by Jane Toombs
Clive led them down a long hallway where, some distance ahead of them, Deirdre saw people coming and going through an open door to one of the rooms. As they drew nearer, she heard the hum of conversation and when they came to the doorway she looked inside and saw a crush of gaily-bonneted ladies and top-hatted gentlemen of the ton.
Glancing over their heads, Deirdre caught her breath, for every available space on all four walls of the large room was crowded with paintings, watercolors for the most part, but also a few oils. Several portraits were scattered amidst the many land and seascapes on which grays, blues, and browns predominated with here and there a contrasting swirl of red or yellow. The style of the artist—Deirdre sensed that all of the paintings were the work of one man—and the great romantic sweep of sea, sky and clouds in the pictures seemed strangely familiar.
"Over here,” Clive said, mumbling excuses to right and left as he made his way through the crush toward the far end of the room.
At first his progress was greeted by growls of annoyance, but when gallery visitors looked past Clive and saw Deirdre, the muttering gradually stopped as the men and women stared as they hastened to make way for her.
"Ah, here we are,” Clive announced with a smile of triumph and a sweep of his hand as the last of the crowd stepped to one side.
Deirdre gasped as she looked up at the portrait, her hand going to her breast. She felt Alcida's fingers grip her wrist while beside her Phoebe and Sybil stared in startled silence.
On the bottom of the frame of the life-sized painting, a printed legend read—"Diana, Goddess of the Chase.” The portrait depicted the Roman goddess in a short green hunting dress, its hem several inches above her knees, with a brown sash emphasizing the narrowness of her waist below the fullness of her breasts. Her right hand was reaching over her shoulder to draw an arrow from a quiver she carried on her back, her other hand rested on the head of a deer leaping at her side.
There could be no doubt at all that Deirdre was the goddess and the goddess was Deirdre. The artist had faithfully captured her flaming red hair, her high cheekbones, and her green eyes.
When Clive took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and held it up in front of the painting, Deirdre recognized the sketch he had taken with him to Spain. Her face in the sketch almost exactly matched that of the portrait.
"Wherever did you find that?” Phoebe asked, looking at him askance.
"It was a gift from Mr. Turner,” Deirdre said, “the artist Clive and I met at the bridge in Ashdown Forest last summer."
"Joseph William Mallord Turner, to give his full name,” Clive said. “Since he put the painting on exhibition, the portrait has become the talk of the town. Especially so when Mr. Turner had to admit he had no notion who his model might be."
"How beautiful Deirdre looks in the painting,” Alcida said. “Though no more beautiful than she really is."
Clive looked from Deirdre to the portrait and then back at Deirdre again. He frowned and started to speak, seemed to have second thoughts and said nothing, but Deirdre noted a pondering look come over his face, almost as though he were viewing her in an entirely different light than he ever had before.
"I, for one,” said Phoebe haughtily, “would never think of allowing a painting of myself, especially one in such revealing attire, to be placed on display in a public place where just anyone and his cousin could walk in from the street to gawk at my likeness."
Deirdre, who had at first been surprised when she saw the painting, then exhilarated and then shy, now became embarrassed, wondering if Phoebe could be right; that having her portrait on display, especially with the daring exposure of calf and knee, might not be the thing.
"I find the likeness to be quite good,” Sybil said as she looked from Deirdre to the painting. “Most men and women of quality,” she said softly to Phoebe, “seem to have no objection to having their portraits exhibited in their homes, at the Royal Academy and elsewhere. To my way of thinking, Deirdre should consider it a compliment."
Deirdre felt a rush of gratitude. How kind of Sybil to take her part, she told herself, how fair-minded she seemed. As Deirdre came to know her stepmother better, she found herself liking her more and more.
"The portrait of Diana sold almost at once, I believe,” an older gentleman standing near them commented, “for a sum of more than two thousand guineas. To a titled Italian collector from Milan, I was told."
