I attended for several semesters. Angelica Kauffman’s work was never represented, her name never mentioned. Nor was it mentioned when I was a college student majoring in art; few women artists made it onto the syllabus in the 1960s. I first learned about her under completely different circumstances, years later.

A friend of mine had a spirit guide. Her name was Angelica. I wasn’t overly interested in spirit guides at the time. It was how he discovered her identity that caught my attention.

She was, he said, a prominent artist in eighteenth century England, a fact he had discovered as soon as they began conversing. What made you think she was real, I asked, still unfamiliar with her name. In fact, he’d been skeptical himself at first. All he knew was that he was ripe to meet a spirit guide, and even if she hadn’t been real, he found her wisdom was invaluable. Then one day he spotted a magazine on an office coffee table, opened it and found an article on a retrospective exhibit—the first that received press in America—of work by Angelica Kauffman. So she was real!

Hearing that was enough to send me scurrying to the library, where I found several volumes on Angelica Kauffman. Among them was an obscure nineteenth century novel, My Angel, by Anne Thackeray, a bestseller in its time. Another book included copies of her letters to Goethe, translated from German. After reading everything and learning more about Angelica, I knew I had to retell her story.

And it had to be done from a fresh perspective. The original novel contained inaccuracies and omissions in the facts of her life. More importantly, I began to have a vastly different impression about the truth of her inner reality. I sensed the untold story arising from her secret motives and thoughts. Like any spirit yearning for its truth to be heard, I felt she was begging for another voice. And I had to give it to her. I decided to begin with initial scenes very similar to those in Thackeray’s book—much like two runners taking off from the same starting line—and gradually departed from there.

I can’t remember dying. It happened so quickly. So quietly. Like the moment of midnight passing into the morrow. Like a rainbow, its colors already faint, fading into the clouds.

For a long time I thought I was still in my room upstairs, the candle flickering by the window, the priest’s voice a constant drone as he read the same verse over and again. I don’t know why he insisted on Ode for the Dying, especially since I had requested a different verse. I called out to him several times but apparently he couldn’t hear me.

Then I found myself in a chapel—or perhaps it was some sort of Egyptian temple. I couldn’t be sure in the darkness. Later it seemed I was sitting by a lone pine tree. It was all too confusing. To orient myself, I tried bringing to mind habitual actions. How much red pigment to mix with the yellow for a sunset. What size brushes to use when painting the eyes, the cheekbones, the hint of a dimple. How long to wait before applying the varnish.

I am grateful for these simple thoughts. They have kept me steady. Steady enough so I could begin to focus on what was most dear to my heart. On what needs to happen next. On all I must remember.

next chapter

Always, as Papa taught me, I paused to look for the brief bath of luminosity at dusk. It never disappointed. This time it went beyond anything I’d ever seen. Low rays of sun filtering through stained glass illuminated Titian’s Assumption, the masterpiece that had towered over me all day as I tried to copy it. Suddenly the painting seemed to glow from within. An unearthly glow. Red robes grew redder, the clouds more silver. Heaven a richer gold. In the next instant, all the colors exploded at once, drenching the Virgin in a radiance that filled the sanctuary, rebounding off the windows as if they were looking glass.

In a world fabricated of light, I could no longer quite gauge where I was standing.

Our Lady’s arms, always held high and wide toward God, dropped to her sides. Her head inclined downward and her gaze met mine.

For an instant I felt faint. Was I going mad?

Then long fingers of light reached down and touched me. Her breath felt warm on my face, infusing me with strength. Within it, a whisper. It is yours, she said, all yours to create, my child. Soar beyond what you know, beyond even time. Paint with your very soul. Paint for God!

*****

As quickly as it began, the moment was over.

I, Angelica Kauffman, stood alone again before my unfinished canvas in the Church of the Frari. It was a late afternoon in October of the year 1765, in the city of Venice, time for the lamplighter to make his rounds.

The balls of my feet ached from standing in one spot for so long. In the fading light, I became aware of how chilly the sanctuary was, of the insidious way its dampness seeped into my bones. I was tired, even a bit irritable. There were so many paintings I longed to create, so much vibrant color swirling in my head. Yet I had little to show for my efforts at the end of a very tedious day. Painting for God? Perhaps that was work better left to the angels.

Footsteps echoed on the stone floor and the silence of the sanctum was broken. I peered over my shoulder to see who was approaching with such urgency. It was Antonio Zucchi, the lodger with whom Papa and I had shared quarters since arriving in Venice. Even in the dim light he was unmistakable with his bouncing step, his halo of frizzy hair.

“Your father’s delayed.” His whisper as he reached my side was almost loud enough to create an echo of its own. “He’ll fetch you as soon as he can.”

No greeting, just straight to the business at hand. I was used to this familiarity from Antonio. Papa and I first met him at a studio in Milan and our travels since had taken us along parallel paths. Now that he slept in the attic and made a habit of lingering in our common rooms, he seemed practically kin.

I set down my palette, rubbed my hands to get warm and began cleaning my brushes, starting with the smallest yellow one.

He stared at my canvas. “What? Not finished?”

Unable to deny it, I focused on my brushes.

“Angelica, you’ve hardly done anything today.”

His tone riled me, as doubtless he intended it would. But I was determined to avoid an argument. The one the previous evening had been deplorable enough. It took place in the privacy of our living room. A public outburst—at the altar of a church, no less—would be far more reproachable. With all the calm I could muster, I ran the tip of the yellow brush slowly, deliberately along the edge of my paint box. It didn’t leave any trace of color. I picked up another brush and dipped it in mineral spirits.

Even with my head down, I sensed Antonio’s glare. It was no secret he felt at least as much envy as admiration for me. Not only was I fifteen years younger, but the acclaim I’d won by age twenty-three went far beyond anything he hoped to receive. His envy grew each time I acquired a more impressive commission.

I knew what he was thinking now. Someone as young and idealistic as I needed someone with more worldly discernment—someone like him—to guide and protect me. It was not an idea I encouraged. I didn’t need anyone else to direct my career or watch over me like that. Nor in any other way Antonio might fancy, given half a chance. No, Papa took care of everything. Our income might be paltry, but the commissions he secured for me would be the pride of any artist, let alone a woman.

Pushing back the strand of hair that always found a way to break free from the braid atop my head, I bent more intently over my brushes.

Antonio had succeeded in working himself up. Abandoning any pretense at whisper, he gesticulated toward the altar. “Really, for a girl like you to presume to do justice to Titian’s Assumption! What a mockery!”

My art a mockery? It might have been a wasted day, but that was ridiculous. Unable to hold my tongue, I met Antonio straight on, my reply quiet yet firm. “Giuseppe Morosco wasn’t thinking like that when he gave me the commission. He has confidence in me. So does Papa.” Unlike you, I thought, picking up a russet red brush.

“Listen, I’ve a better plan—”

“No!” I brandished my brush as if that were a reasonable means of defense. “You know we can’t afford to be choosy. Papa and I need the money. Life in Venice is no cheaper than in Rome or Milan. Even sharing rooms with you, we can barely afford food and lodging. Not to mention art supplies. Besides, why complain if I’ve been asked to create a replica of such a great masterpiece?”

“A replica!” he exploded. “That’s just it. You might as well try for a replica of the sun!” He spat out his breath, then turned and rushed from the church.

I shook my head as I watched him go, the wayward hairs falling back across my face. This time I wiped my hands with the edge of my apron, wetted my fingertips and tucked the strand more securely under my braid. Then I glanced at the Virgin. Her arms held their usual gesture, raised toward the Lord, palms open; her eyes locked with his. There was no sign it ever had been otherwise. She’s too enraptured, I thought, to be distracted by my petty commotions.

So why should I worry? The fact was, despite his bravado, Antonio had little knowledge of history painting or reproductions. He was an artisan—and an expert one, at that—who worked on architectural trimmings and decorative ornaments. If he thought about reproductions, it was for the purpose of adorning a dinner plate. He would never understand my hopes and dreams. I inhaled deeply. So that was it. One had to live as one saw fit, to paint what one was called to paint. To do anything less—well, that would be a mockery. If I yearned to paint the sun, I’d paint the sun. And it would be magnificent.

Still I had to admit, inspiration hadn’t exactly been shining on me. Instead of painting, I’d been daydreaming. For hours I’d gone over and over one small corner of the canvas. Papa expected to present Morosco with the finished piece in the morning. I was going to disappoint both of them.

I placed my paints in their case, a heavy wooden box with splintered lid inherited from Papa when we began traveling together. As I did so, the lamplighter and several others entered the church. One gentleman dressed in black offered a votive candle, then wandered in my direction.

“For sale?” His tall form hunched a bit too closely over my shoulder, his long blond curls brushing against my cheek. As he adjusted his spectacles, a giant ruby flashed on his finger.

“It’s a commission, sold already.”

“What a pity.” He stepped back so he could take in both the original and its reproduction. I felt his eyes on me, too. “Tell the owner he’s fortunate to acquire such a rendition,” he said before turning away. “Almost as beautiful as the artist.”

His words might have been flattery, but hearing them in that moment lifted my spirits. I wanted to believe my work still had the power to please.

Next a young couple approached. “I prefer the copy,” the woman whispered. “It’s an ideal size, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said the other. “I’d take a good copy of a master’s painting over an original by an artist of minor talent any day.”

More gathered. They discussed my work among themselves as if I were part of the distant scenery. As I untied my apron and smoothed the folds of my wool skirt, I listened to their varied reactions. And varied they were. Transformed through a dozen eyes, my unfinished painting became a dozen different paintings, all finished, all worthy of admiration. If only one would affix itself to the canvas, I thought. Before Papa arrives.

After a bit the crowd thinned and I grew impatient for his return. Of course that meant Antonio also would be back. I vowed not to make matters worse by arguing with him again.

It is exceedingly difficult not to argue with someone who is convinced he knows what’s best for you. Or so I had discovered. The scene repeated itself nightly as Antonio and I busied ourselves after dinner. I washed and dried the dishes while he sat at the rough-hewn table—which served as dining area or workbench, depending on the hour—and designed the engraving for a plate. Once the dishes were in the cupboard, I joined him with my sketchpad and chalks. Papa usually sat with us doing a project of his own. But last night he went to bed early.

I was sketching Penelope, a favorite of mine from the Trojan legend. In Rome I painted her at her loom and now I planned to paint her awaiting Ulysses’ return. My task was to render correctly the angle of her hands holding aloft his bow. The thumbs must appear gracefully elongated yet strong enough to support the weapon. Her lowered left hand came easily but the right required more effort. I still hadn’t captured it after a number of tries.

Antonio stopped working to watch. “Think about it,” he said, “we should join forces.”

I shrugged. “You’re welcome to do engravings of my history paintings.”

“Not Penelope.”

“Why not?”

“To begin with, the design doesn’t fit in a circle.”

“Then adapt it. You’re the expert.”

But he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted me to put aside what I was doing and develop a motif for his plates. “They’d fetch a high price,” he insisted.

“No doubt they would.” I set down my chalk; it was pointless to start another sketch with so much talk. “But I’ve worked all day on a painting that, mind you, is already sold.”

At that he launched into a diatribe about what was best for me—to stop distracting myself with the vacuous allegories of history painting. And definitely no more replicas.

I pointed out his illogic. Many of his own engravings were based on reproductions of history paintings. As they should be. That was what people appreciated, what they rushed to purchase. Besides, nothing offered artists a more open expanse for creative imagination than mythology. It was a genre of pure passion. Anyone—male or female—with talent must recognize this. And surely I had talent. So why should I limit myself?

None of what I said had any effect. Antonio expected his to be the final word. Having decided how I should paint, he badgered me until I heaved a sigh he probably took as an admission of defeat, gathered up my sketchpad and chalks and retired to the loft where I slept.

*****

My reverie was interrupted by a rustling at my side.

