‘Guy was the only thing I have ever believed in. He was a good man, almost a saint. If he hadn’t been the oldest son I think he would have been a monk. He only ever did the right thing and yet he was dead and I was the Duke. It made no sense at all.’
Cora said nothing, she had never seen Ivo like this before. He moved restlessly around the room, not looking at her but talking with quiet insistence.
‘I never wanted to be Duke, never. There are younger sons who think of nothing else but the health of their older brother. But I was glad that I was not going to inherit. I saw what happened to my father – he pretty much bankrupted himself trying to behave in the way he thought a duke should and all he got for it was the dubious pleasure of being cuckolded by the Prince of Wales, among others.’ He drained his glass and went back to the decanter.
Cora could hardly believe what he had just said. ‘You mean your mother and the Prince are…more than friends?’ She tried not to sound shocked but she couldn’t help herself. Duchess Fanny and the Prince, why hadn’t she realised?
‘Oh, I don’t think they are now, but when my father was alive…’ Ivo broke off as if in pain.
Cora was bewildered. ‘Did your father know?’
‘Of course he knew,’ Ivo said bitterly. ‘Everybody knew. My mother made sure of that. She even had that snake tattooed on her wrist to show she was part of “the club”, as she called it.’
Cora was struggling to understand. ‘But couldn’t your father stop her? He could have threatened to divorce her.’
Ivo shook his head. ‘Catholics don’t get divorced and, besides, you can’t name the Prince of Wales as co-respondent. No, my mother knew exactly what she was doing. My poor father, all he could do was stand by and let it happen. The worst thing was that he really loved her. Plenty of women would have consoled him but he wasn’t interested. And all the time my mother was acting as if she was doing him a favour by becoming a royal favourite. I didn’t understand what was happening at first, but now I can hardly believe how callous she was. She would open her love letters from the Prince in front of him, and he would sit there and watch.’ Ivo bowed his head in an unconscious imitation of his father’s acquiescence. ‘In the end, of course, the Prince got bored, which she accepted gracefully enough – I don’t think she ever cared for him deeply – and simply replaced him with Buckingham. When my father realised what had happened, he just gave up. He died a year later.’ He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the memories.
Cora felt a surge of pity. She saw the naked hollow at the base of his skull – when he turned his head there was a vulnerability in Ivo she had never noticed before.
‘And the worst of it was that Mother never understood what she had done. If anything, she was proud of herself. She was the reason that Guy was so devout. I think he was trying to atone for her sins. God knows there are enough of them. It wasn’t just the Prince, although he was the most public. She always had admirers – I think she even amused herself with the servants.’ His voice was bitter.
Cora put her hand on his arm. ‘But don’t you like being Duke now?’ she said.
‘It is not about liking. I am a link in a chain that stretches from the past through me into the future. Even though I never wanted it, I don’t have a choice.’ He looked down at her and his face softened. ‘But thanks to you I don’t have to watch Lulworth falling down, or part with its contents piece by piece. Our son will not have to grow up watching land being sold and farms crumbling because there is no money to repair them.’ He put his arm around her and pulled her to him.
Cora was relieved that Ivo’s mood appeared to have lightened. She was encouraged by the reference to their child and to the healing power of money. She liked the idea that thanks to her this ancient institution would get up off its knees and walk again. It gave her particular pleasure to think that she would be able to reverse the depredations wrought by the Double Duchess. She smiled to think how her mother-in-law would react when she saw the water terraces she was planning for the south front, or the Canova statues she had bought for the summerhouse. (After the contretemps with the Rubens, she had made sure that the statues of Eros and Psyche and Venus bathing came free of unwelcome associations.)
There was a tap at the door and Bertha entered carrying a tray.
‘I brought your hot milk, Miss Cora. The doctor said you should drink it before going to bed.’
‘Thank you, Bertha. I had quite forgotten.’
Bertha turned to go, when she heard the Duke’s voice.
