For the first time, Sir Lyle realised that he himself was not soulless, heartless. He was able to imagine something good in the core of his being without cynicism. He was able to give Mary pleasure, to love her with tenderness and generosity. Afterwards, he wondered that he had wasted so many months grasping at a memory, at something only half-real. This was real. This was real, and it was far more pleasant than the bitter half-truth of the past.
The candle was out.
“This Angelique,” he said suddenly into the darkness. “Who was she? The painter’s Angelique.”
“I do not know. A noble lady, to be sure. The painter is a man I know well. He does not come often anymore because his circumstances are reduced. But he is a gentleman, a Frenchman by the name of LaFrance.”
Chapter 34
It was still early when he left Mrs Farnsworth’s, promising to give her her choice from a new box of treasures that was being unloaded in Dover. To the fair Mary, he gave his Chinese enamelled snuffbox. She was delighted. But he knew he would not see her again. She reminded him too much of what he could not have, and should not want.
He hailed a hackney and went directly to a small house on the far side of town that Mrs Farnsworth had described. She had, upon questioning, admitted to knowing Monsieur LaFrance well. She pointed out a painting, a pleasant rendering of a girl in a garden, which was of his creation. Sir Lyle, casting a critical eye over the work, thought it showed talent – but nothing spectacular. He wanted to see for himself a man who knew perfection, who wept bitter tears over a masterpiece.
He rapped boldly at the artist’s door. When the servant answered, Sir Lyle offered his card and was shown to a drawing room.
He waited. The clock ticked the minutes by. Restless, he rose and went to look out of the window. The street was dark and empty. There was no activity in this unfashionable district at a time when other parts of London were bursting with gaiety. The house itself was shabby, the furnishings old and faded. It had the neglect of rented accommodation, much as Captain Avebury’s rooms had.
“Good evening.” Sir Lyle swung around. A man had entered the room and shut the door behind him. He was unassuming in appearance, with a boyish face and curling golden-brown hair. He was in evening dress, as if he had just returned from a party. Sir Lyle’s eyes were drawn to his hands, which held a cloth. Slowly, slowly, the man rubbed the cloth over and about, over and about his slender white fingers. The artist wore a ring with a deep-set ruby.
“I have interrupted your work?” asked Sir Lyle abruptly.
“Not at all. I was cleaning my studio.” LaFrance’s accent was slight.
A long-time refugee, thought Sir Lyle. “I hear you have a portrait that has not been sold. A portrait of a lady you call Angelique.”
The movement of LaFrance’s hands slowed perceptibly, although his expression did not change. He gazed at Sir Lyle, continuing to rub his hands slowly.
“I would like to see this portrait.”
“It is not for sale.”
“Perhaps I will be able to change your mind.”
“It is not for sale. May I ask where you heard about my work?”
“You are well known in artistic circles, Monsieur LaFrance.”
LaFrance inclined his head. “I thank you for that. Unfortunately, I know it is not true.”
“Shall we say, then, that I would prefer to be discreet.”
LaFrance shook his head. He gave a crooked half-smile. “If you are talking of the painting that I am thinking of, it has never been seen. I do not know who spoke of it to you, but it has never been seen.”
“Never?”
“Never.” LaFrance ceased rubbing his hands with the cloth. His arms dropped limply to his sides. “However, I was planning to show it to a select few tomorrow evening.”
“I thought it was not for sale?”
“It is not. But it is my masterpiece. It is all I have to show what I am truly capable of creating – given the right … inspiration.”
“And your inspiration? Is she no more?”
LaFrance shook his head. His glance fell. “No.”
Abruptly, he turned. “You might as well see it,” he said over his shoulder. It sounded as if he were saying the words with considerable effort.
“Wait, Monsieur LaFrance.”
LaFrance paused, but did not turn.
“If you have no plans to sell this painting, may I ask what compels you to exhibit it?”
