because of his uncle and this was a very mature and quite unusual approach among those gifted, or cursed, with artistic talent. She didn’t speak again, aside from occasional questions about the buildings they passed as they made their way towards the Strand. Finally they drew towards St Mary le Strand and pulled up in front of the neoclassical façade of Somerset House where the Royal Academy was housed.
‘Oh, here we are! That was so very quick! Oh, come!’
She almost jumped from the hackney, waiting with clear impatience as Max paid the driver, her hand straining on his arm as he led her through one of the three tall arches into the Somerset House complex and towards the winding staircase leading to the Exhibition Room at the top of the building. Her eyes moved hungrily over the decorations that marked their passage, the sculptures by Wilton and Bacon, and the ornamented landings with occasional benches for the visitors to rest as they climbed the long staircase.
‘It’s a good thing you didn’t bring Marmaduke,’ he remarked halfway up and she looked up at him, laughter chasing away some of her intentness, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t flag on the stairs, as did many women who had stopped to rest and fan themselves and gossip, for which Max was grateful since it meant that beyond nodding at his acquaintances, he did not have to speak to anyone, though he was aware of the curious stares directed at them.
‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked her, curious about the seemingly boundless energy she radiated.
The question cut through her concentration.
‘Tired?’ she asked in obvious confusion and he indicated the steep stairwell.
‘You’re going up these at breakneck speed.’
She flushed guiltily.
‘Sorry, but I am so excited. And I am very used to climbing up and down the cliffs near Ashton Cove. My favourite place to draw is a little bay just to the west of where we live and there is quite a steep ascent. These stairs don’t really compare. I will slow down if it is too fast for you, though.’
‘Don’t be cocky,’ he said easily and she laughed. They had just made it to the final landing and he turned her to him.
‘Before we enter the Exhibition Room and I lose your attention utterly, you should probably tell me your name in the event we have no choice but to speak to someone. It would be a bit embarrassing to introduce you simply as the girl with the pug.’
She was straining forward like a racing horse against the gate, but that checked her and her eyes widened.
‘You are quite right. How foolish, but I hadn’t realised...still, we haven’t been introduced formally so it is not at all surprising. I am Sophie Trevelyan. And you?’
He hesitated. He had initiated this, after all.
‘Max...’
‘Harcourt!’
Max squared his shoulders and turned towards the exquisitely dressed dandy who was approaching them from the Exhibition Room. His shirt points were so high his amiable face seemed to bloom from the middle of a tight white flower. He stopped and bowed to Sophie, raising one brow expectantly. Max resigned himself.
‘Miss Trevelyan, this is Lord Bryanston. Bry, this is Miss Sophie Trevelyan.’
‘Trevelyan! That’s a West Country name, isn’t it? Do you live near Max?’
Before Max could respond, she extended her hand properly and answered with a warm smile.
‘Yes, we are neighbours. How do you do, Lord Bryanston?’
He assessed her with a practised eye and bowed gallantly over her hand.
‘Much better now, Miss Trevelyan,’ he replied, his eyes wide and appreciative. Her captivating laughter rolled out and two men who had been inspecting the Carlini sculpture at the top landing turned, one of them raising a curious quizzing glass towards them.
‘I hadn’t realised the exhibition began out here,’ she remarked with such a mixture of innocence and mirth that Max wasn’t surprised to see Bryanston’s gaze sharpen, like a dog catching the scent of prey.
‘Neither had I,’ Bryanston responded. ‘And to think I almost managed to find an excuse not to accompany my aunt here today. My luck is definitely in. I should go lay a wager while it lasts. Max, be a good fellow and bring Miss Trevelyan over to join our party.’
‘Not this time, Bry.’ Max replied firmly.
‘Here, what kind of friend are you?’ Bryanston protested and turned to Sophie. ‘I don’t know why I put up with him. He’s as stiff-necked as those statues over there and about as warm.’
‘At least I’m not as gaudy as a potted plant. Where the devil did you get that atrocity of a waistcoat, Bry? It reminds me of one of my grandmother’s dressing gowns.’
‘Have you no discrimination, you heathen? I personally designed this with Stultz! That’s what your parents get for naming you after some marauding Welsh warrior.’
‘He was a Roman, he just married a Welshwoman.’
‘That’s worse. They wore sheets.’
‘I think your choice of colours is very creative, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie interceded. ‘Not many people would have thought of putting saffron together with puce like that.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ Max muttered. ‘I think your aunt is trying to catch your attention, Bryanston, so run along now.’
Bryanston half-turned in alarm, restricted by his high shirt points.
‘Have some pity, man. Between my aunt and Lady Pennistone I am being reduced to emotional rubble. You clearly have a kind heart, Miss Trevelyan, convince the cold brute to join us.’
He grinned appealingly at Sophie, but before she could respond Max took her elbow, urging her towards the entrance of the Exhibition Room.
‘Go charm your aunt before she writes you out of her will, Bry.’
‘Good day, Lord Bryanston,’ Sophie said properly as they moved forward, but the laughing smile she directed at Bryanston was so vivid Max wasn’t surprised that his friend remained standing on the steps with his hand held dramatically to his breast in what might have been a very successful Byronic pose if not for his irrepressible grin. Max considered enlightening Sophie as to the lack of wisdom in encouraging the likes of Bryanston when he realised it was too late, he had clearly lost her attention.
They had entered the great Exhibition Room and she stared in awe around the enormous space, her head back and lips slightly parted. He had been here so often, he had forgotten how powerful the impact of entering the enormous hall could be during the Summer Exhibition. For someone like her it must be overwhelming. Hundreds of gilt-framed paintings jostled each other on the walls of the enormous space, lit by the wide, arced skylights that dominated the ceiling. Dozens of fashionable men and women were moving idly around or seated on the low olive-green sofas in the centre of the room. The cavernous buzz of voices swallowed her gasp of surprise. She took a step forward and then, as if suddenly conscious of his presence, she turned back to him.
‘Oh, thank you for