‘Bertha!’
The maid wheeled round to face him.
The Duke said quietly, ‘Bertha, I would prefer it if you could address my wife by her proper title. I appreciate that you have grown up in a country without such niceties, but here we set much store by them. Please remember in future.’
Bertha stood motionless, her head bowed.
Cora leapt in. ‘It’s not her fault, Ivo. I encourage her to call me Miss Cora because it reminds me of home. What does it matter what my maid calls me in the privacy of my bedroom?’
‘Bertha, you may go.’ Ivo waited for the door to close behind her before he turned to his wife. ‘Cora, please remember that everything you say to me in front of Bertha is repeated word for word in the servants’ hall.’ He turned his back to her. Cora flew at him; the words she could forgive, but not this physical snub. She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him round to face her.
‘What is the matter with you! One minute you say you never wanted to be Duke, and now you are scolding my maid for not calling me Your Grace. I don’t understand you.’
Ivo looked down at her tear-stained face. His face had an expression she could not read. He took her hands from his shoulders and clasped them in his own.
‘I have been thoughtless, Cora. You are tired. Women in your condition need a great deal of rest. We will talk about this tomorrow.’
Cora tried to respond but he led her to the bed and as she lay down she realised that sleep was all she wanted. She took his hand.
‘Stay here with me, Ivo.’
He lay down beside her and she put her head on his chest. She knew there was something she had to tell him but sleep overcame her before she could remember what it was.
In the attic Bertha turned up the gas so that she could get a better look at the seam she was unpicking. All Miss Cora’s bodices needed taking out now that she was beginning to show. Cora refused to accept her thickening body and simply ordered her maid to pull the laces harder, but Bertha worried that the tight lacing would harm the baby. By surreptitiously letting out the seams at night, Bertha was able to convince her mistress that she was still able to fit into her wardrobe. These secret tailoring sessions could not go on indefinitely, of course; Bertha hoped that Cora would soon accept the realities of her condition.
Bertha got to the end of the seam, pricking her finger in the process; a bead of red dropped on to the pink silk, soaking into the weave of the fabric, following the threads so that it looked like one of the tiny scarlet money spiders of Bertha’s childhood. She spat on the stain and rubbed it with her thumb, turning the spider into a rusty bruise. It was on the wrong side of the cloth, she would be the only witness to what lay beneath the Duchess of Wareham’s pink silk. She put the dress down and got ready for bed. Her mind was still turning over the Duke’s rebuke and she wondered how long Miss Cora would defend her. She had around three hundred dollars in the chest under her bed, the product of various gifts from Cora, the profits from the sale of used gloves and what she put away from her salary, and she also had the ‘boulder’. She had intended to send some of the money to her mother, but now she wondered whether her need might be greater. If only she could be sure of Jim, that he would have the courage to follow her into a new life.
Chapter 19
‘The Faint Half-Flush’
LOUVAIN’S STUDIO WAS IN CHELSEA, A PART OF London that Cora had only heard of. The coachman had looked astonished when she gave him the
address and was forced to consult his fellows before setting off. The fog grew thicker as the carriage got closer to the river, so Cora could barely see the outline of the house through the yellow mist. All she could make out was a red painted door set in a Gothic stone arch. The coachman made to go and ring the bell but Cora stopped him. ‘I’ll go myself. Come back in an hour.’
She rang the bell and heard it tinkling far off in the distance. After a few minutes the door was opened by a manservant who Cora thought might be Japanese. He bowed to her and gestured for her to follow him down a long corridor lit from above by a skylight. Hanging from the picture rail on either side were black and white prints that looked oriental; Cora stopped to look at one as she went past and saw that it was an exquisitely detailed drawing of a man and woman embracing. Cora felt a quiver of shock mixed with curiosity. She would have liked to have examined the picture more closely but she couldn’t risk the servant turning and seeing her. She felt the blood pounding at her temple, she almost turned round and walked away, but she could see the servant holding back the heavy damask portière and she felt herself move forward. Charlotte had said a chaperone was quite unnecessary but now Cora wished she had brought Bertha with her.
