by Joan Smith
“Lady deCoventry, gentlemen,” Yarrow said genially, rising to pump their hands. The creak of whalebone revealed he was wearing a corset to control his girth. “Did you ever see such grand weather as this? Delightfully warm for September.”
They all agreed it was superlative weather.
Lady Chamaude turned her brilliant orbs on them and said, “I don’t believe I have the pleasure of your friends’ acquaintance, Mr. Pattle.” Her voice was husky, and tinged with an alluring French accent.
Coffen made the introductions. The loquacious Prance was bereft of words. He could only stare, employing the “under-look” in an effort to beguile the charmer.
It was Coffen who said, “A dandy dress, Comtesse, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Lady Chamaude showed them to a seat and said, “Too grand for the evening I have planned, I fear. Lord Yarrow has been kind enough to help me in selecting an outfit in which to have my portrait taken. Actually, I shall be spending the night with a sick friend.”
“Lady Chamaude says she has no use for a portrait, having no family to pass it on to,” Yarrow said. “Rubbish, say I. It will be for posterity, like the Mona Lisa.”
The lady gave a dismissing shrug of her marmoreal shoulders. “I never thought Mona Lisa, the lady, very attractive, though it is a stunning painting. I shall have my portrait taken to remember in my old age how I looked when I was younger. I do not say young, for I am long past that. My bloom has faded.” Her voice held a wistful note, which was echoed in her dark eyes.
The words were designed to elicit pity and, of course, strenuous objection from the gentlemen. Corinne felt she ought to despise her, and was surprised to feel the stirring of pity. It was the way the comtesse spoke, with an air of genuine regret. There was a fragile air of vulnerability in her beauty, like a blossom whose petals have lost their firmness but have not yet begun to wither. How very fleeting were a lady’s youth and beauty! Even she was no longer in the first flush of youth. Twenty-four—a quarter of a century on her next birthday, and what had she accomplished? She had no husband, no children. In her mind the image of Luten rose up to banish these gloomy thoughts.
“Why, you are still a young girl,” Yarrow said in a kindly way. As he spoke, he clamped his sausage-like fingers on her white arm and squeezed. The comtesse stiffened, then smiled her thanks. “When you are half a century old like myself, then you may be allowed to speak of fading youth.”
“Exquisite, charming,” Prance breathed. He presented both Lady Chamaude and Lord Yarrow with a copy of the Rondeaux. “Just a few lines I scribbled off in my hours of idleness.” Damme! He had inadvertently used the title of Byron’s first youthful offering.
“But how charming!” the lady exclaimed. “You must autograph it for me. You English have so many clever poets. I have just been dipping into Lord Byron’s poem.”
Prance’s jaw clenched in dismay. She rose from her chair abruptly, with an air of escape, and led him to a drop-leaf desk in the corner. Corinne observed Yarrow admiring Lady Chamaude’s sylphlike figure. When he saw Corinne watching him, he gave a shake of his whiskers.
“Poor lady,” he said. “She has had a rough time of it, in a foreign land. We ought to be a little kind to our French émigrés. Yvonne, that is her name, is quite like a daughter to my good lady and myself.”
Corinne smiled benignly on this piece of fustian. Yarrow’s sharp eyes held no hint of pity, but a definite gleam of lust.
Prance dipped his pen into the inkpot and began a flourishing inscription. He noticed Lady Chamaude used a violet color of ink. Charming! No discreet inscription occurred to him. He wanted to write I love you, in sulfur across the sky. The lady was exquisite! The boldest message he dared to inscribe was “To Lady Chamaude from an admirer, Sir Reginald Prance.” He wrote a fine hand, if he did say so himself. Let Lord Byron match that L and C. Would she notice he had humbly not given his own “admirer” a capital?
Lady Chamaude read the inscription and rewarded him with a Giaconda smile, which he quickly imbued with a hint of invitation. Yarrow had set his copy aside unsigned.
She sent for wine, and when they were all served, she said, “I expect you want to see the Poussin, Mr. Pattle.”
“Thankee, I do.”
