ribbon, the same black-and-white stone that now hung around Cameo’s neck. Set in gold, with a loop as well as a pin, it could be worn as either a brooch or a necklace.
‘You’re so like your grandmama,’ her mother often said. Her grandmama’s hair had been dark, almost black, and her eyes, though difficult to discern in the portrait, were the same deep blue as Cameo’s, so deep they could appear purple. Violet eyes, her mama called them.
Maud glanced from one painting to the other. ‘Your painting will be just as good,’ she said loyally.
Cameo slipped off her paint-splattered artist’s smock. ‘You’re being much too kind, Maud, and you know it. I’ve got so much to learn, but how can I improve when there is always a luncheon or a dinner or a ball we must attend? And we have to keep changing our clothes. Imagine how wonderful it would be to get up in the morning and be able to paint all day.’
Cameo sighed. She tried to keep her spirits high, but it was difficult. More often now, at night, she despaired. Sometimes she lay awake in bed until she threw back the covers, lit a candle and seized her pencil. Then she drew and drew, sheet after sheet, until dawn came. It was the only way to soothe her sense of being trapped, her frustration. Yet she was forced to play at art, to keep it as a hobby, never learning, barely improving. Without lessons, without a guiding hand, she would never become the artist she longed to be.
Maud’s round blue eyes were sympathetic. ‘Do you really want art lessons so much?’
‘So much that I had the most terrible argument with Papa and Mama.’ She paced the room, her gown trailing across the carpet. Impatiently she hitched it up. ‘I must take matters into my own hands. I’ve got a few ideas.’
‘Oh, no, Cameo.’ Maud’s curls bobbed in alarm. ‘Your ideas are always so reckless. Surely you must obey your parents’ wishes.’
Maud would never do anything of which her parents disapproved.
‘Art is everything to me,’ Cameo said. ‘I will even pay for lessons myself.’
Maud appeared bewildered. ‘But how would you pay?’
In spite of the luxuries that surrounded her, Cameo had only a little money of her own. All her needs were provided for and she was made a small allowance, but that was all.
Her fingers touched her throat. ‘I could sell some of my jewellery.’
Maud’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Not your cameo necklace.’
Cameo smiled. ‘I’ve worn it ever since Mama gave it to me. Just as I’ve worn the name George gave me when I was born.’
‘Cam-mee, because he couldn’t say Catherine Mary.’ The dimple that displayed whenever George was mentioned appeared in Maud’s cheek. ‘And it became Cameo.’
Cameo’s fingers ran over the black-and-white jewel with the woman’s profile carved on to its face. She shook her head firmly. ‘No. I could never sell my cameo necklace.’
But she would do almost anything for painting lessons.
Benedict Cole would understand. She felt convinced of it. No one in her family or any one of her friends, not even Maud, understood her longing, her need to paint. To try to speak of it, to explain to those who didn’t share her passion, was like speaking a foreign language.
In Benedict Cole’s painting at the Academy she’d discerned a flame that burned inside the artist’s heart, which drove him on to create, no matter what the cost, no matter what the risk. She couldn’t describe it but she knew it was there, that flame.
It burned inside her, too.
* * *
After Maud left, Briggs, the butler, entered the drawing room, with a white paper square held aloft on a silver tray. ‘This has come for you, Lady Catherine Mary.’
‘At last!’ Cameo leapt up and reached for the envelope. Her name and address was written on it in strong black letters. ‘Thank you, Briggs. And—no one saw?’
The merest glimmer of a smile showed on the butler’s impassive face. She only ever saw him grin widely at Christmas, when each year she gave him a picture she had painted especially for him, as she’d done since she was a small girl, the results improving somewhat over the years. One could not call the butler family, yet to Cameo he was. All the servants were old friends and allies, people she could trust with her secrets.
‘His lordship has gone to Westminster and her ladyship is resting upstairs.’ Briggs gave a slight bow and discreetly closed the door.
Cameo’s fingers trembled with such excitement she could barely open the seal. At last, to be able to work with a true artist, someone who would understand. Eagerly, she began to read.
Dear Lady Catherine Mary St Clair
In response to your letter regarding painting lessons, I regret to inform you I will not be able to fulfil your request. I have neither the time nor inclination to teach aristocratic society ladies to dabble at art.
Benedict Cole
‘Oh!’ She gasped as if a pail of cold water had been thrown over her.
Tears smarted in her eyes. If he knew how hard she’d tried to learn, to teach herself. How hard she’d fought for lessons, of her desperation, her despair. No, he dismissed her, just as everyone else did.
Her heart sank as she crumpled onto the sofa. She’d convinced herself Benedict Cole was the guiding hand she so desperately needed. She dropped her head in her hands, wiped away another tear. Her hands clenched. She might as well give up.
Just the thought of giving up sparked the flame.
Cameo’s temper burst into life. Fury burned within her as hot as the coals in the grate. How dared he. Dabble at art. The nerve of the man. How dare he presume that simply because of her title she wasn’t serious about art? It was insulting.
Jumping to her feet, she crossed to the oval gilt-framed mirror by the door and surveyed her reflection. How could she convince him?
Off came her pearl earrings and the diamond-studded watch pinned to her bodice. She must appear a serious student of art to make him understand, not the kind of society lady about whom he made such infuriating assumptions. She straightened the white-lace collar and cuffs of her grey morning dress and smoothed down her hair with a nod. Yes, that would do.
For a moment she hesitated. Could she, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair, go to a painter’s studio unannounced when they hadn’t been formally introduced? Her mama would be horrified.
The spark surged inside her.
It wouldn’t be a social call.
Benedict Cole must teach her to paint. Somehow, she would change the artist’s mind.
* * *
The carriage rattled to a stop.
Cameo’s fury and determination had built with every turn of the carriage wheel. As they rolled out of the quiet, leafy square
