by Mary Nichols
‘Ladies,’ Frances said, wanting more than anything to change the subject. All this talk of the Duke was not helping her nerves at all. ‘I think we should not be speaking of his Grace in those terms, not when he has been so very generous.’
‘Quite right,’ Mrs Butterworth put in. ‘I have always found him most attentive and polite. I cannot believe he is anything but a doting papa.’ She turned to Frances and added to her discomfort by appealing to her. ‘Don’t you think so, Countess? You have seen him more often than any of us. He brings his daughter to you to be taught to draw, does he not?’
‘Yes,’ she said guardedly, remembering Percy’s report that the gossips said he used his daughter to visit her. The last thing she wanted to do was to feed the flames of that particular on dit. ‘He brings her, but he does not stay throughout the lesson. He comes to fetch her when it is finished.’
‘And how does he seem to you?’
How could she answer? She could say he was a monster, who still held her in thrall even when she professed to hate him. She could say he was conceited and arrogant and expected everyone to bow to his bidding simply because he was blessed with a title. She could say he was a gallant gentleman who was prepared to risk life and limb to save her from making a cake of herself. She smiled. ‘He is a considerate father, though doting is hardly the word I would have used. At any rate he means to prepare Lady Lavinia for her come-out as well as he is able.’
‘Oh, you would defend him, my lady.’ Mrs Harcourt said. ‘You have reason to.’
It was as much as Frances could do to remain civil. ‘I am sure I do not understand you,’ she said coldly.
The silly woman looked about her and, finding no support from the other stony-faced ladies, gave a trill of a laugh. ‘Why, I meant only that he must pay you for teaching his daughter…’
‘So he does, and if you were to look at the charity accounts, which is one of the reasons we have met here this afternoon, you will realise those payments go directly to our funds, which make us doubly indebted to the Duke.’
She hated herself for her defence of the man, but her inbred honesty forbade her to do anything else, and if it meant an end to that particular rumour, so much the better. She wished she knew why Mrs Harcourt seemed so antagonistic towards her; she had never, to her knowledge, done or said anything which could have upset her. It did nothing to soothe her troubled mind.
‘Oh, you have not upset her,’ Percy told her the next morning when they were riding. ‘But she was a particular confidante of the Duchess of Loscoe and she sees any slight to the duchess as a slight to herself.’
‘But I never met the Duchess in my life.’
‘No, but I have no doubt she felt wronged by you.’
‘Why, for goodness sake? If anything it was the other way about, though I have long recovered from it.’
He reined in a little to turn and look at her. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Most decidedly. I wish I could convince you.’
He smiled and moved on. ‘Oh, it is not me that needs convincing, my dear.’
‘Who, then?’ And when he did not answer, ‘You mean those abominable tattlers?’
‘Those too.’
‘Percy, you are speaking in riddles.’
‘I do not think so. If it were only the brewers of scandal-broth, I would have a solution.’
‘Oh, and what is that?’
‘Why, to marry me,’ he said offhandedly. ‘That would silence them, would it not?’
She looked up at him in surprise. He was looking straight ahead, his chin tucked into the high points if his collar. ‘Percy, I am persuaded you are roasting me.’
‘Why, of course I am.’ He gave a short chuckle. ‘I had to make you smile somehow, didn’t I? Your mood is far too sombre for such a lovely day.’ And with that he spurred his horse into a canter, so that she had perforce to follow.
But was he joking? As a jest it was not at all funny. But he would never consider marriage, not even to her, and certainly not to fetch her out of a bumblebath which was none of his making. But she ought to have at least pretended to take him seriously. Making fun of him must surely have dented his self-confidence. Her usual tact seemed to have deserted her since the Duke of Loscoe came to town. Drat him!
