Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) (26 page)

Outside the window, the trees wilted. It was blisteringly hot. Despite the use of Lady Colchester’s carriage, Harriet’s feet ached. They had covered every art gallery that Lady Colchester knew, from Kensington to Cork Street. She shuffled her feet, trying to ease the tenderness from her toes.

Two weeks had passed since they had arrived at Upper Brook Street. In that time, Harriet and Agatha had been fitted for new dresses. They had dance lessons every day from the over-powdered Mr. Bertrand. Harriet had not been able to hide her mirth. Mr. Bertrand was even more of a dandy than Master Chance, the painting salesman that she had tried to portray. Meeting Madame Dupont also had been a different experience. The seamstress had taken one look at Agatha and refused to do the fitting, despite Lady Colchester promising to pay her a handsome sum. In extremely clear words, she told all of them that it would be bad for her business.

Just what had Agatha done before leaving London that had made Madame Dupont act in such a rude way? And it wasn’t only her. At the few musicales Lady Colchester had taken them to, many of the audience had turned their back on them, and those that did acknowledge them had obviously only done so because they were with Lady Colchester.

“Ahem,” Agatha said quietly.

Harriet looked up to see the ice dripping off her spoon. Whilst she had daydreamed, her ice-cream had fallen into a puddle on the plate.

She sighed and laid the spoon down, the taste in her mouth now bitter. They had stopped in Gunthers as it was close to where they had been searching the galleries of Bond Street. Each owner had shaken their heads at the name Peter Beauregard; they professed to have no knowledge of an exhibition of his works. They had not even seemed interested in seeing the small painting that Harriet had brought with them to show just in case. Noting Lady Colchester’s attendance, they preferred instead to tempt the ladies into looking at the other paintings on offer in the gallery.

Lady Colchester had waved off the carriage and they had moved on further, down Regent Street to Cork Street where the more fashionable galleries stood. But each time they were greeted with a blank gaze and supercilious smirks.

“Perhaps it was all a lie,” Agatha said glumly. “I’m not sure where to go next. I never used to pay attention when Peter mentioned his art. He left for Oxford when I was very young. I didn’t see him much after that. And there wasn’t much opportunity to look at art in Brambridge.”

Art appreciation
did
seem to be a rich person’s hobby. Those proud gallery owners had fixated on Lady Colchester and ignored Harriet and Agatha. Harriet frowned. There had been another lady recently interested in visiting an exhibition, something at the Royal Academy of Art. Who was it—ah yes, Lady Guthrie. Who was she to merit mention in the circulars? Harriet straightened and pushed her plate away from her.

“Where’s the Royal Academy?”

“In the western apartments at New Somerset House on the Strand. They hold an exhibition every year.” Lady Colchester shook her head. “But surely he wouldn’t have gone there. That is for painters of the highest acclaim.”

“Why do you think he might have gone there, Harriet?” Agatha took a last mouthful of her own ice-cream and let her spoon fall to the plate with a clatter. “Sorry.”

“There was a lady in the papers—a Lady Guthrie—“

“Awful woman,” Lady Colchester said.

“She was going to a Turner exhibition that was going to be held at the Royal Academy. From what I read, Turner does very good seascapes. Papa did too.”

Agatha looked doubtful, Lady Colchester even more so. “Only the best artists exhibit at the Royal Academy, Harriet darling, and I’m not sure Peter was classed among their ranks.”

“It’s worth one last try.” Harriet pressed her foot back into her half-slippers and pushed her chair back. Agatha sighed and followed her out of the shop and into the waiting carriage.

Lady Colchester gave instructions to her coach to take them to the north side of Somerset House on the Strand. The other side led straight onto the river and was only accessible by boat.

Leaving the liveried coach on the Strand, Harriet marched the length of the courtyard to the new building that formed New Somerset House, with her painting under her arm, the aches in her feet forgotten. But her step faltered as she reached the large doors to the building. The oak doors stood closed, as if to show that only a part of society could pass beyond the hallowed entrance. She looked down at the parcel under her arm, and then back to Agatha and Lady Colchester behind. Despite Lady Colchester’s kindness, it was still evident that Harriet and Agatha were mere country misses, that their dresses were only serviceable at best. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if they could not find some of their own money.

