lincolnshire—quite the art collector, isn't he?—and he struck me as a relaxed sort of fellow. It's something about this fellow's frame beneath his clothing that looks stiff, I think…" Smiling, he patted her on the shoulder. "Not to fret, Lady Corinna. Your landscapes are brilliant. I'm sure the committee will be more than pleased to choose one of them."
She didn't want them to choose a landscape. She was no longer sure she even wanted to submit any. She was going to have to fix Lord Lincolnshire's portrait.
"How is it going?" Alexandra came and asked when Mr. Mulready had walked away.
"He likes my landscapes."
"Well, that's good, isn't it?"
"He's not nearly as impressed with my portrait. He thinks Lord Lincolnshire looks unnatural beneath his clothes. And Benjamin West said the same thing."
"Oh, my. I think you need a rout cake."
Alexandra fetched one from the platter and handed it over. Corinna bit into it morosely, thinking she could use their luck.
No matter that she disbelieved such nonsense.
"How many works will be chosen?" Alexandra asked.
"There were nearly a thousand in last summer's Exhibition."
"Well, then, I should think your chances will be good."
"But there were more than eight thousand submitted. And there are eighty Academicians who get to show six pieces each, which leaves only five hundred twenty for the rest of us."
"Only five hundred twenty," Juliana said with a laugh as she joined them. "I should think there'd be room for one of yours in all of that. And I cannot believe you did that calculation that fast."
Juliana never had been very quick with numbers, but that was beside the point. "I've done that calculation a hundred times," Corinna admitted. "At the very least."
"How are the pieces chosen?" Juliana asked.
Corinna was about to confess ignorance when a man stepped up and gave a little bow. "I'd be pleased to explain to such fine ladies." Although he wasn't anywhere as handsome as Sean, he too had a similar lilting accent. She'd had no idea so many Academicians were Irish. "Martin Archer Shee, at your service," he added.
Martin Archer Shee had studied with the late, great Sir Joshua Reynolds. Corinna was awed that such a man would bother to introduce himself, let alone take time to explain a mysterious procedure. "I'm Corinna Chase, and I'd adore hearing all about it."
"It's very pleased I am to meet you, Lady Corinna. The process is a simple one, if a wee bit tedious. The works are marched past the Committee by a chain of human art handlers. The first round cuts the mass of submissions to about two thousand, and the next round is much more rigorous. From the Academy's earliest days, two metal wands have been used to stamp labels attached to each painting. One wand is surmounted by a letter D, the other by a more ominous X. A work which receives the vote of three or more Academicians is awarded a D for 'Doubtful' and passes to the next round of selection. Works which get the X are eliminated. The rounds are repeated until the paintings that remain are reduced to a reasonable number. Beef tea is served to keep the Academicians' spirits up during the ordeal." His eyes twinkled. "Which isn't really very much of one, in reality. Hanging the exhibition is a much more arduous affair."
"That takes days," Corinna told her sisters. "More than a week."
"With much politics involved regarding whose picture goes where. All done in a veil of secrecy, to protect the Hanging Committee from being hanged ourselves."
Mr. Shee smiled at his own joke; a quite engaging grin, Corinna thought. "Thank you kindly for the explanation."
"I'm much impressed by your work, Lady Corinna. Your textures are quite admirable. I wish you the best of luck in the selection process," he added before taking his leave.
Corinna turned to her sisters. "He likes my work," she breathed. Maybe her chances weren't so dire, after all. "Martin Archer Shee likes my work. And he studied with none other than Reynolds."
"Ah, but I wrote Life of Reynolds," another man said, rivalry evident in his tone.
He stepped up to take Shee's place. Though she'd never seen him before in her life, Corinna knew who he was immediately. "James Northcote, I'm honored to meet you. I read your book four years ago, when it first came out, and I found your recollections of your old master to be quite enlightening."
"He was an enlightening man," Northcote said. "And a discerning one. He'd have been impressed, as I am, with your portrait of Lord Lincolnshire. The man's suit looks like real velvet, his lace truly handmade, the trees in the background wet and glistening. An admirable endeavor, Lady Corinna. Not perfect, of course. The underlying anatomy seems a mite off, and—"
"I'm so pleased you think well of it," Corinna interrupted before she was forced to hear that complaint again. "I realize it's not usual for a female to paint portraits."
"Half the things that people do not succeed in are through fear of making an attempt," he told her solemnly. "You've an excellent start. I wish you well in proceeding with your portrait career."
"I think you have a good chance," Juliana said as he walked away. "He sounded very impressed with your realism."
Corinna smiled at her sister's use of one of the newest terms in art. But then she sighed. "He didn't think the underlying anatomy looked very real."
"He said you have an excellent start."
"Exactly. One doesn't submit a painting that looks like a start, does one? Clearly he was implying I need more practice."
She mentally counted her votes. Against: Benjamin West and James Northcote. For: John Hamilton and Martin Archer Shee. William Mulready would vote for a landscape but not for a portrait.
