by Diane Gaston
Ariana watched his face as he drew. His concentration on his work was as intense as it had been at Somerset House. This time it felt as if he’d retreated again to that place she could not reach, that place somehow connected to Tranville. It frustrated her and made her sad.
She had indeed become besotted with this moody artist who kept so much inside, yet showed so much in his art. She wanted to unlock the mystery of him and to be someone with whom he could share confidences and engage in little adventures, as their excursion to Somerset House had been.
‘Jack, we should visit the Egyptian Hall. Have you been there?’ The building on Piccadilly had a façade in the Egyptian style. It would be a treat to explore it with him.
He hesitated. ‘I have not been there.’
‘We should try to see it, do you not think so? To complete our research.’
He merely continued drawing, using his thumb to smear something on the paper.
She tried again. ‘Perhaps your sister and her Michael would like to come with us.’
He stopped drawing, as if he were actually considering her request. ‘My sister has few outings. She would enjoy it.’
She smiled. ‘Then say yes.’
He paused and it took him a long time to meet her gaze. ‘Yes.’
Her insides danced with happiness.
She smiled. ‘That is splendid. Will you make the plan? My days are free and soon my nights, as well, when the play ends.’
‘When will that be?’ he asked.
Some of the ease they’d built together the previous day seemed to have returned. ‘Three more performances, the last on Saturday night. Will you come to that performance? As my guest?’
‘No.’ His expression turned dark. ‘Tranville will be there, no doubt.’
She had pushed for too much. It contented her that he agreed to visit the Egyptian Hall.
‘Make the plans for our outing. I’m sure I will have nothing to conflict with it.’ She would not allow anything to do so.
He put down his piece of chalk and stood back, looking from her to the drawing and back, his elbows akimbo.
Finally he said, ‘Come and look.’
She slid off the chaise and walked over to stand beside him.
‘Oh, my!’ In his drawing, he’d transformed the room into an Egyptian palace, complete with an Egyptian view out of a window. She was in the foreground, full body lounging on the chaise. The only colour on the paper came from her skin and features and the gold adornments she wore. As a result, he’d shown her off in a remarkable manner. Still…
‘It is but a quick sketch,’ he said apologetically.
‘It is good.’ She gazed at it again, her brow creasing. ‘For a sketch.’
He examined it again. ‘Speak plain, Ariana.’
She stepped back and turned her head towards him. ‘It has no emotion.’
He stared at it again. ‘It is merely a sketch.’
‘You will make it a marvellous painting, I am certain.’ It only wanted the life he could bring to it.
She clasped his arm and squeezed and to her surprise he put his arm around her for a moment as they stood together.
His mantel clock chimed six.
She knew he would say it was time to leave.
‘I have already begun to prepare the canvas,’ he told her. ‘It must dry, so there is no need to meet tomorrow.’
She was bitterly disappointed, not wanting to go a day without seeing him. She averted her head so he would not see.
‘Unless,’ he went on, ‘Nancy wishes to see the Egyptian Hall tomorrow. It would be a good day to do that since we cannot work.’
She turned back to him, trying not to show how happy the idea made her. ‘That would do very nicely, would it not?’
‘If you are at liberty to wait, I will take a few minutes to go and see if the plan is agreeable to Nancy.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ She was perfectly willing to persuade Nancy, if necessary.
‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘No,’ he repeated in a softer voice. ‘My mother—it is best I dash over there. I can arrange a hack for you while I am out.’
She nodded and wondered if Jack’s mother knew of Tranville’s interest in her. If so, his mother would certainly not want to encounter her. Ariana’s mother resented every man who had left her and every woman who’d replaced her, especially if the woman was younger.
Ariana made herself smile. ‘I will change back into my dress. Will you lace it again before you go?’
His eyes darkened. ‘Of course.’
She hurried into his bedchamber and quickly took off the crown and the voluminous costume. She donned her carriage dress and returned to the studio. Jack stood at the window, his arms crossed over his chest.
‘I need my lady’s maid,’ she joked, lifting her hair and presenting her back to him.
He made quick work of tying the laces and fastening the hooks.
As soon as he was done he walked over to take his top coat from its peg. ‘I will return shortly.’
He seemed in a hurry.
She smiled. ‘Take your time.’
After he left, she pinned up her hair and returned to tidy the bedchamber where she’d left the costumes in disarray. She picked up the bandboxes and carried them into the room. Smoothing out the fabric as best she could, she folded the gowns and placed them back in the bandbox. She repacked the crowns and the gold chains into the other. No need to return them to the theatre until her portrait was completed. After she closed up the boxes, she sat on the bed, fingering the coarse blanket that covered Jack when he slept.
An image of him, all tangled in the blanket, flew into her mind. How lovely it would be to lie next to him, to feel his warm skin all along the length of her, to fall asleep nestled in his arms. She’d always thought that one of the nicest parts of being with a man. If the man were not a scoundrel, that is.
She quickly stood. It would not do to dwell on such matters, especially because things between her and Jack seemed so fragile and tenuous. Best she simply be glad he was willing to make a visit to the Egyptian Hall with her.
