Page 124 of A Misguided Devotion

“That won’t help us find William’s portrait of Laura, as I don’t even know where it’s on display. Come to think of it, I don’t even know what it’s called.”

William walked into the room with his father, followed by the rest of his family. He hurried to her side and helped her rise, an unspoken question in his eyes which she answered with a reassuring squeeze.

“We give up trying to find your painting in this catalogue without your help. Which room is it displayed in?” Hetta asked.

“You’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes. “Brothers!”

Kitty eyed William curiously. “What did you name it?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Why is it such a big secret?” Kitty said.

William smirked. “You’ll see.”

He led them into the Great Room, which was crowded with visitors, all clamouring to see what was on display. There were pictures everywhere.

Her eyes moved from one painting to the next. Portraits of the Dukes of Cambridge and York. A castle and some horses. A portrait of a Navy officer—a reminder of the war that had so recently ended and the hope that she would hear from Edward at last. Another castle and some landscapes. A portrait of a nobleman in Albanian dress, whom Hetta reliably informed her was the poet, Lord Byron. A charming depiction of Miss Stanley as Juliet in the famous balcony scene. A portrait of…

“Oh!” Kitty caught her breath. It was William’s portrait. Heat shot up her neck and into her cheeks as she recognised the subject. It was not Laura. It was the face she looked at in the mirror each morning, but oh—it was like she had never seen herself before. The light in her eyes. The curve of her lips. It was all so…beautiful.

Eyes clouded with tears, she stared up into her husband’s face. “Is that truly how you see me?”

“Yes—only more beautiful. A wise woman once told me that inner beauty never fades. Love enabled me to capture your essence with my paintbrush.”

“I don’t understand. I never sat for you like Laura did.”

“My darling wife, I know your face so well, I could paint you from memory, but I worked on the portrait many afternoons when you sat and read whilst I worked.”

“I thought you were painting the background of your latest commission.”

“Not all the time.”

“You sly thing.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised.”

The family clamoured around them, offering William their congratulations. Kitty clung to his arm, treasuring every moment of her husband’s success.

“I’m so relieved Will finally finished a piece he was prepared to submit to the Royal Academy,” said Charlotte. “I’m sure we have his wife to thank for that.”

“I may have told my husband once or twice what a brilliant artist he is,” Kitty said, flashing William a wicked grin, “but Laura’s portrait was the turning point. That was the first time he truly believed in himself.”

“What happened to your painting of Mrs Jenkin?” asked Anthony. “Did you decide not to submit it?”

“On the contrary. It’s over there.” William pointed at one of the other walls. “Portrait of a Lady—whereas this is A Portrait of Lady Droxford.”

“Two paintings on display at the Royal Academy at once?” said his eldest sister, Georgiana. “There is no stopping you now.”

“Three actually. The Governor of Portland’s portrait is in one of the other rooms. He insisted I submit it and they accepted all three.”

“It’s not what I was expecting,” said Hetta, staring up at the likeness of Kitty’s face, “but I am so pleased. Laura’s portrait is stunning, but this is by far your best work. A labour of love.”

“That is both encouraging and disturbing,” said Charlotte. “If love brings out your best work, will I never produce mine unless I fall in love? Will my pianoforte compositions always fall short of what I might have achieved?”