The Beauty Within

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The Beauty Within Page 13

by Marguerite Kaye


  He spun the terrestrial globe so viciously that it rocked on its stand, then turned to face Cressie square on. ‘I am afraid that if I allow us to become close, if we make love, I am afraid it will destroy the magic between us. I am afraid it will prevent me painting you. I don’t want to destroy what I have only just rediscovered. Do you see?’

  She saw that his words were irrefutably from the heart. She saw that he believed them, though she could not understand why. Cressie was afraid to speak, lest she say the wrong thing. ‘Thank you. For explaining. For trusting me with your—thank you.’

  He seemed both relieved and just a little bit uncomfortable. Was he still holding something back from her? She agreed to sit for him the next day. It was only later, as she lay awake in her bed replaying the conversation, that the exact words he used tempered her euphoria. I don’t want to destroy what I have only just rediscovered.

  He had once had another muse. Of course he had, and it was a very stupid and illogical thing to be jealous of her, whoever she was, especially since she was obviously no longer in Giovanni’s life. Had he made love to her? Certainly. Had he loved her?

  ‘That,’ Cressie told herself, laying aside her translation of Legendre’s Exercices de Calcul Intégral, ‘is absolutely none of my business.’ But logic and emotion were, she was discovering, rarely in alignment. The idea of Giovanni in love sat very ill with her.

  ‘You are late.’ Giovanni was standing in front of his easel, his drawing board covered in charcoal sketches, when he heard the door slowly open. ‘I have been working on some ideas, but I am not sure—aren’t you coming in?’

  Cressie hovered in the doorway of the attic, clutching her mother’s evening cloak around her. ‘Have you set your heart on Penthiselea?’

  He scored his charcoal impatiently through something. His cravat dangled over a chair, on which were also his coat and his waistcoat. He had a smudge of charcoal on his forehead. She could see a smattering of hair peeping out from the open neck of his shirt. Cressie’s throat went dry. The light in the attic was bright, with the sun shining directly through the dormers. Through the billowing folds of his cambric shirt, she could quite clearly see his nipples, could see that the hair arrowed down towards the dip of his belly. She shouldn’t be looking but she couldn’t drag her eyes away. She reminded herself that in order to inspire him she must allow him to keep his distance, but what she wanted was to rip the shirt clean off his back and run her hands over the lean, hard muscles she was certain were underneath, to feel the contrasting roughness of his hair and smoothness of his skin, the sinew and tendon ripple as she touched him, to hear him groan as she tasted him. She wanted to …

  ‘Cressie, are you coming in or not? Why are you wearing that cloak?’

  She closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. ‘I had an idea. It is a surprise.’

  He was looking at her now, no longer distracted by the drawing board. ‘I don’t, as a rule, like surprises. I rarely find them to be pleasant.’

  She didn’t want to let Giovanni see how nervous she was, for it would quite spoil the effect. It had seemed such an inspired idea but now that it came to it her resolve began to falter. Would she look preposterous? Would he ridicule her? Standing up, she began to unfasten the cloak, her trembling fingers fumbling with the clasp. ‘Turn around,’ she commanded. ‘Don’t look until I say so.’ She dropped the cloak to the ground and slipped the hat she had been hiding beneath it on to her head. ‘Giovanni?’

  ‘Si?’

  ‘You can turn around now. I want you to meet …’

  ‘Penthiselea,’ he guessed.

  ‘Mr Brown.’ Cressie swept her hat back off her head in a movement she’d practised for hours last night in front of her mirror, and made a bow she was rather proud of.

  She was rewarded with an astonished bark of laughter. ‘What on earth …?’

  ‘You remember you asked how I managed to attend meetings at the Royal Society? Well …’ Cressie did a little twirl, her coat tails flying ‘… this is how. You were right, I would never be admitted as a female, no matter how impressive my scientific achievements, but some of the great minds of the age lecture at the Society and I go to great lengths to hear them.’

  Giovanni laughed again. ‘I never doubted your passion for your studies, but this is something else entirely. Am I to understand that you actually travelled about London dressed in these clothes? Did they know, the august members of the Royal Society, that a woman had penetrated their hallowed rooms, disguised as a man? They must surely have guessed, for you seem to me a very feminine man.’