She rose again and led Pattle across the room. When Corinne noticed that the picture occupied an ill-lit corner, she felt a spurt of alarm. The lady’s reputation was not all one could wish in a purveyor of artworks, and that was certainly why Coffen had been invited here.
As if reading her mind, Lady Chamaude said, “We shall bring it to the light. Would you mind removing it, Mr. Pattle? It’s rather heavy.”
The painting, about two feet wide and eighteen inches high, had an embossed gilt frame. He had some little difficulty removing the picture from the wall and managed to bump a corner of the frame against a couple of tables while transporting it to the light. He noticed he had knocked a dent in the corner of the frame and very likely marred the tables as well. Pity. They all gathered around to study the picture.
Prance managed to wrench his eyes from the comtesse long enough to study the painting. Its patina, he observed, suggested the proper age, but that could easily be faked. The subject was an old man swathed in some sort of winding cloth, drinking from a goblet, while assorted people stood around looking morose. The Death of Socrates, of course.
Yarrow gazed at it and sighed in pleasure. “The Death of Socrates,” he announced in solemn tones. “From Poussin’s more mature period, between 1640 and 1650, I should think.”
“Yes, certainly,” Prance agreed. “At that time he painted heroes facing a moral dilemma. You can see the traces of the French Royal Academy. Classical lines,” he said vaguely.
Yarrow’s eyebrows rose in approval. “I see you know something about art, Prance.”
“Un petit peu,” Prance replied.
What Corinne saw was an extremely tedious, old-fashioned picture. The colors, borrowed from the Venetians, had faded with age. The composition, borrowed from Rubens, was stilted by the dull classical elegance the French Royal Academy insisted on. The workmanship, however, was more than capable. As an investment it might be worthwhile. Yarrow was extremely knowledgeable about such things. He often acted on the Prince Regent’s behalf at auctions and sales.
“What do you think, Coffen?” she asked, making no effort to conceal her own lack of interest.
“Now, that is what I call a picture!” he exclaimed. “Socrates! It would be the last picture ever painted of him. Mean to say, he’s downing the hemlock even as the artist painted.”
Yarrow’s jaw fell open in astonishment. “It was not painted from life, Pattle!” he said.
“No, it couldn’t be, come to think of it. But you could never tell to look at it. What are you asking for it, milady?”
“A thousand pounds.”
“A bargain!” Yarrow exclaimed.
Coffen said, “Yes, by the living jingo, I’ll—”
Corinne darted a warning look to Prance, who had fallen into a trance as he gazed at la comtesse. “He’ll think about it,” she inserted hastily.
“Don’t dally too long, or it will be snapped up,” Yarrow warned, gazing fondly at the picture. “There is a wine merchant coming to look at it tomorrow.”
They finished their wine, and Yarrow said to Lady Chamaude, “I know you are going out as soon as you change, madam, so I shall not detain you. I think the deep red gown will do very well for the portrait, but you will want to consult with the artist first. It depends on what background he has in mind. If he chooses to use nature for the setting, then perhaps he will want something less formal than silk and diamonds.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow at the other callers, who were obliged to rise as well.
“When will you let me know about the Poussin, Mr. Pattle?” Lady Chamaude inquired, not eagerly, but in a businesslike way.
‘Tomorrow. I’ll sleep on it. Not on the picture itself! I’ll think about it, is what I meant.”
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br /> The comtesse smiled sweetly. “Of course.”
The four callers left together.
“A fine lady,” Lord Yarrow said, as they walked toward their waiting carriages. “It is a boon to England that so much of the Chamaude collection is ending up here—and at such reasonable prices. I cannot tell you how many masterpieces I have managed to get hold of for Prinney. You must drop around to Carlton House tomorrow evening and have a look for yourself. I shall arrange it with Prinney for you to receive invitations. He is having a few connoisseurs in to see his latest acquisitions.”
“I don’t call myself a connoisseur,” Pattle said, though he had no objection to others calling him one.
Prance, who assumed that “connoisseur” was directed at him, and was in any case determined to be included in any invitation to Carlton House, said, “We would be honored, Lord Yarrow.”
