Portrait of a Scotsman by Evie Dunmore

Epilogue

“It’s …” Professor Ruskin hesitated; he was making a production of studying the projector apparatus Hattie had installed at the center of the darkened exhibition room. “I say, it’s …”

If he said lovely, she’d defenestrate him right out of the upper floor of the Shoreditch gallery, no matter that it would be witnessed by two dozen of London’s most influential people and a hundred visitors with an interest in photography. As predicted, her opening day had attracted a crowd. Entry was free of cost for workers, but the expensive tickets had sold out like hot scones the same date her exhibition had been announced in the papers. “They come to see the scandalous Greenfield-Blackstone, not your photographs,” Mina had assured her, but her sister’s eyes had sparkled with good humor.

Mina and her knightly husband were studying the children’s photographs on the east wall, where each picture was illuminated by a miner’s safety lamp. The lighting was low enough to not interfere with the heart of her installation: on the north wall, tapestry-sized portraits of the people of Drummuir flashed and lingered in tireless rotation thanks to the small coal-fueled engine turning the cranks in the magic lantern. The coal fumes were transported out a window through a metal pipe, but the air still smelled faintly of colliery. Reporters circled the small engine with notebooks in hand.

“Modern,” Ruskin finally pronounced. “Very modern.”

“Thank you,” Hattie said, distracted. Somewhere in the crowd were her friends.

“A terrific concept, Mrs. Blackstone.” Ruskin added, “We are pleased to have you back at Oxford this term.”

She should have felt ardent elation at his words, but it was at best a lukewarm glow. Ruskin’s opinion had lost its teeth. She was no longer working for his praise. She was no longer working for praise from a nebulous audience, either. Her work here was dedicated to people she knew, and hopefully it contributed toward the changes she wished to see in Britain. She was quite content with her execution, too. These were the things that mattered.

“Are you all right, dear? Are you too warm?”

Annabelle had appeared by her side with a drink in hand, her feline green eyes searching Hattie’s face. Hattie touched her heated cheeks. “I’m fine. Does my face look red? How could you tell? It’s so dark in here.”

Her friend smiled. “Your expression was very wistful, when you should be rejoicing,” she said. She leaned closer, filling Hattie’s nose with a delicate jasmine scent. “Apparently, the director of the Royal Academy is interested in acquiring your work.”

“Oh my.”

Just then Lucie joined them, her arm linked through Catriona’s. “Fantastic work, Hattie,” she said. “I understand nothing about art, but some of the dullest people in attendance here are muttering disapprovingly under their breath, which means you did well.”

Hattie sipped her tepid champagne. “I just wish Mhairi and Hamish Fraser could be here.”

After her return from France, she had settled in the Drover’s Inn for two months. Lucian had stayed with her the first weeks, to discuss a possible communal mine ownership experiment with Boyd and to oversee the new railroad tracks designed to improve the mining infrastructure of Fife. Hattie had spent her days with Rosie Fraser’s family, and on the coalfields and in tunnels to understand what she needed to know. In the end, Hamish had directed her lens as much as her artistic intuition. “You should take a few,” she had told him after the first week. “I shall teach you.” He had laughed and said he’d rather pull out his eyeballs and pickle them than squint at wee upside-down images all day long. He had taken his mother’s portrait, however, and it was comforting to know that the original plate currently graced Rosie Fraser’s kitchen wall. Perhaps one day a representative from Drummuir would follow her invitation and come to London. Perhaps when Hamish sent his finished novel to London Print. Apparently, he was still editing.

Catriona was watching her with her usual quiet attentiveness. “Don’t you think they would approve?”

They would say no one in this room would be able to tell their arse from an ax.

Hattie giggled. “They approved all content,” she said. “I’m certainly hopeful that they will approve of the substantial sum that I shall deposit in Drummuir’s community account.”

“If you wish to sell the work at a good price,” Annabelle said, “I think the duke would be an interested buyer.”

The Duke of Montgomery was near the refreshment table, his straight shoulders and the glint of his white-blond hair in the shadows unmistakable. As was Lord Ballentine’s remarkably tall form, next to the duke. Lucian had joined them, and Hattie would have loved to be a fly on the wall next to the unlikely trio—the men’s icy, smug, and brooding temperaments, respectively, had to make for terrible company. But enabling people who had little in common to cross paths and influence one another was one of the most important side effects of events such as this exhibition. Lucian certainly had to speak to Montgomery about his strategy for the Married Women’s Property Act.

