Of all of Jacob’s friends, Ricardo had been the first to condole her on her bereavement.
He’d also offered to serve as her agent and had sworn the idea was his alone and not a bequest from Jacob.
“I’m working on a portrait at present.” Psyche had stayed up quite late to finish lining out the image on canvas the previous night. While her hand had wielded the pencil, her body had hummed with the pleasure of Michael Delancey’s attentions.
He’d wanted her plainly enough in the physical sense, and she’d been ready to tear his clothes off for purely unartistic purposes. Savoring the novelty of his desire had been the better course, though. His regard was a far more respectful, complicated business than a drawing master’s selfish lust or Jacob’s jocular attempts at duty.
Michael luxuriated in the expression of his desire. He did not pounce and paw, nor did he behave as if Psyche should be grateful for his notice. He’d left her with much to ponder, but mostly he’d left her with the certain knowledge that she was desirable and special to him.
The mind and heart boggled, and—cautiously—rejoiced.
“The portrait,” Ricardo said, locking a metal safe built into a wardrobe, “can keep, unless it’s a commission promised by a date certain. The flower girls are selling now. Strike while the iron is hot, Psyche.”
“One of Jacob’s favorite sayings.” Though she did not aspire to become known as the creator of cheap shop-window prints.
“And you were Jacob’s favorite lady. He’d delight to see you doing so well.”
Psyche should be delighted, but instead she felt uneasy. Public approval of her work meant change, and the change she wanted to focus on at present was Michael Delancey’s role in her life. The other change she sought—success as a portraitist—would not be aided if she publicly claimed the flower girls as Psyche Fremont’s work.
“The success belongs to Henderson,” she said. Ricardo would enable her to support the fiction that a promising young fellow named Henderson had created the flower girl series, for as long as she wanted to continue that fiction.
Psyche ran a finger down the list of shops stocking her prints. “Mayfair modistes. Lending libraries. Milliners. Are these fine establishments buying the prints for themselves or to sell them on?” They were fine establishments, some of the most fashionable outside of the gentlemen’s clubs and Almack’s.
“They buy the prints both to resell and to own. Complete the series now, and when the great and good return to London, you will see some significant coin, the kind of coin most of us only dream of earning with our painting. Then you can come forth as the artist and commend Mr. Henderson to the flames of history.”
Psyche moved the ledger book and peered at the document below it. “Ricardo, are you still doing forgeries?”
He busied himself arranging a row of copper plates in order of size. “Forgery is a felony. I might do an occasional favor for a friend, but I am not a felon.”
If so, then he was no longer a felon. The document appeared to be some sort of article of indenture, the date several years past.
“You’ll want to add a water stain, a few creases, smear some ash along the edge to disguise the fresh scent of the ink.”
Ricardo finished fussing with his copper plates. “If that were a forgery, I would heed your advice. It’s more in the nature of a replacement or an aid to memory. What have you in mind for the last four flower girls?”
“The next one will be daffodils to symbolize chivalry, though I’ll contrive to have my subject nearly invert the flower, suggesting dishonor instead. After that, an overturned bucket of amaranths and a child intent on salvaging what she can of them. Then maybe muguet in some ambiguous context… I’m not sure about the final image.” A baby abandoned on the steps of a handsome church might figure in the frame somewhere.
“I thought muguet was for happiness or luck?”
Psyche placed the ledger atop the nonforgery. “Lily of the valley is quite poisonous, and thus it can convey sadness, pain, loss, and death, as well as more joyous sentiments. Context tells the tale.” One of Berthold’s aphorisms, roughly translated.
“Henderson would not know that,” Ricardo said, hands on hips, “about the more arcane symbolism.”
“Anybody with a lexicon of flowers would know it.” Psyche rose. “Those are as popular as lexicons for the languages of the fan, glove, parasol, and handkerchief. The language of the lapdog is doubtless in the presses as I speak. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from your cousin?”
Ricardo found it necessary to tidy up a workbench strewn with tools, metal shavings, and various stoppered glass bottles.
“The mail in France is slow this time of year. Philippe is not the sort who’d pretend the letter never reached him. I sent him prints of the flower girls, lest he think my request was on behalf of some mere dabbler. We’ll hear from him, and if he doesn’t have a place for you in his studio, then there’s always Rome.”
France was by far the better marketplace for a female artist, and Psyche was more likely to entice Hazel to visit her in Paris. Would Michael visit her in Paris?
“Patience is one of the seven heavenly virtues,” Psyche murmured, lifting her cloak from a peg behind the door. Patience being a form of prudence.
Ricardo took the garment from her and settled it around her shoulders. “I don’t recall Jacob viewing it thus.”
Michael surely did. “Jacob was not an artist. I hope to have another flower girl for you next week.” After Michael’s portrait was complete.
Ricardo passed over her reticule, gloves, and bonnet. “Excellent. I’ll spread the word, and you can start planning Henderson’s demise.”
“Let’s not be hasty.” Psyche pulled on her gloves. “Henderson is serving me well, and he’s learning a lot from Berthold. My thanks for suggesting those classes. Berthold cannot teach me how to draw, but he can teach me how to better see and portray my subjects.”
Ricardo gazed down at her, his expression for once serious. “Jacob would want you to set the Henderson ruse aside, Psyche. You’ve made your point. The public is noticing your talent. Do it now, or you’ll be stuck in Henderson’s shadow for the rest of your days.”
“Easy for you to say.” Psyche patted his lapel. “You assume the public will be delighted to learn that Henderson is female. You see commissions pouring in, sales soaring. I am not so sanguine. The Royal Academy hasn’t admitted a woman since its founding, and the two ladies who managed to slip in the door decades ago were never permitted any participation in the Academy’s governance. France abolished its equivalent role for ladies, despite an undisputed embarrassment of female artistic talent in Paris alone.”
“Do you want to govern a lot of squabbling painters?”
“I want to paint the serious subjects—portraits, historical themes, an occasional iconic landscape—and be respected and compensated for my talent, just as you are compensated for yours.” The compensation mattered more than it should for a widow of ample means.
Ricardo kissed her cheek. “Four more flower girls first. Then you can do a portrait of every milord in London.”
She’d be happy to start with two or three milords, or even a pair of miladies. Psyche offered Ricardo an exaggerated curtsey. “Your wish, and so forth. Until next week.”