A Wicked Conceit, Anna Huber [best e book reader txt] 📗

the hands of their Anglo-Protestant leaders, as well as the rest of the population of Britain. And so I’d conceived of this exhibit to illustrate how much they were not so different from us.

But the truth was there were faces in every corner of Britain, every corner of the world that deserved to be better seen—their joys, their pains, their struggles, their humanity illuminated on canvas. And yet I’d largely turned a blind eye to the people in my own part of Scotland who most needed to be noticed. It was a humbling and sobering realization. One that I’d been stumbling toward but had needed my conversation at dinner with Mr. Aldridge to help me to see more clearly.

My thoughts turned once again to my grandmother, who’d often been called eccentric, and at times had been viewed with disdain simply because of her Irish blood and her firm convictions. While I’d always appreciated her wisdom and acceptance—both of herself and others—I hadn’t fully respected how she’d become the woman she was or the adversities she’d faced. I hadn’t fully embraced the things she’d taught me, content to abide by many of the norms of society because I was already seen as so unnatural in other ways.

I saw now that that was wrong. Perhaps it had been understandable given the slights I’d endured because of my peculiarity, but now that I was aware of what I’d chosen to ignore, I couldn’t continue to go on doing so. Not without shaming myself and my grandmother, and our faith. She had done her part, both big and small, to try to enlighten those around her, and now it was my turn—small and insignificant though it might be. I had to try.

I traced the brushstrokes of the old Irish woman I’d nearly finished painting, realizing one of the reasons she had so captured my imagination when I’d first seen her on the street in Rathfarnham was that she reminded me of my grandmother. Her gentle smile, her strength, her resilience. It brought a not unhappy tear to my eye.

“Kiera, what are you doing up here?”

I turned to find Gage standing bleary-eyed in the doorway, his hair standing up in tufts about his head.

“And crying?”

I dashed away the tear and offered him a reassuring smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Obviously.” He looked around the room, noticing that the sailcloths had been removed from the canvases. “You aren’t going to try to paint now, are you?”

“No,” I replied in gentle amusement at his still-sleepy voice. “Just thinking.”

He nodded slowly, as if not quite comprehending. “About art?”

“Partly.” I nibbled my bottom lip, considering the artwork around me and the decision I had just come to. “I’m not going to accept any more portrait commissions. After I finish these two, I’m done with them.”

“Are you sure?” he asked in astonishment.

“Yes. I no longer need the income from the commissions, so there’s really no reason to continue them.”

“But Kiera, you love your art,” Gage said aghast. “I know how much it means to you.”

“Oh, I’m not going to stop painting,” I reassured him, recognizing now the reason for his confusion. “I’m simply not going to paint wealthy clients who already have more portraits of themselves than they probably need.”

“Then . . .” he prompted.

“I’m going to paint the unseen. The people who move about us every day, making our lives, our city, our country work, and yet are all but overlooked and dismissed. I’m going to meet them where they are, and observe how life plays across their faces, and paint them in truth. But with dignity and grace,” I amended, determined that they should not be exploited by me—not intellectually or monetarily.

I looked up from the portrait of the Irish grandmother I’d been studying as Gage stepped forward to rest his hands on my shoulders. His features were softened by the moonlight. “This was not a decision made lightly.”

“No,” I admitted. Giving up my commissions of the wealthy would mean very few of my portraits would ever grace the walls of stately homes across the country or the galleries in London and elsewhere. They might only be exhibited by me. I would likely never receive the praise and esteem other portraitists received, but being a woman, I had known that was unlikely anyway.

I inhaled a deep breath. Deeper than I’d seemed to be able to inhale in a long time. “But it’s the right one.”

And one that would not have been possible had I not wed a wealthy man. I was in a unique position—fortunate that I didn’t need income and prestige to support me or my family. The vast majority of artists could not say the same. Thus, the creation of my art was solely at my discretion.

He smiled in acceptance. “When did this decision come about?”

“Tonight. Though I’ve been grappling with it for some time. Since we went to Ireland. No, before that. Perhaps when we were last in Edinburgh.”

He studied my features. “I suspect your discussion with Mr. Aldridge this evening may have had something to do with it.”

“Yes,” I admitted, lifting my hands to cup his elbows. “He helped me to see I’d been willfully ignoring some things.” I pictured him seated beside me, his expression patient and controlled despite my obtuseness, his graceful features steady and assured despite the injustice of the world he must live in. “What did you tell Philip about the plan the prime minister and the other cabinet members are hatching?”

I could see in Gage’s eyes that he understood at once why I was asking. “That if they convince the king to create new peerages in order to pass the Reform Bill, they can rely on me. For that, and for the passage of the Anatomy Reform Act. And the Slave Abolition Act,” he added, having recognized where I was leading.

Three critical pieces of legislation. Three essential issues. And in many ways, they all relied on the Reform Bill. For many of the wealthy West Indian plantation owners had essentially purchased the rotten boroughs