“I suppose you might start there, then. Tell me what happened.”
“Your mother was a good girl, studious and quiet. She always seemed to have the cares of the world upon her little shoulders. She never smiled or laughed or played like the other children. She was very grave. I felt that perhaps she was an old soul trapped in a young girl’s body. I tried to give her every advantage, an education, and I fed her mind the books she craved. I kept her ignorant of the nature of my profession.”
Had her grandmother been a courtesan?
“I can see that you’re making assumptions. The same assumptions made by everyone, really. Perhaps I am what people call awoman of easy virtue, but not in the way that they judge me. I’m an artist, first and foremost. I was born with a paintbrush in my hand. I had this urge to capture what I saw on canvas, to render it through my eyes and present it to the world.”
Sandrine helped herself to the plate of biscuits, excited to learn more about her grandmother.
“I tend to ramble on sometimes. You don’t want to know all of this.”
“On the contrary, I’m enthralled. I’m a historian by nature. I love to learn the history of people and houses. Tell me about your childhood. I want to know everything there is to know about you.”
“I was always sketching as a girl, and when I discovered paints, my entire world lit from within and I knew that I was meant to paint. My parents recognized my talent and hired an art instructor. I spent many happy years learning the standard techniques. Painting still lifes, landscapes, all the acceptable subjects for a young girl of good breeding.”
“Do I come from a family of consequence, then?”
“My father was a baronet. We weren’t wealthy but we had enough, more than most. I was fortunate to be able to paint, but I chafed under the restrictions. When I visited museums and galleries I saw that male painters were allowed so much more freedom to paint what they wanted than I was. Scenes from antiquity that depicted strife,war, and other horrors. I didn’t want to paint such gruesome subjects, but I also didn’t want to only paint fruit arranged on a table or a park or an idyllic countryside. I wanted to paint real people. The girl who sold fruit from a cart and had such sad eyes. The man on the corner whose leg had been shot off by canon fire and who begged for alms and drank gin to ease his pain.”
“Do you still have those paintings?”
She waved her hand through the air. “In a trunk somewhere. They weren’t very good and they were the cause of much strife. My parents didn’t understand why I couldn’t paint acceptable subjects like other young ladies, so they sought to control me by handing me off very young in an arranged marriage to a much older gentleman who was anything but gentle. He beat me and forbade me to paint. I was miserable.”
“Oh, Ruby, I’m very sorry.”
“It’s the fate of many young ladies in our society. I hope and pray it will never be yours. Does your mother have plans for you to marry?”
Sandrine nodded. “She wants me to wed the village vicar. I don’t think he would beat me, but he would certainly lecture me for hours on end.”
“You shouldn’t be forced to marry someone not of your choosing. If there’s one thing I’d like to instill in you, it’s the truth of that. This is your life, Sandrine, not your mother’s.”
“I’ve begun to see that in my time in London. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back and live the life she’s planned for me.”
“I had your mother at twenty and I thought Imight die. I wanted to die. And then my husband died instead, and I inherited a small living and this property. I was so much luckier than most. My income wasn’t sufficient for the life I wished to lead so I began painting again, accepting portraiture commissions. I discovered my taste for painting nudes—mostly male nudes.”
“You’re very talented. I loved your portraits.” Especially the one of Dane. She’d committed every brushstroke to memory.
“Thank you, dear girl. I’m so glad you didn’t inherit your mother’s distaste for honest and sensual portrayals of the human body. It’s a most shocking and scandalous profession for a widowed lady. If I were a man I’d be able to paint whatever I pleased with society’s approval. A woman is only supposed to serve as the muse for the male artist. And do you know how many muses end up committed to asylums? It’s shocking. They are the muses for the male artist, they give of their bodies and their beauty and are immortalized, but the moment they cause any trouble—poof!—they are made to disappear. And I am the one society vilifies. I who pay my male models good wages and never demand anything other than their consent to paint them. The Duchess of Osborne and I have a charitable foundation that offers scholarships to promising young women artists.”
“A most worthy undertaking.”
“And yet your mother wouldn’t even approve of my charitable works. She’s always attempted to adhere to the highest moral standards, and itnearly killed her when she discovered the means by which I had paid for her education. I wasn’t a good mother in the beginning. I wanted my freedom and I did leave her alone too often. I led a very free existence. Well, you’ve seen how I live.”
“It is difficult to imagine her at the Silver Palace.”
“I didn’t have the salon when your mother was a girl, but I did take lovers as I chose, and I’m afraid that I made mistakes. I’m not without blame in this situation, Sandrine. I was very young when I had your mother, and I sometimes drank too much and had despondent moods. I did love her and I wanted her to be safe, but I also wanted my own life and I was selfish. There were times when she felt neglected because of it. I’ve tried many, many times to make amends to her, but she persists in ignoring my pleas.”
“Thank you for being honest with me.”
“I’m telling you this because I want you to make your own decision about whether you want me in your life. Barbara grew to hate me, but her sister, Dawn, was more like me. A free spirit, a painter, and fiercely independent. I think what Barbara wanted was rules to follow, a conventional path prescribed for her, but I would never do that to a daughter of mine. I told her to live her life on her own terms.”
“She does love her rules. She has so many of them.”
“She hated having an unconventional and scandalous mother. She flew into a rage one day and said she never wanted to speak to me again.She ran off with one of my models, a handsome viscount, and I never heard from her again. I know the viscount didn’t marry her—I’m not sure exactly what passed between them. All I know is that she found and married your father and moved to Squalton and never contacted me again and ignored my letters and pleas for forgiveness.”
“It seems a very harsh judgment.”
“It’s been the greatest sorrow of my life. I’ve kept informed of her life by hiring people to give me news. That’s how I knew of your birth. You were my first grandchild and I’ve never even met you. And look at you! You’re so beautiful, and goodness shines from your eyes. What manner of mother has she been to you? The reports I’ve received have alarmed me somewhat.”