"Not so,” another man remarked. “The purchaser was none other than the Duke of Clarence."
"No, both of you are in error,” a third gentleman maintained, “I was informed by a friend of the artist that the portrait was purchased for the Prince Regent's private collection."
The admiring crowd swirled around Deirdre. Two young peers pleaded with Clive to be introduced, an elderly gentleman presented her with a rose, a young girl shyly touched her hand and fled. Flustered by the unexpected attention, surrounded by well-wishers, she heard her name repeated whichever way she turned, “Miss Deirdre Darrington, the model is Miss Deirdre Darrington."
She noticed a tall, thin footman in green and gold livery enter the room and frown as he saw the crush. Pushing his way rather unceremoniously to her side, he murmured in her ear, “Miss Darrington?” When she nodded, he said, “The new owner of your portrait would very much like to have the privilege of meeting you.” Without waiting for her reply, he started away.
Deirdre glanced about her, intending to ask Sybil to come with her, but she saw that Clive and the rest of her party were quite out of earshot. Reaching Sybil in this crush would be well-nigh impossible.
After hesitating a moment, she decided there would be little impropriety in meeting the owner, so she excused herself and followed the footman from the room. He led her farther along the hallway, turned to his right into another corridor where he approached the first door and knocked. “Come in.” The voice from inside the room, Deirdre thought, sounded familiar but she was unable to assign a name to it.
The footman opened the door and, bowing slightly, stood to one side. Deirdre entered the brightly lit room, heard the door close behind her. She looked around her and gasped. “You!” she cried.
Edward Fox, who had been standing in front of the cold fireplace, stepped back while at the same time holding his hands toward her with his fingers splayed in a gesture of conciliation.
"Please wait,” he said when she drew away, “pray stay at least a moment until you hear me out. Even the most dastardly of villains deserves the opportunity to be heard.” Backing to the door, Deirdre reached behind her, her fingers closing over the knob, all the while staring at him in confusion. Edward had purchased her portrait. Why? And now what did he want with her? She should never have come here alone, after all.
"Deirdre,” he said fervently. “My only wish is to beg your forgiveness for my intolerable behavior at the Hall. I admit I completely lost all sense of propriety. Will you forgive me?"
She shook her head. She would never forgive him, she told herself, no matter what he said now, regardless of whatever excuse he might offer; his behavior had been inexcusable, beyond forgiving.
"If you find it impossible to forgive me,” he went on, “will you at least listen to me? If you but pause and recall all of the circumstances, you will realize you were at least partially to blame for my behavior."
When she indignantly started to protest, he hurried on, “Not that I had any excuse whatsoever for my actions. You were blameless, completely so, and now, even if I go to my grave unforgiven, I ask you to allow me to attempt to make amends for my boorish behavior while you were my guest at Harmon Hall."
"How could you have taken me to that odious place,” Deirdre said, recalling the picture on the wall of the room in the Pantheon with a grimace of distaste.
"I swear to you I had never so much as entered that room before that day. It was furnished by an impoverished cousin who we brought to live with us some years ago little realizing how thoroughly depraved he was. This gentleman—tho
ugh I hate to call him that—was an exceedingly small man who had married a widow and came to be called ‘the widow's mite.’ However that might be, he was the one who told me of the secret entrance, something I remembered only after I left you alone in the room. I behaved abominably, I admit it. What more do you want me to say?"
Deirdre hesitated. In all fairness, she should at least listen to him, she told herself. “Say what you have to say and be done with it once and for all."
He bowed his thanks. “If you would feel safer,” he said with a slight smile, “I have no objection if you open the door."
She was not afraid of Edward, Deirdre told herself. She folded her arms and faced him, noticing that he appeared penitent although that, she reminded herself, could well be merely a pose.
"You may wonder how I came to be here at Turner's gallery today,” Edward said, “since I only returned to town last week after spending a fortnight or so tramping about the Lake Country, quite alone and miserable, reading aloud the verses of Wordsworth and Coleridge.” He closed his eyes and said:
"'The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.’”