It was almost certain that they would have to return to Brambridge and beg the forgiveness of Mrs. Madely.

And she would have to see James again.

Harriet swallowed and pushed on the oak doors. They swung open with surprising ease to reveal an enormous staircase that stopped at every floor with entrances on either side to more rooms.

A small reception was tucked to the left hand side of the doors. Harriet stepped into the shadowed lobby and put her hand on the counter. A small man sat on the other side, his head bowed to his work.

“I wish to see the Director of Painting.”

The man cocked his head and moved a paper from one side of the counter to the other. “Who?”

“What do you mean, who?”

The man sighed and looked up finally. “These apartments house the Royal Academy of Arts, my dear. They don’t have directors, they have associates and members.”

Harriet sucked in a breath. She had been too busy taking in the black and white tiled floor and the statues to prepare herself for what she was going to say.

“I, well, I don’t know.”

“Perhaps you could work it out quickly. I have other people to tend to.”

Harriet glanced behind her. A pair of well-dressed men leaned against the staircase banisters, eyeing her speculatively. Broad shouldered, they were dressed in Bath superfine and their breeches molded snugly to their thighs.

Harriet picked her painting off the counter and stood back. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured as the men stepped forward. She watched curiously as the clerk fawned over one of the men who had patches of white hair on his head and limped awkwardly.

“Lord Lassiter.” Lady Colchester’s breathless voice in her ear made her jump. “Reportedly back a few months ago from the war. Extremely rich. Had a funny name in the army as well I believe. Can’t remember what it was. Will need to see the scandal papers.” She nodded toward his friend. “He was on the Peninsular with him too.”

Lady Colchester smiled at Lord Lassiter and turned back to Agatha and Harriet.

“I say. Could not help hearing the young lady’s conversation with the clerk. Wondered if we could help, Victoria?” Lord Lassiter had approached quietly despite his limp and stood beside them.

“Why, Freddie.” Lady Colchester turned. “Might I introduce you to my dear friend, Agatha Beauregard and—” Here she glanced at Agatha and, receiving a nod, she continued, “Harriet Beauregard, her niece.”

“Charmed.” Freddie, Lord Lassiter, leant over Harriet’s hand and kissed it. He looked back up at her and caught her gaze. He reminded her of James. Unwillingly, Harriet held his look and smiled weakly. She didn’t need any more interaction with handsome, battle-weary men.

“As am I, Anthony Lovall at your service.” Anthony pushed Freddie out of the way and took Harriet’s hand in his.

“You can’t treat an injured man like that, old boy,” Freddie said, rapping Anthony on the ankles with a cane. “You know I get first look in on the good-looking ladies.”

“Oh shut up, Freddie. Can’t you see the lady needs help?”

“Of course.” The jesting look on Freddie’s face had gone. In an instant he had turned from the clown to a soldier. Seeing Harriet’s gaze, he pasted a smile on his face once more. “Why do you think I said ‘at your service’? Miss Beauregard, how can we help?”

Slowly Harriet unwrapped the small painting of Longman’s Cove she had carried all morning. “I want to find out which who here might look after this sort of painting,” she said directly. She propped the painting on the counter. “It was painted by my father, Peter Beauregard.”

Freddie patted at his waistcoat and brought a quizzing glass to his eye. He let it fall with a sharp motion. “I’m sorry Miss Beauregard, that can’t have been painted by your father. Anthony, look at the way it is put together. Surely it is a Mompesson? I saw the paintings when I was here last week. There was one just like it.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Lassiter, but this was most definitely painted by my brother,” said Agatha. “Come on, Harriet. We’re wasting time. He must have gone elsewhere.”

“I want to see it,” Harriet said.

“See what?” said Lady Colchester puzzled.

“The painting that looks just like this one.”

“I’ll take you,” Mr. Lovall volunteered.

Freddie pulled out his quizzing glass and, putting it to his eye, surveyed the picture again. “We’ll all go,” he said, glancing over the top of the counter at the clerk who stood awkwardly behind.

The clerk grimaced and threw a handful of tokens onto the counter. Freddie swept them into his hand and handed them to Agatha, Harriet and Lady Colchester.

He put a hand on the painting, his eyes still on the clerk. “And I think I will take this with me too.”

