Epilogue

Eighteen months later…

“They’ve displayed it beautifully, haven’t they, my love?” Stella stood beside Teddy, admiring the placement of his portrait on the wall of the Berners Street Gallery. It had been hung at the sight line, a small plaque beneath it proclaiming its title: Electra Descending .

“A good thing, too,” Teddy said. “It appears to be what most everyone is here for. A shame if they couldn’t find it.”

Ladies in elegant silk gowns and gentlemen in frock coats and top hats strolled past the portrait. Some stopped to stare in guarded appreciation. Others frowned with disapproval. Many more exchanged scandalized whispers.

This wasn’t the painting’s first public showing. In March, Teddy had submitted it to the Royal Academy, along with three of his best seascapes. The Academy had accepted the seascapes, to Teddy and Stella’s joy, but the portrait of Stella as one of the Pleiades had been summarily—and somewhat disdainfully—rejected. One member of the Academy’s selection committee had called it “too controversial in its style” and another had referred to it as “an incomplete effort.”

Teddy and Stella’s belief in the piece hadn’t faltered. They had taken it to France in the spring, where it had predictably been rejected from the Paris Salon as well. From there, it made its way through various private galleries and independent exhibitions, first garnering mild praise (“ not without promise ”) and then robust acclaim (“ a stunning achievement ”).

Finally, back in England, the portrait still retained the glow of the modest fame it had garnered on the continent. Many had come to see it in Berners Street, both to admire and to ridicule.

“Scandalous,” a lady murmured to her husband, as the pair of them wandered by.

“The use of light and color enthrall,” a gentleman in a waggish neckcloth and velvet jacket remarked to an artistic companion. “But it’s an impression rather than an expression. That is where it fails.”

“Yet the piece holds raw power,” the younger gentleman replied. “The brushwork is reminiscent of Turner.”

Teddy and Stella exchanged a meaningful look. Turner was still Teddy’s hero. To be compared to him was high praise indeed. It made any criticism pale by comparison.

A familiar gentleman, with unruly hair and a dark mustache, made his way through the crowd to join them.

Stella recognized him at once. “Oh look,” she said to her husband. “Mr. Whistler has managed to come after all.”

Teddy and James Whistler had struck up a warm acquaintance over the past year, first via correspondence and then through several dinners, both in Maiden Lane and at Whistler’s home in Chelsea. Though their artistic styles differed—with Teddy focused on light and color, and Whistler committed to muted shades and precise brushwork—they nevertheless found cause to support each other.

“Jim!” Teddy smiled. “How do you do?”

“How do you do, more to the point?” Whistler shook Teddy’s hand. “Mrs. Hayes.” He bowed to Stella. “The portrait has been presented well.”

“They’ve done it justice, certainly,” Stella said.

“And they haven’t changed its name,” Teddy added. “That’s something, at least.”

“It’s drawn a crowd,” Mr. Whistler observed.

“Not entirely for good reason, I fear,” Teddy said. “It’s still rather controversial on this side of the Channel.”

“Ignore the cretins,” Whistler advised. “Your piece is one of the few things of value at this exhibition.” He spotted another acquaintance across the room. “Forgive me. I must speak with Mr. Edwards before he departs. Do say you’ll join me for dinner on Friday evening in Lindsey Row. Rossetti is coming.”

“We should be delighted,” Stella said.

“Give Edwards my regards,” Teddy said before Mr. Whistler took his leave.

Stella’s friends crossed paths with Mr. Whistler as they approached. All the Furies had come to show their support. Anne and Mr. Hartford had traveled up from Somersetshire. Julia and Captain Blunt had taken the train down from Yorkshire—a rare journey from home, with a new baby to look after. And Evie had arrived with Ahmad, who had left his dress shop early that afternoon to accompany his wife, despite the heavy demands his aristocratic customers were lately making on his time.

Laura and Alex had been unable to attend. They had welcomed a little boy last summer, and Laura was still unfit to travel. Stella and Teddy had gone to see them in Grasse in December. There, they’d spent a blissful three weeks coddling the baby, celebrating Christmas, and sketching the dormant flower fields. Stella had even met Magpie the cat, who did indeed bear a startling resemblance to the itinerant piebald tom who visited them daily in Maiden Lane to feast on Stella’s offerings of diced chicken and cream.

