Page 41 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Frederick set his quill back in the ink pot and hurriedly got to his feet. Mrs. Lane was one of the artists he and Veronica had commissioned to paint pieces for the gallery’s first exhibition. After he had written to her, offering the commission, she had written back immediately, thanking him profusely, but also asking to see him.
Frederick was intrigued by the unusual request. He made his way downstairs to the parlor to find the older woman waiting. His efficient maids had already filled the tea table with a pot and two cups. At the sight of him, Mrs. Lane got to her feet, wringing her hands together nervously. He noticed a small canvas leaning up against the side of the arm chair behind her, but it was covered with a cloth, preventing him from seeing its contents.
She bobbed a curtsey. “Your Grace. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“Of course.” Frederick gestured to the arm chair. “Please sit.” She perched on the edge, smoothing her skirts, though they were already creaseless, and squeezing her hands tightly in her lap. Frederick could tell she was on edge. He wondered if her nerves were to do with the reason for her visit, or if she was just uneasy being around a duke. He had met Mrs. Lane once before, at a salon held by the Baroness of Hanwell, when he had initially requested her work. He did not remember her being so on edge back then. He offered her a smile. “There is no need to be nervous.”
She returned the gesture, though her smile looked hollow and did not reach her eyes. She was thinner than he remembered, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun that made her look old and worn. Frederick wondered if she had been struggling financially. He was glad he and Veronica had chosen to offer her the commission.
Frederick took a sip from his teacup, hoping it would encourage Mrs. Lane to do the same, and perhaps relax a little. “What is it I can help you with?” he began.
“I am honored to have been given this opportunity, sir,” Mrs. Lane gushed, ignoring her teacup and continuing to wring her hands together. “More than you could know. It is so difficult for a woman to succeed in this field.”
Frederick nodded. “Yes. My mother was also an artist.”
As is my wife—but something kept him from speaking of Veronica. Some part of him that knew that if he brought her into the forefront of his mind again, it would only lead to trouble. Or at least a repeat of their dalliance in the studio earlier that week… And that was a risk he was not willing to take.
Mrs. Lane raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yes,” said Frederick. “Mother was extremely talented, but she also struggled to make her way into the field.” He smiled wryly. “In no small part due to my father’s influence, I must say.”
His own words caught him by surprise.What am I thinking sharing such personal information with this near stranger?Usually people had to pry out even the smallest fragment of information from him. But there was something about Mrs. Lane that made him want to speak. There was something about her, Frederick realized, that he recognized in himself. A heaviness. A sense of loss.
“I am glad you understand, sir,” said the woman. “It gives me hope that you may be open to my proposal.”
Frederick raised his eyebrows. “And what proposal is that?”
Mrs. Lane squeezed her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I know you commission me to create a collection of domestic scenes,” she began, “but I wondered if you might consider allowing me to change the subject matter of my paintings.”
“To what?”
The woman took a long, deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. When she looked back at Frederick, her brown eyes were glistening, but she kept her tears from spilling. “I recently lost my son,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
At once, Frederick understood the change in her demeanor. Understood her skittishness, her thin and frail appearance. And he understood exactly why Mrs. Lane felt like a kindred spirit. He knew all too well how much havoc grief could wreak on a person’s life.
“Mrs. Lane,” he gushed, “I am so dreadfully sorry.”
She nodded. “Thank you, sir.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away hurriedly. “Since my Arthur’s death, I have found it a challenge to paint in my usual style. But I have nonetheless found my art to be very soothing in this challenging time. A way of getting the grief out of my body, as it were.” She shook her head. “I am sorry, that must sound very foolish to you.”
“No,” Frederick said quickly. “Not at all.” He swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat. How many times had he sought refuge in his studio, attempting to paint away his grief and sadness? His sense of utter loss and self-loathing?
“What is it you have been painting?” he asked, his voice coming out softer than he had intended.
Mrs. Lane nodded towards the canvas resting against the chair. “May I show you?”
“Of course.”
She lifted the canvas into her lap and pulled off the cloth covering it. The piece beneath made Frederick suddenly breathless. The painting was dark, and at first glance, the subject was almost indistinguishable. But as he peered closer, he realized Mrs. Lane had created a self-portrait; one expressing the depths of her despair through the painting’s dark colors and blurred lines. It was a daring, experimental work—like nothing Frederick had ever seen before. He could barely pull his eyes from it.
“I have been painting my grief,” said Mrs. Lane. “I hoped getting it out on the canvas might allow me to make sense of it. Make sense, somehow, of the loss of my child.” She blinked away her tears. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not intend to get emotional.”
“It is quite all right. Good artwork should elicit emotion, should it not?” Frederick swallowed down his own emotions which, at the sight of Mrs. Lane’s painting, threatened to overwhelm him. He had been painting as a means of coping with his own loss for years, but never before had he seen such a vivid and visceral depiction of grief. It felt almost as though Mrs. Lane could see inside him. He cleared his throat. “These are the kind of pieces you wish to exhibit at my gallery?”
Mrs. Lane lowered her eyes. “If you will allow it, Your Grace. I know it is very different from my earlier work. Very different from what you commissioned, but—”
“Please go ahead and complete the collection,” Frederick interrupted. He too had seen his own painting style change after the death of his mother. His portraits had become more intense, somehow, as though he was learning to see the darkness in people’s souls. And this self-portrait… as bleak as it was, he could not deny it was magnificent. It would certainly get people talking. There was no way he was going to miss the chance to display these works in his gallery.
His response brought a faint smile to Mrs. Lane’s face. “Thank you, Your Grace. I am very pleased to hear it.” She got to her feet, hugging the canvas to her chest. “I will see to it that you are not disappointed.”
