by Diane Gaston
Jack’s fingers flexed into a fist.
Ariana spoke up. ‘Gracious, my lord. You expect too much of a first day of posing. Did you think I would be in full costume and theatre paint?’
Jack felt fully capable of defending his work to the likes of Tranville. He resented the older man’s intrusion, but resented more the reminder of his claim on Ariana.
Tranville smiled at Ariana, and Jack noticed his eyes flick over her reclining form. ‘If you are happy with the sitting, my dear, then I am content.’
Jack twisted away, hiding the disgust on his face he knew he could not disguise.
‘Jack, when do you finish for the day?’ Tranville asked. ‘I am here to escort Miss Blane home.’
Jack’s shoulders stiffened.
Ariana sat up. ‘That is not necessary, sir.’
‘I cannot allow you to walk alone.’ Tranville tossed Jack the sort of glance that passed between men when they expected to make a conquest.
That Tranville would flaunt his affair with Ariana to the son of his former mistress made Jack’s blood boil. Only his promise to his mother kept him from grabbing Tranville by the collar and tossing him out on to the cold pavement.
‘We are not finished.’ Ariana resumed her Cleopatra pose.
Tranville walked over to a chair and sat. ‘I do not mind waiting.’
Jack stacked the drawings and put his pastels back in their box. He would not draw another line with Tranville there. ‘We are finished.’
Ariana shot to her feet and glared at Jack. Without a word she picked up the teacups and tray and carried them into the galley.
‘You must not do that,’ Tranville said. ‘It is servant’s work.’
‘I do not mind.’ She used the same inflection Tranville had used previously.
Jack followed her in to the galley. ‘I will see to the tea things.’
‘We were not finished. Why did you say we were?’ She spoke quietly, but seemed to bristle with annoyance.
‘I cannot work with him watching.’
She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘When do I return, then?’
He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Very well. I’ll arrive at two, if that will be convenient for you.’ Her voice was clipped.
‘Two o’clock, then,’ he responded in kind.
She pushed past him, back into the studio.
Tranville stood with her cloak, ready to assist her. He draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingering.
Jack turned away, pretending to see to his dishes. He did not turn back until he heard the door close behind them.
Chapter Five
Ariana reluctantly took Tranville’s arm. The pleasantries he uttered as they walked to the end of the street were no more than an annoying buzz in her ears.
She trembled, so full of anger she could barely contain herself. She did not know who made her angrier, Tranville for intruding or Jack for not tossing him out.
She thought of him as Jack now, already feeling an intimacy with him even though he had only begun to relax in her presence. It had been a most curious experience to sit for him. She felt his every glance, but also felt that the paper, the colours, the lines kept him at a distance from her.
If only Tranville had not swept in—
‘What time do you pose for Jack tomorrow?’ she heard Tranville ask.
She avoided answering the man, asking a question of her own instead. ‘You seem on very familiar terms with Mr Vernon. What is your connection with him?’
He gave a trifling laugh. ‘Jack is the son of a friend. I have known him most of his life.’
‘Oh?’ she said, truly interested. ‘Are you a friend of his father?’
Tranville paused for a moment. ‘His mother, actually, although I was acquainted with his father before the man’s untimely death.’
‘I see.’ A friend of the mother and merely acquainted with a deceased father? She pumped him for more information. ‘When did Mr Vernon’s father die?’
He waved a hand, as if the man’s death had no importance at all. ‘Sixteen—seventeen years past or some such.’
‘I would have been only six years old.’ Let him be reminded of the differences in their ages. ‘Mr Vernon must have been quite young as well.’
He frowned. ‘Indeed.’
Had Jack’s mother been a conquest of Tranville’s? It might explain much about Jack’s seeming animosity towards the man. They crossed Maiden Lane. Almost home, thank God.
‘You did not tell me what time you were expected at Jack’s.’ He sounded as if he were trying to disguise his annoyance.
‘Two o’clock.’ She hated answering him.
