“I have every intention of having a good snooze,” Miss Smith agreed. “We’ll be up until all hours tonight.”
“Do you wait up until your Lady returns?” Tempera enquired.
“Of course!”
Both Miss Briggs and Miss Smith spoke at once and turned shocked faces towards her.
“You don’t suppose that her Ladyship could unbutton herself?” Miss Briggs asked scathingly. “And no good lady’s maid would allow a housemaid to interfere.”
“I waited up until six in the morning almost every night last time I was here,” Miss Smith said. “It was dawn before her Ladyship came home. Ridiculous, I thought it was, at her age!”
Miss Briggs laughed.
“You won’t get my Lady out of the Casino until she’s lost every penny she’s got on her, or they close the doors!”
“You must feel very tired next day,” Tempera said sympathetically.
“We do,” Miss Smith said tartly, “and that’s why, if you take my advice, Miss Riley, you’ll sleep whenever you get the opportunity. One thing about this place, the beds are comfortable, if nothing else!”
“I want another chair in my room,” Miss Briggs said, as if she was determined to find fault. “I’ve already asked one of the French maids for one, but she didn’t understand what I was saying. I’ll have to get Mr. Bates to speak to Colonel Anstruther. I don’t intend to be uncomfortable.”
Tempera thought with a smile they would neither of them be that, and when they disappeared in the direction of their rooms she went to her own but not to sleep.
In her luggage she had included her paint box and a small canvas that took up very little room.
She had enjoyed painting when her father was alive and he had encouraged her by paying for her to have lessons since she was old enough to hold a brush.
She had no illusions that she would ever be a great artist, but she loved painting and she knew because she had studied the methods of so many great masters that she could produce a pleasant and attractive picture.
She was determined that she would take back at least one memento of her time in the South of France, and putting on a wide-brimmed hat she slipped out of a side door and set out to explore the garden.
She had never imagined that anything could be so beautiful or so exquisite, but she was to learn later that the old Duke, having been compelled by his doctors in his old age to live in the South of France, had ordered plants from all over the world.
There were azaleas from the Himalayas and lilies from the West Indies, orchids from Malaya, besides a profusion of English flowers. These, especially the roses, the pansies and the aubrietia, became slightly over-blown and exotic in the semi-tropical climate.
As the gardens were built on the slope of a hill, it was easy to plan cascades pouring down from stone figures to fall into pools filled with water-lilies and goldfish and then to descend again into a water-garden circled with plants and ferns which had a strange beauty of their own.
There were dark cypress trees like sentinels to guard the way and quite unexpectedly there would be a marble statue glowing white against the darkness of the trees, evoking a memory of Ancient Greece.
Tempera found herself moving as if in a trance. Occasionally she passed gardeners busy weeding or replanting. They murmured, ‘Bonjour, M’mselle,’ and she answered them in their own language.
Then, when she was quite a long way from the Chateau she found herself in a small flower-garden where there was an herbaceous border against a stone wall covered with clematis.
The flowers attracted the attention of the butterflies and bees and formed such a lovely picture that as Tempera sat down on a marble seat she felt as if she was transported into a world that only her father would have understood.
She looked at the flowers immediately opposite her and knew this was what she must paint.
There were several lilies in bloom and beside them were pink roses so full and luscious that they reminded her of her stepmother.
With them were some delicate bell-shaped little flowers to which she could not put a name, but which had a fairylike lightness.
Tempera opened her paint-box and squeezed out the paint she required, then picked up her brushes.
She would have liked to have an easel to hold the small canvas, but instead she held it on her knee.
Then she started to paint.
She started at the top of the picture with the lily, then working swiftly she added the roses, and afterwards a number of other flowers.
She remembered to put in, with those she finished, as the Masters of flower paintings always did, the butterflies, the bees and the occasional drop of dew on a velvet petal.
Intent on what she was doing, painting because she loved it, longing to convey some of the beauty she saw onto her canvas, she forgot everything, even the time.
She had pulled off her hat because the seat on which she was sitting was in the shade, and because it was very warm she loosened the tight neck of her severe gown so that she could feel freer to concentrate on her work.
It must have been three hours later, perhaps more, when she heard a voice beside her say,
“That is very good!”