Yarrow then turned a sharp eye on Lady deCoventry, who had said nothing. “I sense you are not smitten with the Poussin, milady.”
“It is not in my style. That Watteau in Madam’s hallway, however, is quite another matter.”
“A charming thing. Lady Chamaude is particularly fond of it herself and has no immediate plans to dispose of it.”
“It is odd she is selling so many pictures now, when she has been in England for over two decades.”
“Nothing odd about it,” Yarrow said, quick to leap to her defense. “She wants to buy a house in town. I spotted a small mansion on Grosvenor Square that is up for sale and suggested to her myself that she ought to put a bid on it. It is difficult for a lady in her position, with no one to advise her. That little box she is in at the moment is only rented, you must know. Pictures are all very nice, but they make poor walls and roofs.”
“True,” Coffen said, nodding. “And you think the Poosan a good investment, milord?”
“I do, certainly. With art, however, it is best to buy what you like, then you have the pleasure of looking at it, if it goes out of fashion. I am buying up some paintings by a fellow from Suffolk myself. A strange duck. Constable is completely out of fashion. You may pick him up for an old song, but the things will be worth something one day, or I don’t know a thing about art.”
No one was ready to dispute Yarrow’s knowledge of art.
“I think what set Lady deCoventry off,” Prance confided, “is the picture’s being in that dark corner.”
“You saw it by lamplight,” Yarrow said. “I am sure Lady Chamaude will have no objection to your taking it out into the sunlight tomorrow if you want to see it by daylight. Any fool can see it is an original.” He turned a fawning eye on Corinne. “And Lady deCoventry, it hardly needs saying, is no fool.”
Yarrow’s carriage was reached first. “Ah! I forgot to bring the book you so kindly gave me, Prance. I shall just run back in and pick it up.”
“It happens I have another in my carriage—”
“But mine is autographed,” Yarrow said, and returned to the house.
“It ain’t, you know,” Coffen said. “You didn’t sign his, Prance. Should we wait till Yarrow comes out, and you can sign his copy?”
Prance scowled. “Don’t be obtuse. He just wants an excuse to go back. He left it behind on purpose to be rid of us.”
“You don’t mean that old crock is carrying on with her!”
“Of course he is,” Corinne said. “He takes a very proprietorial interest in la comtesse. I worry a little about that close alliance.”
“I daresay she’d prefer a younger man,” Coffen said hopefully.
“I am not talking about your romantic hopes.” She turned to Prance. “Is it possible he’s claiming the painting is authentic to fill her pockets? That is a new way of supporting a mistress.”
Prance considered the matter a moment. “I shouldn’t think so, if Yarrow is buying them for Prinney.”
“Prinney is not buying the Poussin. Why not, I wonder, as Yarrow recommends it so highly?”
“We don’t know she is his mistress,” Prance said.
“It’s common knowledge. Everyone says so.”
“I am not everyman. I think for myself.” They entered Corinne’s carriage. “Let us drive around the block and see if he comes out.”
They did this. As they rounded the corner back to Lady Chamaude’s house at the close of their circuit, they passed Yarrow’s crested carriage, going the other way.
“You was wrong,” Coffen said. “There’s hope for me yet.”
Prance’s sharp eyes were looking farther along the street, where a hired carriage had already drawn up at the house. A younger gentleman descended and ran up the stairs.
“Do we know that set of shoulders?” he asked.
Coffen peered into the distance. “Not by name, but I’ve seen him about here and there. One of those French émigrés, like Chamaude herself. A handsome rascal. No point sticking around. She don’t love me, but I’ll take the Poosan all the same. I’ve taken a fancy to it. Socrates—there was a fine fellow, but he could do with a good tailor.”
The carriage continued rattling past the house. “All set for Pilchard’s rout?” Prance asked. “The whole world will be there.”
“I shan’t stay long,” Corinne said. “Perhaps one of you should take your own carriage.”
“You’ll want a good night’s sleep to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for Luten’s return tomorrow,” Prance said. “Berkeley Square it is.”
