The Art of Love (31 page)

The secret to forgetting Leo was to keep busy, Tara told herself as she tumbled into bed that night, exhausted enough to go straight to sleep. She had decided to go riding the following afternoon, Freddie had invited her to an impromptu card party in the evening, on Sunday morning she would go to church, and she had arranged to meet Philippe for a stroll through Regent’s park afterwards. She had no idea what she would do yet on Monday, but she there was always shopping.

Leo’s meeting with Lord Seaforth about his exhibition plans had proved even more satisfactory than he could have hoped. ‘Your pictures are going to take society by storm,’ Lord Seaforth said after half an hour of silently leafing through Leo’s paintings stacked in his studio, while Leo tried to contain his anxiety as he stood by and watched.

‘Thank you,’ Leo said, his confidence flooding back.

‘Yes,’ Lord Seaforth said thoughtfully. ‘We’ll put up a major exhibition in the spring, but meanwhile, a few pieces displayed in the autumn will not go amiss. Whet the public’s appetite and all that, give them a taste of things to come.’

‘When are you thinking of putting them up?’ Leo asked as casually as he could, somehow not able to believe he was really going to exhibit his work until he was given a specific date. Lord Seaforth drew out a small leather bound diary.

‘First of September,’ he said briskly after leafing through it for a moment. ‘I’ll want six to eight paintings. Could you deliver them to the gallery next Tuesday? Or is that too soon?’

‘Not at all,’ Leo said, pleased with the way his answer came out smoothly, as if her were quite used to arranging dates for exhibitions, while inside he was as jubilant as a child at the prospect of his first show.

‘Good, good,’ Lord Seaforth said. ‘Now let’s have another look at your paintings and select the ones we want for September.’ As Lord Seaforth once more viewed each picture in turn, Leo made plans. He would deliver the paintings to the gallery on Tuesday, where no doubt there would be a lengthy discussion on how best to hang them. He had strong views on the way in which pictures could complement or detract from one another when placed side by side, and he was determined to do everything he could to make his first show a success. Then he would return home and pack the bare minimum of supplies he needed to return to Bournemouth, where he would trade on the hospitality of his aunt and uncle. First thing on Wednesday morning he would set off and if all went well he would arrange to meet with Tara that evening. Perhaps it would be a little premature to propose before his work had actually been put up for sale, but Leo felt that in the light of Mark’s offer to Tara, he could not afford to wait any longer.

On Monday Leo inspected his brushes. His favourites were worn with use, it was time, he thought, to invest in some new ones. There was a little shop in Bond Street specializing in calligraphers supplies that he liked to buy his brushes from. The shop did not particularly cater for artists, but he had found the fine brushes they sold for penmanship ideal for detailing in watercolour and as he intended to leave London as soon as possible, this was the ideal opportunity to stock up before returning to Bournemouth.

In the afternoon Leo took a hackney cab to town and strolled down Oxford Street, enjoying the liveliness of London after the quiet of a small seaside town. He had always thought of himself as preferring the rural peace of the countryside, but Tara was made for city life, and viewing London through her eyes had given him a new appreciation for being at the heart of the greatest city in the world. There were always people on the streets of London, representing all walks of life, while carriage wheels turned continuously along the narrow, cobbled roads. It was a city which never slept, it had a restless energy which Leo felt was epitomised in Tara. Her energy continuously bubbled inside her, giving something incandescent to her nature and he longed to see her again and bring her back to where she belonged.

‘I’m showing a few pictures at the Dulwich Picture Gallery,’ Leo couldn’t resist saying to the shopkeeper, whom he had been a casual customer of for many years, as he paid for his brushes.’ He was glad to see the man looked suitably impressed and it was with a spring in his step that he pocketed his purchases and regained the street. The afternoon was sunny and Leo considered walking home and was just about to head for the Strand and Waterloo Bridge when a familiar figure caught his eye walking in the other direction on the opposite side of the road.

