Page 110 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Meanwhile, Stella was still waiting for her life to begin. A life where she wasn’t an awkward third party on the fringes of some other couple’s happily-ever-after, but one where she had a happily-ever-after of her own. She’d already been waiting so long.

And for what? Not love itself, but a chance at love. A chance to fall in love with him, and to make him love her in return.

Granted, the former required little effort. Her attraction to Teddy hadn’t faded during the last month. Rather the reverse. It had only grown as a result of their frequent proximity. It made her notice his dwindling interest in her all the more.

Despite the long hours spent in each other’s company, he gave no indication that he was pining for her, or longing for a repeat of the kisses they’d shared when he’d proposed. He was solely focused on his work.

She was his model, not his sweetheart.

But they were still engaged, she reminded herself. And a July wedding was surely better than no wedding at all.

“July isn’t so far away,” she said.

“It is for this piece. It’s already too late to submit it to the Royal Academy for the Annual Exhibition. Had we not suffered these delays, I might have already done so.” Teddy’s brush slashed over the canvas. “Not that they would have accepted it. They rejected Whistler’s piece readily enough. That’s why he had to resort to a private showing.”

And to a spate of poor reviews, Teddy might have added.

Stella was well aware that the new style he espoused wasn’t yet widely accepted. It was a risk, posing for him. She might, in the end, be made notorious.

Or not.

She could scarcely tell. Just as when he’d sketched her in Hampshire, Teddy wouldn’t permit her to see his unfinished work. He covered the canvas with a cloth drape when he wasn’t working on it.

“Perhaps you could ask Mr. Whistler to render his opinion on your progress?” she suggested. She knew Teddy had written to the man before, and that he’d received a cordial reply. But the two hadn’t yet met, not as far as she was aware. “You admire his work so. His thoughts might be of value.”

“I don’t show my work to anyone until I’m finished. Not even other artists, if I can help it.” Teddy picked up more paint from his palette with the flat of his brush. “In any event, Whistler isn’t in London. He’s been in Amsterdam since April.”

“You wrote to him again?”

“I did. There’s to be an exhibition of works that have been rejected by the Paris Salon. I encouraged Whistler to submit The White Girl.”

Stella’s brows lifted. “Whistler’s piece was rejected from the Salon as well?” This was the first she had heard of it.

The Royal Academy and the Salon des Beaux Arts represented the two most significant art societies in existence. The fact that Whistler’s painting had been rejected from both surely didn’t bode well for the prospects of other newer artists who were painting in unconventional styles.

“It was,” Teddy said. “Along with most of the other paintings submitted. The salon jury has lost all sense of proportion. There was such an uproar from the artists, that the emperor ordered the rejected works be exhibited alongside the accepted ones. They’re calling it the Salon des Refusés.” He translated for her. “The Exhibition of Rejects.”

She gave an exaggerated wince at the name.

“It’s better than the paintings getting no exposure at all,” Teddy said. “And so I told him.”

“Would you ever consider showing your own work at such an exhibition?”

“Would you not?”

“I don’t aspire to display my work for the public’s approbation.”

“You should,” he said. “It deserves recognition.”

She felt a flush of pride. “Perhaps someday. Until then, it’s your work that must be in a museum or a gallery somewhere.”

“I’d prefer the Royal Academy,” he replied frankly. “But I’d consider any showing, public or private—even an exhibition of rejects, if it came to it. Providing I can finish this piece before the month is out.”

Stella refrained from pointing out that there was little hope for that. Not given their current circumstances. Unless…

“We could always do as Tom suggested,” she remarked, feeling Teddy’s frustration emanating from across the room.

“What’s that?”