Chapter Five
By the time the Duke’s barouche, bearing his Grace and Lady Lavinia, rolled up to her door at exactly two o’clock that afternoon, Frances had talked herself into a more sensible frame of mind. She waited in the drawing room, wearing a day gown of pearl grey jaconet, with a high neck and long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, its only decoration a deep flounce at the hem. It was, of course, superbly cut, but for all that, very plain and almost matronly. Her matching pelisse and bonnet of straw ruched with lilac silk were both becomingly simple. It was the image she intended to convey.
‘His Grace, the Duke of Loscoe,’ Creeley announced in ringing tones, and almost before the last word was out, the Duke was in the room, had swept off his high-crowned hat and was executing an exaggerated leg, which made her want to laugh, but his formality set the tone, and so she rose to make a deep curtsy.
‘Your Grace.’
‘My lady, your obedient.’ He was, she noted as he handed her up, the picture of elegance. His superbly tailored green superfine coat, which could only have been crafted by Weston, his aquamarine waistcoat, cambric shirt, close-fitting white pantaloons and tasselled hessians, proclaimed him the very top-of-the-trees man about town, even without his mathematically tied cravat. He was awesome.
‘Where is Lady Lavinia?’ she enquired, wondering if he had left his daughter at home, for she had not followed him into the room. The thought that he might want to spend the afternoon with her without a chaperon, made her catch her breath, but only for a moment before she dismissed the idea as ludicrous and was securely in control again.
‘She remained in the carriage. I saw no point in bringing her in, when we are to set off again immediately.’
‘No, you are right. Let us go, then.’
With a straight back and her head held up, she led the way out to the carriage. It had been finished in dark green with the Loscoe arms emblazoned on each door. The horses were perfectly matched and shining with good health. Seeing his passengers approaching, the coachman left their heads to open the door and let down the step.
‘I took the liberty of asking Mr Turner to be our guide,’ Marcus said, putting his hand under her elbow to help her up the step. ‘We are to meet him at the Academy. I hope you approve.’
Joseph Turner! She could hardly believe the great man would deign to act as a guide, but then, if you are the Duke of Loscoe, all things are possible. ‘Naturally, I approve. It will be a singular honour and I am sure Lavinia will benefit from his wisdom,’ she said, settling herself beside her pupil. ‘It was very thoughtful of you to think of it.’
He took the facing seat, aware that his knees were almost touching hers, and though she tried to hitch herself back, there was no room to do so. She was very cool, he noted, almost frosty, as if any kind of intimacy with him was repugnant. Well, icicles could be thawed with a little warmth, though why he felt he had to melt this one he could not say.
He smiled at her as the carriage moved off, and though her lips curved a little in response, it was not exactly a smile and it certainly did not reach her eyes, which remained wary, as if she were a small wild creature suspicious of the hand of friendship. She had no reason to be suspicious of him, he thought, he meant her no harm, never had done. He had once truly loved her and, though that could not signify now, it must surely have meant something to her at the time. Had she still not forgiven him? And if she had not, why had she accepted his commission? Was it for money? She had admitted she needed it. Or was there something else, the wish to revenge herself, to make him squirm? If that were so, she would soon learn her mistake; he was not the squirming kind.
The journey took no more than a few minutes and they were soon standing together on the footp
ath outside the Academy. Marcus bade the coachman return in two hours before escorting the ladies into the gallery, where Mr Turner came forward to meet them.
He was an elderly gentleman, not very big, with a swarthy complexion and piercing dark eyes. He was dressed in a black tailcoat which looked too big for him and old-fashioned black breeches. His fingers were paint-stained, as if he had only recently been at work on one of his masterpieces. ‘Have you anything particular you wish to see, your Grace?’ he asked, after Marcus had introduced his companions.
‘No, we are in your hands.’
Under his tutelage, they moved from room to room, studying portraits, landscapes and examples of still life executed by artists from Holland, Belgium and Italy. He extolled the virtues of each, explaining how and why they came to be painted and why they had found a place on the walls of the Academy. His comments were pithy and Frances listened in fascination to all he had to say.