‘I will come to escort you,’ he said.
She halted and released his arm, facing him directly. ‘Sir, I would beg you not come at all and certainly do not intrude on the sitting again.’
He looked affronted. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do not come,’ she repeated, saying each word slowly and clearly. ‘You ruined the sitting. It broke Mr Vernon’s concentration. Could you not see that?’
His face turned red.
Forcing a charming smile, she changed tactics. ‘Now do not become cross with me. Anyone entering at that moment would have done the same.’ She took his arm again and they began walking. ‘I am very cognisant of how much you wish this portrait to be a success for the theatre. In order to achieve that end, the artist will need privacy.’
‘Did Jack tell you that?’ His arm tensed.
She made herself laugh. ‘Indeed not! But anyone who knows anything about posing for portraits realises that privacy is paramount.’ She, of course, had only a day’s knowledge of sitting for a portrait, but she trusted Tranville knew even less.
Ariana spied a pretty young woman glancing at them from across the street. The young woman’s companion was an equally young and handsome man who gazed upon the young woman as if the sun rose and set upon her.
Ariana envied them.
Tranville spoke again. ‘Surely I might walk you to Jack’s with no disruption.’
Ariana hated that she must cater to this man, merely because of the power he wielded. She sighed inwardly and looked up at Tranville. ‘Very well, you may call for me a quarter of an hour before two and walk me to the artist’s studio.’
His mouth widened into a broad smile.
She shook a finger at him. ‘But you must not arrive to walk me back home, because it is never certain precisely what time we shall finish.’
His brow creased. ‘If the hour is late, it will not be safe for a young woman—’
She cut him off. ‘If it is late, I shall insist Mr Vernon walk me home.’ She made her voice sound as if this was not the circumstance she most desired. ‘I dare say it is the least he can do for all that you must have paid him.’
‘Very well.’ This time he stroked her palm with his thumb. ‘I will do as you wish of me.’
She withdrew her hand. They were finally at her door.
‘Good day, sir,’ she said with a curtsy.
He obviously hoped to be invited inside. He reached for her hand again, but she opened the door.
‘Wait.’ He gripped the door. ‘Will I see you tonight in the Green Room?’
‘Perhaps.’ She plastered on a smile and hurried inside.
Jack begged off dinner at his mother’s again that evening. After seeing Tranville’s manner toward Ariana, Jack could not face his mother. He spent the rest of the afternoon staring at the drawings he’d made of Ariana, forcing himself to think of the task as an artistic challenge.
He finally set them all aside and donned his top coat, needing the brisk winter air to cool his emotions. He burned with anger and resentment.
Head down against the wind, Jack crossed the Strand and strode toward Covent Garden, avoiding Henrietta Street and memories of Ariana’s bedchamber and fears that Tranville might have visited it. All he desired was a meal of mutton and ale in some noisy tavern smelling of ordinary me
n partaking of ordinary pleasures. He wandered to Bow Street and found such a place, seating himself at a small table against one wall.
The man seated at the next table insisted upon befriending him. The man turned out to be an actor, no great surprise since Drury Lane was only a few streets away.
‘I perform with Kean and the incomparable Daphne Blane,’ the man said. ‘You must come to see me perform. I’ll get you in.’
It meant seeing Ariana as Juliet again. Jack accepted the invitation.
No one questioned the actor’s new friend when they entered the theatre. The man told Jack to stand at a spot in the wings with an excellent view of the stage, albeit a sideways one. Before the play began Jack looked around, expecting at any moment to glimpse her. He saw Ariana in the wings on the other side, but she did not see him.
Jack’s newfound friend played Abraham, a Montague servant who had a few lines and a swordfight in Act I. No longer on stage, he stood next to Jack, watching the performance.
‘This is an excellent portrayal of Juliet,’ the man whispered to Jack. ‘Best I’ve ever seen. Ariana is Daphne Blane’s daughter so her acting skill is no surprise.’ He laughed quietly. ‘The word is that Daphne does not know which of the many gentlemen bedding her at the time sired the girl.’
