by Diane Gaston
‘Do you stay for dinner?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘It is not for a few hours yet, but you are welcome to stay. If you are hungry now, I’ll send for tea and biscuits.’
He shook his head. To sit down at dinner and pretend this day had not happened would be impossible. ‘Do not expect me for dinner. I have much to do tonight.’
She smiled wanly. ‘You are still welcome if you change your mind.’
He walked over and kissed her. ‘I must go.’
She patted his cheek, but her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I hope we will see you tomorrow.’
Once he stepped back out into the winter air, he hurried to his studio and let himself in. He leaned against the door with visions of Tranville hopping from his mother’s bed into Ariana’s.
Throwing down his gloves and hat, he crossed the room to a bureau where he kept paper. Pulling out several sheets, he grabbed a piece of charcoal and began sketching.
The lines he drew formed into an image of Ariana.
Chapter Four
That evening Ariana sat at a mirror applying rouge to her cheeks and kohl to her eyelids to make her features display well to the highest box seats of Drury Lane Theatre. The dressing-room doors were open wide, so that she and the other actresses could hear their cues to go on stage. In a half-hour the curtain would rise on the evening’s performance of Romeo and Juliet, and backstage was its usual pandemonium. People shouted. Pieces of set were moved from one side to the other. Actors, actresses and the ballet dancers who entertained between acts ran here and there in all states of dress and undress.
Ariana loved the commotion. She vastly preferred being among it to walking up the stairs to the private dressing room usually reserved for the leading actress. Her mother had demanded that dressing room, and Ariana had not minded in the least. The backstage bustle energised her.
Her mother’s reflection appeared behind her in the mirror. Dressed for the comparatively minor role of Lady Capulet, her mother glared at her. ‘Have your wits gone begging?’
Ariana set down the tiny brush she’d used to darken her lashes. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mama?’
Her mother gestured dramatically in the direction of an invisible someone. ‘Lord Tranville pays for your portrait and an entire play and you refuse his escort. You would not even walk with the man.’
Ariana replied to the image in the mirror. ‘I was under the impression his financial investment was meant to benefit the theatre, not his vanity.’
Her mother threw up her hands. ‘Then you are a bigger fool than ever I imagined.’
Ariana was no fool. She knew precisely what Tranville had hoped to purchase.
She averted her gaze from the mirror. Even if Tranville’s motives had merely been gentlemanly, Ariana would not have welcomed his company. She liked being alone with Jack Vernon. She liked the intimacy of it, liked that he could look at her without anyone else as witness.
Ariana held her breath, imagining him raking her with those eyes and rendering on paper what he saw. It felt akin to him touching her.
Her mother tugged at her shoulder, interrupting her reverie. ‘Tranville has a great deal of influence here in the theatre. You cannot treat him so shabbily without penalty. You profess to wanting success, but, the way you are bound, you will ruin matters for both of us.’
Ariana did indeed wish for success, success as an actress, not as Tranville’s plaything.
The renowned Daphne Blane enjoyed above all things the adoration of men. Her acting career was merely the means of putting herself on display, and her fame came more from the numbers of men with whom her name had been linked over the years than from her roles on stage.
Her single-minded interest in winning the attention of the most prestigious gentlemen had left Daphne Blane little time to be bothered by a daughter. Ariana had been cared for by others. Theatre people were the ones who showered her with attention. They had dressed little Ariana in costumes, painted her face, even allowed her to walk on stage as part of a scene. The theatre had been where she was happiest. She loved it so much she’d walk on any stage, in any role, merely to be a part of it all.
Ariana drew the line at bartering herself to lustful men, even if they would help her acting career. If that was the price of success, it was too high and too false. She wanted to rise on the merits of her skill, nothing more. She wanted to earn the best roles, the best reviews, the most applause, because her performance deserved it.
