‘I’m not afraid.’
She pouted and crossed her arms. Her buttoned-up look. Or was it buttoned-down? ‘I have never come across such a reluctant subject,’ Giovanni said. ‘You are surely not afraid I will steal your soul?’
‘What made you say that?’
She was glaring at him now, which did not at all augur well. ‘It is said that a painting reflects the soul in the same way a mirror does. To have your image taken, some say, is to surrender your soul. I meant it as a jest, Cressie. A mathematician such as yourself could not possibly believe such nonsense.’
She stared at the blank sheet of paper, her brow furrowed. ‘Was it Holbein? The artist who painted the soul in the eyes, I mean. Was that Holbein? I couldn’t remember earlier, in the schoolroom.’
‘Hans Holbein the Younger. Is that what you are afraid of, that I will not steal your soul but see into it?’
‘Of course not. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.’ She gave herself a little shake and forced a smile. ‘The process. You said you would explain.’
Most of his subjects, especially the women, were only too ready to bare their soul to him, usually as a prelude to the offer to bare their bodies. Cressie, on the other hand, seemed determined to reveal nothing of herself. Her guard was well and truly up, but he knew her well enough now to know how to evade it. Giovanni picked up a piece of charcoal and turned towards the drawing board.
‘First, I divide the canvas up into equal segments like this.’ He sketched out a grid. ‘I want you to be exactly at the centre of the painting, so your face will be dissected by this line, which will run straight down the middle of your body, aligning your profile and your hands which define the thirds into which the portrait will be divided, like this—you see how the proportions are already forming on the vertical?’
He turned from the shapes he had sketched in charcoal to find that Cressie looked confused. ‘There is a symmetry in the body, in the way the body can be posed, that is naturally pleasing. If you clasp your hands so, can you not see it, this line?’
Giovanni ran his finger from the top of her head, down the line of her nose, to her mouth. He carried on, ignoring the softness of her lips, tracing the line of her chin, her throat, to where her skin disappeared beneath the neck of her gown. The fabric which formed a barrier made it perfectly acceptable for him to complete his demonstration, he told himself, just tracing the valley between her breasts, the soft swell of her stomach, finally resting his finger on her hands. ‘This line …’ He cleared his throat, trying to distance himself. ‘This line …’ he turned towards the paper on the easel once more and picked up the charcoal ‘… it is the axis for the portrait. And your elbows, they will form the widest point, creating a triangle thus.’
To his relief, Cressie was frowning in concentration, focused on the drawing board, seemingly oblivious to the way his body was reacting to hers. It was because he so habitually avoided human contact, that was all. An instinctive reaction he would not repeat because he would not touch her again. Not more than was strictly necessary.
‘Are you always so precise when you are structuring a portrait?’ she asked. ‘This grid, will you draw it out on the canvas?’
‘Si. And I will also block out the main shapes, just as I have shown you.’ Giovanni guided her back towards the chair, encouraging her to question him, relieved to discover that by distracting her with the technical details of his craft, the various pigments he preferred, the precise recipe of oils and binding agents he used to create his paints, he could distract himself too, from his awareness of her as a woman, of himself as a man, which had no place here in his studio.
Cressie’s face, which was quite plain in repose, when animated was transformed. He fed her facts, drew her out with questions as to the detail of her theory and sketched quickly, trying to capture her in charcoal and when he had, he replaced the paper with his canvas and repositioned his sitter. This he did quickly lest she remember the purpose of this session and become self-conscious once again.
‘Tell me more of this book you are using to teach your brothers,’ he said as he began to paint in the grid.
‘It is a children’s introduction to geometry. I am hoping that if I have evidence of its practical application I will be able to persuade my publisher to print it. At present, he is unwilling to do so at his own expense, and I have not the wherewithal to fund it myself. Unfortunately, to date my brothers have not exactly proved to be the most interested of pupils.’
‘It seems to me that your brothers have been raised to find only themselves of interest.’
