Eight
I returned to the townhouse late in the afternoon and informed Mrs. Ryan of my plans for the evening.
“I’ll prepare an early supper then. And yer sister, Mrs. Warren?” she inquired.
“An evening out. I believe she may be trying to escape for a few hours.”
That brought a smile. “I remember it well, from when my Mary was a baby.” She paused at a memory that I knew was still painful and undoubtedly always would be.
“I have a gift for the wee thing. If you would be good enough to give it to Miss Lenore. It’s a small thing, but I thought of her when I saw it.”
She was quite fond of my sister. They had experienced that tragic loss together—the death of Mary Ryan, who had been my sister’s personal maid, found murdered after both disappeared.
It was that first inquiry case when I refused to be set aside by the Metropolitan Police, one Chief Inspector Abberline, as an overwrought, meddlesome woman. It was also the first time I worked with Brodie, much to his disapproval at the time.
A great many things had certainly changed over the few years since with Brodie now a part of my life—most of the time. Not that I was complaining.
“And what of Mr. Brodie?” she inquired. “Will he be joining you this evening?”
“He is off on some business for a client,” I replied, and said nothing more.
I worked at my writing desk in the front parlor, updating the notebook that I always carried.
I then went upstairs to select a gown for the exhibit at the gallery that evening, but not before bathing in the new shower compartment that I had installed several months earlier.
It was an amazing invention, with warm water pumped from a coal-fired tank in the kitchen into a copper holding tank mounted above the compartment.
The only thing necessary for one to do was to open the valve on the holding tank and warm water showered down from above.
Brodie was especially fond of the shower compartment.
But I digress.
I dressed for the evening and went downstairs to supper. Linnie arrived shortly after in somewhat of a dither, which I gathered had to do with leaving young Catherine for the first time and for several hours.
“I do hope James can manage. He was most insistent that I continue with plans for the evening. Can you imagine? A man wanting to care for an infant?”
I thought her quite fortunate in that regard. The male of our species was not well known for such domestic responsibilities.
She requested a towel to clean a spot on the shoulder of her gown where Catherine had anointed her before departing.
Bravo, Catherine, I thought, those were my sentiments exactly about art exhibits that were usually quite boring. Mrs. Ryan provided her expertise in taking care of such situations with a cotton cloth and a powder that she rubbed into the fabric.
“Baking soda,” she informed us. “It will soak up a stain unless it has grease in it.”
“Perhaps this was not the time for going out,” Linnie continued to dither. “Catherine is still quite young. And if there should be a situation … And now with this stain?”
“You haven’t been out as yet,” I told her. “It will do you good. And the stain has removed itself.”
We set off.
“This is very exciting,” she commented. “I met the artist when we were in Paris. He is very talented, and now his own exhibit with a collection of new pieces he’s been working on the past year. And it seems that he will be in London for some time.”
Exciting was not precisely the word I would have chosen. Yet I wanted to support my sister, and it was the first time she had been out and about socially since little Catherine made her debut.
The gas lights across the front of the building glowed and a sign on the street announced the collection of Simon La Geness . I remembered the name, although I had taken myself off during my sister’s Paris exhibition and had not previously met the artist.
It did seem as if there would be an impressive attendance as the driver eased the coach into the queue of other coaches and carriages outside the main entrance. An attendant opened the door, and we joined other guests who entered the building.
I had attended the Grosvenor Gallery on other occasions, more recently in a previous inquiry.
That specific visit had begun simply enough in attendance with Linnie, Aunt Antonia, and Lily, with no warning how the events of the evening would endanger everyone. A particularly difficult case some months before.
“Is the stain on my shoulder gone?” Linnie asked as we approached the exhibit hall for oil and water-color portraits.
“Nearly,” I replied. “However, I believe that it does add a touch of motherly flair.”
She gave me a withering look. “Catherine has claimed my entire wardrobe since her arrival. It is quite an adventure, dear sister. You should consider it.”
Yes, well, perhaps it was best that role was left to Linnie. I had visions of dark-eyed, dark haired, devilish little Scot babies and shook off the thought.
