Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  What color, what beauty met the eyes, what marvelous smells assailed the nostrils. Bright red apples and vivid oranges, yellow squash and green broccoli, light green lettuce, dark maroon beets, pale brown potatoes arranged in pyramids in the carts. Artichokes. Hothouse-grown pineapples, the first one presented to Charles II over a hundred years ago, an exotic delicacy that was still much in favor. Hearty country faces smiling as you passed, robust country voices bidding you buy—“’Ere, luv, ’ave a bite, ’ave you ever seen such bleedin’ red hap-ples?”—and carts of summer flowers, too, frothy pink banks of flowers, mauve, violet, pale blue, gold. Nell Gwynn had skipped over here to buy flowers when she was acting at the Drury Lane, burying her tilted nose in a bunch of violets. I strolled and smelled and savored the wonders of the Market, which was the very heart of Covent Garden, and eventually I purchased some sweet grapes and munched them as I left the Market and paused to gaze at the tall pillars of the Opera House.

  Four months in Covent Garden and I had yet to attend any of the theaters that gave it such flavor and vitality. Hadn’t even gone to see Megan in her blue satin gown with cream lace as she mimicked a French courtesan. Theaters weren’t respectable, of course, and only harlots attended them without a male escort. I’d love to see a play, I thought, sauntering on, finishing my sweet grapes. I wandered leisurely through the maze of narrow, cobbled streets and finally found myself standing in front of the Lambert Theater, a large, unimposing gray stone building with soot-streaked white marble columns and portico. Hadn’t planned it. Just happened to be here. I wondered how the bombastic Mr. James Lambert had handled the recalcitrant Mrs. Tallent. Had he dragged her down the hall by the hair and booted her out the stage door? Wouldn’t be surprised if he had, but the play had opened four nights ago and she had worn the gray velvet and Dottie had said the evening was a disaster, poor Lamb had a dismal failure on his hands. Served him right, I thought, remembering what Megan had told me about the man.

  I moved on, rather pensive, thinking of the long, lonely evening looming ahead. A solitary meal fetched from Hancock’s around the corner. Reading on the cozy dusty-rose sofa. A cup of tea. A roomy flat smelling of powder and scorched hair. Silence within, while outside, in the night, people were making merry and laughing and courting and attending the theaters and disporting themselves with glee. Was it always going to be like this? What was I going to do with my life? I had made a promise to my father, but as yet I had done nothing that would have made him proud of me. Selling used clothes. Working in a gambling house. My work for Dottie was at least respectable employment, but there seemed little future in sitting at a table day after day, stitching silk tunics and cutting gauze wings and sewing spangles on tights. I turned, wandering down a narrow street empty of traffic. Count your blessings, Angela, I scolded myself. You’re bloody fortunate to have such a job.

  I would enjoy my solitary meal—a nice grilled chop and applesauce and steamed cabbage and hot buttered rolls—and I would enjoy my book, too. And the next time Megan asked me to go out with her I would bloody well go. Dottie was right, I should be having some fun. Lost in thought, I moved on down the pavement, vaguely aware of hooves clopping and wheels turning on the cobbles somewhere behind me, and then the elegant golden-brown carriage with its four gorgeous bays passed slowly and a man thrust his head out the window and peered at me and shouted “Stop!” and the driver in white and gold livery tugged on the reins and the short, jaunty footman riding on back almost lost his footing. I stopped, standing very still, my heart in my throat. The man inside the carriage leaned his head out again, craning his neck.

  “You, lass! Come closer. I want to have a good look at you.”

  Paralyzed, I was, unable to move a muscle, unable to yell for help. Not another soul in sight. Girls being abducted every day in London, snatched up off the streets and being drugged and put in houses, and me so scared I couldn’t even run. The man had a plump, pleasant face with pink cheeks and friendly blue eyes and wore a powdered wig, looked exactly like someone’s jolly old uncle, but that didn’t mean a thing. A depraved old pimp, he was, pretending to be a nob, driving about in his fine carriage on the lookout for poor, defenseless girls.