Cressie grinned. ‘That is a dreadful thing to contemplate, but I am afraid it is quite true. Save for my father, they have been raised to care for no one’s opinion but their own.’
‘And your father cares for none but them, you say?’
‘Blood and beauty,’ Cressie said with a twisted smile. ‘Your words, signor, and most apt. Your own father—is he still alive? He must be immensely proud of you and your success.’
‘Proud! My father thinks …’ Giovanni took a deep breath and unclenched his fists, surprised by the strength of his reaction. He never thought of his father. Not consciously. He had no father worthy of the name. ‘What I know from bitter experience is that you might succeed in mollifying your father by doing as he bids, but he will only see it as his right, his due. You cannot make a man such as that proud of you, Cressie. And in the process of trying, you are making yourself thoroughly miserable.’
‘I am not miserable. I have no option but to try. I am not like you, free to please myself, I have no independent means, and my one talent is hardly going to support me.’
Her arms were crossed again, she was hugging herself tight across her chest, eyes bright, expression bleak. If her father only knew how unhappy she was—but that was exactly the point, was it not? Lord Armstrong did not care, any more than his own father, Count Fancini, what unhappiness he inflicted on his children in the name of the bloodline. Seeing her like this, knowing she would go on suffering as long as she continued to try to do what she thought she ought, made him furious. ‘Why do you pander to them, your father, his wife, his sons! Why do you allow them to trample on you?’
‘How dare you! What gives you the right …?’
Cressie jumped up from her seat and tried to push past him, but Giovanni grabbed her by the arms, wishing he could shake some sense into her. Her unruly curls tumbled from the loose knot which held them. ‘I am not trying to hurt you, Cressie,’ he said, more gently now. ‘Quite the reverse. I am actually trying to help. You are unhappy, and will only become more so as long as you keep trying to please your father. Trust me on this.’
‘Why should I?’
She was right—why should she listen to him when he was not able to explain? Giovanni shook his head. ‘I have said too much. I wished merely to discover the person I wish to paint. The person you are, the woman inside here …’ he touched her forehead ‘… and here …’ he placed his palm over her heart ‘… that is who I wish to discover.’
She breathed in sharply. ‘You might be disappointed by what you find.’
‘I doubt it.’ Her eyes were wide open, such a startling colour. Cobalt, ultramarine, Prussian blue, none of those pigments would capture the exact shade. Beneath his hand, he could feel her heart beating. How could he have thought of her face as plain? What was she thinking now, looking at him like that?
Dio! He snatched his hand away from her breast and took a step backwards. ‘Mi dispiace. I am sorry. I should not—but there are such emotions inside you jostling to be heard. I could never be disappointed by what I find in you.’
Cressie flushed, obviously unused to any sort of compliments, never mind such a strange one as he had just paid her. ‘Thank you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I think we should stop for the day. I must go and see how Bella fares.’
She whisked herself out of the room before he could reply. Giovanni dropped into the chair she had vacated and tugged h
is neckcloth loose, closing his eyes. It was his own fault, introducing his father to the conversation, but the similarities in their situations were impossible to ignore. Fourteen years since their paths had crossed, his and Count Fancini’s. The memory of that last interview at the palazzo in Firenze was still painfully clear. Their voices echoing round the marble chamber as they argued. His footsteps sounding larger than life, walking across the courtyard as he left. The count’s cold fury turned to scorn and threats when he realised that his son was not going to bend to his will.
You will come back with your tail between your legs. No one will buy those pretty jottings of yours. Mark my words, you will be back. And I will be waiting.
Giovanni rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Was the count waiting still? Had word of Giovanni’s fame reached him? He cursed and got to his feet. He did not care. Why should he!