She glanced around his room, which was sparse of furniture. The simple bed. A chest of drawers with a pitcher and bowl on it. The room seemed to double as a storeroom with a big trunk in one corner and several paintings leaning against the wall. She placed the bandboxes next to them and could not resist a peek.
All the paintings were of battle. Not the glory of victory like the painting he’d exhibited at the Royal Academy, but paintings of soldiers fighting. She turned them around and lined up three of them side by side.
They were not pretty. The men’s faces were distorted with fear and violence and pain. They stabbed at each other with swords and bayonets. Blood flowed everywhere. But, in each painting, Jack had also included something that contrasted to the horror. One painting showed a beautiful church in the background. In another, green fields dotted with sheep. In a third, white stucco buildings on a pretty village street. The street was stained with rivulets of blood, but, even so, something of beauty remained.
She thought her heart would break for him. How awful war must have been.
She squatted so she could better examine the skill with which he’d created the images. He certainly depicted emotion in these paintings, complicated emotion. Such as including the face of a terror-stricken child in one of the village windows.
‘What are you doing?’ She looked up to see Jack in the doorway, a black expression on his face.
She’d not heard him return, but could not even think of answering his question, not in the presence of these wonderful works of art. ‘These are marvellous, Jack. I am in awe of them. Why are they here against the wall? You should display them.’
He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I did not paint them to display them.’ His voice was tight.
Why did this disturb him? ‘Why did you paint them?’ she asked almost in a whisper.
He glanced away from her before walking int
o the room and facing the paintings. ‘It is difficult to explain.’
She did not waver. ‘I am capable of comprehending difficult things.’
He reached for the frame of the painting with the church and turned it back against the wall. ‘When I came back from war I could not rid myself of what I’d seen. So I painted it.’
‘You painted how it felt.’ She thought her heart would break for all he’d gone through. She gestured to a cluster of soldiers slashing at each other. ‘I cannot see how you endured it.’
His voice dropped deeper. ‘These do not show the half of it. I have sketches—’ He waved a hand. ‘Never mind the sketches.’
‘I should like to see them,’ she murmured.
He shook his head and turned to the doorway. ‘We must go. The hackney coach is waiting outside.’
She followed him out to the studio. He held out her cloak for her and put it around her shoulders.
She fastened it, greatly desiring to dispel the grim mood she’d created by looking at his work. ‘Did you find Nancy at home? Did she agree to the outing?’
He barely looked at her. ‘She agreed and will ask Michael this evening if he can join us.’
She felt her spirits lift. She would not miss a day with Jack.
‘We will meet you at your residence at eleven o’clock, if that is acceptable.’
She tied the ribbons of her hat under her chin. ‘At my residence?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Should we not?’
She did not know how to answer that. ‘Your mother did not mind Nancy coming to a house where actors live?’
‘I still do not comprehend.’
She thought it was self-evident. ‘Actors and actresses are not respectable, you know.’
He laughed drily. ‘Neither are we Vernons.’
He waited at the open door for her to walk through. She could see the hack waiting for her.
She brushed past him, but suddenly turned and looked up into his eyes. ‘I do not wish our day together to end.’
His eyes darkened.
‘Come with me, Jack,’ she murmured, trying not to show how much she yearned for him to say yes. ‘Spend the evening with me. Come to the theatre. Be my guest.’
He glanced towards his mother’s door. ‘I am not expected elsewhere.’
She smiled and touched his cheek. ‘Then come with me.’
She watched the ultimate decision form on his face. ‘Give me a moment to lock my door.’
Chapter Nine
Jack turned the key in the lock and returned to the street where Ariana waited. She smiled like a child giddy at receiving a much desired toy.
He doubted his company was worth celebrating, but he simply wanted to remain with her, to hold on to her company for as long as he could. That had been his motivation for the Egyptian Hall outing as well. He’d included Nancy as a chaperon. For him.
It occurred to him again that they had no chaperon in the studio, and that he had already engaged in the intimacy of undoing her laces. In the studio he had his work. His art was the chaperon.
Tranville had been at his mother’s house again, his mother delighted at his company. It sickened Jack, but helped him make his decision to spend the evening with Ariana. If he remained with her, he would not be thinking of his mother.
Jack assisted Ariana inside the hack and climbed in next to her. ‘I told the driver to take us to Henrietta Street.’
‘Perfect.’ She tucked her arm around his. ‘We can eat dinner there and go to the theatre afterwards.’
Tranville had announced that he was not attending the theatre that night. Ariana and Jack would be free of the sight of him.
Jack was surprisingly comfortable sitting close to Ariana during the brief ride to Henrietta Street. After he paid the jarvey, Ariana took his arm again and they walked up to the door. In the evening light, her features were muted in grey, but every bit as lovely as in sunlight. What would it be like, he wondered, to paint her in all different kinds of light?
‘I am so glad you came,’ she said as they entered the house. ‘Come up to my room. We can take off our coats there and be comfortable until dinner is served.’
She held his hand as they climbed the stairs and she pulled him into her room, closing the door behind her. She released him to remove her outer garments, tossing them on a nearby chair.