Her mother, however, had made one valid point. Ariana might not wish to share Tranville’s bed, but she ought not to alienate him completely. He could wield his influence in this theatre for both good and ill.
She turned to look her mother in the eyes. ‘Put your mind at ease, Mother. I am well able to manage Lord Tranville. I’ve managed others like him before.’
‘Oh?’ Her mother placed fists on her hips. ‘Eighteen years old and you are such an expert on men?’
Ariana inhaled a weary breath. ‘I am twenty-two, older than you were when you gave birth to me.’
Her mother’s eyes scalded. ‘Well, one can be very foolish at twenty-two. If I’d had more sense I never would have given birth to you.’
Ariana flinched.
She covered the sting of her mother’s words with a tight smile. ‘I learn by your mistakes.’
Her mother glanced away, gazing at a tree that seemed to cross in front of the door. Scenery for Act II. ‘Well, Tranville attends the performance tonight. Be nice to him in the Green Room.’
Ariana turned back to the mirror and dipped a huge feather puff into the face powder. ‘I am always nice to gentlemen.’ She merely did not bed them.
Mr Arnold appeared at the dressing room door. ‘Ah, there you are, Daphne, my dear. You look lovely as usual.’
Ariana’s mother beamed. ‘Such flattery. I am dressed as a matron.’
‘Nothing could diminish your beauty.’ He squeezed her hand and glanced to Ariana. ‘Your daughter has inherited every bit of your loveliness. She makes a fine Juliet. Beauty and an acting skill that rivals your own. You must be proud.’
Ariana’s mother still smiled, but Ariana caught the hard glint in her eye. ‘Yes, I must be proud, mustn’t I?’
Early the following morning, Jack woke to a messenger bringing him Tranville’s first, quite generous, payment of the commission. At least Tranville’s money enabled Jack to replenish his supplies. He walked the mile to Ludgate Hill where Thomas Clay’s establishment offered the finest pigments and purchased enough for several paintings. He returned in time to set up the studio for Ariana’s arrival.
As he waited for her, he looked over the several images of Ariana he’d sketched from memory, including the ones he’d drawn after that first fleeting contact with her. The night before he’d filled page after page with her profile, her eyes, her smile; when the light had faded to dusk, he read Antony and Cleopatra by lamplight.
She knocked upon his door promptly at two. Jack rose from his drawing table, hastily stacking the sketches. When he opened the door, her face was flushed pink from the winter air.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Vernon.’ She smiled and her eyes shone with pleasure.
Their impact forced him to avert his gaze. ‘Miss Blane, I trust you are well.’
‘I am always well,’ she responded cheerfully.
He had the presence of mind to assist her in removing her cloak, too aware of the elegant curve of her neck and, beneath her bonnet, the peek of auburn hair at its nape.
‘Were you able to read the play?’ she asked, pulling off her gloves and untying the ribbons of her bonnet.
He hung her cloak on a peg. ‘I read it all last night.’
She placed her hat and gloves on the table nearby and faced him, still smiling, looking eager for whatever was to come.
His sketches had not done her justice, he realised. He’d not captured that spark of energy, that vivacity that was hers alone. His fingers itched to try again.
But he must attend to t
he civilities. ‘I will make us some tea.’ He started for the galley, but she reached it ahead of him.
‘I’ll do it.’ She swept aside the curtain covering the doorway and glanced around the galley. ‘There is very little for me to do. You’ve prepared everything.’
He’d placed the kettle on the fire before she arrived. The tea was in the pot. She poured the water.
‘You must allow me to carry the tray,’ he said.
She looked up at him with an impish grin. ‘Must I?’
He stepped into the space. ‘I insist.’
There was no room for both of them, but he thought of that too late. Their arms brushed as she tried to move past him and the mere contact with her caused Jack’s senses to flare with an awareness of more than her physical beauty.
She faced him, their bodies almost touching. Reaching up to his face, she gently rubbed his cheek with her finger. ‘You have a black smudge.’