She wanted to submit a portrait.
Well, maybe Mr. Mulready or Mr. Northcote would vote for her portrait if she fixed it. And there were four other committee members. With either Mulready or Northcote on her side, she needed only two of them to swing the vote.
"How are things going?" Lady A asked, joining their little circle.
"All right," Corinna said. "Mr. West was lukewarm, but Mr. Shee said he was impressed by my work, and so did James Northcote." She wouldn't mention that Mr. Northcote had also said she needed improvement in portraying anatomy.
"Mr. Hamilton will certainly vote for you, although I'm still miffed with him for not attending. He could have influenced the others positively. What did William Mulready have to say, my dear?"
"He loves my landscapes, but he's not as enthusiastic about the portrait."
"Well, that doesn't signify, now, does it? My daughter painted wonderful landscapes. You should be happy enough to get a landscape into the Summer Exhibition."
Corinna wasn't certain that would make her quite happy, but she didn't say so. She didn't want to sound ungrateful. She was thankful to Lady A for giving her the opportunity to meet all the committee members, even if things weren't working out the best.
Besides, things weren't looking all that dire, either. She needed only two more artists to love her work, and she had four more chances to find them.
"I spoke with William Beechey," Lady A added. "I'm sorry to tell you, my dear, that it doesn't seem he approves of females painting portraits."
Corinna couldn't say she was surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. A portrait painter himself, Mr. Beechey had painted the royal family and nearly all the most famous and fashionable people. A steady stream of very sober portraits. Obviously he took life seriously and wouldn't be wanting competition from anyone, let alone from female artists. "Well, then, I don't need to meet him. There are still three committee members I've yet to speak with."
Lady Balmforth threaded her way to them. "I talked to William Owen," she reported. He was principal portrait painter to the Prince Regent.
"And?" her sister asked.
Lady B just shook her head. Mournfully.
Another artist to cross off Corinna's list. Now there were just two left…and her stomach felt as though rocks were collecting inside it.
"How about Henry Fuseli?" she asked. "Or John James Chalon? Have either of you talked to either of them?"
"Our sister has one of Mr. Fuseli's pictures in her bedroom," Lady B said. "Let's ask her if she'll introduce you."
Lady A nodded. "That would be good. I'll find Mr. Chalon in the meanwhile."
As Lady B took her to find Lady C, Corinna wondered what sort of picture the woman had in her bedroom. That she had one at all was rather intriguing. Mr. Fuseli painted weird, often sensual scenes, fantasies that were daringly inventive. His most acclaimed painting, The Nightmare, was an unforgettable image of a woman in the throes of a violently erotic dream.
She was a bit nervous to meet Mr. Fuseli. He seemed attracted to the supernatural, and he was bound to hold strong opinions. She almost hoped Lady Cavanaugh would be too hard to find.
But she wasn't, of course. The house simply wasn't large enough to get lost in it. Lady B found her sister very easily, and Lady C was positively pleased to provide the introduction.
Mr. Fuseli had masses of curly white hair and a face that looked oddly like a lion's. He'd already examined Corinna's artwork on the walls.
"Your paintings are very well done," he told her in a booming voice. "Very accurate, Lady Corinna."
"Thank you, Mr. Fuseli. I admire your paintings, too. I'm inspired by your inventiveness. I find your work fascinating. Very visionary."
"I do believe that a certain amount of exaggeration improves a picture."
Was that a criticism? He'd described her work as well done and very accurate. She always did her best to portray the truth or, as William Mulready had put it, to capture the essence. There was nothing exaggerated in her pictures at all.
"Our ideas are the offspring of our senses," he continued.
What was that supposed to mean?
"It was lovely speaking with you, Lady Corinna," he concluded. "I wish you the best of luck."
That was it? He was done? She hadn't the barest idea what he'd been talking about, or whether he'd liked her pictures.
Her sisters appeared as if by magic—or perhaps as if they'd sprung from one of his strange paintings. "What did he say?" Juliana asked.
"I don't know, exactly. He didn't quite make sense. But he did wish me the best of luck."
"Then he goes in the for column," Juliana said firmly, being the type to always look on the bright side.
Corinna wished she were half so certain. But maybe Mr. Fuseli did like her paintings. And there was still John James Chalon.
The crowd seemed to be thinning out. Spotting Lady A, who was looking rather flustered, Corinna made her way over to see her.
Her sisters followed in her wake.
"Did you talk to Mr. Chalon? Did he say he was willing to meet me?"
"I couldn't find him," Lady A said. "It seems he's left."
"Oh, no. He was the last committee member." Her final opportunity to convince herself she still had a chance. "Now I won't know if he liked my portrait."
"It's all right, dear." The sweet lady smiled. "Everyone loved your landscapes. This all went brilliantly, don't you think?"
Corinna nodded. It was all she could manage. Her only other options were to scream or to cry.
"Have another rout cake," Alexandra said.