  ‘Do I? I am not aware that my disguise was detected. Save by Mr Babbage, of course. A friend, who facilitated my attendance.’

  ‘And has Lord Armstrong met Mr Brown?’

  ‘Good heavens no! No, no, he must never know. No one knows, other than Mr Babbage. And now you.’

  ‘I am honoured. And really very impressed, Cressie. But why did you take such enormous risks? Were you discovered, the consequences could be catastrophic.’

  ‘I know, but not so catastrophic as never being able to—can you not see, Giovanni, how stifling it is to be a mere woman? I cannot deny that each time Mr Brown and I go out into the world I am in a constant state of terror, but it is also so—exhilarating. Such freedom as these breeches give me. And I must admit, there is too a certain frisson in knowing that I am fooling the world. Is that so very difficult to understand?’

  ‘Not so very difficult, knowing you. You are a remarkable and very brave young woman, Cressie.’

  ‘Young man, if you please, just at the moment,’ she replied with a toss of her head.

  Once again, Giovanni laughed. ‘Mr Brown, it is a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he said, bowing extravagantly. ‘I kiss your hand, Mr Brown—you are quite, quite perfect.’

  And he did kiss her hand, his mouth lingering on her palm, though he dropped it immediately at the resultant frisson, making a show of inspecting her costume. ‘Well?’ Cressie demanded. ‘Will you paint me as my alter ego?’

  ‘I can think of nothing better. So very delightfully seditious, you look. There is something about the clothes which brings out all of your curves. I cannot believe that any red-blooded man was taken in by you. Your English intellectuals must all be blind.’ He had been circling her, but now he stopped in front of her. ‘This is wrong,’ he said decisively, pulling out her hair pins and casting them carelessly onto the floor. ‘The trick will be to show you as Mr Brown and Cressie at the same time.’ More pins flew in all directions until her hair tumbled down over her coat. ‘Now, put the hat back on so—but at this angle, like a coquette. Yes. And the coat like this. Yes, yes. Once more I commend you, Cressie—this is inspired.’

  Giovanni kissed her hand again. Cressie closed her eyes, the more to relish the touch of his lips, and wondered how much more of this she would be able to endure without losing her self-control. He stood her on a box and paced around her, adjusting her clothing, her hair, her breeches, her boots. He smelt of charcoal, turpentine and linseed oil, faintly of sweat and overlaying it all, something definitively male and quite definitely Giovanni. Was there such a thing as eau de Cressie? She tried to distract herself, wondering what it would be. Chalk definitely. Her soap, which was scented with lavender, that was good. Jam or chocolate or barley sugar, depending upon what particular treat her brothers had been indulging in—not good, but not so bad. The other day, though, Freddie had spilt the contents of a whole jar of dead frog spawn over her. She hadn’t smelled very nice at all then. One of the pigments Giovanni used smelled rather like that, now she came to think of it. Which colour was it?

  ‘You can stand down now. I think we should try another pose.’ Giovanni pulled a gilded chair into the middle of the room. It was Egyptian in style, rosewood inlaid with brass, the legs turned and fluted, the black velvet seat saggy and faded.

  ‘Oh, I remember those chairs. There was a full set and a table to match in the small dining
parlour. My mother loved everything Egyptian. She was prone to saying that she’d liked to have been Cleopatra.’

  ‘Your mother does not sound at all like the kind of woman your father would have married.’

  ‘You’d think not, to see him now, but I believe in the early days, when they were first married—well, you’ve seen the kind of dresses she wore.’ Cressie giggled. ‘At least, I assume she wore them for my father. Oh, that is a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘But you wish it was a little true, no?’

  ‘A little. I mean no! We are discussing my mother, for goodness’ sake, Giovanni.’

  ‘Motherhood does not automatically invest a woman with virtue.’

  ‘Well, no, of course not. In fact, motherhood is often the result of a lack of virtue,’ Cressie agreed, ‘but I have no cause to think that my mother—I mean, they are all so alike, my sisters—except for me, and—Giovanni! Do you think that is it? Do you think perhaps I’m not my father’s child?’

