Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 64

64. Madame Le Brun

Today, the Montague mansion was unusually lively. Edmund Beaufort had brought a portrait artist to meet Grace Gurton, adding to the bustle.

“It’s been a while. How have you been?”

“Ah, hello.”

Ah, those eyes of dramatic asymmetry and imbalance. Not a chaotic disorder, but an aesthetic of gaps that evoke profound thought and lingering emotion.

Edmund Beaufort once again admired his sense of aesthetics as he briefly kissed the back of Grace’s hand. Grace also found his cheerful and lively demeanor quite likable.

She began to understand why the young ladies of Grentabridge couldn’t stop singing Edmund Beaufort’s praises. Though his behavior resembled that of a libertine, his disarming charm seemed to stem from his casual, easy-going attitude, Grace thought.

“This is the artist who will paint the portrait Lady Montague requested.”

Grace looked at the artist standing next to Edmund and covered her mouth in surprise. No wonder—the painter Edmund Beaufort pointed to was a woman dressed in a gown.

“The artist’s name is Madame Élisabeth Le Brun. She’s from Gallia.”

Edmund introduced the artist in his booming voice, brimming with pride.

“Miss Grace Gurton.”

Madame Le Brun bowed deeply and greeted Grace with a Gallian-style curtsy, crossing her legs. Grace, who had been standing in stunned silence, finally extended her hand warmly.

“P-pleased to meet you.”

Seeing the two women shake hands, Edmund beamed with delight and flashed a cheeky grin. He then began to elaborate on the artist’s credentials.

“As I mentioned, Madame Le Brun is a Gallian. She’s an exceptionally skilled artist who even painted a portrait of the Queen of Gallia. She has worked in Italine, Austine, and Prussen and is now visiting Ingrint. As soon as I heard the news, I practically kidnapped her!”

Élisabeth Le Brun was a celebrated portrait artist with an illustrious reputation in Gallia. However, being a woman—something she could never change—persistently held her back. Male artists found it deeply uncomfortable that a woman was more popular and earned more money than they did.

As a result, unfounded rumors constantly followed Madame Le Brun. Some claimed she didn’t paint her own works and used assistants, while others accused her of having an inappropriate relationship with the Queen. These malicious rumors were all too common for women who excelled in professional fields. And when such occurrences became frequent, they turned into an everyday ordeal, eventually wounding the artist’s talent.

To avoid sinking into the mire of malicious disparagement, she had left her homeland without hesitation. She began traveling to various countries, painting portraits as she went.

Fortunately, thanks to Madame Le Brun’s extraordinary talent, royals and nobles from all over the world eagerly sought her out to have their portraits painted. Her paintings, which captured her subjects in relaxed poses with slightly open lips to evoke a natural charm, radiated a unique vitality and allure.

To be honest, Élisabeth Le Brun had no intention of accepting Edmund Beaufort’s request. Painting the portrait of a young lady who wasn’t from a distinguished family offered no benefit to her career.

“At least meet her first before deciding!”

“I guarantee you’ll feel inspired to paint her portrait.”

But Edmund Beaufort had been insistent to the very end. Reluctantly, she agreed to a conditional acceptance, deciding to meet the subject first. After all, the Beaufort Auction House was her biggest dealer in Ingrint, handling the sale of her works.

So this is why Edmund Beaufort was so excited.

Madame Le Brun stared into Grace Gurton’s eyes for a long time. Though the young lady’s overall features fell short of striking beauty, one aspect held her gaze.

Heterochromatic eyes. Especially the pale violet in one of them—alien yet harmonious, intellectual yet gentle.

Having finished her observation, Élisabeth leaned close to Edmund and whispered in his ear, “It seems you’re destined to inherit the auction house.”

At her words, Edmund’s face momentarily displayed an awkward expression before his eyes widened as he grasped the implication.

“So you trust my judgment! Does this mean you’ll paint Miss Gurton’s portrait?”

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

Madame Le Brun ignored his excessive enthusiasm and replied simply. At the same time, she directed a radiant, Gallian-style smile toward Grace.