When they moved on, he paused before one of a pair of hers, which had been so fortunate as to be hung on a wall in one of the upper rooms.
‘Now this one is called Autumn,’ he said, pointing at one of them. ‘You will note the splendid colouring of the leaves, russet and yellow and gold, all hues to be found at that time of year; one can almost feel and smell the decay in the air and on the ground where the dead leaves have fallen among the toadstools. And see the clever way the wind is depicted, how the branches of the trees strain against it and how the swirl of the clouds presages a storm.’
‘And the artist?’ Marcus asked, though he was fairly sure he knew. The brushstrokes were so very much her own.
‘It is one of Frances Corringham’s,’ he said, peering short-sightedly at her signature. ‘Some say the better of the two, though many prefer this one.’ And he pointed to Winter. ‘It is the same scene, you will note, but now we are in the depths of winter. There is snow upon the ground and one’s eye is drawn to the footsteps of an animal…’
‘A fox’s,’ Frances said, realising, with some amusement, that he had not been listening when Marcus introduced her and had no idea who she was.
‘Quite,’ he agreed. ‘A fox has been through the wood and his trail leads off into the distance. The perspective and attention to detail are truly remarkable. The trees are bare and you can almost see the individual crystals in the frost on the branches. Now there is no wind, all is still and silent.’
‘How do you know it is silent?’ Lavinia demanded suddenly. ‘The fox could easily be howling somewhere.’
Their guide did not like having his flow interrupted and gave her a withering look. ‘The painting itself is all silence.’
‘Naturally it is,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Paint and canvas cannot utter a sound.’
‘Lavinia!’ her father muttered. ‘You are being disrespectful.’
‘You do not think a picture can speak?’ Frances asked her.
‘No, such a thing is absurd.’
‘One must feel it, here,’ their guide said, putting his hand to his chest. ‘The heart of the artist is in the paint and it is the heart that speaks.’
‘And what does this say to you?’ Marcus asked, with a smile. He could have been humouring their guide, but Frances felt he was more likely trying to tease her into saying something about the picture herself. But as Mr Turner was saying enough for both of them, she remained silent.
‘It speaks of cold and death, but also of renewal. There is beauty even in death and a promise of new life in the tiny snowdrops you see blooming under the trees. The week before they were not there, the week after they will be gone along with the snow and then spring in all its glory will colour the landscape. So it is with all our lives.’
‘Did I mean to say all that?’ Frances whispered to Marcus and watched his lips twitch.
‘Apparently you did,’ he murmured. Aloud he asked, ‘Is there one of spring?’
The picture of winter was indeed cold, he mused, cold as she was. All the time they had been slowly moving from room to room, painting to painting, she had hardly spoken, certainly had not smiled. He longed for spring, its rebirth, the burgeoning of new life, new beginnings. My God! he thought, was that really what he wanted?
‘Alas, no,’ Mr Turner answered him. ‘Perhaps the artist is engaged on it now.’
‘Pity. I should have liked to see it.’
‘Let us move on,’ Frances said, more embarrassed than ever. ‘Let us see what other exhibits have to tell us.’
‘Very well,’ their guide said, leading the way to another series of rooms. ‘Let us consider the English masters.’
They stopped to admire the works of Romney, Lawrence and Constable, pictures of horses by George Stubbs which managed to engage Lavinia’s attention for a short time, portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Francis Coates and Gainsborough and the street scenes of William Hogarth, whose striking images were more like caricatures than representative of real people. But the message they conveyed was self-evident.
‘Ugh! How horrible!’ was Lavinia’s comment on coming before one which depicted a mother, drunk on gin, dropping her baby on its head. ‘Poor child!’
‘Ah, then you will admit that the picture speaks to you?’ Frances queried with a smile.
Marcus laughed. ‘Her ladyship has you there, Vinny,’ he said.
