Faces of the Wind

Chapter 28

Adrian furrowed his brows. "My paintings?"

The smell of liquor filled his throat, bringing back memories of Betsy, his often-intoxicated nanny in whose custody he was left for three tormenting months when he was seven. She would thrash him with a long, thin rod for as little as asking for his supper, which she often denied him. Mrs. Dusteby's return from visiting relatives saved him from further abuse.

The stranger at his table nodded. He was grey-haired at the temples just like his uncle Arthur. "Caleb Jefferson," he said and extended a hand, "at your service."

Adrian stretched his lips into a vague smile and impulsively shook hands with him. "Adrian Blackford, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jefferson."

"I know who you are," Caleb said, "and please call me Caleb." He motioned for the waitress and asked for two ports.

The air was stuffy and too warm for Adrian's liking. He began to loosen his neck cloth, which was getting tighter the more he sweated.

"I was obliged to watch what happened at the Royal Academy and I am pleased to have found you here," Caleb paused, leaning forward over the thick, wooden table, "and allow me to tell you, Sir Martin is a damn fool to have rejected you."

Though he managed to stop his lips from smiling with pride and excitement, a beam escaped through his eyes.

"How about we make a deal?"

"A deal?" Adrian raised his brows.

"Yes," Caleb responded, "I am to make you an artist."

Adrian acknowledged Caleb's offer with a condescending sneer. "An artist?" He scoffed, "Who are you?"

A smirk of indignation curled Caleb's pale lips. "I thought an aspiring painter would know all the prominent art critics in Europe."

"Art critic?" Adrian knit his brows.

The waitress with waist-long black hair stood by the table and bent all the way down as she placed the two glasses of port in front of her clients even though she could have done it while standing. Her breasts nearly fell out of her corset and dress. "Anything else, gentlemen?" She asked as she slowly and seductively pulled her body back to a straight posture.

"Thank you, ma'am," Caleb replied, smiling at her then draining his glass as he held his hat in the other hand. He rose from his chair and put his hat on.

Adrian followed his movements with widely open, anxious eyes.

"Speak to me when you're serious about your art career," Caleb said, "I am staying briefly with my friend, John Ruskin, but I'll be returning to York in a week."

"John Ruskin?" Adrian said in an undertone. He jumped frantically. "W-wait," he stuttered, "p-please stay."

"To get humiliated by your ignorance?"

Adrian shook his head. "My apologies, Caleb," he said, his hands in the air at shoulder level, "please, have a seat."

Caleb nodded in discontent, took his hat off and crossly sat down. Adrian sat down, too, and took two quick sips of his port. "So how do you intend to make me an artist?" He asked.

Caleb ordered another round of drinks. "Let's start by hosting an exhibition for your works," he winked, "this should give you the exposure you need to launch your career."

"An exhibition... for my works?" Adrian narrowed his eyes and raised his brows.

"Is that a look of skepticism on your face?"