Page 23 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Not that the color was visible at the moment. Indeed, he couldn’t see a single strand of Miss Hobhouse’s hair. It was entirely masked by her cap.

He cleared his throat. “Paris. Ah yes. That provided a wealth of experience.”

“You studied with a famous painter, did you not?” she inquired.

She had been asking about him, it seemed.

“I studied at the atelier of Charles Gleyre,” he answered. “Are you familiar with his work?”

“I’m afraid I’m not. Should I be?”

“You definitely should. So should everyone. He’s a brilliant artist in his own right, though he’s largely retired from public life. He devotes himself to teaching now. He’s instructed some of the most promising painters of the new age. Men like Mr. Monet, Mr. Renoir, and Mr. Whistler.”

She abruptly looked away from him, turning her attention back to the canvas.

“Whistler,” he reminded her. “The American artist who painted the piece in the Berners Street Gallery.”

“Oh?” A faint flush of color seeped into her cheeks. She continued studying his landscape. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Regrettably, no. He’d already left Gleyre’s studio by the time I arrived. But I find much to inspire me in the way he works within the confines of a limited palette. Whites and grays and so forth. My own style differs greatly. Still, one can appreciate his genius.”

Teddy had written as much in a letter of admiration he’d sent to Whistler last summer, not long after The Woman in White—then titled simply, The White Girl—had been rejected by the Royal Academy. The American artist had sent a cordial reply, acknowledging their shared connection with Gleyre, and expressing an interest in seeing Teddy’s own work the next time they were both in London.

“Yes,” Miss Hobhouse said. “I suppose he is quite talented in an unusual way.”

Teddy nearly bolted straight up in his chair with excitement. “You don’t mean to imply that you actually went there? That you saw Whistler’s painting?”

Her gaze slid back to his. “I did,” she confessed.

“And?”

“I’ve never encountered anything like it.”

He rolled closer to her. Miss Hobhouse’s reputed skill at sketching notwithstanding, she didn’t strike him as being a learned critic of the arts. Chances were she had only a basic knowledge of the subject, of the sort conveyed to young ladies by their governesses in the schoolroom. Teddy nevertheless craved her opinion.

“You thought it ugly?”

“I thought it strange,” she said.

“It is,” he agreed. “But who’s to say that strange is bad?”

A smile tugged at her mouth. Her eyes again found his. “You have an odd way of viewing things.”

“Not odd,” he said. “Not antiquated, either. Art is changing. It’s no longer a matter of depicting something exactly as it is—some still life of fruit on a carefully draped table. There are other elements to consider. Light. Movement.”

Her brows swept upward in disbelief. “Movement? In a painting?”

“Yes, exactly. It’s the impression of a moment. The shimmer of the changing light on the water. The whisper of the breeze through the branches. The sensuality in the turn of a lady’s countenance.”

Miss Hobhouse visibly stiffened. “I don’t think that’s quite—”

“The elements. Nature. Human desire.”

“Mr. Hayes, really—”

“Which is not to say that any of it’s salacious. It’s alive, that’s what matters. And it’s no longer…” He motioned with his hand, struggling for a way to describe it. “Earthbound,” he managed at last.

Her brow creased. Some of the starch went out of her spine, her offense at his earlier choice of words momentarily forgotten. “It’s no longer earthbound? Do you mean—”