A lady in white silk, ruffles of ivory lace on her bodice, skirt with the widest hoops I’d ever seen, stood beside me in the church. She was obviously a personage of import. Strands of pearls woven through her upswept hair shimmered like watery stars. Each time she flicked her jewel-studded fan, I inhaled rose perfume. It was slightly intoxicating.

She said nothing, just tilted her head and regarded my painting.

I cast my gaze down, always honored when someone of stature showed interest in my work. A compliment was undoubtedly forthcoming and I prepared to receive it with grace.

Before she could speak, our attention was diverted to the front of the church, where two men had entered, neither making any effort to temper their heated discussion. As they rushed toward the sanctuary, the lady stepped away.

“What’s this I hear?” Papa dropped his satchel and reached for the painting.

My hands flew to protect it. I could only imagine what Antonio must have told him. Antonio was suddenly quiet, almost unnaturally so.

“Please,” Papa cried, “say it’s not true!”

It pained me to see him so upset but I didn’t know what to say.

“Antonio insists you’re unable to paint,” he continued, jaw clenched, his already thin face all the more gaunt. “I say that’s impossible. Not after all your success—”

“John Joseph,” Antonio interrupted, “be gentle!” Now that his criticisms had caught fire, he was ready to jump into the opposite role—the role he coveted—as my protector.

Papa released his grip on my canvas as he faced the younger man. “Perhaps you can afford to be idle, Zucchi. My daughter and I don’t have that luxury.” He turned back to me. “Please, my darling, I’m counting on you.”

“I know.”

“Then why for heaven’s sake aren’t you painting?”

Antonio shifted nervously between the two of us. He might see himself as my protector, but he didn’t like this intermediary position—even if he’d created it deliberately. He and I both knew I had a special touch with my father, the ability to calm him with a smile or reassuring word. Antonio expected that of me now.

But I’d been caught off guard. This time I couldn’t find a way to humor Papa. Perhaps Antonio is right after all, I thought. Maybe this is a mockery. So what if rivers of color flood into paintings in my mind’s eye each night as I fall asleep? So what if I dream of making masterpieces of my own? It’s all useless if I can’t trust my skill to produce a fair copy. I’d be mad to believe otherwise.

“Think of the sacrifices your mother and I made.” Papa wasn’t angry, just worried. “Since you were small, we thought only of your talents, your future, your success. We did all we could. Now everything rests in your hands.”

I wanted to throw my arms around him, affirm his sacrifices hadn’t been in vain. I myself had vowed the highest sacrifice I knew: placing my art over all else in life, even over any chance at a husband. I wanted to promise I would start at the first light tomorrow and make up for lost time. I’d work quickly—even more so than usual—and finish the painting by the end of the day. But it would have been a hollow promise. All I could feel was an enormous pressure bearing down on me. It was one thing to love painting, to feel called to the life of an artist; it was something else to live up to other people’s expectations. The fact they were my own as well didn’t help.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” was the most I could say.

Antonio shot me a look that said, Didn’t I warn you? You can’t be such a mad dreamer.

I stared back at him, then at Papa, then the unfinished canvas. Tears rose in my eyes.

Just then the elegant lady emerged from the shadows. If she had been watching all the while, she gave no indication she witnessed anything disturbing. “May I ask a favor?” Her voice was as smooth as the pearls in her hair.

I blinked away the tears.

She stepped closer. “I need a portrait to remind me of Venice and I’d like this young artist to execute it.” She addressed Papa with dignity, as if he were one of her rank. “Would you permit me, sir, to take your daughter home in my gondola?”

My heart leapt up. You’re beautiful, I thought. I want to paint you as you are right now!

She turned to me, all smiles. “Perhaps I can consult with you about the picture. I hope you’ll agree to paint it for me.”

Antonio put his hand on Papa’s elbow and drew him aside. “It’s her Excellency Lady Wentworth,” I heard him whisper, “wife of the British Ambassador.”

Papa thrust himself forward with a deep bow. “Of course… You’re too good…” He tripped over his words trying to correct any untoward impression. “This is my daughter, Angelica Kauffman. If I may say so, she’s been widely acclaimed…”

“Papa!”

“We… we’ve just come from Naples, where—”

“Papa!” My face was flushing. “There’s no need to explain. Her Excellency already has been so kind—”

Lady Wentworth extended her hand. Without hesitating I placed my paint-stained fingers in it. If the rough skin shocked her senses, she didn’t let on. “How delightful,” she said. “I half suspected you might be Angelica. I’ve heard so much about your work. Just the other day I received a letter from Herr Winckelmann praising a portrait you did in Rome. I knew I had to have one for myself.”

Within a few minutes everything was settled. I would go home with the lady to her estate. She would show me the studio where I’d be working and we’d discuss the commission. If everything were acceptable to Papa, I would begin work straightaway—or a few days hence when my copy in the church was finished. No one questioned that it would be.

As we walked out of the church, Lady Wentworth and I, something made me turn at the last second and glance back. There stood Antonio, chin tucked, staring after us, all the bounce drained out of him.

I knew he wanted to protest, to shake Papa free of what he considered blind jubilation, to warn him to be more careful about where—and especially with whom—he allowed his daughter to go. He wanted to explain how these wealthy people often take a fancy to certain artists because it’s the fashion of the day, only to drop them unceremoniously a short while later. But he knew Papa too well. Any objections would be discounted. All Antonio could do was bide his time, hoping for an opportunity to snatch me back into his world.

My poor friend, I thought as I descended the steps to the water, even that will be too late.

*****

I took my seat in the damask gondola and pulled a thickly woven wool blanket over my lap. Not only would it keep me warm, but it hid the frayed hem of my skirt. While Lady Wentworth gave instructions to her gondolier and he covered some packages so they wouldn’t get wet, I relaxed more deeply into the pillows.

The evening was cool and clear. Lanterns at the side of the canal cast their rays over the water, making a thousand sparkles dance on the ripples. Under my skin, ripples of joy began a dance of their own as I heard the words of the Virgin singing within me: Paint with your soul! I didn’t quite know what that meant. Yet it filled me with excitement. I couldn’t wait to start my new assignment. No matter that it was only a portrait, not a history painting.

I leaned over and peered into the water. From that angle, no sparkles were visible. Looking into the depths was like staring into the vast palette of God’s unknown. Anything could be created, anything dissolved, in each instant.

Before a brush dips into paint, I mused, who knows if a masterpiece will result?

I had every intention of keeping my brush firmly in hand. Still, unseen forces had the power to guide my hand, to shape what I tried to create. It was all so unpredictable. This afternoon was proof of that.

The gondolier shoved away from the dock and I sat up. At what point, I suddenly wondered, does the work of the artist cease and life itself begin?

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Just then my gaze was drawn upward. A solitary figure stood on a low-arching bridge, leaning over the rail, watching our gondola pass beneath. I recognized the man with fair hair and black dress who praised my painting in the church, the man with the ruby ring. For an instant our eyes met. Even in the dark I had the unnerving sense he saw straight through me.

A soft tap on my knee brought me back to the boat.

Lady Wentworth, who apparently hadn’t noticed the stranger—or at least didn’t find anything odd about him—was smiling patiently. “Tell me all about the artist,” she said.

I hesitated. It would be easier, I’d often thought, if my paintings could just speak for themselves.

“I hear you started at an early age,” she prompted.

That gave me the starting point I needed. “Yes,” I said. “I used to amuse myself with my father’s chalks. Other children bored me. It was much more fun drawing on the floor while he worked.”

“Ha! A child prodigy. I knew it.”

She looked at me expectantly, but I didn’t reply. It was a remark I’d heard enough to know it didn’t always come as a compliment. Not everyone appreciated a prodigy, especially a girl. “My parents were Swiss,” I said. “We came to Italy so Papa could paint portraits and cathedral ceilings. Sometimes he wasn’t—” I faltered, too proud to reveal how poor we actually were, how hard Papa had struggled to make a living. Besides, the life of itinerant artists seeking city to city for new commissions, wealthier patrons and the unexpected opportunity was hardly within the lady’s purlieus. “My parents always cared well for me,” I said instead. “I never wanted for anything.”

“Your father taught you?”

“Not exactly—”

“No? How is it, then, that you’re so accomplished?”

Her questions were persistent, incisive, suggesting genuine interest. They dissolved my hesitation. I did want, after all, to tell her about myself. Patrons needed to know about the artists they supported.

I’d taught myself, I explained, by copying masterpieces. It was something Papa encouraged when he saw how easy it was for me. He gave me paints of my own and set me to work, expecting a new copy every fortnight. “One can learn so much by studying artists such as da Vinci, Raphael and Correggio,” I said, slipping one foot out of its shoe, my stockinged toes curling on the soft cushion. “Papa’s favorite was da Vinci, so I imagined him as my teacher.”

“You were copying in the church just now. Are you still learning?”

“Of course there’s always more to learn,” I said with a smile. “I used to copy for practice. Now I receive commissions to make copies.”

The gondola gave a sudden lurch, then emerged into an intersection jammed with boats. “Sà premi!” shouted the gondolier as he tried to steer a straight course. After some jostling, two barges moved aside so we could pass.

“Does your father also make copies?” Lady Wentworth asked as we glided forward.

“Not anymore. He gave up his work to focus on my career.”

“How generous.” She looked at me with a keen eye. “And pragmatic, too. I can see he knows where the real talent in his family lies.”

This time I acknowledged her compliment. It was true. Papa had gone to great lengths to stand up for me, even to the point of facing ridicule. In Milan he was called an opportunist for pushing me into the limelight so young. He wanted me to learn by copying, but it was virtually impossible to get permission for a girl to work in the galleries. And then there was the ridiculous rumor I’d snuck into the academy disguised as a boy to draw from live models. Someone bent on keeping me out of the galleries concocted the story just to discredit me. Papa did what he could to dispel speculation, but it kept cropping up wherever we went. When we traveled to Florence, he had to go to battle for me all over again because the artists there refused me entrance to their galleries. They thought I should be caring for my family, not laboring for money. I was relieved to find Lady Wentworth inclined to a more supportive stance.

“And your mother? Is she in Venice, too?”

Instinctively I withdrew my eyes to the dark surface of the water. “She’s… dead,” I said.

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

I rarely spoke about my mother. Except to state the obvious—how beautiful, gentle and kind she was. Even with Papa, I avoided bringing up her memory. It was too painful.

*****

The year following Mama’s death had been the most difficult of my life. For Papa’s sake I hid my pain as best I could. At night I couldn’t escape it. I lay awake trying to understand where she had gone. It was one thing to know, as I believed, she had gone to heaven, something else to accept I’d never see her again.

Mama was always my strongest, most unequivocal advocate. Yet she never once asked me to paint nor told me to become a painter. In her eyes, her daughter simply was an artist, and she appreciated that. Whenever I brought her a sketch, even a rough one, she set aside what she was doing and admired it. It was her belief in me that sustained me no matter what others said.

Perhaps because she had lived with Papa, she understood the sensibilities of an artist. When I was little I often woke in the middle of the night to visions of colors swirling in my head. Fearful when I couldn’t make them go away, I cried for Mama.

She always rushed to take me in her arms. “They’re like paint,” she whispered as she slid under the blanket with me, holding me until the panic subsided. “Soon you’ll put them into the prettiest pictures.”

We were living in Milan when she died unexpectedly. I was fifteen. For the previous three years I’d been painting portraits of the local nobility. Everyone wanted a picture by the young girl artist. Compared with how I later learned to paint, those were simple, unsophisticated pictures. But my clients didn’t notice. They loved the novelty. And I loved the chance to paint. The fact that I was paid made it all the more thrilling.

Then suddenly all the thrill was lost. Papa and I couldn’t bear to stay in Milan, so we returned to the little hamlet his family called home—Schwarzenberg, in the Bergenz Forest on the slopes of the Alps. He was hired to paint the ceiling of the parish church, damaged by a fire. To keep busy I offered to do frescoes of the twelve apostles.