  “Do come closer, lass. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Up your arse!” I cried, surprised I had a voice.

  “Those eyes. Those cheekbones. That delicious mouth. That hair—glossy chestnut brown silk, rich highlights. I must paint you. I must. Who are you, lass?”

  “None of your bleedin’ business! Drive on! Leave me alone or—or I’ll shriek bloody murder. You might grab other helpless girls off the street and sentence them to a fate worse than death, but you’re not nabbing me!”

  “Want me to fetch ’er for you, Mr. G.?” the footman asked.

  I whirled around to glare at him. “You lay one hand on me and you’ll be singing soprano for the rest of your life!”

  He grinned and pretended to shiver. He had brick-red hair and twinkling brown eyes and a wide, saucy mouth. Considerably shorter than I, he was powerfully built, muscles bulging beneath the white and gold livery he wore with such cocky assurance.

  “Feisty one, this ’un,” he quipped. “Reckon she’d like to claw my eyes out!”

  “You misunderstand my intentions, lass,” the older man said. His voice was quite gentle, a kind, voice, but those pimps were a devious lot. “I don’t want to harm you, I merely want to—”

  “I know what you want, and you’re not getting it!”

  “Be reasonable, lass. I must paint you. I’ll pay you generously. I’ve never seen such glorious bone structure, such divine coloring, such radiance. Sir Joshua will turn green with envy. Come, let me talk to you. Let me tell you what I—”

  “Sod off!”

  “’Ey! Watch your mouth!” the footman called. “Mr. G.’s a bleedin’ himport’nt gent, ’e is. Ain’t no street wench gonna mouth ’im like that with me in ’is himploy!”

  “Go bugger yourself, runt!”

  Mr. G. sighed wearily. “I guess you’d better fetch her, Jenkins.”

  Jenkins leaped from his perch like the cocky bantam he was and moved toward me with a grin, and I tensed, claws unsheathed. He had an upturned nose and freckles and looked like a jaunty imp, but he moved like a tiger, he did, muscles rolling beneath the velvet coat. “Don’t come any closer!” I warned. His grin widened and he sprang then and grabbed hold of my wrist and swung my arm up and out and had it twisted painfully behind my back quick as lightning and clamped a large, callused hand over my mouth before I could even draw breath to scream.

  I struggled furiously, utterly terrified, and Jenkins chuckled in my ear and lifted me up so that I was kicking air and carried me over to the elegant carriage. Mr. G. opened the door and Jenkins hauled me inside and dragged me onto the padded pale gold velvet seat opposite Mr. G. and held me fast as the carriage began to move. This was it! I was being abducted by villains and I would never be heard from again! My heart was beating so rapidly I feared it would burst. Jenkins held me close, almost in his lap, his hand still covering my mouth, but somehow I managed to get it open and sink my teeth into his palm, biting as hard as I could. He let out a yowl and released me.

  “Help!” I screamed, leaning out the window. “Help! I’m being abducted by villains!”

  Jenkins hauled me back and slung his arm around my throat and choked me, squeezing so hard I began to black out.

  “Easy, Jenkins,” Mr. G. said calmly. “Give the wench some air. I want to immortalize her, not murder her.”

  “She bit my bleedin’ ’and!”

  “We’ll bandage it later. Can you hold her still? I want to sketch her. Please don’t be alarmed, lass. I know this is all a bit drastic, but I simply couldn’t let a prize like you get away.”

  “You—you’re taking me to a house!”

  “Indeed I am, and I do hope you’ll be able to stay for dinner. Reynolds is going to be green, all right. Hasn’t painted anything but simpering aristocrats since they k
nighted him in ’68.”

  “You’re mad!” I cried.

  Jenkins tightened his arm around my throat again and informed me that he would cheerfully squeeze my lights out if I didn’t sit still, and I knew everything was lost, I had no chance, I was doomed to that fate worse than death. Mr. G. picked up a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal from the seat beside him, studied me intently for a moment and then began to sketch, humming to himself as he did so. He … he must be some kind of dreadful pervert. He wore a pair of white leather pumps with silver buckles and fine white silk stockings and breeches and frock coat of rumpled white satin, the coat embroidered with silver floral designs. His waistcoat was white satin, too, and the lace tumbling from his jabot and over his wrists was of the very finest quality. Certainly dressed like a nob, but maybe all pimps did. That benign, kindly face didn’t fool me for a minute.