Charcoal from his drawings.
He grabbed a cloth and rubbed where she had touched, but he could not erase the explosion of carnal desire she aroused in him. He turned from her and picked up the tray. She followed silently as he carried it to where they’d been sitting the previous day.
She sat in a chair as if that moment of touching had never happened. ‘Where do we begin? Do we discuss how to depict Cleopatra?’
Jack murmured, ‘It seems a good way to start.’
She poured the tea and handed him his cup. ‘What did you think?’
‘Of Cleopatra?’
‘Yes.’ She lifted her tea.
He placed his cup on the table. ‘I was struck by her political ambition. I had not remembered the play that way from my school days.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps you were too romantic as a boy.’
He laughed drily. ‘I dare say not, but I understand more of life now. Antony was motivated by passion, but Cleopatra was motivated by ambition.’
She nodded. ‘I do agree. She betrays Antony twice. And I doubt she killed herself out of love for him.’
He moved his cup, but did not lift it. ‘But his love for her led to his death.’
‘And to hers,’ she reminded him. ‘One could say she was a woman alone merely trying to make her way in the world and that his passion for her led to her downfall.’
He thought of his mother’s situation. ‘The world has not changed much.’
‘Indeed,’ she said with a firm tone.
He glanced into her face, remembering it was Tranville who played the role of Antony in her life, not he. The sun from the window shot shades of red through her auburn hair. The look she gave him in return was soft and companionable.
Jack had to glance away. ‘It is an odd play. More a history than a romance.’
She laughed. ‘It is a good thing. There is enough romancing from Mr Kean in the play as it is.’
He glanced at her in surprise. ‘You do not like Kean as your leading man?’
She shook her head. ‘Not at all. He smells of whisky and he is too short.’
‘The celebrated Mr Kean?’
Her face puckered as if she’d eaten a lemon. ‘I dare say he shows more favourably in the theatre boxes.’
Her frank tone made him relax and pushed thoughts of Tranville out of his mind. He felt as if they’d returned to Somerset House.
They began discussing how Cleopatra might be depicted and if she should be seated or standing. Jack was impatient to draw her.
She put down her teacup and sat on the edge of her chair. ‘Shall I pose now? Perhaps as Cleopatra on her throne?’
She straightened her spine and raised her chin, instantly transforming herself into a haughty queen who looked down on the rest of the world.
He was intrigued. ‘Hold that pose.’
He moved his drawing table closer to her chair and placed a clean sheet of paper on its angled surface. He sketched quickly, using charcoal and pastels, not thinking, allowing the image to come directly from his eye to his hand.
She remained very still, almost like a statue.
He put that sketch aside and replaced it with a fresh piece of paper. ‘Stand now and move.’
‘Move?’
He twirled his hand as an example. ‘Move around in front of me. Like Cleopatra would move.’
The natural quick and graceful movements that had entranced him heretofore were replaced by a regal step, back and forth.
He sketched hurriedly.
‘I feel a bit silly,’ she said as she crossed in front of him.
‘You do not look silly,’ he responded. ‘This is precisely what I need.’
He tried her in other poses, seated and standing, producing ten pastel drawings that gave him ideas of how a final painting might appear.
He looked through them.
‘May I see?’ She walked over to stand beside him at the drawing table, bringing with her the scent of rose water. She examined each drawing, one after the other.
‘Remarkable!’ She looked through them again, setting three of them side by side. ‘You were drawing so fast, I never dreamed you could make them look so much like me.’
He sorted through them again. ‘They are still not right. I am not sure why.’
He’d set his earlier sketches of her on the floor next to the drawing table. She saw them. ‘What are these?’
She picked them up and went through them. When she came to the ones he had done after Somerset House, she looked up at him with a puzzled expression.
‘Some sketches I made earlier,’ he replied, deliberately vague.
‘These are different from the others.’ She stared at them. ‘I look…’ She paused. ‘Alluring.’