Because we didn’t have money for lodgings, we stayed at Uncle Michel’s farm. It cut a sharp contrast with the society of Milan, and before I knew it, my grief had given way to a flood of resentment and irritation. One evening, my oldest cousin arrived late for supper. He came straight from the goat shed, dirty and smelling of manure, and sat down beside me. When he handed me his plate expecting me to serve him, it was more than I could take.

“What’s next, Papa?” I cried. “Will I have to eat with the goats?”

They were harsh and unwarranted words. I knew it as soon as I said them. Yet I was too conceited to do anything but drop my napkin and flee the room.

Papa followed me. I’d never seen him so livid. He demanded I apologize to my cousin forthwith, then go to church on the morrow and confess. Although I went to church in those days, truth is, it was more to paint frescos than to think about my sins or about God. That night, however, I was so afraid for my soul I couldn’t sleep.

As it turned out, there was no cause for worry. The parish priest did what Papa had been unable to do: he spoke with me at length about my mother. I saw how love lives on unchanged, even as forms come and go. By shutting my heart to sorrow, I had only hurt myself more. For the first time since Mama’s death, I cried tears not tinged by fear or anger. I found the love underlying my grief.

For the rest of that winter I felt content in the village. Instead of longing for Milan, I appreciated the solitude and splendor of the mountain forest. I saw beauty arise from simplicity. And I vowed to attend church services regularly, a vow that was soon challenged by the harsh reality of the three-hour walk. But I didn’t let it deter me. When the roads were impassable by carriage, I rose before daybreak and trudged in snow up to my knees so I could attend Mass. In time, I came to see this sustaining faith as my mother’s gift to me.

*****

“She died when I was fifteen,” I said when I could speak again without visible emotion. “After that Papa devoted all his time to my education. He knew it was what my mother wanted. Since then we’ve been traveling together.”

Lady Wentworth reached out and gripped my arm, her eyes almost tearful. “That’s a difficult life for a young girl.”

“Perhaps,” I said, sitting taller. “But it suits me.” She didn’t need to know how difficult it really was. “I’ve been fortunate to have Papa’s support. And there’ve been strokes of luck as well. When the Governor of Milan heard I was making copies, he granted permission to visit the private galleries whenever I wished.”

“What an honor.”

“Yes. No woman before me could copy in the galleries of Milan.”

“Was that when you painted your first portrait?”

“Actually, I was eight then. I found I could take one look at a person’s face and know his true character. It simply appeared of its own on the canvas.”

“Fascinating.”

I explained the first portrait of real importance was of the Bishop of Como, when I was eleven. “We got along fabulously. He had a silvery beard that bobbled when he laughed. He liked the portrait so much I was showered with commissions. Papa had to start refusing some so I wouldn’t neglect my lessons. When we moved to Milan two years later, it was the same. After I painted the Duchess of Modena, all the nobility wanted portraits.”

“So you will specialize in portraits?”

“Oh no, I want to be much, much more than a portrait painter!” As I said this, I couldn’t help but notice her Excellency’s raised eyebrows. Like everyone else, she was well aware women painters could do portraits—and of course those interminable still lifes—while history painting was the exclusive domain of men. For a woman to produce a history painting worthy of exhibition, she would need to be skilled at rendering nudes. That was impossible without studying from live models. Or so the conventional view held.

I ignored the eyebrows. “I’m going to be a history painter,” I announced as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “That’s why I’ve been getting such a good education. I’ve studied Greek mythology as well as Roman, and know the styles of those periods. While we were in Rome I received several commissions for history paintings—of Penelope, and Coriolanus and my favorite of Bacchus and Ariadne. Nothing excites me more than delving into these stories and making my own interpretations. And of course the range of color I can use is much greater than for portraits.”

“My goodness, I had no idea.” Despite her eyebrows, she clearly admired spunk. “And have you studied anatomy?”

I blushed at the implication. “Definitely not, your Excellency! However I don’t believe that is necessary to create aesthetically pleasing figures.”

“How did you learn to paint figures, then?”

“With Papa’s help I devised a method. First I worked on what one can readily see: the head and hands and feet. The rest I pieced together by copying plaster reliefs of classical sculptures.” I hesitated, but only for a second. “I’d love to paint you as a goddess.”

“You would?”

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps as Aphrodite, in robes of gold.” This was how I had intended to paint my mother. I didn’t suggest it lightly.

“The goddess of love!” she exclaimed. “I like that. And my daughter Charlotte must be a cherub by my side.”

I was pleased she spoke my language.

“Hopefully you’ll accompany me to the galleries,” she said as we sped past the Palazzo Ducale. “If it weren’t so late, I’d insist we stop now and look at the masterpieces.”

I told her I could easily get used to a life with time to visit galleries just for the fun of it.

“Lectures at the Palazzo Ducale are so boring,” she said, eyes fluttering to emphasize her point. “I’d rather go with you so I can learn the secrets of each painting.”

“I’d love that, my Lady!”

“Yes, you’ll be my guide—” She stopped, her voice suddenly solemn. “My sweet Angelica, if we’re to be friends, I insist you call me Bridget. Allow me—” She held out both hands, inviting me to withdraw mine from under the blanket and place them in hers.

I did so.

“I’m so happy we’ve met,” she said, abandoning her solemn tone and laughing like a young girl. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a woman and an artist. You must tell me.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. The warmth of her hands was pulling me under a spell of intimacy. It was alluring, especially as I hadn’t had close female companionship of any sort since Mama’s death. I’d endured that void so long it was hard to imagine anyone filling it. Besides, how could I describe the life of an artist—man or woman—to someone who had no such talents of her own, nor close family who were artists?

I could say I stood apart from the world, an observer to record history, character, emotion. That I pondered life and offered interpretation, but didn’t have the privilege of plunging into it myself. Or perhaps it would be truer to say an artist lived more fully than others, that living at the apex of creation heightened color and texture and the very light of which images are born. I wasn’t sure which was truer for me. Sometimes I felt separate from the world. Like today, struggling in the church. Other times it seemed life itself would consume me. Of course, being a woman didn’t simplify things. If being easily consumed was feminine nature, as people claimed, it was all the more important to be independent enough to make my mark as an artist.

“Tell me,” Bridget coaxed, “how do you spend your time when you’re not working? An artist’s life must be lonely. Who are your friends? And who is the man I saw with you at the church? Are you two engaged?”

Her last question jolted me back to my senses. “Oh, most certainly not!” I exclaimed. “I assure you, I’d never consider marrying Antonio.”

“Antonio?”

“The man in the church. He’s a friend of Papa’s. But I would never marry him.”

“You’re right,” she said, smiling. “He’s too old and not nearly good enough for you.” If she were referring to his petulant behavior earlier, she was too polite to do so directly.

“In any case,” I hastened to add, “I have no interest in marriage.” There was no reason for her to think I was unmarried because I lacked worthy suitors, when the truth was I had chosen to devote myself to painting instead.

Her eyebrows rose again. “Surely someone as attractive as you—”

“Of course there’ve been one or two young men,” I said, anticipating her point. “But in Milan, the year after Mama died, I swore off the idea of marriage. So much work is required if one intends to paint true masterpieces. As I do. Really, I wouldn’t have time for a husband.”

“So you value your independence?”

I nodded. “I guess you could say I’m married to my brush.”

Bridget threw back her head and laughed with such glee I had to join in. “I’m so glad we’ve met,” she said again. “I see you’re going to be a breath of fresh air in my life—in all of society, in fact. As to your mad ideas about remaining a spinster, well… I promise we’ll see about that.”

*****

Our gondola stopped before an ornate iron gate. Dense willow boughs overhung one side, almost touching the water. A servant swung open the gate, revealing a steep flight of marble steps. A string of lanterns, swaying in the breeze, lit the path as it wound upward through a terraced garden, beyond which I could see the glow of the estate lights.

As we stepped out of the gondola, a wave caught us. Bridget grabbed my arm just in time to save us both from a swift dip in the canal, and we whirled around to see whose boat caused the turbulence.

It was the man from the church. I thought I saw the glint of his ruby as he placed a hand on his chest and bowed. By the time he raised his head, his boat was already rounding the bend.

With a giggle Bridget kissed her gloved fingers and waved toward him. “That’s Count Frederick de Horn, a friend of my husband. Intriguing man. He often visits us, so you’ll meet him soon.”

“He’s in mourning?” I said, unnerved for a second time and more than a bit intrigued.

“I hear his mother died recently.”

I wanted to say he didn’t act like someone in mourning. But I couldn’t substantiate the feeling. “I’ve met him already,” was all I said.

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Bridget climbed the marble steps and I followed. At the top was a long, narrow reflecting pool; at its far end, two gracefully sculpted goddesses perpetually poured out the contents of their Grecian urns. A servant took our cloaks as we walked into the entrance hall.

“Before we do anything,” Bridget said, “there’s something you must see.”

Grabbing my hand, she led me through a series of sitting rooms, each more elegantly furnished than the one before, until we came to a room with bay windows opening onto a courtyard. Outside a fountain lit by torches sent liquid fireworks into the sky. The room had been arranged as a gallery, with a large painting on a gilt easel occupying the central place of honor.

“When you spoke of history painting,” she said, “I knew I had to show you this.”

I approached the masterpiece. “Another Titian?”

She nodded. “And you like it?”

Probably a copy, I thought, so expertly done it would be hard know for sure. The blues of sky and sea blended with the room’s Prussian blue walls, drawing me instantly into the picture. There Ariadne, princess of Crete, stretched a hand toward her departing lover, while her head swiveled back toward Bacchus as he leapt from his chariot, robes lifting like crimson wings behind him. Copy or not, the majesty of the scene brought me to tears.

“Now, that’s enduring love!” I exclaimed.

“You think so?” To my surprise, Bridget sounded skeptical.

I told her I knew the story well, having painted it in Rome for a British patron. “Bacchus falls in love with Ariadne after Theseus breaks her heart,” I said. “My favorite part is after she dies, when Bacchus takes the crown he gave her and places it among the stars.”

“Oh, that ring of stars over her head. I wondered why it appeared in a blue sky.” Bridget studied the canvas as if viewing it for the first time. It occurred to me she wasn’t used to considering the significance of art. Her pride in the painting was on account of the artist.

She had asked me to be her guide, so I felt free to continue my commentary. “It’s a beautiful symbol of their love—”

“Beautiful yes,” she cut in. “And maybe he has great love for her. But I don’t think she loves him. Look at her. Her heart still longs for Theseus.”

I smiled. “Perhaps. Still, I feel Titian has made the god’s love great enough, sublime enough for both of them. In his painting, I see a love like the rising sun. That love just is, whether one recognizes it and responds or not.” I chose my words carefully so Bridget wouldn’t think I was contradicting her. “Surely we can agree such a love must endure.”

Suddenly a clock began to strike. Some birds awakened by the sound whirred past the window, their shadows flitting across the canvas.

“Come!” Bridget exclaimed. “We’re late for dinner.”

*****

My own first encounter with love at age seventeen had been anything but enduring. It was a love affair with music. And it happened while Papa and I were staying at Montfort Castle, when we returned to Milan after my mother died.

That summer, partly because it was something Mama taught me, I began to play the clavichord and sing regularly. During the day I painted portraits of the Count of Montfort and his family, in the evening I practiced my music. Each time I lifted my voice in song, I felt another layer of sadness drop away.

One evening I went straight to the music room at the end of dinner. I sat down at the keyboard and began to sing a favorite melody. As I reached the refrain, I heard a baritone blending with my soprano. I stopped mid note, in time to see a head with thick dark curls pulling back through the half-open doorway.

“Wait!” I jumped up to see who was teasing me.