Corinne expected Prance would make some ironic comment about her missing Luten, but he sat silently brooding, which was unusual for him.
When they reached her house, Coffen got out of the carriage and went to his own house to call his carriage.
Prance said, “Can we talk for a minute, Corrie?”
“Of course. Come in and have a glass of wine. In fact, I am not at all sure I shall even bother going to the rout.”
“Anxious to get back to Childe Harold?” he asked archly.
“No, anxious to discuss Chamaude, and that picture.”
“That is what I want to talk about as well.”
Chapter Three
“I daresay there will be no talking Coffen out of buying that ugly picture,” Corinne said, as she handed Prance a glass of wine.
Prance stared at her with glazed eyes. “Picture?” he said. “Ah, the Poussin. That is not what I wished to discuss. It is a matter of much more import.” He drew a deep sigh, gave a dramatic little shudder, and announced in a hushed voice, “You are looking at a man in love.”
“Not with her, I hope!”
“Who else? The moment I gazed into her eyes, I knew. I felt our hearts touch——no, collide. It was no brushing of angels’ wings, but a primordial thunder. And did you ever see such eyes? I gazed into them for close to half an hour, yet after all that time, I could not tell you what color they are. Is that not odd?”
“Not so odd when she stationed herself in shadows.”
“Every curve and angle of her incomparable face is carved into the marrow of my bones, but those eyes! I have only a shimmering memory of darkness and depth. What mysteries are concealed in those bottomless pools?”
“Don’t be absurd, Reggie! The lady is much too old for you. She’s ancient!”
“Not ancient, ageless!”
“And she’s too fast, too.”
“I grant you she is probably a daughter of the game. It is her experience of the world that lends her that aura of... Ah, one hardly knows what to call it. Infinite woman! The gentleness of a dove, the vulnerability of a moth hovering toward the flame, the allure of a courtesan, and the passion of a Gypsy queen, all rolled into one exquisite she. I have wrestled with my conscience about pursuing her. Not for any feeling for that old slice Yarrow but because of Pattle. He fancies himself in love. She is worlds too experienced for him. He wouldn’t know what to do with such a woman.”
“That should be no problem. I wager she knows exactly what to do with him, or any other man. Fleece him! It won’t do, Reggie.”
He
talked away every objection with a tolerant, forgiving, infuriating smile. “But I shall learn from her. Love should be broadening. I know she will break my heart. That is a foregone conclusion. Such women can never belong to one man—but I shall be a better man for it. What do a couple of thousand pounds matter? I was never greedy of filthy lucre. Loving her will be an education.”
“You’re raving like a lunatic. I think you’ve lost the use of your wits.”
“Drunk on love! I shall follow where my heart takes me, though the devil lead the measure. I always feared, you know, that I would never experience a truly grand passion, of the sort that made Dante and Beatrice immortal. I have had dealings with countless ladies and other... er, females, but never before felt this trembling in the blood, this deep oneness, this touch, almost, of the infinite when I gazed into her eyes. Oddly, the French do not have a word for it, do they?”
“The English have. Folly.”
“No, that does not begin to do my feelings justice. It is the divine Goethe to whom we must turn. Sturm und Drang! There is Sturm und Drang in my heart, stolen from her eyes. Say what you like, it is the Germans who take love seriously. For the French it is a game, and for the English, of course, it is a mystery.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
He looked at her as if she were a complete illiterate. “Geothe’s Goetz von Berlichingen. Surely you are familiar with Scott’s translation at least? I own I have only read it in English. The Sorrows of Young Werther. Like Werther, I shall gladly relinquish any hope of enduring happiness for a few weeks in the company of my beloved. And I promise I shan’t commit suicide when it is over, like poor Werther. Suicide is seldom a viable alternative, if you will pardon the redundancy.”
“You’ve barely met the woman, Prance. You can’t be in love with her yet.”
“I come to see love at first sight is the only love worth pursuing. Don’t be selfish, my pet. You cracked my heart a little when you chose Luten. You cannot begrudge me a crumb of happiness.”
“I begrudge having that woman make a fool of you.”