“You are a wonderful mother,” I told her. “We shall leave it at that.”
She smiled. “Catherine is so sweet-tempered. James has said he would like a half dozen.”
A half dozen?
As we reached the entrance to the hall, Linnie showed a member of the gallery staff the engraved invitation she had received, and we proceeded inside.
Unlike that previous encounter, I was quite content to let my sister enjoy the evening, as we were greeted by people she knew in the art community, while I went my way and observed the various artists’ works that were there as part of the display over the next month.
There were several paintings from artists I recognized, in both oils and water colors—all those hours spent in Paris museums and galleries while we were at school. And far more I did not recognize.
I was no expert; however I could identify the Impressionist style, and something Linnie called the New Impressionist Style.
We eventually found each other once more, as she informed me that Monsieur La Geness’s pieces were across the way where several patrons had gathered and seemed to be speaking among themselves with considerable excitement.
Or perhaps excitement might have been an understatement, as I caught several comments of those who stood about the exhibit, including dismay, more than one exclamation of surprise, and a haughtily muttered, “What do you expect from a Frenchman?”
I was most curious.
“Oh …” Linnie said, as we joined them and viewed the paintings in La Geness’s new collection. It took her a moment to recover.
“The invitation called the exhibit “ Les femmes. ”
“I would say it is most natural ,” I replied.
There were three portraits on display, arranged in a half circle to take advantage of the light, with the one in the middle raised on a platform.
“They’re very much in the style of Manet,” Linnie commented. “It has become quite prominent in the Paris art colonies,” she explained amid the somewhat shocked comments from the other guests.
“They are quite ...” She seemed to search for the appropriate word.
I thought it was most entertaining.
“Provocative?” I provided.
“I suppose that would be the word.”
Scandalous was another word that came to mind and apparently several other guests were of the same opinion, I thought with some amusement.
Some were curious, with questions for the artist, while some of the ladies glanced askance at the portraits, yet glance they did.
More than one sniffed with apparent indifference, yet continued to stare, much to my amusement. Others, however, were complimentary to the artist and showed a true appreciation for art, with questions about the inspiration for the paintings as well as his use of light and shadow on his subjects.
The particular technique La Geness had used was in muted tones for the background in each that emphasized the sensual lines of the subject in each painting, a woman very scantily clothed or not at all.
The painting in the middle of the exhibit portrayed the model with long dark hair, standing as though before a mirror with a small mirror in hand, her other hand raised as if touching her hair. She was young, quite pretty, with a pensive expression as if waiting for …
What, I wondered?
The answer might have been in her costume or what there was of it. It was a long, draped gown in what appeared to be a sheer silk, quite revealing, with a bright red ribbon tied about her waist. Much like a package to be opened?
The tails of the ribbon fell to her knees and barely covered that most intimate part while the sheer silk emphasized her breasts, with nothing left to the imagination. The title of the painting was equally suggestive— ‘Waiting.’
One of the other paintings was a side-view of a naked young woman, her face hidden behind her raised arm as she held up her long dark hair, her back arched, a breast exposed, the lines of her body sensual and revealing. The title of the painting— ‘Desire’ —was as provocative as the portrait itself.
The third painting was also of a young woman, seated with a shawl wrapped around her lower body, her arm shielding her breast, her hair down about her shoulders and back. And like the other portraits, it was both innocent and seductive in what it suggested.
Yet, it wasn’t the young woman’s innocence, but an almost sad expression caught in profile, her half-naked body exposed for all to see.
“For heaven’s sake, Mikaela. You’re staring! It isn’t as if you haven’t seen similar subjects before in paintings we saw while in Paris.”
Before I could respond we were greeted by a thick French accent.
“Madame Warren, I had hoped that you might accept my invitation. And you have brought a guest,” Monsieur La Geness greeted us.
“ Oui , my sister, Lady Forsythe.” Linnie made the introduction.
He nodded and took my hand, his expression warm, perhaps even a bit flirtatious.
“I am honored that you would come to see my work.”
I caught the overlong look he gave me as he held onto my hand.
“Most exquisite,” he said then.
Not a word I had heard before.