“On the day we paint, please wear a purple dress.”

“P-purple?”

Grace thought carefully about the clothes hanging in her wardrobe and then nodded obediently. She owned only one dress made of purple fabric—the violet gown she had worn to watch A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Assembly Room in Bath.

***

“Young Master, are you all right?”

So even Richard Spencer’s iron constitution can be worn down.

Sebastian, who had been sneaking glances at Richard since they boarded the carriage, finally spoke. Richard had spent the entire ride with his eyes closed.

For three consecutive days, Richard Spencer had stayed at Parliament, enduring a superhuman schedule. Due to the constant all-nighters necessitated by the Poor Law reform debate, even his famously resilient body was beginning to show signs of wear.

He really is something else.

Sebastian genuinely thought so. Among the members of Parliament, there likely wasn’t anyone else who attended meetings and reviewed documents with such diligence.

And yet, it wasn’t as though Richard Spencer was voicing support for any particular proposal. His stance remained largely neutral.

The Spencer family had always operated this way. Even when political alliances were forged through marriage, they made sure to maintain ties with opposing factions as well.

This was because they were “older than the royal family and protectors by the king’s side.” As a result, the Spencers fundamentally had no reason to experience serious conflicts between the Conservative and Progressive parties. Their guiding principle was that the king’s will was the Spencer family’s will.

Thus, if the king supported a particular party’s policies, the Spencer Earldom lent their strength to those policies as a matter of course. For now, Queen Anne Stuart had remained passive, so Richard Spencer continued to observe the factional bickering in Parliament from the sidelines.

But was there any reason to attend and study with such fervor despite that? For all his eccentricities, Richard still couldn’t seem to cast off his sense of aristocratic responsibility. That made it hard for Sebastian to truly despise him.

“Why not take a few days to rest? A bath as soon as you return might do you good.”

How exhausted must he be to keep his eyes closed like this?

Sebastian’s nose stung with sympathy. No matter how much he found Richard annoying or insufferable, when Richard Spencer was sick or struggling, Sebastian felt the same pain.

It automatically brought to mind the scene from long ago: a little boy recovering from smallpox, silently crying as he looked in the mirror. It was why Sebastian couldn’t abandon this man, no matter what.

“What time is it?”

Richard opened his eyes narrowly and asked. His voice was rough and hoarse, which made Sebastian’s heart ache even more as he answered.

“It’s just past nine.”

In Ingrint, the summer days were long. Even after nine o’clock, the twilight lingered, the sky a pale blue hue as the sun had not fully set.

“There’s enough time for an inspection. Let’s stop by Dockland before heading home.”

…An inspection, really?

Lately, there had been an unspoken agreement between Richard Spencer and Sebastian. Ever since the day they had first sneaked into the poorhouse in Dockland like stray cats, they had made several more visits.

Each time, Richard used the excuse of inspecting the slums. And each time, Sebastian feigned ignorance, going along with the Young Earl’s flimsy justification even though he knew better.

Thus, they vanished into the night once or twice a week, enduring the nausea-inducing stench and observing Grace Gurton’s lessons. Every visit, Richard couldn’t resist instructing Sebastian to purchase heaps of supplies.

Didn’t he suggest decorating the classroom with fresh flowers to make it less bleak? Sebastian had mocked him, saying they should spend that money on food instead. The very next day, Richard had warm, flaky scones delivered to the poorhouse—hundreds of them, from his favorite bakery.

Through the now smoothly repaired windows, the soft glow of crimson candles spread circular patterns of light. The high-quality candles sent by the anonymous patron no longer produced acrid, black smoke.

The staccato rhythm, followed by flowing legato notes. Grace Gurton’s voice, resonating like a melody with free-flowing scales, filled the air. Listening to her rhythm, Richard momentarily forgot the mud clinging to his shoes and the stench that assaulted his nose.

Above the blackened sky, the moon rose full and bright. As Richard gazed at the dark spots etched across its pale surface, a sudden thought crossed his mind. Perhaps the plight of the man burdened with the thornbush was somewhat pitiable after all.