Part 35 (1/2)

Once her uncle had a.s.sured her that he never used the rooms-that he in fact seldom came below stairs at all on account of his gout-she had thrown herself into every detail of planning, striving to make the long, dark room feel as much like her airy Neapolitan studio as possible. She'd had the carpets taken up and the floors left bare, chosen shades of pink (a choice that clearly horrified her uncle) for the painted walls, and replaced the elderly dark furnis.h.i.+ngs with wide garden benches and striped cus.h.i.+ons.

Secretly what she yearned for was much more complicated: a home like the one she'd had to flee in Naples, a place to make her own. It wouldn't have to be grand. She didn't want that, even if she could afford it. What she craved was the warmth and security, and in a strange way, the coziest little nest she'd ever called home had been the tiny cabin she'd shared with Edward on board the Antelope.

She'd done as much of the work as possible herself, an ap.r.o.n around her waist and her hair tied up in a kerchief. She'd toiled not only because she wished to keep her expenses low, but also because she hoped that, if she kept her hands busy, then her head and her heart would be more at peace.

Yet even so, not a minute pa.s.sed that she didn't think of Edward, of how he'd laugh at this or tease her about that, or how the lines etched by the sun around his eyes would crinkle and fan when he smiled at her. She'd worried so much about what had happened to him that day at Whitehall, and though she was convinced it must have been only good-he was simply too fine a man and an officer for it to be otherwise-she still cared too much about him not to worry.

But the sorriest truth was that she worried because she cared, and she cared because she loved him, loved him more each day they were apart rather than less, loved him so much that each night she lay alone in her bed with her hands clenched at her side in the dark and stared at the canopy overhead, unable to sleep, unable to cry.

Most likely he'd already left London, and gone back to sea with new orders, where he'd always be happiest, and happier still without the inconvenience of an unsuitable wife. Most likely, being a man, he'd already begun to forget their wonderfully foolish marriage. For both their sakes, she believed she'd done the right thing-she knew she had-yet all the believing in the world didn't seem to ease the pain and the longing she felt.

But this morning she must concentrate on unpacking, and carefully she grasped the heavy frame with both hands and pulled the first picture from the crate. She pulled off the linen wrap, scanned the surface of the canvas quickly to make sure it hadn't suffered during the long voyage from Naples, and then turned to display it to Uncle Peac.o.c.k, sitting on one of the benches with his gouty leg propped high and eager for his private showing.

”Ah!” he exclaimed with genuine pleasure. ”A view of the Forum in Rome! Very handsome, very handsome! Ca.n.a.letto or Pannini?”

”Giovanni Paolo Pannini,” replied Francesca, setting the first painting down against the wall as she reached for the next. She'd been agreeably surprised by her uncle's knowledge of art; he might not have had her father's talent for painting, but he certainly shared his eye for others' work. It was much of the reason he had given over these rooms to her, to gain a private gallery of his own, too.

One by one she unpacked the paintings and vases, sculptures and etchings from the crates, dividing them into those she would sell, and those that were her father's best treasures and not for sale, until only two boxes remained.

One held the last Madonna she'd painted before she'd left Naples, and as she pulled it from the crate, she remembered the afternoon when she'd taken Edward upstairs to her little studio up under the eaves. That had been the first time she'd seen more to him than the proper English officer. He'd been concerned for her even then, warning her to take care, and she knew if she let herself remember any more, she would cry, here in front of her uncle. But Edward had liked this painting so especially that it was difficult for her to look at it now and not think of him, sentimental fool that she was.

”Ah, now, that one is perhaps the finest of the lot,” said Uncle Peac.o.c.k, nodding with approval. ”The expression in the faces, the empathy and love between the mother and babe is exquisite.”

”I'm glad you see so much in it,” she said softly, bringing the painting closer for him to see. ”It is one of my favorites, too.”

”As it should be.” He peered at the surface through his spectacles, his smile one of pure happiness. ”So who is this rare artist, eh?”

”Francesca Robin,” she said shyly with a disingenuous little laugh. ”And how flattered I am, Uncle, that you'd find such merit in my humble brus.h.!.+”

He looked over his spectacles at her, his eyes carrying exactly the same gleeful glint that her father's had. ”I may be as old as Father Time, my dear, but I am not a fool. False modesty has no place with a gift such as yours. You must be confident in your talent, and take pride in such a rare blessing. Certainly your father did, you know. He claimed you'd surpa.s.sed him, and if this truly is your work, as I suspect, then he was right.”

Francesca flushed. ”I do take pride in my work, Uncle,” she ventured. ”But no one in Naples wished to show it on account of my being female.”

”Then it was high time you left, my dear,” he declared. ”This is a most marvelous painting, worth ten times the rubbish the Academy showed last year. You are to be congratulated, not scorned.”

”But will the dealers and the critics agree?” she asked anxiously.

”If they but use their eyes, they will,” he reasoned.” The love captured here could only be understood so completely by another woman, and that is what makes this painting so special. Even an old bachelor like I can see it, Francesca. It's your gift, but it's also what will set you apart from the men, no matter what they might say. And if my eyes can see it, then every expert in town will as well.”

”But I will not be selling to experts,” she said. ”I intend to invite only my oldest and most loyal English patrons who visited me in Naples, and pray that they will be interested in my work as well as the, ah, the Raphaels and Guidos that Papa and I sold.”

”The forgeries, you mean.” He clicked his tongue, scolding. ”An English gentleman touring through Italy is willing to toss his money away without a thought. He is on holiday in a foreign land, free of guilt and common sense, and because the spending is a pleasure unto itself, he doesn't care if he must later hang the so-called Raphael in the back parlor at home to avoid his friends' mockery. But here in London, he will consider his purchases much more closely, and before they buy a Raphael, he will insist on an expert appraisal, and you, miss, would be exposed.”

”Exposed?” she repeated faintly, not liking the tone of this lecture at all.

”Exposed,” he said again, more firmly, ”and if those experts determine that you willfully intended to defraud your customers, which indubitably you have, then you will be hauled before the magistrates for fraud and deception, and thence to prison. London is not Naples, my dear. We take such matters vastly more seriously.”

”Perdition,” she murmured, and sank forlornly onto the bench beside her uncle. ”It's always been the Raphaels that have drawn the most custom. I do not know if anyone will come for my own work alone.”

”And I say they will,” he maintained. ”Mrs. Cosway, Mrs. Kauffman-they've prospered at painting in spite of being female.”