She turned to help him with his top coat. ‘I will be your valet. It is only fair, since you were my maid.’
He was frozen in place, wanting only to gather her into his arms and tumble with her on that nearby bed. There could not be a riskier proposition than indulging in his attraction to her. Even if she had rejected Tranville, he had laid a claim upon her and would lash out if he knew she’d chosen Jack instead. Jack would welcome a battle with Tranville, but he was not willing to risk the man retaliating against Ariana or his mother.
Ariana seemed free of any such concern as she lay his top coat on the bed. She also placed his hat and gloves there. Clever girl. The bed would act as a clothes press at the moment, she’d silently informed him, not the place of his imagined pleasure.
There was a knock on the door and a male voice, ‘Ariana! We’re having refreshment in the drawing room. One of the girls was given a bottle of Madeira.’
‘Marvellous!’ She turned to Jack. ‘Would you like some Madeira before dinner? The other roomers here are a friendly sort.’
Better to dampen his temptation with wine. ‘I will do as you wish.’
She searched his face and he fancied she could see the battle raging inside him. ‘I wish for many things, Jack.’
His brow wrinkled.
She smiled. ‘Madeira, I think.’
Jack wanted her with every muscle and vein in his body, every aching of his soul, even though he knew, with Tranville’s involvement, his desire could lead to nothing good. Still, she was fresh and vibrant and full of life, and Jack was so very sick of war and death.
He took in a breath and held it for a moment, before gesturing towards the door.
Arm in arm, they descended the stairs and entered the drawing room. The first person Jack saw was the actor who’d befriended him in the tavern and had taken him to watch Romeo and Juliet.
‘Why, Jack!’ The man came forwards, extending his hand. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ He turned to the other man there, another actor who had joined them that night after the play. ‘Look, Franklin, it is Jack.’
Their greetings were as friendly as if they’d been long-lost friends accustomed to addressing each other by given names. Jack was quickly introduced to two actresses in the room, Susan, who was about Ariana’s age, and Eve, a bit older.
Ariana waved a hand, interrupting. ‘Henry. Jack. How do you know each other?’
The man, whose name Jack had not learned until that moment, answered, ‘Jack and I are drinking companions. Or at least we were the other night.’ Henry turned to Jack. ‘You, my dear fellow, did not tell us you were privy to Ariana’s bedchamber—the first man invited in there, as a matter of fact. At least to my knowledge.’
He was the first?
Ariana broke in, ‘Did Jack not tell you he is painting me? He is the portrait artist who is portraying me as Cleopatra.’
The actor clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You sod. You did not say a word of it, not even when we were at the theatre.’
‘You were at the theatre?’ Ariana blinked.
Henry led him to a side table. ‘Come on. I will pour you some of this fine Madeira.’
Both the Madeira and the conversation flowed freely until dinner was announced and they withdrew to the dining parlour. At the dining table more wine filled their glasses and the talk was all about the theatre—who’d won what role and how had they secured it.
Henry turned to Ariana. ‘The thing I want to know is how you managed to convince Tranville to give you the part of Cleopatra without going to bed with him.’
Ariana fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘On my merits as an ac
tress, perhaps?’
Henry laughed. ‘Your mother cursed like a sailor when she discovered the part was not hers.’
Ariana glanced at Jack. ‘My mother has a jealous streak.’
Henry rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘You are not jesting. She is a fine actress, though, as fine as Sarah Siddons.’ He poured Jack more wine. ‘Tranville paid a pretty price to get Kean, too.’ He winked at Jack. ‘But in hiring a portrait artist, the fool hired his own rival.’
Ariana said, ‘Tranville is a lecherous old man, as are most of the gentlemen who come to the Green Room.’
The other actresses loudly agreed with her.
Jack attempted to let the talk of Tranville flow past him and just enjoy the free-speaking of these theatre people, such a contrast to his own family where so much went unspoken.
‘Tranville has wealth, though,’ the older actress remarked in a wistful tone. ‘He is a fish worth catching.’
Ariana nodded. ‘More my mother’s type, I would say.’ She turned to Jack. ‘Did you know he financed the play?’
It was not as easy for him to speak freely. He hesitated. ‘To benefit the theatre he would say, but it was clear whose benefit concerned him most.’
A dark look came over her face. She waved her hand. ‘At least I get my portrait painted.’
Quickly recovering her good spirits, she held her own while the others teased her about Tranville. The good spirits in the room were infectious, and Jack almost relaxed.
After dinner they walked as a troop to the theatre, their laughter condensing into little clouds in the cold air. Again Jack was admitted backstage. Ariana presented him to Mr Arnold, who seemed pleased that he was painting Ariana’s portrait and made encouraging noises about using him again if the portrait improved ticket sales. Jack was also introduced to Mr Kean, even more deep in his cups than Jack himself.
Ariana left him to dress for her role, and Jack settled in a chair with a view of the stage. Henry produced a bottle of wine for him and a glass. He sipped the wine, trying to hold the backstage commotion and confusion in his memory for later sketching. Jack imagined drawing the scene in the style of a Rowlandson print, busy with activity, colourful people and great humour.