I was halfway to the door when the young man poked his head back in. Evidently he was as curious as I was. “You sound like an angel,” he said.

Raphael was a musician. And charming. He had a habit of tossing his head so one of his unruly curls would flip back and rejoin the rest. When he said he was staying for a while and suggested we practice together, I immediately agreed.

Though years ahead of me in training, he had the patience to teach me whatever I wanted to learn. Every evening we worked on something different. One night he told me to sing solo while he listened from outside. When I’d finished, he rushed in and handed me a bouquet of roses concealed behind his back. As I inhaled their scent along with the sweetness of his smile, I realized sadness no longer held me in its grip.

The next day I hummed aloud while painting the Montfort portraits. I couldn’t wait to sing with Raphael again. Just feeling his eyes on me as we sang was enough to make my voice do things it had never done before.

“These madrigals are lovely,” he said that evening, thrusting some music sheets into my hands. “But you can do much more with your voice.”

“Opera?” I took one look at the complex notation and passed it back to him.

He was adamant. I was ready for his favorite Monteverdi arias. We began with Orpheus and Eurydice singing their love to one another. After we’d practiced for several weeks, he announced a surprise for the following Saturday evening. All he would tell me was to wear my most elegant dress and be ready, along with my father, at eight o’clock sharp.

When the night arrived, he took my arm and we walked across the castle grounds to a far lawn, where a group was seated in a semi-circle.

“Look, Papa,” I exclaimed, “an open-air concert!”

Only when everyone began to applaud did I realize there were no musicians. Raphael and I were to give the concert. He’d planned it all without letting me know, a clever tactic because I’d otherwise have declined.

We sang the arias we had practiced, and the audience loved it. So much so, we agreed to give a concert every Saturday. That meant we had to spend even more time practicing. But I didn’t mind. I wasn’t sure what I loved more, singing or being with Raphael.

Of course, it also meant I had fewer hours to paint. I began to feel torn, even more so when Raphael tried to lure me further into the world of music. “Come to Rome with me,” he coaxed one day, flicking back his unruly curl and reaching for my hand. “You’ll have a brilliant career as an opera singer. I’m sure of it.”

“And give up painting?”

“You don’t have to stop painting altogether. Your art can become like your music is now. Just shift your focus. You’re one of those rare individuals with more than one natural talent. It’ll be easy for you.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I promise, we’ll capture Rome, you and I, with our singing.”

He was very persuasive. And I was tempted, all the more so because I already knew I loved Rome. “Tell me about the world of opera,” I begged.

He steered me to an armchair across from the clavichord. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Now picture yourself on a stage. The velvet curtain is rising. You’re wearing the most exquisite costume. When you sing, the crowd is spellbound. Night after night thousands flock to see you. All you have to do is offer what is already your greatest gift—your voice.”

“That would be marvelous.”

He knelt down, took both my hands in his and raised them to his lips. “You’ll love it,” he said, kissing first one hand, then the other. “We’ll be so happy. Besides, the stage offers more glamour, more success and more money than you’ll ever receive as a painter.”

I withdrew my hands. “I have to talk to Papa first.”

But Papa didn’t make the decision any easier. By the time we had a chance to talk, Raphael had already tried to persuade him I should train as an opera singer. Tired of our struggles, Papa favored the idea. If a musical career promised fame and fortune, that was enough for him. Nevertheless, though I was only seventeen, he acknowledged I was the one who had to make the final decision. It would affect the rest of my life.

A few days later Raphael told me he was leaving for Rome the following week and asked if I had made up my mind. He looked surprised when I shook my head. He had assumed my father’s approval was all I needed.

Even if my heart longed to, I couldn’t run off and become an opera singer without being certain it was the right move. Deciding between two loves is always difficult. It is hard enough to choose between two people; choosing between two parts of oneself is even harder. I wished I could talk over the matter with the parish priest who helped me in Schwarzenberg. Fortunately there was a priest in Milan who also knew our family. I went to him and explained my dilemma.

“So you fell in love with music at Montfort Castle,” he said with a smile. “And you also have a profound love for painting.”

“Yes, Father.” I couldn’t tell from his amused expression whether he was laughing at me.

But his reply was completely serious. “You’re fortunate to be able to choose between two great gifts. Few people are blessed with such a choice in their lifetime.”

“Can you help me then?”

“Yes,” he said forcefully. “You’ve come to the right person for guidance. Because I can give full assurance you wouldn’t be satisfied with the life of a singer. As devout as you are, you’d find yourself compromised in the world of the stage. Actors and singers have, shall we say, certain responsibilities that would make it impossible for you to attend Mass. If you choose such a life, you will gradually but definitely be drawn away from your faith.”

The priest’s advice left me without a doubt. Papa, too, was easily won over by his argument. The difficult moment was telling Raphael.

As soon as I sat down to practice that evening, he strode into the room. Perhaps he knew of my visit to the priest because he made no effort to hide his impatience.

“So? What will it be?”

“I’ll be traveling with my father,” I said faintly. “We will go to Rome, then Florence, Venice, Bologna and elsewhere. Maybe even as far as England.” I glanced at Raphael. How was it all those weeks I’d failed to notice the haughty tilt of his head? I had seen his handsome face but not the way he looked down his nose while listening to me. “We will travel so I can learn everything there is to know about painting. It is… my truest passion.”

“Then your mind is made up?” When he flicked his unruly curl, all the charm was gone.

I nodded.

I had intended to ask him for one last song together. But before I could say any more, he gave a snort and rushed out.

So ended my first love affair. It set in motion my life as an artist. From thereon out, I knew every breath God gave me I would use for painting.

And there was an unexpected consequence, as well. That final encounter with Raphael was what led me to conclude life would be easier without all the complications that came from love affairs of a human nature. I had assumed it was only a matter of time before I married. That no longer seemed inevitable. I was first and foremost an artist. Bacchus himself might place a crown on my head—or among the stars, if I were that worthy. Even that could not sway my resolve. No, I vowed to make the ultimate personal sacrifice for the sake of fulfilling my destiny as an artist.

*****

The seat to which I was directed in the dining hall was across from eleven-year-old Charlotte. I smiled at her as I pulled my napkin out of its swan-shaped ring and laid it on my lap. It was almost an insult to put such exquisitely embroidered linen on a rough woolen skirt. Before I sat down, I’d tried to rub the worst of the russet red stains from my hands, had folded back my cuffs so the splatters wouldn’t be visible. But my painter’s dress was still just that.

“Mama, could I play my Bach piece for Miss Angelica after dinner?” Charlotte grinned back at me. She had been given the privilege of dining with the grown-ups so she could meet the artist. Her younger sister Judith had already been put to bed by the governess.

“We’ll see how late it gets, dear,” Bridget said, then turned to her husband. “Charlotte is elated to have someone with whom to speak English.”

“And how came you to be so fluent in English?” the Ambassador asked. A short, stout man, he was John Murray, Bridget’s second husband. Her first, from whom she inherited her title, had died fifteen years before. Or so I later learned.

“My mother taught me English, as well as French and Italian,” I said. “And of course German.” Speaking to the Ambassador, I wished my English were more polished.

“She’s even more fluent in the language of color,” Bridget was quick to add. “I’ve asked her to paint my portrait. Perhaps she should paint yours, too, John.”

*****

After we had discussed the commission and Charlotte had played her Bach on the harpsichord, Bridget acknowledged it was time for me to go home. She called for her carriage, then stopped short. “What am I thinking? You can’t go till you’ve seen your room!”

I was confused. We had already decided a corner of the Prussian blue room would serve as my studio.

“I mean your own room,” she clarified. “I know exactly which one it should be.”

While the carriage waited, she whisked me up two flights of stairs, across the upper landing and through a set of double doors. “I realize it’s out of the way,” she apologized, as we turned down a narrow corridor. “We never use this extra guest room. You can come up here whenever you wish to take rest. No one will bother you.”

At the end of the corridor she pushed open a door.

I gasped. The room was beautiful. And nearly twice the size of the apartment I shared with Papa. A giant four-poster bed with pink drapery dominated the decor. Matching pink-and-white striped satin hung from the windows. Beyond the bed was an alcove that served as a dressing room. On the other side, a giant stone fireplace. Speechless I walked over to the dressing table and picked up a gold comb. As I ran it through a lock of tangled hair, my reflection in the looking glass stared back in astonishment.

Bridget threw open the door of a cedar closet and pulled out an emerald green gown. “I used to be as slim as you are,” she said, holding it in front of my grey wool dress. “I’d be honored if you agreed to wear what no longer fits me.” She gestured toward the rack of garments. “If any are too large, they can be easily altered.”

“You… you’re too generous,” I faltered, my eyes growing moist.

Still holding the gown, she spun me around before the looking glass. Then she grabbed my shoulders and held me at arms’ length. It was a gesture Mama often used when assessing my latest growth spurt. The gown fell to the floor.

“Angelica!” Bridget exclaimed. “Why the tears?”

Of course that only brought forth more.

“Come, come, it’s a happy occasion,” she coaxed. “Or are you like Ariadne, remembering a love from your past?”

Smiling through my tears, I bent to retrieve the green bundle. “No, but I might be starting to remember my future. Do you think that’s possible?”

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Our small kitchen appeared to have shrunk when I stepped inside later that evening. What felt cozy before now seemed cramped. The rough floorboards didn’t receive my step the way oriental carpets did; the solitary lamp at the center cast deep shadows that created a dinginess I hadn’t noticed before. Antonio and Papa sat huddled over the kitchen table. Antonio had pushed aside some dirty dishes so he could work on his engraving, while Papa was nailing new soles onto the buckled shoes he’d worn since we left Schwarzenberg. They looked up in unison when they saw me.

Antonio laid aside his engraving burin. “Well?”

“Zucchi here is afraid you’re leaving us forever,” Papa said with a chuckle, then mumbled under his breath, “God help me, these old shoes need more than resoling.”

“Don’t be silly, Antonio,” I retorted. “Why would I leave, and where could I possibly go?” Out of habit, I began to clear the table and heat water for the dishes. The two men listened as I described my evening: the gondola ride, the Prussian blue room, the lady’s family, our dinner menu.

Antonio demanded a drawing of the swan-shaped napkin rings so he could improve upon the design. After I had scrubbed the dishes, I sat down and obliged him with a sketch.

Meanwhile Papa pressed for more specifics about Lady Wentworth’s patronage. This was the first time I’d interviewed a new client on my own. Most likely he only allowed it on account of all the commotion beforehand. Now it fell to me to provide reassurance.

“She’s a true benefactress of the arts,” I said. “Everything this evening confirmed it.”

“And the commission?”

“There are to be three portraits: one of her, one of the Ambassador and one of her eldest daughter.” I described the canvas sizes and compositions we discussed at dinner. The finances I had of course left for Papa to handle.

“Excellent,” he concluded. “This is an opportunity not to be missed. I will call on her early tomorrow to settle the account and give my signature.”

“She is expecting you,” I said, passing the swan sketch to Antonio.

“This is what we’ve prayed for, my darling.” Papa set down his shoe and reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “It’s precisely what your mother would have wanted.”

“I know,” I said, squeezing back.

Antonio was pleased with the swan but didn’t share our excitement about Lady Wentworth. “What about the painting you’ve already begun? Are you returning to the Church of the Frari? Or will you simply up and quit? I thought you gave your word to Morosco?” He tried to conceal his fear beneath a barrage of questions.

I was in too buoyant a mood to let him spoil it. Assuring him the copy would be finished for Morosco as promised, I picked up a towel and began to dry the dishes. As I worked, more details flooded my mind. “Guess what,” I said, wheeling around to face them both, “you won’t believe it—”

“What?” Papa was eager for more.

“She’s given me a closet full of magnificent gowns!”

“Hand-me-downs.” Antonio curled his lip. “I hope that isn’t how she plans to pay you.”