  The carriage rumbled on, leaving Covent Garden far behind. I sat still, all struggle gone out of me now, all hope lost, and Jenkins loosened his hold and Mr. G. continued to sketch and after a while he held the pad up and examined it and nodded. His powdered wig listed slightly to the left. He turned the pad around so I could see it, and there I was on the paper, my face looking back at me big as life. I was dumbfounded! I stared at the image of myself captured so quickly, so expertly on the pad, and in a moving carriage as well.

  “Why—you’re an artist!” I exclaimed.

  “The best in the country, Reynolds and that upstart Romney notwithstanding. Do let her go now, Jenkins.”

  The cocky footman let go of me and scooted over to the opposite side of the seat.

  “No ’arm hin-tended, ducks,” he told me. “Just doin’ me job.”

  I gave him a hateful look and turned back to Mr. G.

  “You’re not a pimp?” I inquired.

  “I’ve often been accused of prostituting my talent, but I’ve never been called a pimp.”

  He smiled, looking very genial and avuncular in his rumpled white satin coat and listing wig. He reached up to straighten the latter, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Plump, pink cheeked, he was probably in his early fifties. Maybe he wasn’t a pimp.

  “You really just want to paint me?”

  “I must, lass. That marvelous bone structure, that coloring—to think I was returning from a visit with Sir Joshua when I spotted you!”

  “What have you painted?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Hundreds of landscapes—couldn’t sell them, alas. In Bath I began to concentrate on portrait painting and had an immediate success. Came to London and had even more success.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Thomas Gainsborough. You may call me Tom. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”

  “Gainsborough?” I frowned. “Never heard of you.”

  Mr. G. looked hurt. “Perhaps you’ve seen my Perdita.”

  “Perdita Robinson? The famous actress? You painted her?”

  “Much reproduced, that painting. It’s quite famous, I’m told. My The Honorable Mrs. Graham caused quite a stir, too, when it was hung at the Royal Academy. I’m one of the original members of the Academy, by the way, but I’m thinking of resigning. Don’t like the way they’ve been hanging my paintings of late.”

  Bloke seemed respectable, but I still wasn’t sure I believed him. Didn’t seem reasonable members of the Royal Academy who painted famous actresses would go around snatching girls off the street. That sketch he’d done of me proved he could draw, and draw remarkably well, but maybe that was just a hobby. Maybe he made sketches of all his victims to … to show to prospective buyers! I tensed up again, eyeing the door. Maybe I could leap out when the carriage slowed down.

  “Why—why would you want to paint me?” I asked. “My mouth’s too big. My cheekbones are too high. My eyes are a peculiar color.”

  “Your mouth too big? Nonsense. It’s a full, sensuous mouth, beautifully shaped, not one of those tiny rosebud mouths so much in vogue these days. Your cheekbones are divine, give you a cool patrician look few patrician women ever attain, and your eyes are incredibly arresting. You’re undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  I believed that. Sure. Bloke was a liar. Not to be trusted.

  “More beautiful than Perdita?” I inquired.

  “Far more beautiful. Perdita looks like an Afghan hound with her long neck and those sharp, pointed features. Thought so when I painted her. If you’ll look closely at my portrait of her you’ll see the resemblance.”

  The carriage was slowing down, and through the windows I could see that we had turned into an elegant square. Gracious white houses with tall white columns holding up the porticoes and fanlights over the doors. Smooth grassy green lawns and neat flower beds behind slender iron fences. Private drives. I eyed the door again as the carriage turned into one of the drives and came to a halt. Jenkins’ hand clamped around my wrist, as though he were reading my mind.

  “I’m going to scream,” I threatened.

  “Wouldn’t advise it, ducks.”

