by Syrie James
“Of course.” She flushed.
Thomas quickly and unceremoniously adjusted the angle of her body and arms to match that of the subject in the painting. “Now curl your fingers slightly.”
She curled them.
“That’s not quite it.” He was obliged to take her hands in his and arrange her fingers into the required position. This skin-to-skin contact sent another curl of desire threading through him. “Hold that position,” he instructed gruffly, retreating to his easel, where he took a deep breath to steady himself.
He had worked with dozens of models at the academy in Italy, and had painted countless portraits. Never before had he been so vitally aware of his subject. What was it about this woman that was different? She stood before him with her head held high, as if born to the part, looking every bit as noble as a duchess.
Not something he would have expected from a governess.
Adding a smidgeon of crimson to the white on his palette, he mixed the oil paints with a brush to create one of the requisite shades of pale pink for Miss Watson’s skin. Achieving the desired color, he began to paint.
The clock ticked in the silent room as he divided his attention between the subject and the canvas. Thankfully, his body was once more under control. But every time their eyes inadvertently connected, he felt as though an invisible charge sizzled through the air between them.
Twenty minutes in, he paused to give Miss Watson a resting period, for which she seemed grateful. He spent the time mixing his paints, while she sat decorously on a chair. Then she resumed her stance. This time, to his relief, she managed to place herself in the proper position without assistance. He got back to work. Although he was determined to keep his face impassive, the enterprise was anything but tranquil.
To paint her hands and her arms, he had to stare at them.
Her breasts, so lovely and so very much in view, were very close to her arms.
Painting her skin only made him want to touch it again.
Bloody hell. Thomas shook his head slightly to clear it. If he didn’t get ahold of himself, he might go mad.
Alexandra stood still, holding the pose. According to the clock on the mantel, this second phase had so far lasted five minutes, although it felt like five hours. All this time, other than when he’d insisted she take a break, not a word had passed between them.
The hot and bothered feeling had dissipated. If he was still feeling hot and bothered, he certainly gave no indication of it. As he painted her, he stood tall and straight before the easel, his facial features composed, his attention entirely on his work. In his faded white shirt, with his neat mustache and wire-rimmed glasses, he looked every inch the intellectual, bohemian artist.
Alexandra exhaled and closed her eyes. Clearly, the unprecedented frisson of attraction she’d felt pass between them earlier was just a thing of the moment for him. He must have painted dozens of women. Some might have even been nude. Alexandra was nothing special to him. He regarded her as an artistic subject, nothing more.
And why shouldn’t he think of her that way? Alexandra was merely his modèle du jour. She was, she told herself, reacting like a ridiculous schoolgirl. And it was ridiculous. She had no business being attracted to Mr. Carlyle—a poor painter who lived in rented rooms. She was standing here with one purpose only: to earn her board and keep until she could find a way to get home to New York and back to school. She’d soon leave this place and never see Mr. Carlyle again. For some reason, the notion was accompanied by a tiny pang of disappointment.
“Miss Watson?”
Mr. Carlyle’s voice came at her out of a fog. Who, she wondered idly, was Miss Watson? One of the servants?
“Miss Watson?” he repeated more insistently.
Alexandra opened her eyes. Mr. Carlyle was looking directly at her. She stifled a startled gasp, recalling that Miss Watson was the name she’d given him. “Yes?”
“Have I overtired you? Would you like to rest again for a few minutes?”
“No! I’m fine. Really. I was just woolgathering.”
“All right, then. You may relax your fingers now, but please keep your body in the same position. I am going to work on the sash.”
There, Thomas thought. That was better. He was painting fabric, not her creamy, porcelain skin. The room still seemed to flicker with an unseen energy, however.
Conversation, that was what was needed. He rarely spoke to his clients, but with her, he needed something to divert his mind. “Where are you from, Miss Watson?”
“New York.”
“City, or state?”
“Both. I grew up in Poughkeepsie, a town in Upstate New York. The last two years, I’ve lived in New York City.”
“That seems unusual for a governess.”
She hesitated. “How so?”
“English governesses are generally employed by families in the country, who have no access to good schools. Yet you were employed in the city?”
She paused before answering. “The very wealthy in New York are often particular. They don’t all consider the local schools as good enough for their sons and daughters.”
“Indeed? Yet I have read that there are some superb schools in New York City.”
“True.”
“You must be an excellent governess, for your employers to choose you to educate their children over a more formal institution.” He didn’t know why he was pushing the subject; it was almost as if by goading her, he hoped to mitigate this lure of attraction that refused to dissipate.
Miss Watson’s cheeks grew pink again. “A governess has far fewer pupils under her care than a teacher in a school. It’s more like one-on-one instruction, isn’t it? Maybe that’s the appeal.” For some reason she looked uncomfortable.
“Forgive me. I meant what I said as a compliment, not a criticism.”
“Then I will take it as such.”
He dipped his brush and returned it to the canvas. “Tell me about Vassar. What did you study?”
“Literature, Greek, Latin, French, Italian, philosophy, political economy, history, music, mathematics, physics, geography—the curriculum offers greater diversity than any other women’s college in America.”