Cressie hovered in the doorway at the far end of the gallery, watching Giovanni at work, carefully measuring oil from a glass bottle before mixing it with pigments on his palette. The wooden case which looked like a travelling medicine chest, in which he kept his various binders and oils, stood open on the table beside him. As usual when he worked, he had taken off his coat and rolled up his pristine white shirtsleeves. His waistcoat was grey today, the satin back stretched across his shoulders, displaying the lean lines of him to advantage. As ever, when she saw him, she was struck by the perfection of his physique, and as ever she reminded herself that her reaction was purely aesthetic.
Her gaze drifted down, to the slight curve of his buttocks outlined by his black trousers. For a man so lithe, he was surprisingly shapely. He had the body of one of those statues of Greek athletes. A javelin thrower, perhaps? She would like to see him pose with a spear, muscles tensed, gracefully poised. She would like to be able to capture him in such a pose—simply for the sake of illustrating symmetry. He had the type of body which would appear very much to advantage when naked rather than clothed. Unlike hers.
She placed the backs of her hands on her burning cheeks. Giles, the one man she had seen naked, had looked a little ridiculous and a little threatening, holding himself, so strangely proud of his jutting manhood. He had been so offended when she had been unable to disguise her—how had she felt? Anxious. Ever so slightly hysterical, unable to reconcile the enormity of what she was about to do with the awkward mechanics of the act itself. And they had both been awkward. Giles was not nearly as experienced as he had implied. He had not liked her questions, had taken her nervous request for instruction badly, calling her analytical. And unwomanly. That hurt. Still hurt.
All in all, it had been a most lamentable experience for both of them. In fact, with hindsight, she had the distinct impression that Giles would have been much happier if she’d lain back and said nothing at all while he got on with her deflowering. Which was exactly what she did, in the end. And it had been so unrewarding for him that if his pride would have allowed him he would have decided there and then that once was enough. Which was what she decided for herself, in the end.
Though she did not doubt it was mostly her fault, for she had ample proof that she was not the kind of woman men desired, neither could Cressie imagine that Giovanni would be as inept as Giles in the same situation. Those artistic fingers of his were surely incapable of being anything other than expert. And his mouth, the fullness of his lips, the way the top lip bowed. The other day, during the first of their portrait sessions, she had been sure he was going to kiss her. During the second session, she had been even more certain, but again he had not, and since then, he had been almost brusque with her. She was acting like a silly chit, allowing her imagination to take flight like this, imagining Giovanni naked, imagining him touching her in a way Giles never had, in a way no man ever had.
‘Cressie?’
She jumped, opened her eyes and guiltily snatched her hand away from her breast. ‘Giovanni.’
He smiled. ‘I like the way you say my name.’
She was blushing! Lord, it was as well no one, not even the world’s most renowned portrait painter, could actually read her thoughts. All the same, she dared not look at him. ‘I came to tell you that the boys—they will be here in a moment if you are ready for them.’
He gestured towards the easel, the palette with its oils already mixed. ‘As you see, I am prepared.’
‘They have been very difficult today. I am not sure that they will be keen to sit for long.’ Cressie fixed her gaze on Giovanni’s top waistcoat button. ‘I would bribe them with sweetmeats if I had any.’
‘There is no need.’
‘There is, you have no idea …’
He smiled, and caught a strand of her unruly hair with his finger, pushing it back from her brow. ‘Trust me.’
The barest touch, yet she jumped, acutely aware of him, the more so for the shocking nature of her thoughts just moments before. ‘I shall go and—if you’re ready then, I shall …’
But there was no need. A shout, the stampede of four pairs of feet, followed by the nursery maid’s gentle remonstration not to run, wholly ignored, and the four boys were upon them in a tangle of blonde hair, deceptively cherubic faces and chubby limbs. Janey, her mob cap askew, her apron covered in ink, dropped a harassed curtsy. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, only the minute you left them alone with me they was like caged animals. Harry broke James’s slate, and Freddie got hold of the ink pot and when I tried to take it back from him …’
‘There’s no need to apologise, Janey, it’s not your fault.’
‘Them being cooped up because of the rain don’t help one little bit, my lady. If only the sun would come out, we could get them to run some of those flitters out of their legs. If you’ll excuse me now, I will go and change my apron. It’s quite ruined.’