He whirled around, his heart suddenly beating twice as fast, while his head told him it could not possibly be Tara. There was no reason at all for her to be here and he had only thought he’d seen her because she was never really out of his mind. Carriages and horses clattered past him, obscuring his view, but paying them no real heed, Leo darted between them to the other side of the road. The lady he had seen was quite a few yards ahead of him, walking with a rapid, purposeful stride, so reminiscent of Tara’s, that despite the protestations of common sense, Leo started up the road after her. If it was Tara he could tell her his news now, then he could invite her to dinner, perhaps that very evening, and as they gazed across the candlelit table at each other, he could propose.

He was only a few feet behind her and now, although he had not seen her face, he was completely sure the lady was Tara. He had studied her hair and painted it in such detail, that even from the back it was not possible for him to mistake anyone else for her. He could have called to her, but he would not subject her to such vulgarity, and then she turned and went into a small coffee shop, the door swinging shut behind her.

Leo would not have hesitated to follow Tara inside but what he saw next made him stop short. Rising up from his seat at a table by the window was Philippe La Monte and although the presence of Tara’s undesirable friend alone would not have kept Leo away, the way in which he embraced her, and the enthusiasm with which Tara allowed such familiarity, froze Leo where he stood.

It was as intimate a tête-a-tête as Leo had ever seen. Tara and La Monte sat down at their little table, talking nineteen to the dozen, utterly unaware of anyone else in the coffee shop, let alone their unseen observer outside. Then La Monte took Tara’s hand and she leaned even closer to him. Suddenly feeling uncomfortably like a peeping Tom, Leo shook himself back to life, turned on his heel and marched back the way he had come, his thoughts seething. How dare that pretentious little frog move in on Tara? And what did Tara think she was playing at? Throwing herself into Leo’s arms one minute, inviting a proposal of marriage from Mark the next, and holding hands in public with La Monte practically the very minute after that? How dare she! Well one thing was certain, he told himself wryly, he need have no fears that she had accepted Mark’s offer, even Tara would not be so brazen as to allow herself to be entertained alone by a man after she had made such a commitment to another. A second thought struck him, if Tara was in London, why hadn’t she sent him her card to let him know she was there? Was he mistaken in his assumption of how important he was to her? With his mind in a turmoil Leo strode unseeingly through the crowds, across the bridge and then through the less well frequented streets leading to his studio, everything seeming far more complicated than it had done only an hour before.

Chapter Seventeen

The moment Tara opened her eyes on Tuesday morning she realized she had nothing to do that day. More of her friends were out of town that she had hoped, making the most of the late August sunshine. Freddie and Philippe were the only two who had responded when she sent out her card and she had seen so much of them both over the last few days she felt she could not possibly call on either of them today. Philippe in particular she knew she should keep her distance from or he might start thinking that he had a chance with her, and moved as she had been by the sincerity of his proposal, Tara knew that he was even less the man for her than Mark was. She also knew she ought to return to Bournemouth before her mother felt quite abandoned, but the prospect of the seaside town without Leo was so bleak that she could not bring herself to return yet.

Meanwhile an empty day loomed alarmingly before her. Tara tried not to think about the fact that it was Tuesday, the day on which each of her sittings for Leo had taken place. She had thought she would not notice his absence so keenly in the city, but all at once she found out she was wrong. London, it seemed, was not the city she loved without Leo in it. Would he ever marry? Tara wondered. The only comfort she had on that score was the fact that he had not appeared to be looking for a wife. Then unbidden the memory of Freddie’s disgustingly well educated cousin Antonia talking art with Leo sprang to mind and she buried her head under the pillow to try and shut the image out. Leo might not be looking for a wife, but he was so attractive and intelligent, so desirable, one would certainly find him.

Betty’s footstep outside the door made Tara sit up sharply. The household was stirring and she did not want to fall into the trap of staying in bed later and later each day, it would only make the empty evenings longer. Would Leo be ensnared by an Italian woman, she wondered. With any luck he would not speak the language which should surely minimise the chances of marriage to a foreigner, or if he did marry an Italian, the lack of a mutual language would at least ensure that theirs was not a meeting of the minds.