He was taken aback, and deeply impressed. “Well done, you. I have to say, you are the first woman I have ever met who has been to college.”
“Really? The first?”
“Few women in England have the opportunity or the desire to pursue higher education.”
She frowned. “I read that two women’s colleges were recently established at Oxford, but the enrollment is tiny. Only ten or twelve students, I believe. It’s a shame. Attending college was one of the highlights of my life.”
“One of mine, as well.” As he worked, the familiarity of the motions took over and he finally felt himself begin to relax.
“Where did you study?”
“Oxford. And the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze.”
“Oh! I adore Florence. It’s heaven for art lovers. It must have been wonderful to study there.”
“You’ve been to Florence?” He was surprised.
She hesitated again. “It was some years ago. I used to travel abroad frequently with my mother and sisters, before. . . .”
She seemed too embarrassed to finish the sentence. She’d mentioned that her family was once well off. He wondered what had happened to change that, to force her into working to support herself. He certainly was not about to ask. “While in Florence, did you see Botticelli’s Birth of Venus at the Uffizi?”
“I did. It’s brilliant. Venus looks so shy, standing on a half shell with the wind blowing through her hair.”
“Winds plural,” he corrected.
“That’s right! They are personified, and blowing roses at her.”
“They say the model for the painting was a married noblewoman whom Botticelli loved from afar but could never have.”
“I didn’t know that.” Miss Watson looked intrigued. “Did Botticelli ever marry?”
/>
“Never.”
“Good for him.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Most women, I believe, would think it sad to learn that a man remained forever unattached.”
“I’m not most women.”
“I am beginning to realize that.”
Silence stretched between them. He kept painting. She kept her pose. Then she said, “I hope I’m still standing the way you want?”
“You are perfect.” As he uttered the words, he was aware of their dual meaning, and hoped she did not discern it. She was indeed perfection. Physical perfection. But beyond that, their conversation had revealed a glimpse of the woman within, who he was finding more fascinating by the minute.
When the portrait session ended at four o’clock, Alexandra returned to her room and sank down on her bed with relief.
She hadn’t realized until that moment how exhausted she was. It wasn’t just standing and holding that pose for so long that had been tiring. It was keeping up this pretense of being Miss Watson. It had been difficult to answer all his questions honestly, but somehow she’d managed. Although a little voice in the back of her head kept castigating her: It’s still lying. Lying by omission. Lying by misdirection.
She’d almost given herself away with that mention of Florence. And there was the moment when he’d called her Miss Watson, and she hadn’t responded. That couldn’t happen again.
She couldn’t stay here forever, either. She’d only bought herself three days. Was it time enough to figure out how to earn the money for a ticket to New York? Alexandra sighed, too tired to think about it. Stretching out on the bed, she instantly fell asleep.
Chapter Five
When Alexandra awoke some hours later, it was growing dark. The clock told her it was a quarter past eight, and she was hungry.
Venturing down the hall, Alexandra saw a light shining under the closed door to Mr. Carlyle’s room. As she made her way downstairs, she wondered what he was doing. They’d chatted amiably on and off while he worked on the portrait. She’d enjoyed the experience, despite the tension of pretending to be someone she wasn’t, and the simmering attraction she couldn’t seem to shake. Session two was to take place the following morning at eleven o’clock. She realized she was looking forward to it.
She found Mrs. Gill in the front parlor, knitting by the fire.
“Ah! There you are, Miss Watson. I saw you sleeping and didn’t want to wake you. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
Mrs. Gill stood, taking her knitting with her. “You missed supper, but I put something aside for you just in case.”
They retreated to the kitchen, where Mrs. Gill served Alexandra tea and a slice of beef-and-kidney pie. It wasn’t the sort of fare Alexandra was accustomed to, but the pie had a crisp crust and was full of carrots, peas, onions, tender meat, and flavorful brown gravy.
“This is delicious,” Alexandra said in between bites. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Mrs. Gill sat in a rocking chair by the fire and resumed knitting. “So, how did it go with Mr. Carlyle and his painting?”
“Fine. Thank you again for letting me stay on like this. I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s Mr. Carlyle who’s paying. To my way of thinking, it’s a sensible arrangement that benefits all parties.”
“I’m glad you agree.” It was only with extreme reluctance that Mr. Carlyle had agreed to let her pose for him. Mrs. Gill had said he rarely spoke a word to her. Yet after that first silence during the portrait session, he’d opened up to Alexandra, and she’d glimpsed a hint of a charming man. “Mrs. Gill, how long have you known Mr. Carlyle?”
“About a year and half or so, I guess. This is the second time he’s stayed with me. Three months only the last time, then he packed up and went home.”
“So he doesn’t live here full time?”
“No, he only comes to town to paint portraits.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Somewhere in Cornwall, he says.”
“Cornwall? That’s far away to the south, isn’t it?”
“It’s the southernmost county in England. I’ve heard it’s charming, though I’ve never been.”