  “It seems our guest is still a bit nervous, Jenkins. Why don’t you escort her to the studio. I’ll just pop into the parlor and speak to the wife and join you in a few minutes.”

  Another footman had come outside and opened the carriage door, and Thomas Gainsborough, if, indeed, that was his name, scrambled out and climbed up the six flat marble steps and went into the house. Jenkins pulled me out of the carriage without undue gentility and told me I was bleedin’ fortunate to ’ave a gent like Mr. G. take an hin-trest in me. I tried to pull free. His fingers tightened around my wrist. Place doesn’t look like a brothel, I told myself. Looked even less like one inside. Jenkins dragged me down a lovely wide hallway with elegant white walls and a dark blue runner on the polished dark oak floor and a graceful white spiral staircase curling up to the floor above. A long mahogany table with pieces of porcelain and vases of flowers. A gorgeous chandelier with crystal pendants gleaming. Must be a huge amount of money in painting … or pimping. I intended to crack Jenkins over the head with something as soon as I spied the right object to grab.

  He opened a door at the end of the long hall and pulled me into a large studio with windows looking out over a back garden. There was a skylight at one end of the room as well, a low wooden platform beneath it, and all those rays of sunlight streaming in emphasized the incredible disorder. Dozens of canvases leaning against the walls. Tables littered with tubes of paint and brushes in jars and dirty rags. Sketchpads, papers everywhere. An enormous wardrobe with doors standing open to reveal a bewildering array of garments, all crammed together, a dusty pyramid of hatboxes beside it. A large easel draped in cloth held what was obviously a work in progress, and other easels stood here and there holding paintings already finished. Jenkins closed the door and scowled at me.

  “Goin’ ter be’ave yourself,” he said, “or ham I goin’ to ’ave to get rough again?”

  “You can let go of me, Jenkins,” I said haughtily.

  “You act up an’ I’ll clip-ya on th’ jaw.”

  He let go of me and moved over to stand guard at the door, looking like a comical gremlin with that fierce expression, in that preposterous gold and white uniform. Wasn’t a bit scared of him. Wasn’t scared at all now that I was convinced Mr. G. really was a painter. Fancy him wanting to do a painting of me. I wandered about the studio, idly examining things and trying to ignore the strong smell of turpentine. I looked at the paintings that stood on easels—several landscapes with carts and cows and feathery green trees, one or two portraits of pretty-pretty ladies with haughty faces and gorgeous gowns and beplumed hats—and then I turned around and spied another painting that stood all by itself on an easel across the room.

  I crossed over to the easel, drawn, it seemed, by those sad, thoughtful eyes, for the lad in the painting was so real he seemed about to speak to me. He had long dark brown hair and blue eyes and was dressed like a cavalier in a dark blue suit. One hand was resting on his hip,
the folds of a blue cape draped over his arm, and the other hand hung listlessly at his side, holding a brown hat with a curling white plume that almost touched the floor. Never had I seen such vibrantly glowing colors—such sumptuous blues, such creamy whites, such rich browns—nor had I ever seen a portrait so touching. Were the boy to speak, I knew his voice would be sweet and dreamy, his words full of sadness.

  “Like it?” Gainsborough asked at my side.

  His voice startled me. I hadn’t heard him come into the studio. Several moments passed before I could reply, so moved was I by the sad young man in blue.

  “I—I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “The Boy in Blue, more commonly known as Blue Boy. One of my more successful efforts. That’s a copy I made, by the way. The original canvas is much larger.”

  “You must be a great artist if you painted this.”

  “It’s nothing compared to the painting I’m going to do of you,” he informed me. “Come, lass, we’d best get started.”

  “You’re going to paint me today?”

  Thomas Gainsborough chuckled at my ignorance. “Gracious no, lass. Today—while the light lasts—I’m just going to do some preliminary sketches. It will take weeks, maybe months to complete the painting. I’m going to have to work you in. I’m currently painting the Duchess of Devonshire—” He nodded toward the easel draped in cloth, “and time and the beauteous Georgiana wait for no one.”