Everyone knew that theatre people lived by very loose standards, with no expectations to mix in polite society, but Ariana’s story seemed a sad one.
Jack watched her on stage, playing a beloved daughter. She was completely convincing as an innocent, trusting young girl about to be thrown into a cauldron of passion and family strife. When Ariana had posed as Cleopatra, she’d been equally convincing, turning herself into a jaded, cunning, sensuous queen.
He wanted his portrait also to reveal what was uniquely her. That she was forthright, unafraid and determined.
He frowned. Perhaps that was merely the role she played with him. Did she play another sort of woman for Tranville?
He ran a hand through his hair. He must not allow himself to care about her. She was a commission, nothing more. He need only create a decent painting.
On stage she recited the lines, ‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite—’
Jack closed his eyes. Her words fired his senses. Ever since Spain, he’d numbed himself against disappointment, loss and horror. Ariana threatened to cut through those defences and make him feel again.
Jack suspected his theatre companion could take him to the Green Room if he requested it. But if Tranville was there and fawning over Ariana, Jack could not stomach it.
The play was over and his companion joined the final bows on stage. Afterwards he invited Jack, not to the Green Room, but to return to the tavern for more drink. Some of the other young actors joined them. As they walked out of the theatre, Jack came close enough to Ariana to reach out and touch her. Her mother had her in tow and was so busy talking to her that Ariana did not see him.
He let the opportunity pass.
At the tavern Jack was content to observe his companion with his friends. Jack was included in round after round of drink, but was not really a part of their circle. As he watched, the drink rendered them quicker to laughter, to anger, to maudlin sentimentality. He made note of the expressions on their faces, their gestures, their postures, all tinted in shades of brown in the dim tavern light.
Jack felt the haze of too much drink and eventually bade them goodnight. He walked out to the street and turned the corner into an area that was dark and narrow. Sounds of the tavern’s revelry echoed against brick walls.
Suddenly it was as if he was back in Badajoz. The shadowy figures crossing the street in front of him, darting into alleys or standing in doorways, suddenly seemed about to attack. The good-natured laughter from distant taverns sounded like the demented laughter of Badajoz. Happy bellowing turned into screams. Jack plastered himself against the cold wall of a building and pressed his hands over his ears.
He was not in Badajoz, he told himself, but his senses refused to listen. His heart pounded, his muscles tensed, and a voice in his head shouted, ‘Run!’
He ran. Ran as if drunken soldiers pursued him as they had in Badajoz. Ran as if he were escaping visions of carnage and brutality and violent lust.
His lungs burned by the time he reached his studio and pulled the key from his pocket. Panting, he opened the door and stumbled inside. Visions of the soldiers holding down the French woman returned. Again her son wailed for them to stop. Again Jack saw the face of Edwin Tranville, smiling drunkenly.
‘Come join the fun,’ the spectre said. ‘Plenty for you, as well.’
Jack staggered into his bedchamber and pulled out the chamber pot. Kneeling over it, he vomited until nothing was left but dry heaves.
The next morning he woke with a start. His mouth tasted foul, his head throbbed with pain, and the room stank of vomit.
He rose, still dressed in the clothes of the previous night, and picked up the chamber pot, retching as he carried it out back to clean it.
Afterwards, he pumped clean water into a large pitcher. He used the water to rinse out his mouth, brush his teeth and wash himself, all the while his head reeling and his stomach threatening to rebel.
After he managed to change into clean clothes, he made his way to his mother’s residence to beg for breakfast and pots and pots of tea to rid himself of the hammer and anvil in his head.
Wilson let him in and he went directly to the dining room, expecting to see food set out to eat.
He did not expect to see Tranville seated at the table, cup in hand, reading a newspaper.
‘Jack.’ Tranville nodded in greeting. He was alone in the room.