“Of course not!” I rose to Bridget’s defense. “She’s unspeakably kind and generous.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Papa said, “if she pays better than Morosco.”

“A small fortune, let’s hope,” I said with a grin.

“We’ll learn in the morning,” Papa said.

“Well, I hope you paint fast,” Antonio interjected. “For all we know, she’s about to return to England.”

“She said nothing of the sort,” I said with as much finality as I could muster. It wasn’t a thought I wanted to entertain.

Papa reinforced the sentiment with a friendly cuff to the side of Antonio’s head. He retired to his chair by the fireplace, motioning for me to sit by him. I wiped my hands and hung the towel by the fireplace, then perched on a footstool so I could lean against his knee. We often sat like this at the end of an evening, watching the flames, each lost in thought.

“Remember the time at Uncle Michel’s,” I said after a while, “when I complained about sitting with a goatherd? Who’d have guessed then I’d be dining with the British Ambassador?”

Papa laid a hand on my shoulder. He had long since forgiven me for that indiscretion. “You’re finally getting the patronage you deserve, my darling.”

From across the room, Antonio shot me a piercing look. “Who can say you won’t dine with a goatherd again?”

“You can wonder all you want,” I shot back. “I’m the one who dined with the Ambassador.” With that, I bid them both goodnight and climbed the stairs to my loft.

*****

I awoke well rested the next morning. At the first sign of light, I threw open the shutters over the gabled window at the foot of my bed. In Venice the sun rises and sets to the sound of trumpets. Church bells ring and clocks chime. As I listened to this symphony and watched the dawn colors spread across the sky, I knew I could finish copying the Assumption in very little time. Whatever was holding me back before had vanished.

Over the next two days my brush flew between my palette and canvas. The Virgin’s figure, the pink clouds, the angels and cherubim—everything came to life. If it was cold and dank in the church, I didn’t notice. In the evenings instead of feeling exhausted, I was full of energy. After the usual hour spent sketching, I stayed up to play music. It was something I hadn’t done in a long time. We didn’t have a clavichord, but I played the zither and sang. For his part, Antonio made a good-faith effort to set aside his resentments—along with his etching tools—and drummed time with his fingertips on the table.

By the end of the week my painting had been framed and delivered to Giuseppe Morosco and we had the final payment in hand. After the rent had been settled and the pantry restocked, I bought a pair of new boots for Papa and some paints for myself. I even felt so cheerful I cooked a chestnut pudding, Antonio’s favorite.

And I promised myself I would never take on another reproduction. Not if I could help it. From now on I was going to paint exclusively portraits and original history paintings. I would do what I had set out to do, become the artist I knew I could be. I would live for my passion, for my art. I would discover what it meant to paint for God. Whatever people thought I might be able to do, I would do that much and more. All the sacrifices would be worth it. I would make Papa proud. What more, I asked myself, could anyone dream of doing?

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After a heavy nighttime downpour, the sun was out. The horses seemed to prance a bit higher than usual. Even the old cobbled stones looked fresh and new. I marveled at the perfection of everything. If I hadn’t been copying in the chilly church, I’d never have met Bridget. If I hadn’t felt so disheartened, perhaps she would not have intervened. If Morosco’s painting had been finished on time, this new commission wouldn’t be mine now. No, there were no mistakes.

Not that Antonio would see the perfection. In every situation he looked to expose the lack, the less than, the inevitable loss. Maybe, I thought, this explained why he never married.

Of course I wouldn’t marry, either. For entirely different reasons.

Resting on the carriage pillows, I allowed myself to daydream. One day Papa and I would have a house with a large studio and a separate room for people to view my work. Patrons would come from all over Europe. My art would be accepted by all the major galleries. Because I was so popular, I’d be free to choose any subject I loved. That meant the Greek legends. All the gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines would take up residence in my studio. I’d converse with them, laugh with them, befriend them and clothe them in every color imaginable.

It didn’t end there. One day a man would visit. He had a high forehead and fine, noble features. There was a slight sadness in his smile, a bittersweetness in his eyes. When he looked at me, I wanted to keep staring at him. As if he possessed a quality I’d been starved for, and now I couldn’t get enough of it.

He had come a long distance, he said, after seeing a painting of mine. He was unable to shake the hold it had on him. He told me he also was an artist, a kindred spirit. With great care he studied my paintings. Through his eyes they came alive as never before. And so did I when he reached for my hand. This was not a courtship. Far from it. I knew from the first it was a much greater destiny, greater even than marriage.

*****

Bridget was still in her dressing room when I arrived. A servant offered to take me to the pink-and-white guest room, but eager to start work I insisted on going straight to the Prussian blue room. There, as Bridget had promised, an easel with fresh canvas awaited in the far corner, behind Ariadne and Bacchus. Because it was a warm day, the bay windows had been thrown open. Sunlight flooded the room.

As I finished preparing my palette, Bridget appeared in an ivory gown with floral embroidery and deeply scooped neckline. Her hair was piled high, woven with ribbons of ivory satin. She looked even more magnificent than at our first meeting.

“Good morning.” She kissed me on both cheeks, enveloping me with rose perfume. “I trust the ride was comfortable and you found everything you need to begin work.”

“Everything is perfect,” I said, inhaling the scent. Then I led her to a chair by the window. “I hope you won’t mind sitting still for some time.”

She made her hands limp so I could arrange them on her lap. “Of course not. Patience is a small price to pay to see oneself as a goddess, don’t you think?”

I quickly corrected her. She would not become a goddess straightaway. Today I would start with a sketch. If it pleased her, I would proceed with the portrait. “After I become more familiar with your likeness,” I said, adjusting her fan so it lay half closed in her hand, “I can place you in a history painting.”

“Even so, I’ll be in good company, won’t I?” She started to giggle, but stopped when she realized it disrupted her pose.

I wasn’t sure what she meant.

“Why, the company of the great ones whose portraits you’ve painted,” she said. “The Bishop of Como, Duchess of Modena, Count of Montfort, Herr Winckelmann and all the others.”

I began to sketch her most prominent features. It amused me to see how vanity played in the minds of my sitters. They came to have their portraits done because they were famous. Yet they expected me to make them more famous by painting their portraits. I hoped Bridget wouldn’t make this the basis on which to judge my work.

After a few minutes she broke the silence. “Antonio didn’t want you to take this commission. Has he come around yet?”

Although he had been unusually amenable of late, I knew Antonio well enough to know he still harbored resentments. “Not really,” I said.

“He doesn’t have a choice,” she pointed out.

“No. But he could be less obstinate.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t think too much about it if I were you. Many Italians don’t look favorably on the British. I think they prefer to keep their art for themselves.”

She spoke as though neither of us was Italian. In fact, having traveled so much, I’d lost a clear sense of my nationality. “It’s their pride,” I said, aware I was speaking more of Antonio than of all Italians.

“Perhaps so. In any case, you’ll find the British are more generous patrons of the arts. We’ll give you more substantial commissions, and pay you better as well.”

I told her about the portraits I’d already done for British travelers, among them actor David Garrick, whom I painted in Rome. “I sent his as my first picture to be exhibited in London,” I said.

“Listen,” she said, her fan sliding to the floor as she clasped her hands. “You gave me an idea. Let’s unveil the portrait at our grand ball next month. Can you have it ready by then?”

I picked up the fan and guided my sitter back into her pose. The portrait would be finished faster if she could just sit still. “Certainly it will be ready,” I said.

“Even if it isn’t, you must come anyway. All of Venice will be here.”

I told her there was so much to look forward to, it was almost overwhelming.

She laughed. “My dear, it’ll be fun. And you’ll meet so many important and intriguing people.”

The way she said intriguing, with a glint in her eye, brought to mind the man in mourning. That was how she had described him. I’d been so busy since that I had forgotten about him. I couldn’t remember his name—a Count of some sort, if I recalled correctly.

I drew in silence for a while. Bridget, finally still, seemed lost in thought.

“There’s something else I wish you to think about,” she said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course,” I said, pulse quickening at the prospect of yet more excitement.

“No one knows,” she said without breaking her pose, “but we’re returning to England shortly after the New Year. My husband is being given a new post. I realize this might not leave time to finish his portrait—unfortunately that can’t be helped. He will be transferred to Constantinople, while I take the children to England.”

My pulse dropped. This might not be public knowledge but it was hardly exciting news. When Antonio found out, he’d have the satisfaction of saying he told me so. And he’d be right. Hiding my disappointment, I promised to work quickly and complete all the necessary sittings. “Surely you would prefer to go with him,” I couldn’t resist adding. It was brash of me, I knew. Yet Turkey was so exotic, and the legacy of the ancient Greeks very much alive there. I hoped some day to persuade Papa to include it in our travels. I couldn’t imagine feeling otherwise.

“Heavens no!” she cried. “Can you picture me in such a barbarous country? And with the children? Of course,” she added, “you don’t think like a mother yet.”

I acknowledged I didn’t. But nor did I plan on marrying.

She gave a little laugh. “You say that now, my dear. I’m sure you’ll see it differently before long. But that’s not what I wanted to discuss—”

She paused so deliberately that I automatically stopped drawing.

“Angelica, I want you to think about going to London with me.”

“To London!” I was stunned. “Me?”

“Yes. London is the best place for your career. And for you personally. Our house is large, with plenty of studio space, much more than here. And I can introduce you to so many wealthy patrons.”

“Go to London?” was all I could say.

She trained her eye on me, watching for the idea to fully catch hold. “I know all the major artists—Joshua Reynolds, William Chambers, so many others. It would be the experience of a lifetime for you. As I said, no one knows yet we’re leaving. So please don’t mention this. All I ask is that you to think seriously about it.”

“It’s a most generous offer.” I turned back to my sketch in an effort to contain the excitement rising within me. This surely was a secret worth hearing! It was hard to imagine anything more momentous than going to England with Bridget. “Your confidence in me is humbling,” I said. “But… but I have responsibilities here.”

“I am aware of that. And I’m not asking you to shirk your duties. Still, this is the modern age. A woman can be independent—especially someone like you, a gifted artist. You must be independent to make your mark on the world.”

“I’m not afraid of independence,” I said quickly. “Papa lets me make all the important decisions about my career. It is just that he’s getting older and needs me to care for him.”

“And you will. When I leave for London, you can come with me and get yourself established. Then when you’re ready, your father can join you. In the meantime, I’ll make sure he’s well looked after.”

“How incredibly kind of you.” I put down my chalk and turned to face Bridget. “With an offer like that, how could I possibly refuse?”

“Exactly. I knew you’d agree!” Bridget jumped up. “I don’t think I can sit still a moment longer. Let’s have lunch brought to us in the garden. My husband is occupied with Count de Horn, so he won’t be joining us. I hope you will stay?”

I told her Papa didn’t expect me until evening. There was nothing I’d rather do.

“Good,” she said, already half way to the door. “Later I’m going to the Piazza. Perhaps you can put on one of the gowns I gave you and accompany me.”

“I would like that,” I said.

“If there’s time, we’ll stop at a gallery.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “That would be the best—”

“Of course, of course,” she said, laughing and holding out her hand.

Blushing, I explained my words had come out entirely wrong. I didn’t mean to slight her generosity. I hoped she’d forgive me, it was just that I wasn’t in the habit of visiting galleries purely for pleasure. Then I confessed it was my birthday. I couldn’t imagine a better way to celebrate.

“In that case,” said Bridget, “let’s start at the gallery!”

*****

A few hours later, as we left the gallery, I felt lighthearted. The lace overskirt on the pale blue gown I had chosen swished around my ankles like froth on the crest of a satin wave. I was swimming in the luxury.

“Look!” I touched Bridget’s elbow and pointed toward the crowd. “There on those steps is the Virgin.”