“How do you find the public’s response?” Julia asked. There was a gentle roundness to her features since delivering her daughter. It made her even more beautiful. “Is it any better than it was in Paris?”

Captain Blunt stood at her side, his hand resting on the small of her back.

“Not better than Paris, no,” Stella said. “But better than when it was first submitted to the Royal Academy. Then, you’d have thought it was an aberration.”

“The members of the Academy are old-fashioned,” Teddy said. “They don’t like anything new. Their first instinct is always to condemn.”

“They’ll change their views eventually,” Stella said. “They must. And then one day—”

“Hopefully in our lifetime,” Teddy interjected wryly.

“The good press must help,” Mr. Hartford said. Anne was on his arm. She wore a black caraco jacket and a bright plaid skirt. The latter matched the suit that her husband was wearing.

“Oh yes,” Stella acknowledged. “It just received a wonderful write-up from Mr. Stillwater in the Gentleman Artist’s Monthly . He called it ‘a masterpiece in the making.’?”

Anne cast a glance at her husband, brows lifted. “Did he indeed.”

“He sounds an astute fellow,” Mr. Hartford replied to her soberly. “A genius, I suspect.”

Ahmad and Evelyn stood next to them. Ahmad’s face held an unmistakable note of approval as he examined Teddy’s portrait. He was a good judge of color and harmony. “If Parisian taste influences art as much as it does fashion, you may soon be more famous than you ever desired,” he said to Teddy.

“I don’t desire fame at all,” Teddy replied. “Only recognition.”

“You have it now in abundance,” Captain Blunt said. “You might find that you prefer the safety of anonymity.”

“Not at all,” Stella said. “We neither of us wish to live a life in the background.”

“You can hardly do so now,” Anne remarked to Stella. “First a Fury, then one of the Four Horsewomen, and now a star. What transformation is next, I wonder?”

“I’m eager to find out,” Stella said.

Teddy flashed her a private smile. “The adventure awaits.”

She smiled back at him in the same way, as much with her eyes as with the gentle curve of her mouth. Their gloved hands found each other, clasping in intimate understanding.

The day he’d proposed to her, he’d promised her the freedom to discover what it was she wanted of life. At the time, she’d had no way of knowing. She’d been made so small for so long, the words hadn’t existed to articulate the wild yearnings within her.

But no longer.

She knew now what she wanted—what she’d always wanted. It was nothing more complicated than the very freedom Teddy had offered her. The freedom to want, to choose, to be. To live a colorful, conspicuous, unconventional life with the man she loved. A life that looked like no one else’s but their own.

“Have you told them yet?” he asked her.

“Told us what?” Evie asked.

Stella’s smile broadened with a hint of pride. “I’ve been working on my own sketches this summer, and hope to submit them to the Royal Academy next year.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Evie exclaimed.

“I’m not at all surprised,” Anne said. “I always knew your work would be on display somewhere in London one day.”

“I shouldn’t get too excited,” Stella warned them. “Unless the tide of opinion changes in the traditional realm between now and then, I shall likely be pursuing the same course as my husband when it comes to exhibiting my work.”

“The galleries of Europe!” Julia’s face lit up at the possibilities. “Do you imagine your sketches of Cossack will be displayed there one day?”

“ And your sketches of Hephaestus,” Evie chimed in.

“And don’t forget Saffron,” Anne added.

“All of them will be included,” Stella assured them. “I’ve sketched them more than any other subjects, both alone and together.”

“You’ll have no difficulty finding a title, I vow,” Julia said.

“The Four Horses of the Four Horsewomen,” Evie pronounced. “I can already see it.”

Stella, Anne, Julia, and Evie laughed, and their husbands along with them.

Things hadn’t gone exactly as any of them planned since they’d first met during their series of failed London seasons. There had been no dashing princes. No great wealth, or fashionable success. But together they had found friendship, acceptance, and the courage to follow their hearts. The result had been love matches for each and every one of them.

They had happy homes of their own now, deeply fulfilling lives, and wonderful husbands who unconditionally adored them.

And they had horses, too.

As happily-ever-afters went, it didn’t get much better.