Southampton Row - Anne Perry [38]
She wrote quickly, without giving herself time to become self-conscious and lose her courage.
Dear Captain Cornwallis,
I became aware this morning that the National Gallery has mounted an exhibition of the portraits painted by Hogarth which were much derided in his lifetime, but now have gained far more favorable attention. It is remarkable how opinion can swing so wildly upon a single talent. I should now like to see them for myself and form my own judgment.
Knowing your interest in art, and your own ability, I thought you might also find them thought-provoking.
I appreciate that you have little time for such things, but in the hope that duty might allow you half an hour or so I thought to inform you. I have determined to take at least that long for myself, perhaps towards the end of this afternoon when I am not required at home. My curiosity is awakened. Is he as bad as they first said, or as good as they say now?
I hope I have not intruded upon your time.
Sincerely,
Isadora Underhill
No matter how many times she went over it, it would always be clumsier than she wished.
She must post it before she read it through again and felt too abashed to send it.
A quick walk to the letterbox on the corner, and it was irretrievable.
At four o’clock she dressed in her most flattering summer costume of old rose with falls of white lace over both sleeves as far as the elbow, and setting her hat on at a more rakish angle than usual, left her home.
It was only when her cab turned into Trafalgar Square that suddenly she felt she was being ridiculous. She leaned forward to tell the driver that she had changed her mind, then said nothing. If she did not now go and Cornwallis was there, he would feel it a deliberate rejection. She would have taken an irrevocable step she did not mean. She could never afterwards withdraw it. He was not a man to whom one could explain. He would simply not open himself up to such hurt again.
She sat back in the seat and waited until the cab stopped near the wide steps up to the immense pillars and the imposing front of the gallery. She alighted and paid her fare. Then she stood in the sun amid the pigeons and the sightseers, the flower sellers, the distant, impressive stone lions, the noise of traffic.
She must have let the boredom addle her wits last night! By writing to Cornwallis she had placed herself in a position where she had either to go back or forward; she could no longer remain where she was, lonely, uncommitted, dreaming but afraid. It was like standing at a gambling table and having cast the dice, waiting for them to stop rolling and decide her fate.
That was overstating it! She had simply written to a friend advising him of an interesting exhibition which she was going to see herself.
Then why were her legs trembling as she walked up the steps and across the stones to the entrance?
“Good afternoon,” she said to the man at the door.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he replied politely, touching his cap.
“Where is the Hogarth exhibition?” she asked.
“To the left, madam,” he said, inclining his head towards a huge notice.
She blushed hotly and almost choked on the words as she thanked him. He must think her blind! How would anyone unable to see a notice a yard high be able to appreciate paintings?
She swept past him and into the first room. There were at least a dozen people in it. At a glance she saw two with whom she was acquainted. Should she speak to them and draw attention to herself? Or not, and perhaps be thought to snub them? That would cause comment, and certainly be repeated.
Before she could reach a decision, years of training overtook her and she spoke, then instantly thought she might have ruined her chance of speaking to Cornwallis other than meaninglessly, in passing. She could hardly say or hear anything she wanted to in company.
But it was too late, the acknowledgment was made. She asked after their health, commented on the weather, and prayed they would leave. She had not the slightest desire to discuss