“The Virgin?” She must have thought I’d gone mad. Shielding the sunlight with her gloved hand, she looked across the Piazza in the direction I indicated, where a mother sat cradling her infant. Then she laughed in the uproarious fashion I was learning to recognize as her mark of approval. “You’re so right.” She gestured toward a man behind them. “There is Joseph, exactly where he should be.”

Bridget loved my game. As we walked arm in arm, she found a mythical or biblical character for each person I pointed out.

Just then we came upon a shop selling ornaments. “The owner looks like he stepped out of a Rembrandt painting,” Bridget said as we peered inside.

“I know him. He’s Giuseppe Morosco, one of my patrons. He has a house on the Grand Canal filled with beautiful art. Let’s go in.”

I introduced Bridget to Morosco, who was surprised to see me in such an elegant outfit, in such distinguished company.

As we looked over his wares, Bridget noticed a silver-beaded necklace. She ran it back and forth through her fingers several times, then set down a gold piece.

“I haven’t forgotten your birthday,” she said. “You must accept this token of my love.”

I thanked her as she eased the chain over my head, and promised to wear it always.

In response, she threw her arms around me.

As we hugged, the chain snapped, silver pieces cascading across the floor.

“Oh, no!” she cried. “What did I do?”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” I said, scrambling to gather the beads. “Besides, now your love is everywhere. That must be a good omen, don’t you think?”

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“She’s twenty-four now,” Papa said. “My child has grown up.”

“It’s more than that.” Antonio looked at me with keen eyes. “You have a glow about you I’ve never seen before.”

I laughed softly but said nothing, having promised Bridget not to mention her—that is, our—trip to England. I intended to tell Papa of course, when we were alone.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Antonio persisted. “What happened? Did you meet some nobleman at Lady Wentworth’s estate? That must be what this is all about.”

“No.” I repressed a giggle. “I’m not in love, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Yes, that’s it. I’m sure that’s it.” Antonio took my denial as all the evidence he needed. “One day and you’ve fallen in love with an inappropriate gentleman!” He slammed his hand on the table so forcefully the plates jumped. It was a wonder nothing broke. “John Joseph, you’ve got to put a stop to this. Your daughter will be ruined if you let these people take advantage of her. Can’t you see?”

“All right, all right now.” Papa tried to make peace. “Antonio has a point, my dear. You decided against a career on the stage for this very reason. Have you forgotten?”

“Of course not.” I put the food on the table and took my seat. “I assure you nothing dishonorable happened. Antonio is jealous, that’s all.”

“Maybe nothing happened yet,” he conceded. “It could all be honorable for now. But I know you’re withholding something. What is it?”

I looked from one to the other. Both were concerned, genuinely concerned. So much so, they ignored their food even after Papa said grace. I couldn’t justify causing them worry without good reason, so I took a deep breath. “All right, if I must say—”

“I told you something was up!” Antonio was triumphant.

“I promised Lady Wentworth not to speak about this, not yet.” I hesitated. Surely she hadn’t meant for me to keep a secret from my family. And Antonio—well, he was practically family. “If I tell you both, you must swear you won’t say a word outside this house.”

Both agreed.

“Her Excellency has invited me to go to England next year.”

“What incredible news!” Papa exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to go to England.”

Predictably, Antonio was as sullen as Papa was exhilarated. I ignored him. As we ate, I turned to Papa and conveyed Bridget’s assurance I could easily earn enough in England so we would never want again. Providence was taking care of us. With his permission, I would go with her right away, and he would follow. We could spend a few years in England while I made a name for myself, then return to Italy and enjoy our wealth. Rome would always be our final destination.

Antonio’s pout turned to panic. “If you go, you’ll never come back. The Ambassador and his wife have bought you. This is the worst that could happen. And now it’s happened.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. All your worry is unfounded.” I tried to calm him, but to no avail.

“It’s your life, your soul, your special talents you are selling,” he ranted. “You women are all alike. You’re willing to give up your home, your honor, everything of value, in search of admiration and empty praise.”

“Stop this nonsense, Zucchi. I insist.” For once Papa spoke sternly. “My daughter has a right to her success. I won’t have you interfering. If you can’t lend your support, then you’ll have to—”

The two stared at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Antonio said before Papa could find the words to complete his sentence. “It’s true. I am jealous—as you said, Angelica. I prefer you in your old dress, not that lady’s borrowed silks. I want you to stay as you are—unspoiled, unflattered, undiscovered by the world, more at home with goatherds than ambassadors. I at least will always prefer you that way.”

I was tempted to say, you want me for yourself, but that will never be. Instead I accepted his apology. “I knew talking about this would upset you,” I said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Can we please forget about it for now?”

“Good idea.” Papa lit several extra candles to make the kitchen more festive. Then he pulled out a package he had hidden under his bed and handed it to me. “Tonight we celebrate your birthday. Tomorrow there’ll be plenty of time to think about England.”

*****

As I lay in bed that night courting sleep, my mind tried to absorb everything. It had been a glorious birthday, full of the unexpected, ending with the exquisitely carved paint case Papa made for me.

My mind raced ahead, trying to picture the future. I was going to London! The city of infinite possibilities for an artist. My career would flourish as never before. I could finally devote myself to history painting. Thankfully, I had remained unattached, free to travel as an independent woman.

Then I remembered Papa wouldn’t be with me, at least not at first. The two of us had never been apart before. It was a fearsome prospect, especially since I wasn’t sure how all the details of my career—details he always managed—would fall into place when I was alone. I tossed and turned, trying to imagine solutions.

When I finally fell asleep, colors swirled in my head, so vivid and unstoppable I felt like a child again, wanting to call out for Mama. Just as I feared I might be going mad, they coalesced into Bridget’s portrait.

“It’s perfect!” she cried as I showed her the finished work in my dream. “Now you must meet the Queen of England.”

Before I could take off my apron, the doors swung open and the Queen was ushered in.

She walked straight to me. “Who are you?”

I made a deep curtsey. “Angelica Kauffman, Your Majesty.”

When I raised my head, she was staring at me unsmiling. So I dropped my eyes. For the first time I noticed I was wearing the emerald gown from Bridget’s cedar closet. Surely its elegance must please the Queen, even if my painting did not.

Then I saw it. A large soiled spot ran the length of the hem up to my knees. And hanging in the air all around us, the unmistakable stench of goat manure.

I awoke still shaking.

Yes, I was going to London, but would it really be all I wished?

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I stood before the easel in my new studio, unable to keep a smile off my face. It was hard to believe I’d been toiling over copies in a cold church just eight months earlier. So much had changed.

Not only was it a pleasant June morning, but the colors on my canvas gave ample cause to smile. The greens of field and forest, blues of stream and sky, silvery white where mist met mountain—all shone brilliantly in Arcadia, land of the gods. As I applied a ruddy blush to the cheeks of two young shepherds, I recalled my vow to paint the sun. Now it seemed that very sun warmed their faces, and mine as well. The painting wasn’t sold yet. But I wasn’t worried. I had a patroness to support my labors.

We had been in London less than a week and already I felt at home. None of the fears I briefly suffered had come to pass. Antonio had taken Papa to Schwarzenberg in a carriage the Ambassador gave us before he left for Constantinople. Although I missed Papa a thousand times a day, I knew he would be well cared for until he could join me.

“I’ll write as soon as I find a house big enough for both of us,” I promised as we parted.

“Have mercy on your poor father!” he exclaimed. “I need a letter before that!”

“You’re a bigger worrier than Antonio,” I teased. “Of course I’ll write as soon as I arrive. We must both be patient. I’ll need time to build a clientele before we can afford our own home. If everything works out,” I added, “you can come within the year.”

So far, everything was working out to perfection. I’d been given all I could possibly need to get settled in Bridget Wentworth’s stately house on Charles Street. My bedroom was next to Charlotte’s and looked out over the bustling town. It took but a minute to run down the back stairs to my studio, an oval room with light streaming through floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows, and an adjoining foyer where I could receive visitors, with its own entrance so they could come and go without disturbing the household.

Bridget promised to introduce me to Joshua Reynolds and other prominent artists when she was rested enough for an outing. Meanwhile, she wasted no time spreading word about the young painter she’d brought from Rome. Already people were scurrying to be the first to request a portrait. Of course no one was allowed to go home without viewing the exquisite mother-of-pearl cutlery the Ambassador had given her as a farewell present, and the ostrich feather hat she herself picked up for a song when we passed through Verona.

*****

On that first day of our journey from Venice, we traveled as far as Verona. Having encountered severe storms along the way, it was long past sundown when we arrived at our lodgings. I dismounted from the coach and stood in the courtyard, a bit lost as people bustled around me, unloading trunks, carting away luggage and dodging stray dogs, while the horses stomped impatiently for their feedbags. Traveling with Papa had been a much simpler affair.

I turned to speak to Charlotte, but the governess was already herding the girls, giddy with fatigue, toward their beds. Still, late as it was, in a new city with so much to discover, I wasn’t ready to follow. So I slipped down a side street. I didn’t tell the others because I wasn’t expecting to go far.

Passing quickly between the rows of houses, doing my best in the dark to dodge puddles, I came to an ancient stone bridge spanning the Adige River. Its massive yet elegant structure was worthy of a history painting. Perhaps a scene from the Trojan War. I couldn’t resist walking to the middle to experience it more fully.

Beneath me the river was wild, driven by the storms. When I reached mid way, I closed my eyes and listened to its roar. My life is like this, I thought. There’s no knowing what tempests may come, from where or how long they might last. Yet I know what I’m called to do, what I long to paint.

I opened my eyes then, and raising my head toward the starless sky, reaffirmed my vow to support myself and Papa using the talents I’d been given. To paint for God. Yes, I might laugh and converse and entertain myself along with everyone else when the situation called for it, but in my heart of hearts I would never forget what really mattered.

Just then a man came out of a tavern on the far side and stumbled onto the bridge. Luckily he was too lost in oblivion to notice as I ran for the safety of the inn.

Bridget was waiting in the courtyard. “We looked all over,” she cried. “Where were you?”

“It’s such an incredible night. I couldn’t bear to go inside!”

I expected Bridget to share my sentiment. After all, she encouraged independence. Instead she said, “You must remember you belong to our family now. You can’t go running off alone.”

“But I’ve gone off alone my entire life!” I protested.

“That doesn’t matter. You are a person of consequence now.” She softened her words with a wry smile. “You must pay the price for that privilege.”

When she put it that way, I knew better than to argue. Artists must defer to the wishes of their patrons. Always, in all situations. Papa had taught me that.

Since then, as I’d begun my new life in London, Bridget’s words continued to echo.

Privilege, it appeared, was determined to change me in more ways than I could imagine. I didn’t even look like the same person. Before leaving Venice, I gave all my old, torn and stained frocks to charity. Now I wore only the elegant gowns I inherited from Bridget. There was a different one for every day of the week—no, every day of an entire fortnight. I even had a new apron to wear in the studio, stitched by Bridget’s dressmaker at her request.

Bridget showed me how to wear my hair more stylishly, twisted over a hairpiece, as she did. And she promised to buy me some of the extra large pannier hoops that were all the rage. Maneuvering through town in a skirt of such wide circumference, I thought, surely no lady could forget she was a person of consequence.

*****

The door to my studio burst open and Charlotte rushed in. A servant followed with a vase of red and white peonies, which he set on the table by the window before quietly withdrawing.

She danced around me like a bee around a bouquet. “Who’s your secret admirer?”

“I didn’t know I had one.”

“It’s obvious you do. Please,” she coaxed, “tell me. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Truly, I don’t know—especially not in London. But let’s find out.” I pulled a small envelope from amidst the flowers, opened it and removed a piece of parchment.

“What does it say?”

“Not much.” I handed her the note. “Here. Read for yourself.”

“May I?” She stood still long enough to read: “‘To my dearest Miss Kauffman. Until we meet again—soon. N.D.’”

“I told you, it doesn’t say much.”

