about.
Artemisia had learned long ago to choose her battles with her mother. As long as what Constance Dalrymple wanted wasn’t too far removed from Artemisia’s own wishes, she was pleased to comply.
She stopped before Queen Victoria and dipped in a graceful bow, hands pressed palm-to-palm in keeping with the character of her costume.
“ Namaste ,” she intoned. “Welcome, Your Majesty. Your luminous presence in my humble home brings light to all.”
The Queen accepted this superlative as her just due and smoothly introduced Artemisia first to her beloved Albert and then to the Russian Ambassador.
“Lady Southwycke,” Victoria said. “I was just telling his Excellency, Ambassador Kharitonov, that you are an artist of no little renown.”
“Your Majesty does me honor.”
“Not at all.” The Queen waved her hand imperiously. “The ambassador was admiring the little equine statuette on the piano. If I am not mistaken, that piece is your work.”
“Yes, it is,” Artemisia said. “In fact, it is the companion piece to the one my father sent your Majesty from India. My father said he couldn’t resist keeping one for himself.”
The ambassador lifted the statuette and peered at it through his monocle. The small horse was frozen in time, caught rearing its front legs, the mane and tale flying.
“Is very fine, very fine,” Kharitonov said, pronouncing ‘very’ as if the word were ‘wary.’ “In my country, I breed horses for Russian cavalry, and it pleases me, collecting of horse sculptures. Part of collection I bring. Perhaps you come see some time.” He hefted the statue. “Is for sale, da ?”
Artemisia blinked back her surprise. “No, Excellency, I never sell my work.” She hoped her father would forgive her if he ever became aware of what she was about to do. Her only defense was that the grasping Russian had forced her into doing the politically expedient thing. “However, allow me to make a small present of it. Please accept this poor statue with my compliments.”
The Queen patted her hands together in a soundless clap. “ Brava , Lady Southwycke. However, never let it be said that we are less generous than our subjects. Ambassador, you may expect the companion statuette from our own collection to be sent to your lodgings on the morrow.”
The ambassador stammered his thanks to both women. Artemisia excused herself lest the ambassador ask if anything else in her sumptuous home was for sale and made her way back to her mother’s side.
“Oh, you were brilliant, darling,” her mother cooed. “The Queen positively lit up when you were speaking. Whatever you said, it was the right thing. I’m sure everyone noticed.”
Artemisia basked in her mother’s rare praise and watched the dancers assembling on the smooth hardwood. Her sister Florinda was decked out like a peacock, literally. The fantail plumage spread out on either side of her hips, making it difficult for her to negotiate even the simplest of steps.
But Artemisia’s gaze wasn’t fastened on her sister. She watched Florinda’s partner with growing consternation. He was dressed as musketeer, a fleur-de-lis pattern on his tunic with a plumed cavalier’s hat cocked at a rakish angle over his dark hair. He wore a black domino covering the top part of his face. Artemisia couldn’t place him exactly, but something about the man’s posture sent warning bells clanging along her nerves.
“Everyone is having a lovely time,” her mother gushed, returning a wave to a matron across the dance floor. “You may tell Mr. Beddington I’m pleased. I did send him an invitation. Is he here?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure he’s here someplace,” Artemisia said. “You know, Mother, part of the charm of a masquerade is not knowing who is behind the mask.”
“Well, I hope to heaven Florinda knows who’s behind that musketeer’s mask and manages not to make a fool of herself by stuttering like an imbecile,” Constance said.
Artemisia had learned long ago to choose her battles with her mother. As long as what Constance Dalrymple wanted wasn’t too far removed from Artemisia’s own wishes, she was pleased to comply.
She stopped before Queen Victoria and dipped in a graceful bow, hands pressed palm-to-palm in keeping with the character of her costume.
“ Namaste ,” she intoned. “Welcome, Your Majesty. Your luminous presence in my humble home brings light to all.”
The Queen accepted this superlative as her just due and smoothly introduced Artemisia first to her beloved Albert and then to the Russian Ambassador.
“Lady Southwycke,” Victoria said. “I was just telling his Excellency, Ambassador Kharitonov, that you are an artist of no little renown.”
“Your Majesty does me honor.”
“Not at all.” The Queen waved her hand imperiously. “The ambassador was admiring the little equine statuette on the piano. If I am not mistaken, that piece is your work.”
“Yes, it is,” Artemisia said. “In fact, it is the companion piece to the one my father sent your Majesty from India. My father said he couldn’t resist keeping one for himself.”
The ambassador lifted the statuette and peered at it through his monocle. The small horse was frozen in time, caught rearing its front legs, the mane and tale flying.
“Is very fine, very fine,” Kharitonov said, pronouncing ‘very’ as if the word were ‘wary.’ “In my country, I breed horses for Russian cavalry, and it pleases me, collecting of horse sculptures. Part of collection I bring. Perhaps you come see some time.” He hefted the statue. “Is for sale, da ?”
Artemisia blinked back her surprise. “No, Excellency, I never sell my work.” She hoped her father would forgive her if he ever became aware of what she was about to do. Her only defense was that the grasping Russian had forced her into doing the politically expedient thing. “However, allow me to make a small present of it. Please accept this poor statue with my compliments.”
The Queen patted her hands together in a soundless clap. “ Brava , Lady Southwycke. However, never let it be said that we are less generous than our subjects. Ambassador, you may expect the companion statuette from our own collection to be sent to your lodgings on the morrow.”
The ambassador stammered his thanks to both women. Artemisia excused herself lest the ambassador ask if anything else in her sumptuous home was for sale and made her way back to her mother’s side.
“Oh, you were brilliant, darling,” her mother cooed. “The Queen positively lit up when you were speaking. Whatever you said, it was the right thing. I’m sure everyone noticed.”
Artemisia basked in her mother’s rare praise and watched the dancers assembling on the smooth hardwood. Her sister Florinda was decked out like a peacock, literally. The fantail plumage spread out on either side of her hips, making it difficult for her to negotiate even the simplest of steps.
But Artemisia’s gaze wasn’t fastened on her sister. She watched Florinda’s partner with growing consternation. He was dressed as musketeer, a fleur-de-lis pattern on his tunic with a plumed cavalier’s hat cocked at a rakish angle over his dark hair. He wore a black domino covering the top part of his face. Artemisia couldn’t place him exactly, but something about the man’s posture sent warning bells clanging along her nerves.
“Everyone is having a lovely time,” her mother gushed, returning a wave to a matron across the dance floor. “You may tell Mr. Beddington I’m pleased. I did send him an invitation. Is he here?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure he’s here someplace,” Artemisia said. “You know, Mother, part of the charm of a masquerade is not knowing who is behind the mask.”
“Well, I hope to heaven Florinda knows who’s behind that musketeer’s mask and manages not to make a fool of herself by stuttering like an imbecile,” Constance said.
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