Free Grahame, Lucia by The Painted Lady

disparage Caylat once or twice; he'd even
mocked Sir Anthony for being his patron. He thought Caylat was a savage and Sir
Anthony a fool.
    But he was wrong.
    And I knew that I had been wrong, as well, in ever having accepted
Sir Anthony's presentation of himself as someone whose eye needed training.
    So captivated was I by the brilliance and boldness around me that
I scarcely considered much else. Certainly I did not think as much as I ought
to have about the fact that Sir Anthony was as attentive to me as he was to the
artist himself, that he seldom left my side for very long, that he introduced
me with something like pride to everyone he knew.
    Lord Marsden was present. Although I was familiar enough with his
tastes to feel certain that he could not fully share Sir Anthony's enthusiasm
for Caylat, I was very happy to see him once again. Soon, however, I had the
uncomfortable sense that he was watching me rather too closely. Before long, I
became convinced that he was studying me with the intensity he ought to have
devoted to the paintings around him! I wondered uneasily if it was on account
of my dress. Because this was a special occasion, I'd worn one of the black
ones, with touches of white, but now I worried that I had followed my
grandmother's advice too assiduously and that the altered dress detailed my
curves too boldly.
    I concluded, with acute embarrassment, that it would be wiser to
stick with the gray ones from now on.
    Although I was enjoying myself, I had to leave Caylat's show
earlier than I would have liked. During the latter part of winter, I'd acquired
a new pupil, an American girl who had come to Paris to study music. Due to her
other commitments and my own, I now had to devote part of my Friday afternoons
to her.
    Sir Anthony, of course, was obliged to stay. He wanted to hire a
carriage for me, but the weather was so fine that I refused his offer.
    I had walked only a block or two homeward and was still dreaming
of the visions I had left behind while paying little attention to the ones in
front of me, when a well-dressed gentleman, pale-eyed and with graying yellow
hair, approached me.
    "Madame Brooks," he said.
    I was not in the habit of speaking to strange men in the street,
but that day I was so preoccupied that when he spoke my name I assumed he must
be an acquaintance. I stopped and roused myself belatedly from my private
reverie to realize that I had never seen him before in my life.
    I averted my eyes and started to walk on.
    "Surely Madame Brooks would not snub an old friend of her
late husband—although she now enjoys such elevated companionship," said
the stranger.
    To be accused of snobbery was more than I could bear.
    "I am afraid that I do not know you," I said in the most
neutral tone I could manage. "Why do you say my husband was your
friend?"
    "Because he was kind enough to show me an aspect of his
talents that his other admirers have not yet seen," replied the stranger,
and I knew from the way he said it that he did not, in fact, number himself
among Frederick's admirers.
    To hear Frederick referred to in slighting tones was unpleasant
but, alas, not outside the realm of my experience. During the last years of his
life, Frederick's lax attitude toward his financial obligations had given a
number of people good reason to speak unkindly of him. But those days were
over; he had paid every one of his debts before he'd drowned.
    I started to move past the stranger.
    "But soon all Paris will be talking of it," he said.
    There was something ominous in his tone. I knew it was a threat. I
supposed it was an idle one. Nevertheless I could not let it pass.
    I turned on him.
    "I don't know who you are," I told him, almost in a
whisper. "Nor do I wish to. But I will tell you this: If you ever lift so
much as your little finger to smear the memory of my husband, I will find you, under
whatever rock you have crawled out from today, and I will cut out your
heart."
    "I'll be waiting for you," said the