The studio was a double-height room with a north-facing window that ran from the ceiling almost to the floor. At the base of the window was a window seat covered in a paisley shawl and velvet cushions. To the right of the window was Louvain’s easel and a table covered in brushes, rags and paints. At the other end of the room was a Japanese screen, a chaise longue and a fern in a brass pot. The parquet floor was covered in Persian carpets. Stacked against the walls were canvases and portfolios. Skylights bathed the room in rippling grey light. Cora felt as if she was walking underwater. The impression was reinforced when she heard Louvain’s voice echoing through the room. He was wearing a velvet smoking jacket that was flecked with paint.
‘Good morning, Duchess, you are late but not unforgivably so. Please give Itaro your things. Good. You have dressed simply.’ Louvain stood about four feet away, looking at her through half-narrowed eyes. Cora felt his gaze sweep up and down her body.
‘I’m sorry for my unpunctuality, but the fog, you know, slows everything down. We nearly had to give up and go home. My coachman was quite worried about bringing me to Chelsea, he thinks that it is not a respectable neighbourhood.’ Cora was talking nervously, aware that Louvain’s eyes had not left her for a moment.
‘Don’t worry, you will be quite safe. There is no one here to molest you apart from a few impoverished artists looking for patronage.’ He took her arm. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down here.’ He led her to the chaise longue upholstered in green velvet. She sat down on the edge, her back as upright as if she was wearing the spine stiffener.
Louvain stood back from her. ‘No, no, you look as though you were at a missionary tea. Can’t you lie back a little? Here, let me give you some cushions.’ He went over to the window seat and picked up some cushions which he placed behind her. ‘Now lean back. That’s right.’ He paced up and down in front of her, looking at her so closely that Cora felt hot with the scrutiny. She sat rather stiffly against the cushions, trying to arrange her arms gracefully.
‘Would you like me to fold my hands? I’ve heard that hands are the hardest thing to paint.’
‘Who told you that?’ Louvain asked.
‘An American friend, who was studying art. He said that the hands always defeated him.’
‘Did he paint you? This friend?’
‘No, he said he wasn’t ready.’ Cora thought of Teddy and smiled.
‘Not ready for you! He must have been scared.’ Louvain shrugged.
‘Perhaps.’ Cora wished she had said nothing. Louvain had a way of turning every conversation into an intimacy.
He came closer to her and picked up one of her hands which he draped along the back of the chaise longue.
‘Yes, that looks better. But it’s not enough.’
Cora looked at him nervously. ‘I want you – no, I need you, to take down your hair,’ Louvain said.
‘My hair? I can’t possibly.’ Cora was firm.
‘But why not? You are so young, what could be more natural? I want to paint you as a goddess from the New World, beautiful and unbound. I don’t want you trussed up like a society goose. Please take down your hair, I don’t think I have ever seen hair quite your colour before.’ He reached out a hand to touch one of the tendrils that hung by her cheek.
Cora was alarmed at how close he was to her.
‘I think it would look…odd.’ She could feel his breath against her cheek.
‘Then, Duchess, I think you have had a wasted journey.’ He turned away from her and started to walk towards the door.
Cora twisted with indecision. She thought of what her mother would say about her taking down her hair and then she remembered Charlotte’s cool recklessness. She was not going to be dismissed as a provincial American.
‘Wait!’ she said. Slowly, Louvain turned round.
She stood up and started to take the pins out of her hair. There were so many of them that she could not hold them all.
‘Here, let me take them.’ Louvain stretched out his hand.
At last they were all out, Cora shook her head and felt her hair fall heavy and luxurious on to her shoulders. Louvain had been right, she did feel unbound. She looked at him shyly, meeting that ever-present gaze. Although her body was completely covered, she felt naked. She had to stop herself from putting her arms across her breasts.