Grasping the painting under one arm, Freddie started up the stairs. Harriet looked at the clerk, who was staring after the painting. With a quick jump, she trotted to keep up with Freddie.

At the first landing, Freddie turned left into a room filled with portraits in soft blue and pink hues. Each portrait was surrounded by a heavy gilt frame, and at least five foot wide.

“Reynolds,” Freddie said knowledgeably.

Harriet gasped. She had read about him in the papers. He had painted everyone. Soft gazes stared out of the pictures. It was utterly unlike the dark portraits in Brambridge Manor. Harriet had only glimpsed them once, but that was enough. 

“This,” said Mr. Lovall as they reached a large light-filled atrium, “is the Mompesson Gallery, otherwise known as the Great Exhibition Room. I’m told that the paintings were left here after the annual exhibition of 1810.”

Slowly the little group spread out across the gallery. “I can’t believe it,” Agatha muttered again and again.

Freddie limped to a halt in front of a small painting. His quizzing glass was already in his hand again. “I say, Miss Beauregard. Here you are, here’s the painting that looks like yours.” He paused and stared at the painting. “Damn me. Exactly like yours.”

Harriet stared in astonishment. It was a scene from Brambridge across Longman’s Cove.

Freddie leaned into the painting and squinted at the bottom right hand corner of the canvas. “Funny that, each painting does seem to be signed with the same PB as on your painting. Peter Beauregard I assume?” Freddie pulled out Harriet’s painting from under his arm and held it up against the one hung on the wall. Harriet nodded and held her hands out for her painting.  Freddie gave her a hard look and then settled the painting in her hands.

“I think I need to sit down,” she murmured, more to herself than anybody else. Freddie nodded and, with a supporting hand under her elbow, led her to a central seating banquette.

As she lowered herself to the seat, she clutched the painting hard, its sharp edges pushing into her arm.

A portly middle aged man trotted into the atrium. “Excuse me young lady,” he called in a strident voice. “I was told by the clerk downstairs…” His voice faltered as he looked at the painting that nestled in Harriet’s arms. His eyes darkened.

“How on earth do you come to have that painting? It is forbidden to fake another artist’s work and pass it off as your own. Either that or you must have stolen it.” Uneasily, the man looked towards the wall where the other similar painting sat innocently. “Mompesson paintings are extremely valuable!” He reached out his hand towards the painting in Harriet’s arms.

“Calm down, Hassock.” Freddie put his cane gently but firmly in the other man’s path. “The young lady means no harm. The painting in her arms is by her father. Peter Beauregard. We merely mentioned how much it was like this painting here.”

He waved his arms over at the painting in the corner.

“Untitled 12?” Hassock said.

“Untitled 12!” Harriet exclaimed, “That’s the view over Longman’s Cove in Brambridge, and the one next to it is the church in Brambridge, and the one next to that is…” she faltered in her speech. “Me.”

Agatha nodded. She sat down with a thump next to Harriet. “Great likeness of Harriet when she was four. Her nose was a bit too big for her face then. And she was constantly running around in bare feet.”

All eyes swung to Harriet’s feet. She tried to shuffle them under the banquette. Did they really think she didn’t have any shoes on now?

Hassock’s face had relaxed slightly as if he had been vindicated. “I’m sorry, Madame, this is all very well, but that particular painting is one of only two with a title because they had words written on the back of the frame. All the others were blank. This one gave the name to the whole gallery—it is called Marie Mompesson.”

“That’s Harriet’s real name,” Agatha  said.

Harriet stood, her mouth open in shock.  Her grasp loosened on the painting that threatened to fall through her arms.

“Watch out!” Hassock cried, stepping forward and reaching out his hands. Harriet bent and caught the picture just before it fell to the floor. She sat back on the banquette with a thump.

Agatha sat down beside her and put a gentle hand on her knee. “I’m so sorry, Harriet. I didn’t want it to come out like this. I was still afraid…”

Harriet laid her head on the frame of the painting and took in a deep breath. The wood bit into her forehead. She was a Marie. Not a Harriet, a Marie. All this time she had been pretending to be other people, Mercutio, Romeo, Juliet, and she had been in fact affecting the greatest masquerade of them all.