Page 36 of A Shore Thing

Were he and Mr. Ponsonby laughing as they watched her go?

She thought she did hear laughter as she reached the street and hesitated, spine rigid. But it was only the squawking of the gulls.

10

Kit abided the great Johan Gustav Svensson’s studio parties only when the night was clear and the big double doors stood open, framing the moon-silvered bay. On those clear nights, the beauty of the view compensated—slightly—for the myriad irritations of the company.

In the foreground, the harbor, a shadowy forest of masts. In the distance, a lonely herring boat tacking round the point, or just the lighthouse, shining.

Tonight, there was nothing to see. Rain fell in sheets. The doors were closed, the windows shuttered. He could look at the art, of course. Svensson’s paintings garnered the highest praise from academies all over Europe. He was the most important artist to take up residence in St. Ives, according to him, and to anyone who wanted to curry his favor.

Kit didn’t look at the art. He looked at Ponsonby, who was standing with a posse of Svensson’s admirers in front of one of the enormous exhibition paintings—easily nine feet high and nearly twice as wide.

Always a bit of a hanger-on, Ponsonby. Good-hearted but too eager to belong. Fame dazzled him. He’d begged Kit to attend this evening’s gathering, but he seemed content to mingle on his own, swilling Swedish punch and laughing along to overheard jokes.

Bored, Kit circulated, an exercise in futility. Nothing to see, and no one he cared to talk to. Forty or so loud men, Bernhard and Takada not among them. The hot, smoky air stank of creosote and sweat. He found Ponsonby in the back of the studio, refilling his glass of punch.

“You’re not enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“You say that like I shouldn’t be enjoying myself.” Ponsonby ladled punch into a second glass and pushed it into Kit’s hand. “You never missed one of Burgess’s salons.” He meant Augustus Burgess, Gwen’s older brother, onetime enfant terrible of the London art world. “How is this different?”

Kit set the glass down on the table. “You don’t notice a difference?”

Ponsonby darted an uneasy glance around him. “Superficial differences. But essentially, with both, you have coveys of artists surrounded by art. Artists discussing art, complaining about art, making controversial claims about art. Everything you love best.”

“Ponsonby,” Kit growled. “There aren’t any women.”

“Women, ho!” The exclamation came from right behind him. “Who said women?”

A moment later, O’Brien, Craik, and Landon swarmed the table. The three mop-haired marine painters were Svensson’s particular pets. Kit found them particularly obnoxious.

“Where are the women?” Craik jostled O’Brien in a failed bid for the punch bowl.

“Not here, which is my point.” Kit stepped back to avoid their elbows. “A woman would get herself killed on the steps.”

“Maidens fair,” slurred O’Brien dreamily, sloshing punch into his glass. “They’d faint and tumble down.”

“The problem isn’t that they’d faint.” Kit met O’Brien’s glassy eyes, aware that he was wasting his breath. “The problem is their dress. You can’t manage so long and steep a stair with skirts around your ankles, not without some kind of railing. I’ve suggested a rope.” Kit frowned. “Svensson has yet to act.”

“Bollocks.” Craik burped it. “I’ll tell him. We want women.”

“It’s not about what you want. It’s about women having the option to come and go without risk to life and limb if they want.” Kit slapped Craik on the back, hard.

Landon was grinning at Ponsonby. “You mended that fence the other day. Next time you should grab one of those dairymaids and prop a gate. Follow me? Prop a gate. Propagate.”

Ponsonby chuckled.

“Nothing to grab in this room but our own pricks,” grumbled Craik. “Svensson should have listened to Griffith. Chap’s got the right idea.”

“Grabbing women’s not the idea,” said Kit flatly. Landon and Craik exchanged a look.

“Someone needs a good frig,” muttered Landon. Craik tittered.

A bead of ceiling plaster dropped into the punch bowl with a splash.

O’Brien startled, and the other men fairly screamed with laughter.

Kit turned to Ponsonby. He was laughing too, his face flushed with heat and drink and mirth.