If they had been carrying out their work with Eugene’s support, wouldn’t they be inclined to respond earnestly when he came to them with a request? Of course, Eugene Primrose likely hadn’t patronized them with any expectation of being repaid in kind — but at the very least, it would be difficult for them to refuse him outright.
Eugene continued going through the paintings in the gallery one by one — assessing each artist’s skill level, working through the task of identifying those who could adequately bring to life what he had in mind. In the early mornings he took etiquette lessons from Ivan, and in the afternoons, brushing off Ivan’s nagging, he buried himself in the gallery. Three full days had passed this way, and he still hadn’t gotten through even half the list.
At first, given the sheer volume of it, he’d tried to narrow things down simply by the size of the patronage amount — but even that proved unhelpful. Having invested more money in someone didn’t mean they were the right person for what Eugene needed right now. The amounts varied widely — from silver coins on the modest end to gold on the larger — and the styles varied just as much.
The fact that being a painter didn’t mean being equally skilled in every kind of painting also contributed to slowing him down. One artist rendered breathtakingly beautiful landscapes but painted figures with a certain clumsiness. Others, whose work would need to capture garments in precise detail, expressed everything in broad, sweeping, almost rough strokes — conveying atmosphere rather than exactness.
As Eugene kept spending his time in the gallery, two members of the household staff eventually made their way to him of their own accord. One was Peter, a footman who had been exclusively responsible for carrying Eugene’s letters before he lost his memories. The other was the butler — who had kept track even of those not yet sorted into Eugene’s list.
“Peter, bring me Gavet’s work.”
Peter, well-practiced in this by now, slipped on his gloves and lifted a canvas with practiced ease. The way he positioned himself squarely in the center of the gallery — standing at just the right distance for the painting to be taken in at a glance — was the work of someone who had done this more than once or twice.
“When the last installment of patronage was delivered, this one mentioned leaving the capital for Greyburn.”
“Did he? Then we’ll have to take him off the list.”
Whenever Peter brought a painting forward, the butler would follow with a string of information Eugene might have missed or was likely to overlook. They worked in seamless coordination. Eugene didn’t know where Greyburn was — but not being in the capital meant he couldn’t be summoned right away.
“Next — Aldrin?”
Eugene waved his hand and read out the next name. Peter swiftly returned Gavet’s painting to its place and located Aldrin’s. Peter’s movements were quick and unhesitating — but the moment the butler heard the name Aldrin, he let out a quiet, weighted sound.
“Ah.”
“Why? Is there something to say about this one? Speak freely.”
“Well, it’s just….”
Eugene shifted the cross of his legs and turned his attention toward the butler. The way his voice had trailed off suggested it wasn’t going to be anything particularly good.
“She came to inquire after the young master during his illness.”
“And?”
“Well…. She was a young woman. We received her greeting at the door and sent her on her way.”
“Hmm. Is her being a woman a problem?”
“As neither of the young masters has had a match arranged, and the Social Season is nearly upon us, it would be best to avoid having young women coming and going at all hours. Particularly if the woman in question is of low standing.”
From what Eugene had gathered through his etiquette lessons with Ivan, this world was not quite as rigid as he’d expected. Particularly toward noble women, it was relatively open-minded. Compared to the modern era it was still absurdly unfair — but it wasn’t a crushingly discriminatory time either.
Under ordinary circumstances, it wouldn’t have been a serious matter at all — but given the family’s situation, it was understandable that the butler was being cautious. The family’s eldest son had just run off with a woman of unknown station, after all. As the butler said, it was right not to give any unnecessary cause for gossip.
Eugene nodded at the butler’s assessment and turned his gaze to the painting Aldrin had made. It depicted the profile of a woman holding a parasol. Clean yet vigorous lines — both straight and curved — within an overall composition that was bold and spacious, while the folds of the clothing and the decorative details were rendered with the precision of a photograph.
She understood weight and lightness. She knew how to identify the focal point — what the woman in the painting was meant to draw the eye to. He liked it. The actual work might tell a different story — but for now, this was the painting he liked best.
“Would it be a problem if she weren’t received as a guest?”
“No, my lord.”
Much had been left unsaid — but what Eugene was asking was whether she could simply be brought in as someone employed, rather than a caller. Give her a room below stairs, put her in a maid’s uniform, and there would be nothing particularly improper about her coming and going from the townhouse as she pleased. That was, of course, assuming Aldrin had any interest in the commission Eugene had in mind.
“Would Aldrin be interested in a proposal from me?”
“Her appearance at the time was quite ragged, and though she said she was there to inquire after the young master, it seemed rather as though she had come grasping at straws — because the patronage payments had stopped.”
That made sense. For noble ladies, painting was a genteel pastime, a cultivated hobby — but for a common woman trying to get through each day, the very act of painting was no small thing in itself.
Once Eugene had been laid up with a cracked skull, all patronage payments had stopped — and making ends meet would have become a struggle. By now, she might have already given up on painting entirely and taken on day labor.
The butler gestured for Peter to bring Aldrin’s painting closer, and described the state she had been in when he encountered her — including, it must be said, his own opinions on the matter. He spoke of how disheveled she’d looked, how anxious she’d appeared. It wasn’t that the butler held any particular prejudice against her, or looked down on her.
He was simply giving the third young master — who was still a little out of sorts — context that reflected the general sensibility of polite society, so that he could navigate things with sufficient awareness. Hearing the butler out, Eugene made up his mind. There didn’t seem to be anyone better suited for the moment.
“All right. Peter — go and fetch Aldrin. Now.”