‘Now, then,’ Giovanni said, when the maid had bustled out of the room, still tutting and shaking her head at the mess of her uniform, ‘I have devised a game for the boys to play.’
‘A game?’ Cressie said. ‘But I thought you needed them to sit still for their portrait.’
‘The game requires them to be seated. You must trust me, Cressie.’
‘You are forever saying that.’
‘And today I shall provide you with proof.’ Giovanni clapped his hands together to gain the boys’ attention, and when this had no effect on the scrapping twins, pulled them bodily apart, dangling one from each hand by the seats of their nankeen breeches. Freddie and George were so astonished that they were silenced. Watching him walk towards the table, effortlessly carrying the boys aloft, Cressie found it difficult not to be impressed. What was that other thing that Greek athletes were so often depicted throwing? A discus. Yes, she was willing to wager that Giovanni would be skilled at that too. Dressed only in one of those little tunics which stopped short at the top of his thighs. When he lunged to make the throw the fabric would ripple, revealing …
‘Cressie?’
For the second time that morning, she jumped and blushed.
‘You too,’ Giovanni said, holding out one of the chairs which stood at the table for her. The boys were already seated, staring at her expectantly.
‘I?’
‘You are to join in the game, Cressie. You are to sit beside me because I’m the eldest,’ James said, casting Harry a superior look.
‘I want Cressie to sit beside me because I’m Mama’s favourite,’ Harry replied, instantly goaded.
‘You are not! I’m the favourite because I’m Papa’s heir and I shall one day be Lord Armstrong.’ James puffed out his chest in a frighteningly good impression of his father. ‘Papa says—’
‘Do you wish to play the game or not?’
Giovanni did not raise his voice, but he gained the attention of all four boys immediately. He didn’t sound angry or flustered but—bored? Cressie hid her grin behind her hands. Indifference, that was the key. Her brothers were hanging on his every word as he handed them pieces of paper and charcoal and explained the rules of his drawing game. They were loo
king up at him, all four of them, with their mouths wide open, their eyes expectant. It was only when she realised that Giovanni had stopped speaking and was now looking in her direction that Cressie found she really was required to join in. ‘I can’t draw,’ she said nervously.
Giovanni showed his teeth. ‘Anyone can draw. It is simply a question of ratio and proportion—you told me so yourself.’
‘That is not fair. There is a difference between theory and execution.’
‘Interesting. The first time I suggest you test your own theory you start to make excuses. You do not relish being challenged, do you? No, don’t deny it—you have already crossed your arms. Next you will glare at me.’
‘I won’t. I am not so predictable,’ she responded, glaring.
‘Cressie does that when she’s being scolded,’ James piped up. ‘And when Mama talks to her. And Papa.’
‘I do not! Do I?’ Cressie turned to her brothers, appalled. When both James and Harry nodded solemnly, she pulled a face, making a show of unfolding her arms. ‘That is very rude of me, boys. I hope that you know better than to follow my example.’
James shrugged. ‘Mama and Papa aren’t ever angry with us. Are you going to play this game or not?’
‘You really expect me to draw a horse?’ Cressie looked pleadingly at Giovanni.
‘I really expect you to try to draw a horse,’ he replied. ‘Whether you will succeed or not—that I will judge when you have all finished. There will be a prize for the best effort. In the meantime, I am going to get on with my own work.’
He pulled the canvas, upon which the portrait of the boys was beginning to take shape, towards him, picked up his brushes and began to paint. All four boys did the same, concentrating hard on their drawings. Cressie stared down at her blank sheet of paper, completely intimidated by it. She couldn’t even remember what a horse, that most familiar of animals, looked like. Glancing up, she caught Giovanni’s sardonic look and hurriedly picked up her charcoal. It was just a question of ratio and proportion, for goodness’ sake. Cressie furrowed her brow and began to make tentative marks on the paper.
The Beauty Within Page 6