  She didn’t mean it. Much as she hated to admit it, Cressie could not deny the resemblance between herself and Lord Armstrong, especially around the eyes, but she was in a skittish mood, and dressed as Mr Brown she felt a reckless confidence, quite freed from normal proprieties. She had meant it as a joke, but her jest had somehow gone awry. ‘Giovanni? What have I said?’ He had been smiling, teasing, light-hearted but at the same time wholly focused on her guise, on his painting. Now his face was dark, his brows drawn tight together. His satyr look.

  ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘I thought we were going to have no more lies between us.’

  ‘I do not lie.’

  ‘Not lies, then. Avoidance of truth. Stop prevaricating. What on earth have I said to upset you? I did not mean it, about my mother playing my father false, that is.’

  ‘I do not care one bit for what your mother did or did not do. I want you to sit in this chair sideways, like this.’

  Cressie suffered him to adjust her, crossing first one leg then the other, facing one way then the other, resting her chin on her hand, clasping her hands, with her hat on and with her hat off, while all the time trying to pinpoint the exact part of the conversation where his smile had turned sour. Not the first mention of her mother. Nor at the shocking notion of her possibly having an affaire. But after that. Something about motherhood. That was it! ‘I said motherhood is often the result of a lack of virtue,’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you—were you …?’

  Giovanni threw himself away from her. ‘Always you must pick and pick. I feel sometimes as if I have no skin left. Yes, I was referring to my own mother. Now you have your answer, can we please concentrate on the task in hand?’

  ‘Yes, we can,’ Cressie agreed. Partly because his tone brooked no argument but mainly because she had just managed to breach, ever so slightly, the walls he had built around himself, and she did not want to press her luck too far.

  ‘Mr Brown awaits Signor di Matteo’s pleasure,’ Cressie said. Which on reflection was probably an unfortunate turn of phrase.

  Chapter Seven

  It had been Cressie’s idea for the boys to build a kite, the notion being spawned after reading of the American Benjamin Franklin’s use of them in his research into the nature of lightning. Unfortunately, Mr Franklin did not see fit to explain the method of construction, and Cressie had only the vaguest idea of the practicalities. Having fired up her brothers’ imagination with the project, she was at a loss as to how to progress it until Giovanni stepped in. With a few rough sketches, he explained the mechanics and sent the four boys off, with James in charge, in search of the various components.

  Cressie was astounded when they returned, all four of them in unusual harmony—though when she thought about it, she realised that they did argue a lot less these days. Only when their father was at home had their bickering and jostling for position resumed, their individual demands for attention and precedent, which her father seemed to relish, in the manner of a king and his fawning courtiers. James, Harry, George and Freddie treated Giovanni as if he were not their king but their general, jumping to obey his every order, anxious to execute it to the best of their ability, quietly pleased rather than gloating when they earned his praise. Which Giovanni gave unsparingly, but justly, as he did his reprimands.

  Unlike Lord Armstrong, who tended to blame whoever was convenient, or whoever was his current victim of choice. There was one particular time, when Cressie was twelve or thirteen. Caro it was, who had broken the Chinese figure which had been a gift to their father from the British Ambassador to that far-off country, but it was Cressie who was sent to bed for being discovered in the same room as the pieces, despite Caro’s noble protests of guilt. Caroline, their father had insisted, was simply trying to cover up for her clumsy sister.

  The memory was startlingly vivid. There had been many of these little pastiches of recollection popping into Cressie’s head these last few days, long-forgotten, usually trivial things, which caught her by surprise with their freshness. Had she tucked them away because they were too painful, or because they would have made her attempts to conform too painful? Both, most likely. The surprising thing was that they didn’t hurt now. They made her sad, often wistful, but neither regretful nor resentful. There was no point in railing at her past, and now that she was starting to understand herself more, she could see that each memory was part of her, and each one could be turned to a more positive effect. It might be fanciful but she felt as if she were evolving and in doing so growing stronger.

