Faces of the Wind

Chapter 27

In the corner of the teashop was a middle-aged man with a lecherous gaze that Hazel thought better to ignore if she wished to keep her job. He looked horrid, with a long grey pony tail and the longest, slimmest nose to ever exist.

Her resilience and quick mind surprised her. Never in her life had she imagined having to work at a teashop to make a living, and she was good at her job, too. She also worked as a seamstress in her leisure time and wrote whenever her appetite kicked in and her time allowed.

The brass hanging doorbell chimed, announcing the arrival of new clients. She looked up from the cup she was wiping dry and saw the man she often pictured herself meeting, but as a lady and not a worker. It was Charles Dickens, the author of Dombey and Son. Now that she lived in the shadows, she was lucky to be serving him tea and a piece of cake.

"Make haste, Hazel," said Mrs. Macy, "the gents are waitin'."

She put the cup down, wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to Dickens's table, putting on her best smile.

"Good day, sir," she said, "what can I get you?"

Dickens looked up at her, doffed his hat and smiled warmly. "It's a beautiful day in London, ma'am," he replied, "your smile has already given me inspiration, but I would not refuse a cup of hot tea with cream and a piece of Mrs. Macy's mince pie."

She blushed, nodded and ran off to the counter to bury her embarrassment and allow her heart to thump as it pleased, but this thump faltered as she felt a hand touch her behind on her way to Mrs. Macy. A raging fire started inside her and she clenched her jaws. She wished to turn and break his bony neck but decided to take a deep breath instead and keep her job. She needed her wages and the teashop's owner was very strict about not wanting the women stirring any trouble with the clients.

***

The lodging Adrian rented in London was far from fancy, but the landlord and his wife seemed kind and the place, though cramped, was cozy, warm, clean and, most importantly, affordable. It was a small room with a corner turned into a kitchen and a small water closet. He didn't mind, so long as he was free. Yes, he was now free. He didn't care to prove anything to anyone. All he wanted was to paint and make his own money. Soon, he would be a great artist and make thousands, but first, he had to make amends with the Royal Academy of Arts.

He changed into his favorite velvet slate grey coat, carried a selection of his best paintings and headed to the academy.

***

People dressed so well to the Royal Academy one would think they were off to a grand ball. Adrian wondered how many—or how few—of those people inspecting the oils understood what they were staring at. They merely yearned to pull a show of infatuation with arts because it was the trend for the upper classes.

The place was very well-lit and warm—indeed, because the upper classes were vulnerable to the dark, the cold and many other things, including frankness, spontaneity and everything natural and unconventional. In front of a painting of a red bird on the lower row stood a young lady with her chaperon, who did not stop talking for a second as she educated her distracted pupil on the world of art. God forbid, she would disgrace her family if she could not join a conversation on arts, especially in the presence of eligible bachelors.

Adrian spotted Sir Martin Archer Shee's white wig at the hall's entrance. He put a wide smile on his face, carried his paintings under his arm and scurried to him. He was accompanied by two of his protégés, who acted like little pups trailing in his shadow.

"Sir Martin," he cried in exaggerated enthusiasm, his eyes high-strung, "always good to see you!"

Sir Martin's expression was unchanged and his lips never twitched. "I hear your father has been indisposed?" He asked in a steady, cold tone.

Adrian's smile faltered. "He passed away," he replied, his voice much lower than before.

"I'm sorry about that," Sir Martin responded, not sounding sorry at all, and marched away with his two pups.

Adrian scurried after him. "I was hoping to show you some of my works and get your opinion on them... perhaps?"

The white-wigged man stopped abruptly, and so did his protégés. He turned to stare for a moment at Adrian, who was smiling, then snorted with laughter. The two young painters looked at one another and followed suit.

"Have I said anything so amusing?" Adrian said, a hint of indignation escaping into his tone and his smile beginning to waver.

"Adrian Blackford wants my feedback on his work?"

"Yes, why ever not?"

"Fine, then, let me take a look," said Sir Martin, motioning for Adrian to hand him the paintings, and so he did. The artist quickly shuffled them then said, "I have a piece of advice for you, Adrian."

Lured into anticipating some feedback, Adrian raised his brows and listened attentively.

"Learn to paint," Sir Martin said, emphasizing every word, and left with his protégés.

Adrian's hands that were clasped on the paintings turned cold with humiliation. Ridiculed and rejected... and worst of all, part of his dreams has shattered. How could he become a celebrated artist when the Royal Academy disapproved of him? He swallowed a lump of his ego, collected his oils and walked out with slouchy shoulders and a back burdened with a dying dream.

It was not like him to bite his tongue and walk away admitting defeat. Back in the days, he would proudly and sarcastically answer back, but now he felt alone and in need of support. He didn't have an alternative plan and had no intention to return to Steventon empty-handed and live like a minor under his uncle's custody.

***

A beautiful woman with long black hair and protruding brown eyes has been staring at him since he walked into the tavern. Adrian finally smiled at her, prompting her to approach him. She seemed in her early thirties, had a curvy figure and was showing much cleavage.

"What can I get you?" She asked, leaning over his table as if to flaunt the swelled part of her cleavage. She gave him her best coy smile.

A faint smile curled his lips into a weak smirk. "Some gin, please," he replied.

She chuckled and left then returned with a glass of gin and placed it in front of him. "Drink that and meet me upstairs," she winked, "whatever it is, I can heal it."

He smiled and replied, "Sorry, ma'am, I don't think I can afford such meeting." He drained his gin and she smiled and left.

He was bitter... full of resentment. He pressed his lips together and toyed with the empty glass. It wasn't the humiliation that angered him but his helplessness in its face. He thought about how little money he had left and decided not to spend more on gin. If only he could go back in time and know that he could return home to a good meal and a loving Mrs. Dusteby, but he couldn't. He left on a mission and there was no going back. Tomorrow is a new day, and who said he needed the Royal Academy's blessings to become an artist?

A man he couldn't recognize took the liberty to join him on his table before saying, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

He was slim with harsh features and prominent cheekbones but definitely looked like a gentleman. He had a bit of a pouty mouth and lanky hair somehow glued to his scalp.

Adrian raised his brows. "As a matter of fact, yes, you are disturbing me," he said in a steady tone, "so if you wouldn't mind."

"I'm here to discuss your paintings," the man explained.

***