Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait

“Some of the Associates are very strong candidates.”

Of course they were, or they wouldn’t be Associates of the Royal Academy. One didn’t make a fool of old Fotheringale though, not to his homely face.

With silent apologies to the old masters gracing the walls of Buchanan’s offices, he aimed a smile at Foggy.

“Fotheringale is right, of course, but we have only the two slots, and not every Associate is bound to become an Academician.”

The other three committee members glanced at one another, at the cherubs on the ceiling, or out the window, where night had fallen, without the committee making any headway at all. At this rate, they would not have their nominations ready before the holidays, and Buchanan’s wife would kill him—slowly, painfully, with a dull, rusty palette knife—if he missed spending at least some of the Yule season in the country.

“Would anybody care for more tea?” Another round of glances, some of them impatient. “What about something stronger? We’re growing pressed for time, and the Academy is relying on us to nominate people for the available openings.”

“Spot of that cognac wouldn’t go amiss.” That from Henry West, said to be a distant relation of the current Academy chair. “Do we know who has Prinny’s endorsement?”

Fotheringale sat forward, his considerable bulk making the chair creak. “Hang Prinny! It ain’t his Academy, and all this talk don’t change the logical choices. Pritchett does fine work, and Hamlin even better. All those others”—he waved a pudgy white hand at the papers—“hacks, the lot of ’em.”

As head of this little nominating committee, Buchanan knew better than to state a strong preference. He also knew if he didn’t speak up, Pritchett, Hamlin, and any other hack who toadied to Fotheringale would soon grace the Academy’s ranks. “Elijah Harrison’s reputation is growing, and Sir Thomas considers him his heir apparent.”

Fotheringale’s fist banged down on the table, making the candle flames dance. “I’ll not have it! He’s taken his clothes off for money! Ask anybody who studied under that old Frog, Antoine. The day Elijah Harrison is elected as an Academician is the day I withdraw my support entirely from the school.”

At least Fotheringale was predictable. “No one would like to see that, but West has a point: it is the Royal Academy. I’ll have a word with the regent, not because he will ever dictate our membership to us, but because his taste is excellent and his support unceasing.”

In other words, Fotheringale’s money was important, but not as important as the prince’s favor.

“Meet with whomever you damned please,” Fotheringale said, sitting back and tugging his waistcoat down over his belly. “Won’t make a damned bit of difference. Harrison will not do. Next thing, you’ll be nominating women again.”

Dear God, not that old argument. Buchanan scraped back his chair, trying to signal that the meeting was over, but Alywin Moser spoke up.

“Two of our founding members were ladies, I’ll remind you. The ladies exhibit wonderful work as amateurs, and artistic talent doesn’t—”

“Bother that.” Fotheringale heaved himself to his feet. “Mary Moser drew flowers. That made her hardly more than a drawing-room talent, but her father wedged her into the Academy at a time when judgment was lacking and enthusiasm high.”

Moser, who was not officially related to the late lady artist, was on his feet too. “Angelica Kaufman traded portraits with Sir Joshua himself, and Mary Moser’s flowers were worth the notice of Her Majesty!”

“Gentlemen.” Buchanan did not stand. “We can agree that Frogmore is lovely, and that there are not any ladies among this year’s candidates, so perhaps we might adjourn to the drawing room, where a bottle of excellent cognac will fortify us against the night’s chill.”

Or against the committee’s inane pettifogging and posturing.

“Cognac’s one thing the damned Frenchies do right,” Fotheringale grumbled. “But the only thing worse than admitting that Harrison to the Academy—a man who has done no academic work and not a single juvenile portrait, may I remind you—would be admitting a female. I trust I make my meaning clear.”

Behind Fotheringale’s broad back, Henry West sent Buchanan a sympathetic gaze. Harrison was talented, titled, congenial, and had done a number of academic subjects earlier in his career, though portraits were of course more lucrative. Harrison had offended nobody except, apparently, old Fotheringale—the deepest pockets on the Academy’s board.

Buchanan gestured West closer. “Have we ascertained why old Foggy is so set against Harrison?”

West glanced at the rest of the party as they shuffled from the room. “Something to do with a woman.”

Well, of course. The good news was Mr. Harrison wasn’t prone to inconvenient left-handed tendencies. The bad news was Prinny could turn up prudish with all the zeal of a true hypocrite.

Then, too, Harrison had not done a single juvenile portrait.

“Keep digging. We have only a few weeks, and I, for one, do not want to celebrate the holidays listening to Fotheringale’s bile, nor do I want to listen to the hue and cry if Pritchett and Hamlin are elevated to Academician status.”

* * *

Elijah used two fingers to shift Genevieve’s chin a half inch to the right, wanting the firelight to catch her at three-quarter angle.

His model flinched minutely. “I’ve never done this before.”

Urgency pulsed through him, an urgency to capture her, and yet, experience came to his rescue. One must put the subject at ease. If one was going to take a true likeness from a subject, one had to make the experience comfortable.

“Yes, you have.” He adjusted the tilt of her head as if handling beautiful women with transcendently soft skin were an everyday occurrence for him. And because he was a man who so rarely handled anything at all beautiful, he also traced his fingers back along her hairline, indulging in yet another pleasure as if it were of no moment. “You regularly sit in chairs before fires, thinking about…”

He rose to move the candle on the mantel so it would cast a touch of back light. “What is it you do think about, my lady?”

“I’m supposed to think about paying calls, stitching samplers, and reading the Society pages.”

He resumed his seat, close enough that his knee bumped hers, and still not close enough. “And none of that bears any interest for you. Stay just like that.”

Where to start?

Old lessons, lessons from his first boyhood ventures into sketching came into his head. One begins by paying attention.

“I was under the impression that rendering a sketch involved moving the pencil across the paper, Mr. Harrison.”

Still, he did not make the first mark on the pristine page. “You’re nervous. I should think a woman with your looks would be used to men gawking at her, and you’ve dodged my question, so I’ll ask another. You said my interest was preferable to your family’s pity. Why should they pity you?”

Though her position did not shift, her expression did, and now—now—the sketch he would make took shape in his mind.

“I’m not quite on the shelf, and yet my fate has taken on an inevitable quality, like a prisoner awaiting sentencing when there were no witnesses for the defense.”

His pencil began to move, long, curving strokes first. The outline of her came first: graceful, pensive, and full of passion dammed up by a massive, determined reserve.

“You don’t want a husband and children? I can’t believe you haven’t had offers.” He tossed the question out to keep that infinitesimal furrow to her brow, also to establish that between him and his subject, there need not be any secrets. He would be as a blank page to her—no judgments, no opinions, nothing but a sympathetic ear. When he completed her sketch, he would still be a blank page, while every line and shadow on the paper would be imbued with her secrets.

“My sisters are the ones who’ve gotten the offers, usually. There was a bishop last year, old enough to be my father.”

“Bishops can usually provide well.” And were known to have large families. The idea nudged unhappily at his