  Her brothers had scorned Cressie’s inept attempts to help them build their kite, demanding Giovanni’s assistance instead. She’d been happy to step out of the fray and more than happy to watch the kite take shape under Giovanni’s expert guidance—though he disguised his efforts so well, her brothers were convinced the finished product was entirely their own work. He was patient when it came to decorating the kite too, sketching in fantastical Chinese dragons and samurai warriors for the boys to colour, making sure that none of them were aware when his quick hand fixed their childish mistakes.

  It was a blustery day, and perfect for the first launch. Cressie perched on the stone wall of the field, watching Giovanni instruct her brothers in the art of kite-flying, another subject about which she had been clueless. The breeze blew the skirts of her emerald-green pelisse around her legs. She wore no hat, but had tied her hair back with a green silk ribbon, which seemed to be holding for the moment. The skirts of Giovanni’s coat flew out behind him, giving her tantalising glimpses of long, muscular legs clad in his customary tight trousers. He wore boots today, black of course, and highly polished, though now spattered with mud, which he didn’t seem to mind at all.

  The boys were taking turns with the kite in pairs, James with Freddie, Harry with George. ‘Your turn to launch her,’ James said, handing the kite carefully over to his youngest brother. ‘Here, hold her high above your head by the struts.’

  ‘Like as if she is a fluttering butterfly,’ Freddie shouted encouragingly at his twin. ‘You have to be careful not to tear her wings, doesn’t he, Gio?’

  ‘A fluttering butterfly,’ George shouted delightedly, ‘a buttering flutterby.’

  ‘A buttery, fluttery, utterfly.’ Freddie clapped his hands together gleefully, jumping up and down, spattering his nankeen breeches with mud.

  ‘Watch out—it’s trailing in that puddle.’ James grabbed the beribboned tail, catching it up and gathering it carefully together before handing it to Harry. A few weeks ago, such a silly thing would have resulted in a fight and a broken kite, Cressie marvelled.

  ‘Ready, Harry?’ Giovanni asked.

  ‘Ready,’ the boy replied solemnly, taking the spool as if it were the crown jewels.

  ‘Do I run now, Gio?’ George shouted.

  ‘When Harry gives the order. Harry, you must remember to feed out the line slowly.’

  Frowning hard, Harry did as he was told. James, the veteran of one successful flight already, impatient as usual to show
his superiority, made to shout out instructions, only to find himself silenced by Giovanni’s hand over his mouth. He looked so surprised that Cressie couldn’t help laughing. For a moment, James looked upon the brink of a tantrum, but a quirk of Giovanni’s eyebrow stopped him in his tracks.

  Harry called out the command to launch. George ran as fast as his chubby legs could carry him across the field. Unfortunately, he was so intent on holding the kite aloft that he first splattered himself with a wet cowpat, then tumbled head first over a large boulder. Boy and kite went flying, the one down the other up. A gust of wind yanked the kite high, and would most likely have lifted Harry off his feet had not Giovanni lunged and caught him just in time.

  Cressie ran to George, who was lying flat out on the grass, but by the time she reached him he had staggered to his feet. ‘He’s just winded,’ Freddie assured her solemnly.

  ‘And smelly. What on earth …?’

  ‘I smell like a cow’s bottom,’ George announced.

  ‘You always smell like a cow’s bottom,’ Freddie said with a snigger.

  ‘Never mind that—look!’ George exclaimed. ‘Up, up, up high. Higher than yours.’

  ‘Not higher.’ Freddie frowned up at the kite, which was soaring above their heads, the rich colours of the dragons and the warriors like exotic jewels against the blue English sky. ‘Well, perhaps as high.’

  Harry was struggling to control the kite with the whole string played out. Bright red in the face, his fair hair blowing wildly, cap askew, the tail of his shirt hanging out like a flag where it had come loose, he really looked as if he might take off himself.

  ‘Harry’s going to fly, Harry’s going to fly,’ the twins called, holding hands and spinning round and round, their ecstatic faces turned to the sky. ‘Gio, Gio, Harry’s going to fly.’

  ‘Giovanni, I think he might need some help.’

  ‘What do you think, Harry? Can you hold her?’

  Harry said something that sounded like a strangled affirmative. Cressie, now thoroughly concerned, protested. ‘He’s not a baby,’ James said, jumping to his brother’s defence. ‘Why do girls always fuss, Gio?’

 

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