LaFrance laughed grimly. “Well might you ask.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand before continuing. “I am looking for work. Work that is worthy of my talent. Work that will get me out of this bourgeois hellhole.” He shrugged. “I have had few worthwhile commissions in the past few years. And none that have allowed me to show my true abilities. So this is my last hope. I can show those who might give me the chance to create truly important work, that I have the artistry, the technique that is necessary.”
“You need a patron.”
“Oui.” For a moment, LaFrance seemed as if he might say more in his native French. But he shook his head. He motioned with his hand. “You will follow me, Sir Lyle?”
Sir Lyle followed him down a corridor to the back of the house. LaFrance opened a door and led him into a vast room, dark but for the feeble light produced by the nub of a candle on a desk in one corner and the welcoming glow of the fireplace. Several sketches were carelessly scattered across the top of the desk, along with a charcoal pencil that had been broken in two. LaFrance swept the sheets away, allowing the bits of pencil to fall to the floor.
“I am sorry it is dark,” he muttered. He picked up the candle nub and dug around in the desk for a longer one. He lit it and crammed it into a sconce. He walked over to the opposite wall and stood for a moment, hands clasped. Sir Lyle could see draped stacks of canvases leaning against the wall.
“May I assist you?”
LaFrance shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “No, I will bring her to you.” He reached for a single frame draped in dark blue silk, set apart from the rest. Lifting it gently, as if it might crumble in his hands, he brought it over to an empty easel.
He removed the drape.
Sir Lyle blinked, then stared hard. It was at first difficult to see. The room was dark, and the candles guttered and danced, creating long shadows that flicked dark tips across the canvas. LaFrance handed Sir Lyle the one from the desk.
“Please be careful,” he said tonelessly. Then he wheeled around on his heel, sat down and put his head in his hands.
Sir Lyle approached the painting. It was a nude, a lushly rendered oil of a young woman. But it was unlike any painting he had ever seen. The woman sat simply on a sofa; one leg drawn up under her, the other stretched out in front. She looked away from the viewer. One hand rested on the folded leg, the other arm was stretched out to the side, hand palm-down, fingers splayed, nails digging into the back of the sofa. A simple white sheet was carelessly draped over her lap, but there was no pretence of modesty. If anything, the drapery drew the viewer’s eyes directly to the beautiful sweep of her naked body, from her face and tousled blonde hair to the nakedness that the sheet stubbornly refused to conceal. Everything was exposed, there was nothing left to the imagination.
Sir Lyle stared, unable to tear his eyes away. A rosy flush swept up the length of the woman’s body to her neck and her cheek. Her just-visible lips parted, the woman seemed both tensed and relaxed, as if she had suddenly realised she should hastily leave her lover’s bed but was too sated, too pleasantly aware that she was somewhere safe while the world beyond the bed was cold and cruel.
Sir Lyle raised the candle. He could see why LaFrance might have remarked on Mary’s resemblance to the model. But Angelique was indeed more perfect, more exquisite. Her breasts were rounder, perfectly placed on a narrow torso above a slim waist. There was a delicacy, an intrinsic modesty, of the sort that Mary’s brash sensuality mocked but could not diminish. What was truly brilliant was that LaFrance had captured the
passion of a moment when most men would no longer be paying the least attention. This was a loving portrayal made by a man who wanted to pleasure a woman, who would bring her to the height of passion with no regard for his own needs. It was a sacrifice, this kind of worship.
“You love her,” Sir Lyle said into the darkness behind him.
“Oui. But she is a dream.”
“A dream?”
“The woman is not she whom you see here.” LaFrance raised his head. “She is all fire and ice, passion and cruelty. I painted what I wanted to see.”
“But you saw her in your heart.”
“I did. She was unattainable, a lady of great consequence. She was just a girl in many ways, but beyond my reach.”
“Why would someone of such consequence allow this portrait to be painted?”
“She felt ugly.”