Jack put a hand on the doorjamb to steady the growing rage inside him. He did not nod in return.
Tranville chuckled and returned to his newspaper.
The need for food and to prove Tranville could not intimidate him prevented Jack from turning around and walking out. He went to the sideboard and found it more generously filled than usual, kippers and slices of ham, in addition to the usual cooked eggs and sliced bread. The kippers made his stomach reel almost as violently as Tranville’s presence. Jack chose two eggs and slices of bread, spreading them with butter and raspberry jam.
He chose the chair directly opposite Tranville and poured himself a cup of tea from the pot in the centre of the table.
‘You are asking yourself if I did indeed spend the night here.’ Tranville popped a forkful of kipper into his mouth. ‘I spent a very pleasant night.’
Jack glared at him, but refused to be baited.
Tranville tried again. ‘I did consider your sister’s presence, if you are wondering.’ He lifted his tea cup to his mouth. ‘But I decided she is old enough to know what is what. Old enough for a husband, I dare say.’ He laughed again. ‘Besides, she had already retired when I arrived. I came after the play was done.’
After the play? Tranville had not spent the night with Ariana, then. Despite his resolve to think of Ariana as merely a commission, Jack expelled a relieved breath. It was quickly replaced with anger that Tranville had come to his mother instead. ‘It is a wonder you considered anyone’s feelings but your own.’
Tranville’s eyes burned with anger. ‘Your mother did not mind.’
Jack gripped the edge of the table. He held Tranville’s gaze. ‘Take care how you speak.’ Even a promise to his mother had its limits.
Tranville made a placating gesture. ‘Now, now. You know I have the highest regard for your mother.’
‘Regard for her?’ Jack looked daggers at him.
Tranville’s voice turned low. ‘What passes between your mother and me is none of your affair and you would do well to remember that.’
Those were almost the exact words his mother had spoken to him.
Tranville slapped his palm on the table. ‘Know your place, boy,’ he said with more energy. ‘Do not question a peer of the realm
about his affairs.’
Jack leaned forwards. ‘I will not see my mother hurt by you.’
Tranville adopted the expression of a reasonable man. ‘Your mother understands my needs, boy. That should be the end of it for you.’ He stuffed a piece of ham into his mouth and chewed.
Jack’s gaze did not waver. ‘She knows you are bedding Miss Blane?’
Tranville gave a half-smile and lifted a finger in the air. ‘Ah, but I am not bedding Miss Blane. Yet.’ He took a swallow of tea. ‘Otherwise I should not be here.’
Tranville had not bedded Ariana? At all? This news stunned Jack. For a moment he felt paralysed. Until he realised Tranville was using Jack’s mother to slake his lust for Ariana. It was enraging on all accounts.
Jack pushed his chair back, ready to vault across the table and lunge for Tranville’s throat, when his mother swept into the room. ‘Why, Jack, I did not know you were here.’
Still trembling with rage, he stood and gave his mother a kiss. ‘For breakfast.’
She patted his cheek. ‘You are always welcome.’
She walked over to Tranville, who also stood. ‘Good morning, Lionel.’
He kissed her on the lips, sliding a glance to Jack as he did so. ‘My dear, allow me to serve you from the sideboard.’
He held a chair for her and she lowered herself into it gracefully. ‘I would be most grateful. Just an egg, I think.’
He brought her the egg and returned to his seat to pour her tea for her.
Beneath the table Jack’s hands were clenched into fists.
Nancy walked in, rubbing her eyes. Never cheerful in the morning, she peered at Jack and mumbled, ‘Morning.’ Then she noticed Tranville. ‘Oh!’
He stood and bowed. ‘Good morning, Nancy, my dear. Will you allow me to serve you?’
She looked confused. ‘I can do it. Please sit.’
When she returned to the table, Tranville popped up and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she responded politely.
As she ate, Nancy glanced from her mother to Tranville and back. She turned to Jack, her expression questioning.