“Who’s ND? Do you know?”

“I have an idea.”

Charlotte handed back the note. She had been brought up to recognize when it would be impolite to press further. “Well, I know one thing. He—I’m positive it’s a he—must admire you a great deal.”

“You think so?” I played along with her.

“Absolutely.” She slipped an arm around my waist. “You’re the most special lady in London.”

I laughed. “And what have I done to deserve such praise?”

She laughed back. “Maybe it’s just that I want to be like you when I grow up, to paint beautiful paintings as you do.” She examined the scene on my canvas. “Why, that’s the tombstone we saw in Verona, the day Mama found her ostrich feather hat. It says the same thing: In your patience possess ye your souls. And those are the children we saw, aren’t they?”

“Yes, I’m painting them as shepherds in Arcadia.”

“Arcadia? Where’s that?”

“Ancient Greece,” I said, dropping into the armchair where I often placed my sitters. “The god of shepherds, Pan, lived there.”

Charlotte curled at my feet, much as I used to do with Papa, eager to hear more.

So I continued, “Pan played such melodious songs on his reed pipes he charmed all the nymphs. They loved to follow and listen to his music. He was always falling in love with one or another. But they rejected him because he was so ugly.”

“I didn’t think a god could be ugly.”

“Pan was ugly to the nymphs because he was part goat.” I paused. “Did you know it was because of the contest between Pan and Apollo that King Midas got his ass’s ears?”

She giggled. “No.”

“Pan was to play his reed pipes and Apollo, the god of truth, a silver lyre. King Midas favored Pan’s music because it came from the heart. This annoyed Apollo. In a spate of rage he gave the king ass’s ears.”

She giggled more loudly. “Poor king.”

“Yes. He kept the ears hidden. Only the royal barber knew, and he was sworn to secrecy. Then one day the barber couldn’t hold it in any longer. He dug a hole in the ground and whispered the truth into it. Later reeds grew in that spot and whispered the truth to the world.” I stood and stretched my arms toward the ceiling. “That’s all for now. I must get back to painting, and your mother is probably wondering where you are.”

Charlotte hugged me, then turned to leave. When she reached the door, she looked back with a frown. “That wasn’t fair. Apollo is the god of truth, and the king told the truth.”

I acknowledged it wasn’t. Sometimes even those who love us don’t treat us fairly. “But,” I said, “think of the reeds! They lived by the truth. And that truth is what we as artists can give to this world.”

*****

Alone again I tried to concentrate on the shepherds. I was determined to make this my most accomplished history painting yet. If it was finished in time, I would submit it to the annual exhibition of the Society of Artists.

But my attention kept drifting to the parchment on the table.

When I said I had an idea who N.D. was, I wasn’t entirely forthright. I had more than an idea. I also knew the flowers were just a hint. How much time, I wondered, before their giver appears himself.

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A short, stocky man in plumed hat followed the arm through the door. Grin as wide as the feather, he whipped off the hat and clasped it to his breast.

“I came as soon as I heard you were in London!”

“Why, Nathaniel,” I said, “what a surprise.”

Stepping forward, he took my hand and with a flourish raised it to his lips. “Not a complete surprise I hope.”

“No,” I acknowledged with a smile, “the peonies were a lovely calling card. Besides I’m used to meeting you at unexpected moments.”

Clinging to my hand, he pressed it to his lips a second time. “So you haven’t forgotten?”

*****

Of course I had not. It was New Year’s Eve, when my portrait of Bridget was unveiled, the night I was presented to all of Venetian society. The night I wore for the first time the emerald green gown. It fit without any need for alteration. Poised above its fashionably low neckline was a crystal pendant, borrowed for the evening and hung on the silver-beaded necklace, restrung by Bridget’s jeweler.

“You must stand by the picture so everyone realizes you’re the artist,” she said, after instructing the servants to rearrange the Prussian blue room and install my canvas in the place of honor. After much discussion it was decided Ariadne and Bacchus could spend the evening upstairs in one of the guest rooms.

I preferred to stand by the fireplace, where I could watch as people studied the likeness. This didn’t mean I was unwilling to talk. Far from it. Every few minutes Bridget or the Ambassador would bring someone to meet me. Soon a queue formed, each wanting a personal introduction. There were noblemen and clergy, politicians and artists, Englishmen and Italians. I spoke with all and prayed I’d remember their names and titles when next we met. Just in case I might not, Antonio was off to one side, making note of every encounter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a tall man hovering on the landing of the staircase, blond hair almost white against his dark coat. It was the intriguing Count Frederick de Horn. Though we both frequented the estate, we had yet to meet officially. My heart beat a little faster as I realized he was waiting for me to be free so he could introduce himself.

As it turned out, I was never alone. The portrait was a grand success, and more and more people joined the queue. Then, just as I was hearing from Lady Abernathy about how she ran into David Garrick and his wife at the mud baths near Padua the year before, a pair of hands flew across my face from behind, covering my eyes. Reaching up, I half-expected long, thin man’s fingers bearing a ruby ring. But though they were male fingers, they were distinctly short and stubby. I felt a flash of disappointment.

“Give up, do you?” It was a familiar English voice.

Disappointment vanished as I peeled away the fingers and spun around. “What are you doing here? I assumed you’d be in England by now.”

Lady Abernathy, who could be the embodiment of discretion when the situation dictated, turned away, as did several waiting to speak with me. Even Antonio took a few steps back.

I found myself alone, face-to-face with Nathaniel.

“You’re right, I should be in London.” His smile was so broad it shone through his eyes. “But when Herr Winckelmann said you were here, I couldn’t leave without seeing you first.”

“Next you go to England?”

“I suppose. But right now I’m here.” His eyes never stopped twinkling. “With you.”

“Here with me,” I said, “and several hundred people.”

If he found that discouraging, he didn’t let on. “I’ve never seen you look as you do now.” His arm made a sweeping arc. “Did you know you outshine every lady here?”

Before I could respond, two guests approached. Nathaniel quickly offered his arm and gestured toward the ballroom, where the musicians were tuning their instruments. “Dance with me,” he whispered, “You may have hundreds of admirers, even a thousand, but I won’t lose you to any of them, not yet.”

“Dance with Mr. Dance?” I teased. “How could I refuse?”

*****

“I’ve dreamed of that dance for months,” Nathaniel continued, as we stood together in my London studio. “You may have forgotten, but I’ve not been a free man since.” He careened around the room, head and hands limp, like an animal tethered to a post, almost colliding with my easel.

“Watch out!” I cried, trying not to convulse with laughter. “Of course I remember. But perhaps you make too much of our little dance.”

“Huh! Not too much if you ask me.” Abruptly he stopped his romp and looked around. “Goodness, Angelica, with a studio like this, you’ll put us English artists to shame!”

I told him how kind Bridget had been, how fortunate I was to have such an elegant studio.

“You know,” he said, “I still have that sketch you did of me in Rome. I plan to hang it over my fireplace.”

“That silly sketch,” I said with a giggle. “If I recall, it was impossible to capture a proper likeness because you wouldn’t stop clowning.”

“Then we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?”

“How so?” The twinkle never left Nathaniel’s eyes, making it hard to judge if he was serious.

“Here’s what I propose. You come to my studio and let me paint your portrait. Then I’ll sit for you—here in this gorgeous studio. I promise to obey all your instructions this time. Does that sound fair?”

The chance to improve on my bungled sketch was tempting. Still, sitting for my own portrait wasn’t something to be done lightly, even if Nathaniel was a fine painter. Which he was.

“What’s your hesitation?” he pressed.

“Tell me first,” I said, suddenly wishing Papa was there to consult, “how will you portray me?”

Instantly the twinkle left his eyes. “What kind of question is that? I will paint you as the artist and perfect lady you are, so all the world can see your beauty, character and simple grace.”

His sincerity touched me. “Then it’s settled. When do we begin?”

*****

After Nathaniel left, I had only an hour before dinner. Quickly I added color to the meadow behind the shepherds, dotting it with lily and gentian, violet and coral bell, humming softly to myself as I worked. This was Arcadia, where inspiration came as naturally as a canary’s song on a summer day.

Occasionally I glanced at the table by the window.

Nathaniel’s red and white peonies were the brightest hues London had to offer this misty June afternoon. Quite enticing, really. Yet they would soon fade and wither. Even now they paled in comparison with the flowers blooming in eternal color on my canvas, and the intensity of color surging within me, driving me to paint. Those were the colors I valued above all.

Still, I enjoyed Nathaniel. Seeing him today had made it easier to feel at home in London. Yes, I thought, agreeing to sit for him was the right decision.

*****

Bridget did not appear that evening for dinner, so I didn’t have a chance to tell her about my caller. She sent word her health had taken a turn and she needed to rest and adjust to the climate. Though summer was upon us, the doctor had ordered her to bed with an injunction against excitement of any sort—even conversation. We would have to postpone our outing to Joshua Reynolds’s studio, planned for the following morning. She was profusely sorry because she knew how eager I was to make his acquaintance, and she herself was looking forward to taking me, but the delay was unavoidable.

At first I was disappointed. However, over the next week I settled into a routine that was comfortable and productive. Since the children ate with their governess, I took meals alone in my rooms. That gave me more time to paint. I set up a schedule whereby I did portraits in the morning and focused on history painting in the afternoon. In the evening I worked on sketches. Every second day, except Sundays, I went to Nathaniel’s to sit for him. Usually portraits required no more than a dozen sittings, but we agreed to indulge ourselves with as many as we wanted.

Most nights I retired late to bed. I was too wrapped up with work to fall asleep before midnight. Sometimes I tried too soon to close my eyes and found myself overwhelmed by colors swirling in my head. The same colors that flowed onto my canvas during the day haunted me at night. Mama had said I would turn them into paintings. And I was doing so. Yet it seemed some colors weren’t so easily tamed.

So while everyone else in the Charles Street house slept, I wrapped myself in a robe and sat at the black walnut desk in my bedroom and wrote to Papa. I told him how much I missed him, but also confirmed my coming to London had been the best move for us. He would be pleased to see the sums I calculated in neat rows every evening in the leather ledger he gave me. My expenses were proving quite modest due to her Excellency’s kindness, while my income was steadily increasing. I couldn’t wait for us to be together again in a few months. In the meantime, I promised to call on his old friend from Switzerland, George Moser.

When I finally went to bed, it was often still difficult to sleep. The only way to hold the wild colors at bay was to allow my mind to run back to the studio, to let it busy itself adjusting the angle of a skewed shadow, adding highlights to a headdress, making lips more capable of a smile.

At such times, I imagined a knock on the studio door. Even before I could answer, a familiar visitor let himself in, walked to the window seat as though he’d been there a thousand times. I followed. As he looked at my paintings, what at first seemed bittersweet in his eyes became unmistakably sweeter. Then we fell silent, and I marveled how it was possible to commune so fully without uttering a single word. Always I fell asleep before he left.

*****

Although I worked hard those first weeks in London, I was able to get out and meet some of the artists—those of lesser import than Joshua Reynolds whom I felt free to approach without Bridget’s introduction. I went first to Papa’s friend, George Moser, an enamel painter who lived on Saint Martin’s Lane with his daughter, Mary. She, it turned out, was only three years younger than me and also an artist. We quickly became friends.

The Mosers were in the habit of holding soirees at which artists, especially younger ones, shared sketches and paintings and their latest creative ideas. It was an opportunity to critique art in a way I hadn’t experienced traveling with Papa. I began attending regularly. Nathaniel was there often as well. On occasion I spent the afternoon sitting for him, then met him again in the evening at the Mosers’.

Nathaniel had set up my portrait so I held a brush in one hand and balanced a large portfolio on my lap with the other. Because we were in his studio, it was easiest to use his portfolio. No one would know when they viewed the finished painting. And view it they would. Portraits by Nathaniel Dance were in high demand and my image was certain to hang in the finest gallery.