He did not respond.
She broke into a smile. ‘You drew these after the exhibition, did you not?
He would not lie. ‘I did.’
‘I like them,’ she said simply and he felt himself flush with pleasure. ‘You make me look enticing.’
‘It is not enough.’ He was glad she did not question him about why he’d drawn her that day; he was uncertain he could answer her.
She looked at him as if she could see into his thoughts to all he’d felt about her that day, feelings forbidden him now, but he would not think of that. Today he merely wished to paint her.
‘Cleopatra must look enticing.’ She looked around the room and found a chaise-longue. She pushed it closer to his writing table and reclined upon it, propping herself on one arm and turning to face him directly. The effect was both sensuous and regal.
Jack’s breath hitched at the sight of her.
She dropped her role as Cleopatra. ‘You do not like this one?’ She started to change position.
He held up a hand. ‘Do not move. Let me draw you that way.’
She resumed her pose. ‘We are doing well today, are we not?’
‘Yes.’ He concentrated on the lines he was drawing.
‘I feel we are rubbing together as well as when we met at the exhibition.’
He glanced up at her, but did not respond.
She went on. ‘What happened yesterday, do you think? I was convinced you were unhappy with me. Will you tell me now what it was?’
He stopped. ‘There was nothing.’
She tilted her head, then seemed to remember why she was there and returned to her original pose. ‘I did not imagine it. My presence distressed you.’
He focused on his drawing. ‘Perhaps my mood was due to something else not concerning you.’
‘Then tell me what made you unhappy,’ she said in a kind, genuine tone.
‘I cannot recall now,’ he lied. ‘Likely it was nothing.’
She remained quiet for a while and Jack filled in the colour of her dress, the flawless tint of her skin.
‘Do you have many friends in London?’ she asked after a time.
‘Not many,’ he answered. ‘I am from Bath.’
‘Are you?’ she said brightly. ‘I played The Beggar’s Opera in Bath. Did you see it? That was two
years ago.’
He shook his head. ‘I would have been in Spain.’
Her expression turned sympathetic, but she did not pursue that topic. ‘I do not have many friends in London either,’ she said instead.
‘Does not your mother live here?’
She waved a hand, then remembered to return to her pose. ‘My mother is not precisely a friend. One needs friends for entertainment.’
Jack had little room in his life for entertainment. ‘Entertainment.’
‘You know. Walks through the park, visiting the shops, sharing an ice at Gunter’s—things like that.’ She paused. ‘There are my theatre friends, of course, but most of their entertainment involves taverns.’
Jack let her conversation wash over him like the water of a clear spring on a summer day. It kept him from concentrating too hard on his work and allowed the lines of the drawing to flow. He replaced one paper with another and began to draw just her face, filling the page with it.
‘You and I should be friends,’ she went on.
His hand stopped and he stared at her again.
She smiled at him. ‘Then I could call you Jack. And you could call me Ariana.’
Before he could form a response, there was a rap at the door. Jack put down his pastel to answer it, but the door opened.
Lord Tranville walked in. ‘Well, well, well.’ He removed his hat and bowed to Ariana. ‘Good day, my dear.’ He turned to Jack. ‘I thought I would stop by and see how things were progressing.’
‘Tranville.’ Jack went rigid. ‘It is the second meeting. What progress did you expect?’ He placed the sketch of her on the chaise-longue on the bottom of the pile.
‘I should like to see.’ Without waiting for permission, Tranville stepped behind Jack’s drawing table.
Jack kept his hand on the stack of drawings, so that Tranville could see only the one on top, one of Ariana seated upon the chair.
Tranville glanced over at Ariana. ‘You make a lovely model, my dear.’
She did not respond.
He examined the drawing again and shook his head. ‘You look nothing like Cleopatra, however.’ He turned to Jack. ‘For God’s sake, she needs to look Egyptian.’