‘No, I did not admit to it speaking, only that it makes me think. Either the artist was a man with a very strange imagination or such things really happened. But if they did, why paint them? Are pictures not meant to be for the enjoyment, not the disgust, of the beholder?’
‘Not necessarily enjoyment, Lady Lavinia,’ Frances answered. ‘They can also be used for education and enlightenment. One picture is worth a thousand words.’
‘Oh, to be sure, I have already deduced that much,’ she said. ‘Why else am I brought here?’
‘And what have you learned?’
‘I have learned to question,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Frances said. ‘That is all I ask.’
‘Then let us repair to Grillon’s for tea,’ Marcus put in. ‘We have been here above two hours and my head is spinning.’
And so they returned to the carriage which took them to the hotel in Albemarle Street, where Marcus ordered tea with honey and almond cakes.
Frances was surprised how pleasant an interlude it was. Though Lavinia had little to say, her father made up for it with a joviality he had not exhibited before. He was polite and amusing and several times had Frances laughing with some tale of the haut monde or the story of a farrago at Risley, involving the local inhabitants. He was an unexpectedly good mimic and could take off most of the well-known characters of the ton with tolerable ease and his command of the Derbyshire dialect was remarkable.
He was, she realised with a jerk on her heartstrings, more like the Marcus she had known and loved seventeen years before than the stiff-necked aristocrat who had rescued her from the ruffians in the market and who thought he could hand out orders and would be instantly obeyed.
Tea over, they returned to the carriage and were driven to Corringham House, where he bade her goodbye on the step, explaining when she invited him in for further refreshment that he had an evening engagement and must reluctantly return home to change before going out again. She said she quite understood and thanked him civilly for his escort, before confirming that she would expect Lady Lavinia for her next lesson two days hence.
She watched him climb back into the carriage and shut the door before turning slowly and entering the house. What a puzzle he was turning out to be! From being a sombre and bad-tempered man, throwing his orders out and bullying his daughter, he had, in the space of a few hours, turned into a model of everything a gentleman escort ought to be. After she had determined to treat him with cool disdain, he had quite spiked her guns.
But it would make teaching Lavinia easier, she decided, as she went up to her room to change, ready for a visit to the theatre. She was going to the theatre with Percy and she was looking forward to
it. With Percy she could be at ease, did not have to watch every word she uttered lest it be misinterpreted. True, he did not make her limbs ache with longing, but he could make her laugh. She was reminded of his proposal. Was that meant to be a jest? Or did he really expect her to give it some serious thought and give him an answer?
She wondered if Marcus might also be at the theatre, but when she was settled in her seat and had time to look around her before the curtain went up, she decided he was not one of the audience and chided herself for continuing to think he must, of necessity, be everywhere she went. The play, a musical satire set in the time of the Regent’s grandfather, was perhaps not to his taste and his engagement was probably at his club or some gambling hell, though she had never thought of him as a gambler. But then, did she know him at all? Did she know the real man, the one who dwelt beneath the façade he showed to the world?
One short summer, when you are seventeen and in love, did not constitute a basis for good judgement of a man’s true character. Why, she had been married to the Earl of Corringham for ten years and she knew very little more of him at the end of that time than she had at the beginning. Oh, she knew his preferences for food and that he liked orderliness, but not much more. A man used to keeping himself close could hide his real nature very easily. She shook herself as the orchestra began the overture and the curtain was raised.
Concentrate on the performance, she told herself sternly, and took her own advice. Percy was an amenable escort and he did not mention his proposal again and she hoped he had forgotten ever making it. At the end of the evening he escorted her home and bade her goodnight on the doorstep, urbane as ever.
She was surprised the following afternoon, on returning home after a visit to the orphanage, to receive a letter from the secretary of the Royal Academy telling her that both her pictures had been bought and that the anonymous buyer, who had paid what was asked without a quibble, desired her to paint Spring and Summer.