Tenderness stirred in her chest as she watched Lucian in conversation. A few days ago, he had gone down on one knee and had asked her to marry him again. She had relished her yes like a luscious piece of nougat.

“Behold,” came a faintly mocking voice, “it’s the artist herself.”

Aoife Byrne. Lucian’s friend had company; a young blond woman in pink taffeta hung on her arm. Aoife placed a protective hand on top of her companion’s. “This is my friend Miss Susan Patterson,” she introduced the lady, and to Hattie, said, “Miss Patterson is a grand admirer of your work.”

Miss Patterson smiled shyly. With her finely drawn mouth and perfect blond ringlets, she looked angelic.

“Your work is remarkable,” she said. Her voice was cultured and soft. “I attend quite a few of such exhibitions, and to see hope and grace instead of only misery is good. And the juxtaposition of portraits and hands—very good.”

Hattie felt her heart swell a little. “Thank you. The concept was inspired by Mrs. Rosie Fraser.”

“I read her name on the poster,” Miss Patterson said.

Aoife took two champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray and handed one to Miss Patterson. “What she really wants to speak to you about is your charitable projects.”

“Which one?”

“I understand you and Mrs. van der Waal have created an ethical investment committee,” said Miss Patterson.

“Word has spread fast, it seems,” Hattie said, feeling pleased.

The committee used rooms in one of Lucian’s surplus houses as a headquarters. Julien Greenfield had offered his assistance, keen to make amends because he wished for Hattie to return to the dining table on Fridays, but she had chosen Zachary instead. Her brother, who would forever feel guilty over keeping secrets from her, had eagerly committed himself to the task. He was even warming to Lucian now that she had chosen him.

“We are still in the process of defining the criteria for ethical investments,” Hattie told Miss Patterson.

The young woman looked curious. “And how do you do that?”

“We are currently in close exchange with the Quaker community in Oxford—we noticed they don’t invest in enterprises linked to arms production or arms trade.”

“I’m intrigued,” said Miss Patterson. “I come from cotton; perhaps my experiences could be of use.”

Hattie’s eyes grew round. “You are of the textile Pattersons?”

“She was,” Aoife murmured, “she was, until she joined her father’s workers’ union.”

The sentence contained a whole story, and Lucie had sensed it, too. She planted herself in front of the pair. “Could I interest you in joining the suffrage movement, by any chance?”

“What I’m interested in is whether one can improve the ills of the world with the same system that’s been causing them,” Aoife Byrne said. “Reform or revolution, that’s the question.”

“I like her,” Lucie said to Hattie, looking keen. “Where did you find her?”

Hattie sensed a familiar presence at her shoulder, and when she turned, she met Lucian’s calm gaze. He raised his pocket watch. “Time for your speech,” he said. “Five minutes.”

Her heart dropped for a beat. Then she remembered to breathe. She had taught chemistry to a full classroom. She had stared into the eye of a pistol. She was wearing a new favorite outfit: an adorable little hat and a snugly fitted, elegant one-piece in purple satin, hemmed and trimmed with pearl-embroidered velvet. Her speech would be utterly fabulous.

Lucian leaned closer, teasing her nose with hints of his shaving soap. “You need anything?” he murmured. “A glass of water?”

He was distractingly handsome, with his shoulders perfectly filling his navy-blue coat. “Thank you,” she said with a small smile. “I have all I need.”

Pleasure lit his eyes. Briefly, his attention lingered on the thistle she had pinned over her heart. “The representative of the Chinese Legation has requested an introduction,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I told him it was my wife’s influence that saw a certain pair of vases returned into his keeping.”

A quiet joy passed between themas they stood close with their hearts and little fingers linked, one year after their first encounter in Chelsea. The turmoil of those early days had given way to learning how to love each other well, and at its core, their new union felt warm and safe. At first sight, they were still an unlikely match—opposites in looks, upbringing, and temperament. But on the artist’s color wheel, two opposite colors were considered complementary. Their high contrast caused high impact, and they looked their brightest when placed next to each other.

Hattie brazenly slipped her whole hand into Lucian’s. “I am the orange to your blue,” she said.

He gently pressed her fingers. “My fanciful lass.”

“It means we are fine on our own,” she said. “But side by side, we’re brilliant.”