The moment Eugene’s instruction fell, Peter didn’t ask a single question, bowed as if he already knew exactly where he needed to go, and left the gallery. The light, hurrying sound of Peter’s footsteps crossing the corridor faded into the distance. Once Peter was gone, Eugene explained to the butler in some detail how he intended to make use of Aldrin, and asked how much it would cost to bring her on.
The capable butler named two figures for the young master. A generous sum befitting the Primrose name — and an amount that would be considered appropriate given the circumstances of a common woman. Eugene confirmed what funds he currently had available, took the butler’s counsel, and committed the terms of his offer to Aldrin to writing.
Just as the sky was edging toward sunset, Peter returned with Aldrin in tow. Her state was even more ragged than the butler had described. The butler brought her to the gallery rather than the sitting room, and came to find Eugene together with Peter.
Peter explained at length why he’d been delayed. Eugene didn’t think he was late at all — he simply nodded quietly and let Peter have his say.
Peter said he had gone to Aldrin’s address, but the rented room that had clearly once been hers now had someone else living in it. It appeared that during the months Eugene lay unconscious — with no patronage coming in — Aldrin’s circumstances had worsened to the point where she could no longer manage the rent. Peter had eventually found her at a dye works.
In under half a day, he had tracked her down through inquiries and brought her back. Eugene offered him a single word of acknowledgment — well done — and nothing more. And yet, at just those words, Peter’s cheeks flushed as pink as a boy in the first flush of adolescence who’d just been confessed to by a girl he liked. It wasn’t right to be grateful for another person’s misfortune — but having a clearer picture of Aldrin’s situation now only deepened Eugene’s conviction that she was exactly the right person.
“First — bring Aldrin a bowl of warm soup, at least. I am her patron, whatever the name is worth.”
It wasn’t a particularly aristocratic instruction, so Eugene tacked on a small justification. Whether it worked or not, the butler offered a faint smile and moved to carry out the order without a word of objection. Eugene didn’t know whether she was hungry or not — but he wanted to. It was because a memory from Park Yujin’s past had surfaced.
Hungry or not — if there was food and you could eat, you ate while you could, because having something in you steadied the heart. And he remembered how grateful he had been, once, for something as simple as a warm cup of coffee someone had left out, or a bit of food that happened to remain. That was why he’d given that instruction. The person who bought you food was a good person. Though of course, the one who bought you something outrageously expensive had an agenda of their own.
Even Park Yujin had always thought, I have to work hard for real, whenever an employer offered some small thing. There was a pitch-black motive buried underneath it all — but did that make it a bad act? Eugene caught himself feeling faintly guilty for no one’s benefit but his own, and glanced into the mirror.
The mirror still showed not Park Yujin but a beautiful young man of remarkable bearing — someone who looked far too noble and refined to be harboring any such scheming thoughts. Eugene gave Aldrin sufficient time to finish her meal and to gather herself — to adjust to the sudden turn of events and collect her thoughts.
He had no intention of pressuring her into accepting the commission against her will. He was working to find the right balance — remaining true to Eugene Primrose, a noble of this world, while not losing the modern sensibility of Park Yujin. When the red outside the window deepened and spread, Eugene moved. If Aldrin were going to decline his offer, she needed to be on her way before dark.
The butler stepped into the gallery ahead of Eugene and stood by the door. At his entrance, Aldrin — who had been seated and looking uncertainly around the room — rose from her seat in a slightly awkward, uncertain way.
Aldrin was rigid with nerves at meeting her patron for the first time. Of course, this was equally the first meeting with her ward for both Eugenes. From what he could gather, Eugene Primrose had come to know of Aldrin’s work through another artist’s introduction, and their entire relationship up to this point had consisted of nothing but letters.
When he pressed for more detail, Peter confirmed that even he had done nothing more than slip envelopes containing the patronage funds into the letter box on Aldrin’s door — and that the first time he had ever seen her in person was the day she had come to call on Eugene. She had clearly been concealing the fact that she was a woman, deliberately avoiding direct contact. Thinking of it that way, it gave some sense of just how desperate she must have been to have finally come in person — of her own accord — to find her patron.
“Aldrin — I was told you came to call on me while I was ill.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Call me ‘sir.’ Or ‘young master’ will do just as well.”
What business did the third son — with nothing to show for himself — have being called ‘my lord.’ At Eugene’s words, Aldrin lifted the hem of her worn skirt slightly and dipped a curtsy. He’d been warned — but Aldrin looked worse than he’d been led to expect.
The phrase skin and bone fit her exactly, and her hair was tangled as if it hadn’t seen a comb in days. That was not all — the hands holding her skirt were stained a deep, murky black, colored through with dyes of every shade.
“Your patronage was cut off, and you needed money — that’s why you came to me, isn’t it?”
“I am deeply sorry. How shameless of me to have presumed to—”
“You don’t need to kneel. We’re both busy people, so let’s skip the drawn-out formalities and speak plainly.”
Eugene — who had been intending to play the part of the refined aristocrat, as he’d been practicing — immediately revised his plan. Now that he was face to face with Aldrin, performing that kind of haughtiness felt uncomfortable. Watching her stand there, unable even to raise her head, made him feel as though he’d already been overbearing without having said a word. So Eugene decided to get directly to the point.
“I intend to commission several paintings from you. Are all of those paintings there ones you made yourself?”
“Yes, sir. Though my skill is modest, they are indeed all painted by my own hand.”
“Good. Before I speak of the commission, there are certain things I’ll need.”
“Please tell me what you require.”