"That happens to be one of my favorites,” he said, opening his eyes. “It comes from a poem by Mr. William Wordsworth."
Did Edward really expect her to believe he had been wandering about the countryside reciting poetry? Deirdre wondered, almost finding herself amused at his audacity. Would he now recite lines from some obscure poet and claim them as his own?
"Several days after returning to town,” he said, “I happened to see your portrait quite by chance and, bewitched and entranced, I at once entered into negotiations to purchase it. Not entirely because of sentiment, although I do happen to possess a rather sentimental nature, but as an investment."
Deirdre, arms still folded, was uncertain whether to believe him or not.
"I saw to it,” Edward said, “that Chadbourne was informed yesterday that a portrait of a close friend of his had been placed on exhibit here at Queen Anne Street, thinking it more than likely he would bring you to view the painting at the earliest possible moment. And that is the chain of events that led to my being here conversing with you today."
Deirdre, deeply suspicious of his motives, asked, “For what possible purpose?"
"I wished to make atonement; I wished to be forgiven. Only once before in my life have I ever acted unselfishly and that was many months ago in Canada; now I intend to do so a second time. For you, Deirdre."
Shaking her head, she stared at him with suspicion. What was he trying to tell her? Should she believe him or was this another of his ploys intended to confuse her so he could, in some way, take advantage of her? As he had tried to do once before.
"I intend to wipe the slate clean,” he said, “to start afresh. I told you I fashioned the kite we flew in the park. That was a lie since it was Cunningham, one of my grooms, who happens to be far more clever than I with his hands, who did the actual work. I expect I told you a great many lies besides that one since I seem to have made deceit a habit, especially since I lost my faith in God."
Was Edward demented? Deirdre asked herself, unable to make sense of his ramblings about his deceit and his loss of faith. Perhaps she should suggest he consult Dr. Leicester.
"Look at me, Deirdre,” he demanded fiercely, his blue eyes glinting. “You love Clive Chadbourne,” he said flatly. “Pray stop shaking your head and admit the truth of what I say."
"I—I—” she began. No, she refused to answer. What right had he to ask such an astonishing and impertinent question? None at all.
"You need not answer, your feelings are all too obvious.” His voice sounded resigned. “I first suspected it at that unfortunate party welcoming Chadbourne home from the wars. I realized I was right when I saw the two of you together in the Pantheon. The way you looked at him spoke louder than any words."
"My feelings or lack of feelings for Clive,” she said stiffly, “are none of your concern."
He shrugged. “Because I suspected you loved him, I was rather puzzled when you accepted my invitation to go rowing on the Thames. I still am. Had you abandoned all hope where Chadbourne was concerned? I think not.” All at once Edward struck his open palm with his fist. “I have it, I see now what you were about. You meant to make a noble sacrifice of yourself for Chadbourne's sake, intending to draw my attention away from the overly flirtatious Phoebe. Am I right?"
Deirdre turned from him and opened the door. “I refuse to listen to any more of your nonsense."
He shook his head angrily. “What a fool you are, Deirdre."
She half expected him to stride to her, push her away from the door and slam it shut, imprisoning her in this room, but he did not. Instead he remained where he was, watching her intently.
"First you admit to deceiving me,” she said, “and now you insult me."
"I speak the truth. Why do I consider your behavior foolish? Because you intend to turn your back on me, on someone who not only understands you—I assure you I do understand you, Deirdre—but also someone who, precisely because he does understand you, has the ability to help you."
"I need no help. Not from anyone, but especially not from you, Lord Lounsbury."
"But you do, Deirdre, you do. For some reason, which I admit I have great difficulty fathoming, you feel a tenderness toward Clive Chadbourne, a man who is totally undeserving of you."