Not that her own relationship with Leo had been particularly cerebral, Tara felt herself forced to admit. Although she was sure his passion for her had been as sincere as her passion for him, art was his life and apart from her own portrait she had never really looked in detail at a painting. She certainly could not discuss pictures on even the most elementary level. Suddenly she knew what to do with her day. Antonia’s knowledge of painting stemmed from no more than frequent visits to art galleries. She could do the same. The British Museum was perhaps the obvious place to start, but she remembered Leo mentioning a gallery in Dulwich. Its tenuous connection with him was irresistible, she would go there. Relieved to have a point to her day after all Tara rang for her maid. It was time to get up; she had a life to lead.

Leo packed the paintings he and Lord Seaforth had selected with care and loaded them into the hackney cab he had hired specifically to make this delivery. He was pleased with the choices they had agreed upon, he would be displaying four large paintings and four smaller ones. The view of St Paul’s, a personal favourite, which he had finished at around the time that he had painted Tara’s portrait was included in the selection. Lord Seaforth had picked it out at once, and immodest though the thought was, Leo was confident that it would easily sell for the large figure Lord Seaforth had recommended putting on it. The honour of his family name was about to be redeemed; as a sought after artist he would once more feel entitled to use his title and claim his rightful place in society.

But as the carriage bumped over the uneven streets of south London Leo, squeezed in with his canvasses and steadying them on the turns, felt grimmer than he would have imagined at the prospect of his return to respectability. Only the day before he had been anticipating returning to Bournemouth, with his head held high, ready to sweep Tara off her feet, out of Marks’s arms and into his own. Then, having won her heart as a woman, he would have made her an offer of marriage which she would not have hesitated to accept. Tara had made it very clear that she would not consider a match which would shame her family, but as Lord Fosse his credentials were impeccable. Yet now he had his doubts. Was Tara’s love reserved exclusively for him? Leo would have sworn that the evening of Lord Davenham’s ball, when he had taken her back to his cottage in the rain, was the first time she had known the touch of a man. But perhaps he was wrong, the familiar way in which Tara had let La Monte hold her hand in the coffee shop disturbed more than he would have liked. Did Tara have the knack of making all men think that they had won her heart?

His arrival at the Dulwich Picture Gallery put a stop to Leo’s dark imaginings. His arrival was anticipated, he was pleased to see, when a porter immediately appeared to help him unload the paintings. Leo paid the driver and then followed the porter through a back entrance to the gallery.

‘Good, good,’ Lord Seaforth said, entering the basement storeroom as Leo and the porter brought in the last of the pictures. ‘You might be interested in this.’ He handed Leo a printed flyer and reading it quickly Leo saw that it publicised the exhibition due to open on the first of September, featuring landscapes by himself and three other artists. The artists’ names were printed on the flyer, with his own heading the list and he could imagine Tara picking up the bill and realizing for once and for all that Leo was a renowned artist. Perhaps then she would understand how she had insulted him by offering him as job as a farmer. But of course Tara never went to art galleries or any other places of intellectual purpose. She would not see this evidence of his success as a landscape painter. Still, he could not help being pleased with the flyer which would soon be fluttering through the hands of society.

‘That’s a nice piece of publicity,’ Leo said, trying for nonchalance, after all, Gainsborough would not get excited over a leaflet. He suspected he had not quite succeeded when he caught a fleeting smile on Lord Seaforth’s face, but the curator chose to say nothing on that point.

‘The exhibition will be in the west room,’ Lord Seaforth continued. The room is cleared and ready for hanging. The other painters are bringing their work later in the week, but I thought that as you are the principal artist, we should place your pictures first. Please come this way.’

People, Tara knew, spent hours in galleries. Certainly no one else here seemed in a particular rush. But apart from looking at the pictures, which in all honesty she knew she could do in about ten minutes, she was not sure what one did in art galleries. At the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition, to which she went annually, the whole point was to see and be seen, and the pictures were just a nice background in front of which to do that. But glancing around the few visitors there were to the gallery at this time of day, she saw that not only was there no one she recognised, but there was no one who looked as if they would ever frequent the places she normally habituated. There was a governess with two docile charges, a clergyman, and an older couple who walked with dignity, but whose clothes had clearly seen better days.