“Ugly? You jest, Monsieur LaFrance! No woman who looks like that—”
“I am serious, Sir Lyle.” LaFrance stood up slowly, and came over to join Sir Lyle. Looking at the portrait appeared to pain him; he focused his gaze into the distance beyond a corner of the frame. “We were introduced by a mutual friend. She was shy, ill at ease. She was not in society often because of a deformity – the hidden leg is twisted. But her face – such an angelic face! And I could see the passion in her eyes. I knew I had to paint her. But she came to sit alone. And she told me that she would never be loved, because she was so ugly. My God! I thought. This cannot be right.
“I did many sketches. I was quite content to draw her face – I think I loved her already. Then, one day, she asked if I could make her beautiful in a portrait. I did not quite understand – I was less confident of my English in those days. But I came to understand that she wanted to become my lover. I did not want to permit her to do this. It is against my way of doing things to become involved with a subject. And she was an innocent girl in many ways. But I was already so in love with the ideal of her that I permitted her to shed her clothes.”
With great effort, LaFrance shifted his gaze to the portrait. A muscle worked in his cheek. “I taught her many things about the arts of love, but I did not … take her. It seemed wrong, debauched. But she wanted everything. And she despised her virginity. So, at the very end, she became my lover.”
Sir Lyle had been standing at a little distance from the painting, but now he stepped right up to it. He gazed at the little indentation above the pink upper lip, at the curve of the chin, at the fine straight nose. There was no mistake.
It was Catherine, mere moments after a passionate interlude. He had never seen her thus, and never would. But oh, how he had dreamt, how he had imagined!
It was Catherine, portrayed with the perfect body that she yearned for so badly.
Catherine, able to enchant with charms she never believed she could command. Embracing a passion she had never realised a crippled girl could experience.
Catherine as Angelique.
He wanted to laugh and to weep at the same time. He had known only the strong Catherine. He had never realised what it had cost to attain that strength.
“She captured you,” he said softly.
“She captured me, Sir Lyle. I was heartbroken and she was gone. She had never mentioned any interest in the portrait, and I was so enthralled that it did not occur to me that I might not create another such work.” He threw up his hands. “But I never reached this level of artistry again. I have struggled on, hoping that someone will recognise my talent from my other pieces.”
“Why have you never yet shown the painting?”
“I could not. It was sacred, this proof that I had the mastery.” LaFrance smiled a little. “And I was proud. I thought that my talent was in my hands and my brain, not released by my subject. I finally contacted her, desperate, last spring. I needed to warn her that I planned to show the portrait. She was upset, and tried to buy it from me. But, you see, without it, I cannot show what I am capable of. I need the portrait to find a patron who will respect my talent.”
Sir Lyle lowered the candle and turned to him. “I will be that person. But, in return, you must sell me the portrait.”
“What are your terms?” LaFrance sounded suspicious.
“I own a vast fleet of merchant vessels and trade in many goods. Antiques, statuary, paintings – amongst other things. I will be leaving shortly on one of my ships bound for the Americas. Join me, and I will make you a rich man.”
“The Americas? What would I do in the Americas?”
“Paint portraits, Monsieur LaFrance. Wealthy landowners in Charleston would like to be memorialised as their forbears were in England. There are few artists, and none of your calibre. You would become the only acceptable portraitist for the wealthy.” Sir Lyle strolled over to the desk and put down the candle. He bent to pick up a piece of charcoal from the floor. “I will fund this venture generously. It amuses me, in fact, to do so. I appreciate good art, Monsieur LaFrance. But stay in London and your masterpiece will lead you into trouble. Angelique will not rest until she destroys it. And everyone who sees it will talk.” He nodded in the direction of the portrait, then bent to scrawl a figure on a stray sheet of paper. LaFrance’s eyes widened.
“You may draw this amount tomorrow afternoon from my banker. I will tell him to draw up a contract so you know your interests are protected. Start packing your belongings. The ship will leave within the fortnight, and I would like to see you on it. Have you any family who would need to accompany you? No? Then it will all be very easy to arrange.”