During our first session, my initial hesitance unexpectedly reappeared. In fact, had I known how I’d feel, I surely would have declined. But there I sat on the first afternoon, every pore prickling with the awareness I was under the scrutiny of a man’s eye. An eye with a twinkle, no less. Other artists had sketched me before. But this felt different. The intensity in my body was almost alarming. I squirmed on the chair, hoping he didn’t notice.

“Please,” I said when I couldn’t bear it any longer, “don’t you grant your sitters at least a short respite?”

He stopped sketching and stared at me. “You do look flushed. Are you all right?”

“I could use a glass of water,” I said, my voice as calm as possible.

The instant he turned away for the water, I felt normal again. As he handed me the goblet, I noticed he was a bit flushed himself. He was just better at hiding it.

“What did you expect?” I joked as I resumed my pose. Momentarily wetting my lips had been sufficient. “Naturally I’m flushed. You’ve practically suffocated me with this fur.”

As a last minute touch, Nathaniel had draped a fox pelt over my shoulders. It hung low over my bodice, which had a high neckline and several layers of lace tight around the throat. Altogether it was rather warm for July. Though I teased him, the truth was I didn’t mind. I was glad he had chosen such a modest pose. As an artist and a woman, I could never be too careful. Bridget had told me so many times.

The sitting continued without further interruption. Gradually I discovered I could look directly at Nathaniel, yet pin my gaze on the wall beyond. Apparently he wasn’t able to detect the difference because he never asked me to adjust my posture. I began to relax. I was still warm, but the intensity was no longer alarming. After a few sittings I didn’t feel anything out of the ordinary.

*****

Bridget sat in bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. I hadn’t seen her for nearly three weeks. Now she had summoned me to say the bed rest had paid off and we could speak again.

“I’m so sorry, Angelica.” She extended a hand and I moved closer to take it in both of mine. The fingers were icy even on a summer morning. Her face was pallid, definitely not the image of Aphrodite we planned for my next history painting. Despite her insistence to the contrary, I suspected her health was suffering due to more than the change of climate. Perhaps the Ambassador’s absence was more of strain than she let on.

“Please,” I said, “no need to apologize.”

“We had such grand plans. I’m afraid I’ve failed you miserably.”

Over the past weeks, it had occurred to me my presence might become an imposition if Bridget continued to be ill. I didn’t wish that to happen. “You mustn’t think that,” I said. “It’s all worked out perfectly. I’ve made wonderful new friends.”

“I’m happy to hear. Still, I wanted to be the one to make the introductions.” She sighed deeply, and the sigh turned into a cough. “In London especially,” she said between gasps, “it’s so important to know the right people if you want to make your mark.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hand. When her breathing was back to normal, I said, “Everyone has been so kind. Just like yourself.”

“Angelica, you don’t realize. Society here is different from what you were accustomed to on the Continent. In London you must observe a greater formality. You need someone to guide you in what is proper and what not. Do you understand what I mean?”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to understand. All the time I had traveled with Papa, neither of us paid much attention to social distinctions. The issue of privilege aside, I was still more concerned with finding my way as an artist than with anything else society—or Bridget—might have to offer. “I’ve already received commissions from your friends,” I said. “I’m doing portraits for Lord Exeter and Lady Spencer and Lady Mary Coke—”

“Good, good.” She freed her hand so she could hoist herself higher onto the pillows. “But we can’t have you wearing my old hand-me-downs, can we? What will people think? As soon as I’m stronger, I must call in my dressmaker.”

Although I sensed her offer was genuine, Antonio’s warnings had left me reluctant to accept too many gifts. “You’re so kind,” I said. “Soon I’ve almost saved enough for a new wardrobe.”

“That’s my Angelica, always independent.” Bridget smiled broadly as she shook her head. “I’m glad we can talk again. However I mustn’t keep you from painting.”

Seeing she wasn’t strong enough to speak at length, I expressed my relief at finding her much revived, then turned to take my leave.

Just as I reached the door, she stopped me. “I may be indisposed, but don’t think I have deaf ears—”

Her tone was so sharp that I spun around.  “I beg your pardon?”

“You can’t keep a secret in this household,” she admonished. “Charlotte told me all about your frequent caller.”

I gave a little start. “Mr. Dance?”

“Yes indeed, Mr. Dance.” The way she pronounced his name, with an almost ridiculously elongated “a,” suggested this was a man who did not meet with her approval. “I remember him from New Year’s Eve. It was apparent he had a keen interest in you.”

“It’s true,” I equivocated. “He was in Venice at the New Year.”

She raised her brow. “That wasn’t the first time you’d met, was it?”

“We were introduced in Rome and had a chance to sketch one another,” I said coolly. Since nothing of consequence existed between Nathaniel and myself, I saw no reason to say more. Instead I offered to fluff her pillows.

Bridget was not so easily assuaged. “Rome. Venice. And now London.” While I worked the pillows, she probed further. “Is there a secret agreement between you?”

“Absolutely not!” I was incensed at the accusation, perhaps more than I should have been, given its lack of veracity. “We share an interest in art. He’s painting my portrait, and I plan to paint his. That’s all. Besides, as you know, I have no intention of marrying.”

She settled back on her pillows, which instantly lost most of their fluff. “You may have no such intention,” she said. “I’d wager Mr. Dance feels otherwise.”

“If he does, he hasn’t told me.”

“And if he does tell you, what then?”

“I will refuse him.”

“And if he doesn’t like your refusal?”

“It will still be a refusal, nothing more.”

She looked at me sternly, and I waited to be excused. Having been called  back once, I didn’t want to offend by leaving too soon. This was a side of Bridget I had first encountered in Verona, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

“Well,” she said at last, “as long as you’re prudent.”

“I’m most careful, I assure you.”

“You can never be too careful,” she said with a sigh. “Especially, you know, since you have come up in the world so suddenly.”

My shoulder blades stiffened. “Nathaniel Dance is an honorable man.”

“Good character or not, you can do better. Much better.” She did her best to hold back a cough. “When I’m healthy again—pray that’s soon—I promise to introduce you to someone who will outshine Nathaniel, Antonio and all the rest.”

A few minutes later as I made my way down the stairs to my studio, I reminded myself many things had changed, but one had not. In Venice I assured Bridget I had no desire for marriage. Here in London I was still free of any such inclination. I might believe in enduring love, for others at least, and work hard to capture it with paint. In the dark of night I might even long for a certain bittersweet gaze. But none of that meant I would allow myself to be attached to a husband. I had chosen a different pathway. I would become an artist, fully and consummately. That for me would be more than sufficient.

*****

Mary Moser, it turned out, also had someone she wanted me to meet. I had asked her to sit for me, which gave us a chance to learn more about each other. I began the first session by making sketches for a painting to be called “Prudence sacrificing to Duty and enchaining the wings of Cupid.” It amused me to create such titles. Mary, I believed, would readily measure up.

“I could never be a history painter,” she said wistfully.

“Why not?” That should have been a rhetorical question, and I was less than prudent for asking. Mary was known for her delicate floral paintings. She herself was no less delicate. Suggesting she do history painting was like suggesting a daffodil do battle with the winter storms.

“Don’t misunderstand,” she said. “I admire you. But I don’t have the stamina to compete in a man’s world. Tell me, how do you manage?”

In fact, I wasn’t sure what allowed me to work on a level with men. “I guess I’ve always been independent,” I said, adding chalk to soften the pointed end of her nose. “Perhaps because I don’t seek a husband, I can aspire to something greater, as men do.”

“You don’t wish to marry?” Mary was shocked. “I mean, really not?”

I shook my head, regretting the initial question. Mary was a friend, but some things were better unsaid, even between friends. I recalled as a child watching other girls follow their mother, holding close, as I did with Mama, to her billowing skirts. But that did not make us the same. Color didn’t speak to them as it spoke to me. Mary was an artist. Yet she was one of those girls.

“I have nothing against marriage,” I said after a moment. “It’s just I’ve chosen to give art the highest place in my life.”

“But I want to marry!” she objected. “When I find a husband, I’ll probably retire as an artist. But are you implying that limits my work now?”

“Of course not. I was only speaking for myself,” I said. “Each of us has a different constitution.”

“And yet we’re both women. And both artists. We face the same challenges. Like—” She gave a little laugh and I felt relief she wasn’t going to press me further. “Like that remark Dr. Johnson made about women who try their hand at portrait painting.”

“You mean the absurd notion that painting portraits is an indelicate occupation because it involves staring into a man’s eyes?” I said with a snort. “If eyes at close range are the problem, perhaps we should consider history painting less indelicate.”

Mary laughed more freely this time. “I for one never understood how such thinking allows women to sit for portraits. Surely that’s a greater indecency than painting them.”

I laughed in agreement, my recent experience with Nathaniel notwithstanding. Though Mary was frail of health, she had a sharp wit. I found her easy to sketch because she sat as motionless as the still lifes in her studio. Others considered her face plain, but to me it revealed character, its pensive eyes and patient smile the marks of prudence I planned to capture.

“I hope you won’t be offended,” she said after a few moments. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask.”

“What is that?”

“Is it true you dressed as a boy in Milan so you could attend life drawing classes?

“Heavens no!” Dismayed that the old rumors had followed me to London, I set down my chalks and explained history painting didn’t require one draw from live models. “But tell me, who repeated such a thing to you?”

“My friend Henry Fuseli,” she confessed.

“I don’t think I’ve met Mr. Fuseli.”

“He’s a writer who aspires to be an artist. I, at least, think he has great talent.”

“Has he attended your soirees?” I asked, picking up my chalk.

“Not recently.” Her face flushed as she spoke. “When he first arrived from Germany, he came all the time. Now we rarely see him.”

“Don’t keep him away for my sake,” I joked. “I won’t attack him for spreading rumors.”

But Mary wasn’t laughing.

“Have I said something wrong?”

She shook her head, obviously close to tears. I waited for her to regain her composure. “I’d like you to meet him,” she said finally. “I’d very much value your opinion.”

I was about to ask how my opinion mattered, when I caught on. Mary was enamored with a gentleman who no longer—if he ever had—returned her affections. No wonder she was reticent to speak about him. She needed more than an opinion. Then it occurred to me I might possess just the right mix of independence and impartiality to help. So I made a proposal.

“We must be clever,” I said. “First let’s prepare a special invitation for the next soiree. We’ll send it out to everyone, including Mr. Fuseli.”

“He won’t be able to resist.”

“Exactly. I will have a chance to meet him. Then later I can to speak to him on your behalf. Discreetly. He’ll never need to know.”

“Angelica, I knew you’d understand. Thank you so much!” I believe she thanked me at least six more times before the end of the sitting.

*****

When we met the following Saturday for the soiree, Mary’s normally pale face was feverishly bright. Like a plant leaning toward the light, she sat by the door, awaiting the arrival of our special guest.

He did not appear.

All evening, as the group chattered and joked and debated the merits of various sketches thrown on the easel before them, devouring cakes and other treats prepared for the occasion, I watched Mary watching for him. She sat apart from the rest, on a bench half hidden by the coat rack, the brightness draining from her cheeks. And still no sign of him.

Only after we had critiqued all the sketches and eaten the last morsels, was there finally a knock at the door.

Mary leapt up, color rushing to her face.

A man in a purple cape trimmed with black lace stood in the doorway. “Have I taken you by surprise?” he asked, noting her blush.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed. “I’ve… we’ve been waiting for you.”

“Surely you know I couldn’t pass up such a gorgeous invitation.” He was speaking to Mary, but his eyes scanned the room. They came to rest on me.

She regained her composure as best she could. “Henry, I believe you’re acquainted with all except for one.” She took his arm and led him to me. “Miss Angelica Kauffman,” she said in a small voice, “may I introduce Mister Henry Fuseli?”

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