“Neither have I. Well, I can see why people in town hire Mr. Carlyle to paint their portraits. He’s a remarkable artist.”
“He is that. I have a word with his customers every now and again, those that come here to have their portraits done, anyway. Everyone says he’s got a real gift. But to tell you the truth, I still don’t know what to make of him.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, for one thing, his temper is so changeable. He’s often in a foul mood for no reason I can see. And all he does is work.”
Alexandra had noticed his moods, but they’d been fleeting. “Isn’t his work ethic a testament to his drive and talent? I admire a man who works hard.”
“I agree, Miss Watson. The thing is, I always thought folks in the art world stuck together. You know, artists visiting other artists, chatting about their work and such, and carrying on scandalously with young models.” She brought a hand to her mouth to cover a short laugh. “Not that I approve of any scandalous behavior, mind you. But Mr. Carlyle isn’t like that at all. I’ve not seen but two women walk up those stairs in all the time I’ve known him, and they were married ladies he was painting, who came with their chaperones. He doesn’t seem to have any friends at all. He doesn’t belong to a club, and rarely goes out to eat.”
Alexandra finished her last bite of pie and sipped her tea. Although still an enigma, Mr. Carlyle sounded like a good man. “Maybe he’s just shy.” But even as she said it, the words didn’t ring true. Mr. Carlyle didn’t seem shy. He was more the brooding type.
“He never spends a penny on anything but art supplies, from what I can tell. He just paints and sells his paintings. What kind of a man is that?”
“A lonely man, I think.”
“He is that,” Mrs. Gill said again. “He’s lucky I had a room for him again when he came to town this year. He can’t afford to pay for the full year, and I can’t keep a room empty for him in the months in between.”
Alexandra suddenly felt guilty that she’d asked him to pay for her to stay on at Mrs. Gill’s, considering he was on such a tight budget. She frowned, remembering that it had only bought her two more days.
The landlady seemed to read Alexandra’s thoughts. “Well, now. Let’s talk about you, Miss Watson. Have you any idea what you’ll do next?”
Alexandra sighed. “What I want is to go home to New York. But I have no way to pay for it.”
“How much is the passage?”
“A second-class ticket costs ten pounds.”
“Oh my! That’s a lot of money. You’ll have to find another job, and soon.”
“As what?”
“Why, I’d start with your profession, of course. Look for work as a governess.”
Alexandra set down her teacup. A governess?
She recalled that Charlotte Brontë, the author of Jane Eyre, had worked as a governess, and infused that novel with the indignities she’d experienced. Well, Alexandra thought, she could endure a few indignities, if it meant she didn’t have to marry Lord Shrewsbury, and could earn her passage back to New York.
But was she qualified for such a job? What did governesses do? She presumed they were responsible for teaching young boys and girls the basic subjects. Surely, she could come up with a plan to teach the children of the landed gentry or aristocracy, couldn’t she?
She had no idea how to go about seeking such a position, though. She asked Mrs. Gill, “What do you suggest? I mean, it might be different here than in the States. What’s the best way to get a governess job in London?”
“I expect you’d best sign up with an agency that specializes in placing domestics. I can help you find one.”
The next morning, Alexandra rose early, pleased to see sunshine peeking through the clouds outside her bedroom window.
<
br /> After breakfast, she walked the three blocks to the employment agency Mrs. Gill had suggested. She felt slightly naked going out without a hat, but as she did not possess one, she had little choice. She found the agency waiting room full of ladies of all ages and descriptions, their expressions ranging from glum to hopeful.
Alexandra gave her name as “Lexie Watson,” then sat down on a hard bench, taking the only empty space available. For nearly two hours, she anxiously watched the clock tick the minutes by, knowing that she was due in Mr. Carlyle’s studio at eleven o’clock.
At a quarter to eleven, she was finally called into a small, musty office, where a businesslike woman behind a cluttered desk introduced herself as Mrs. Farthing.
“Take a seat,” the woman said, dipping her pen into an ink pot. “Your name is Lexie Watson?”
“Yes.”
The woman scribbled the name down on a form. “What position are you seeking, Miss Watson?”
“I’d like to work as a governess.”
Mrs. Farthing’s eyes widened as they met Alexandra’s. “Are you from America, Miss Watson?”
“I am.”
“How interesting. Why are you seeking employment in England?”
Alexandra paused, deciding it wouldn’t be a good idea to admit that she was just trying to earn her passage home. “It’s a beautiful country. I came for a visit, but thought I’d stay. And I’d like to start working as soon as possible.”
“These things take time to arrange, Miss Watson.”
“How much time?”
“Generally, it takes about three weeks for us to gather the information we need, exchange correspondence, and match you with an appropriate employer.”
“Three weeks?” Alexandra was alarmed. “I can’t wait that long.”
“Let’s get started, shall we, and see where we are. Tell me about your experience as a governess.”
Alexandra opened her mouth, prepared to make something up, or just to repeat the story Mrs. Gill had supposed about her. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to lie. “I was educated at Vassar College in New York. I’ve read to children who were sick, and at libraries. I love children.”