Louvain said nothing but walked round her slowly. Cora stood still as if pinned to the spot but at last she forced herself to speak.
‘Is that what you wanted?’
Louvain still did not speak. Then he moved towards her and quickly and firmly kissed her on the mouth.
‘No, Duchess, that’s what I wanted. Now, perhaps you would like to resume your pose?’
Cora blinked. Had he really kissed her? Yes, she knew he had because she could still feel the scrape from the bristles of his moustache. And now he was behaving as if nothing had happened. She knew that she was losing control of the situation. She should have slapped him at least.
‘I must go. Your conduct is disgraceful.’ But Cora did not move.
Louvain, who had walked over to his easel and paints, laughed.
‘Oh, don’t be in a huff, it was only a kiss. You looked so promising with your hair down. I had to satisfy my curiosity. Anyway it serves you right for teasing me with your American friend and coming here unchaperoned. But I apologise for taking such a liberty and I promise not to do it again.’ He made a solemn sign of the cross in the air, and continued, ‘If it will help your conscience, I only did it for the sake of the painting. I could see that you were wondering if I was going to pounce and now that I have, you can relax. You know I find you attractive which means you can be sure that the portrait will flatter you.’
Cora was aware that she should leave immediately but she knew that she would stay. She sat down on the chaise longue and lay back against the cushions.
‘You see, that’s much better, stay just like that.’ Louvain had a sketch pad and was rapidly drawing with a pencil.
‘Is this the way you behave with all your sitters?’ Cora tried to sound nonchalant.
‘I don’t kiss the men!’
‘What about Lady Beauchamp? Did you kiss her?’
‘What do you think?’ Louvain’s tone was dismissive.
Cora fell into her pose. Louvain was right. She did feel more relaxed. She wondered if he would try again and what she would do if he did.
He stopped sketching and looked at her directly. ‘Do you want to undo your jacket? You’re expecting, aren’t you? You might feel more comfortable.’
‘How did you know? About the baby? I’m not showing yet, am I?’ Cora looked down at her still defined waist.
‘My job, Duchess, is to see you and I can see that you are full of expectation. Women in your condition have a cer
tain milky quality. Medieval painters believed that you can see babies in the eyes of pregnant women.’
‘And what else do you see, Mr Louvain?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I’m not going to tell you that, it will all be there in the painting. Which, before you ask, I am not going to show you until it is quite finished. Now, I want you to stop talking so I can concentrate on your mouth.’
As soon as he said this, Cora felt her lips tingle. She looked up at the grey clouds through the skylight.
‘No, don’t look up there, keep your eyes on me.’
Cora nodded dumbly, there was evidently no escape. The rest of the session was virtually silent, apart from the scratching of Louvain’s pencil and the smacking noises he made with his mouth as he rubbed out a line that was less than satisfactory. Every so often there was the muffled sound of a foghorn from a boat on the river and the faint mewings of distant gulls. After a while, despite the kiss, Cora found herself subsiding into a kind of torpor. She found the effort of being looked at exhausting. After about an hour the silence was broken by the crash of a gong being struck. Cora started and Louvain put down his pencil.
‘Lunch! Will you stay, Duchess? Itaro is quite a talented cook.’
‘No, thank you. I must go home.’ Cora rose to her feet.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time. And don’t be late again, we have a lot of work to do.’
As Cora left, she ran her eyes over some of the other black and white Japanese prints that lined the hallway. She did not dare to linger as Louvain was following her to the door, but he noticed the turn of her head.
‘Do you like them? They are called shunga. These ones are by Utamaro – they are of the courtesans of the Yoshiwara district where he lived. They apparently thought it was a great honour to pose for him. His pictures are such an exotic mixture of the real and the imagined. Look at this one.’ He pointed to one of the prints. Cora came over to look at it. It was a woman embracing a squid. Cora stood back quickly, her face pink with embarrassment.
The American Heiress Page 23