“Why? Why do you do this, Sir Lyle?”
Sir Lyle’s eyes slid over in the direction of the canvas again. “I am a patron of the arts, Monsieur LaFrance. And I am … shall we say … looking for adventure. Right at the moment, a trip to the Americas will suit me very well.”
“But the portrait?”
“I am not sure. I think I may take it with me. As a reminder.”
“A reminder?”
“Of perfection.”
Chapter 35
SOLD. Catherine sat back in her chair. A dozen dizzying images flooded her mind as the note fluttered to the floor.
Have no concern, dear Lady St Clair.
I am off to seek my fortune in the fair city of Charleston, thanks to the kind patronage of a man who wishes to remain anonymous. In exchange, he has purchased my greatest work—
Lydia made a move to pick it up, but Catherine stayed her with a motion of her hand, shaking her head wildly. It cannot be true, it cannot be true, it cannot be true, ran the panicked recitation in her mind. The portrait, sold! All chance of happiness was over. With the portrait beyond her control, she would have to live with the fear of discovery forever. And if Jocelyn should chance to hear of it—
She rose suddenly. “I must go to see the captain.”
“I will call a hackney at once,” Lydia said, rising.
“I want to go alone.”
“Alone! You cannot, my lady.”
“I must.” She turned to Lydia. “Hire a coach. I will go to see Avebury, and, when I return, we will head to Wansdyke immediately. While I am gone, collect my things. And send a message ahead to Wansdyke. Tell Clara to pack for a long stay and get them to ready my coach.”
Lydia paused on her way to the door. “We’re to travel on, my lady?”
Catherine drew herself up. “Yes,” she said. “To Wales. To Castle St Clair.”
* * *
The carriage slowed, then stopped, before a comfortable-looking home on a modest street near St James’s Park. Catherine peered out of the window at the place where Jocelyn was living, thinking of the many letters she had written to this address and how she had never been able to imagine it. She stared until her eyes began to water. Blinking, she eased herself out of the carriage seat. The coachman, a fatherly sort, held the door and helped her down.
“I shall not be long,” Catherine said. He nodded, and stepped back to watch her grip the rail beside the two shallow steps. She hesitated, then rapped at the
door. It was answered almost immediately by a buxom young maid.
“Good day,” Catherine began. She could not help it; her eyes wandered, taking in the sturdy, sensible curtains, the dun-coloured rug in the hall. A plain table with two drawers stood behind the bewildered-looking maid.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes.” Catherine jerked her gaze back to the girl. “I am here to see Captain Avebury. Is he at home?”
“Yes, ma’am. Will you come in, please?”
Relieved to be out of the cold, Catherine followed her into the house. She stole a look across the hall and glanced up the stairs. All was silent.
“If you please, your coat, miss.” The maid took Catherine’s cloak. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“I beg your pardon,” Catherine said hastily. “Here is my card.”
The maid looked at it, and her eyes widened. She dropped a funny little bob that barely passed as a curtsey.
“This way, please, my lady.”
Catherine followed her down a short hallway to what appeared to be a drawing room. The maid knocked at the door.
“I’m on my way out,” Catherine heard him say in his calm, low tones. Her heart seemed to rise in her chest, threatening to choke her. She put a hand on her swollen abdomen. She might have expected the child to be performing his usual antics, but all was quiet in the womb. “That’s your father,” she was tempted to say out loud.
“You have a visitor, Captain.” The maid had opened the door. She gestured for Catherine to enter. Slowly, Catherine moved forward. For the first time, the maid noticed her limp, and her face registered surprise and sudden pity. She quickly offered her hand for support, but Catherine reached out to lean heavily against the doorframe.
“Leave us, if you please,” she said quietly over her shoulder. Speechless, the maid bobbed a curtsey and backed away.
Jocelyn was bending over a chair upon which his uniform jacket had been draped. He held a needle in his right hand and was engaged in making a minor repair to the braid. Catherine stood watching him.
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