When she started to protest, he said, “Pray wait until I finish. Chadbourne has certain good qualities, I suppose, being handsome and heroic and all of that, but any man who would ask for the hand of Phoebe Langdon rather than Deirdre Darrington demonstrates a lack of something, call it good judgment or common sense or what-have-you."
"Phoebe is exceptionally beautiful."
Edward nodded toward a table of bric-a-brac. “And so is that blue vase, but I would hesitate to contemplate an intimate acquaintance with it. Phoebe is also inordinately selfish and self-satisfied to an astonishing degree. I happen to be a good judge of those particular characteristics since I possess both of them myself. Or I did until the last year or so when my experience in the New World taught me a few bitter lessons."
Deirdre sighed. “I admit I like Clive. I always have, ever since we were children together in Sussex."
"That may be, but the fact remains that I, Edward Fox, Marquess of Lounsbury, would make a much better match for you, Deirdre. If, that is, you prefer a bit of excitement and a touch of uncertainty instead of a future spent living happily ever after."
Deirdre smiled. “Do my ears deceive me or am I listening to a proposal of marriage?” she asked, trying to suggest by her light-hearted question that they were merely bantering.
"No, you are not, since I have regretfully abandoned the field to the undeserving Chadbourne. I do, however, intend to atone for my misdeeds by being your friend, by helping you whether you wish me to or not. But before you leave this room to return to bask in the adulation of the art lovers who have flocked to Turner's gallery to view your portrait, may I give you a word of advice, or rather several words of advice?"
"I imagine you will no matter what I may say."
"Quite right. My advice is this, Deirdre ... If you care for our friend Chadbourne as much as I suspect you do, you should make him aware of that fact as soon as you possibly can. I warn you, if you dither and dally much longer, as you appear wont to do, it will be too late."
CHAPTER 14
Following the exhibition of the portrait of Deirdre as the goddess Diana at Joseph Turner's gallery on Queen Anne Street
, life changed dramatically for all of the Darrington household. Both for the better and for the worse.
An unremitting stream of visitors made their way to the house, leaving behind cards as well as invitations to musical evenings, to balls, to teas, and to a wide variety of other soc
ial affairs. Even the patronesses of Almack's saw fit to succumb and Deirdre and, somewhat later, Phoebe, were welcomed to the Wednesday ball and supper, discovering, as one diner-out wrote:
"If once to Almack's you belong,
Like monarchs, you can do no wrong;
But banished thence on Wednesday night,
By Jove, you can do nothing right."
Deirdre's sudden fame also brought its share of tribulations. Strangers stared at her while she strolled with Alcida in the park and, more annoying, she was pressed for her opinion on a variety of subjects about which she knew little or nothing.
A well-known and talented artist had painted her portrait; the exhibition of that portrait had created a sensation, a ninety day's wonder, at first not only because of the mastery of the artist, Joseph Turner, in portraying a goddess possessed with a haunting beauty, but also as a result of the mystery surrounding his unknown model, a woman whose identity was not known even to Turner himself.
After her portrait found favor with the ton and Deirdre was revealed as the model, however, the ton in its wisdom decided that Deirdre Darrington's opinions on matters of current interest were to be valued more highly than the views of persons with actual knowledge of the subjects under discussion in this, the autumn of 1813. Not only were they valued, but they were endlessly repeated with the addition of personal commentaries both pro and con.
What, she was asked while attending a showing at the National Gallery, was her opinion of the feud between Madame de Stael and Lord Byron? And did she hold Byron's poetry in high regard or did she consider him over-rated?
She knew nothing of the feud, but in such matters she tended to side with the woman, even though she admitted to being an admirer of Lord Byron's verses.
At Almack's the questions centered on Beau Brummell. Would he ever regain the esteem of the Prince Regent after asking a mutual acquaintance, in the Regent's hearing, “Who's your fat friend?” And what of the Beau's insistence that a well-dressed gentleman should wear only blacks and whites, eschewing all color?