She started and turned her head, so startled from her concentration that for a moment it was hard to remember where she was and who was likely to be speaking to her.
Then she saw a gentleman, tall, square-shouldered and bare-headed in the sunshine, wearing a white suit and looking at her with a strange expression on his face.
He was exceedingly good looking, and yet at the same time there was something about him that told her he was not the usual type of man she had met before or indeed had ever thought of meeting.
There was something unmistakably different, and yet she was not sure what it was.
She looked at him, finding it hard to speak, feeling as if he had drawn her back from the heights where she had been for a time almost immortal.
They looked at each other for a long moment before the gentleman said,
“Let me see what you have done, and of course in the manner of De Heem or Bosschaert.”
“I would not – aspire so high,” Tempera answered, wondering why it was hard to find her voice. “It is – ‘as I can – but not as I – would.’”
The words came instinctively to her lips because Van Eyck’s exquisite picture was still in her mind. Then she saw the surprise in the gentleman’s expression and suddenly remembered who she was supposed to be.
“I – I am sorry,” she said in a low voice, “perhaps I should not be here?”
“Who are you?”
“I – lady’s maid to Lady Rothley.”
“Then you are also my guest,” the gentleman said, “and may I say I am delighted that you should wish to paint my flowers.”
Tempera’s eyes widened.
So this was the Duke! The Duke – and she had not realised it!
She rose to her feet and said a little incoherently,
“Again I must – beg Your Grace’s pardon – but I – did not – know who you – were.”
“There is no reason why you should,” the Duke answered, “but surely, if I may say so without sounding rude, yours is a somewhat unusual talent to find in a lady’s maid?”
As he spoke he looked down at her painting, then took it from her hands.
“I only paint to amuse myself, Your Grace.”
Tempera shut up her paint box as she spoke and picked up her hat.
“It is certainly something you should continue to do,” the Duke said, “and may I say I am surprised that you have chosen to immortalise my flowers. Most artists come here to paint the view.”
“Flowers are of course – easier,” Tempera said with a faint smile.
“I suspect that is not the real reason why you chose them,” the Duke answered.
Tempera had no answer to this and after a moment she said,
“I – think Your Grace – I should return to the – Chateau. Her L
adyship may need me.”
“Her Ladyship is still in Monte Carlo,” the Duke answered. “I returned alone because I dislike gambling. So if you wish to continue with your picture there is no hurry.”
“I think perhaps I should finish it another day,” Tempera replied, “that is if I am not – encroaching on Your Grace’s kindness by coming here.”
“My garden is yours,” the Duke said with a slight gesture, “and may I ask when you finish this picture if I may buy it from you?”
“No!”
Tempera spoke almost sharply because she was so surprised at his request.
He raised his eyebrows as if he was taken aback by the tone of her voice and she said hesitatingly,
“I am – very grateful for Your Grace’s generous impulse but I recognise my inadequacy as a painter – just as you are – well aware of it.”
The Duke smiled as if he understood what she was trying to say.
“If you compare your work with the masterpieces on my walls, then of course there is no equality,” he said. “But because you have painted this in my garden and because I would like a picture of my own flowers, I would be glad to purchase it.”
She looked away from him and after a moment he said in a different tone,
“Perhaps you will give it to me?”
Tempera did not answer and he added,
“Unless of course you intend it for someone dear to your heart?”
“No – there is no-one like that,” Tempera said quickly.
“Then may I have it?” the Duke asked insistently.
She could not understand why he persisted in wanting her picture and after a moment she said,
“If – it pleases Your Grace.”
“Then I am very grateful,” the Duke said, “and perhaps I may ask you to paint another part of the garden.”
Tempera shook her head.
“No?” he questioned. “But why?”
There was just the suspicion of a dimple at the corner of her mouth as Tempera answered “Because it is the only canvas I have, Your Grace, and I do – enjoy painting.”
He looked at her as if to see if she was serious, then said,
“Are you telling me that you intended to wipe this off and start again?”
“Exactly!” Tempera said. “It is what I always do with my pictures, which is why I leave no incriminating evidence of my – inadequacies behind me.”
“That is wrong – completely wrong!” the Duke exclaimed.
He handed her the canvas that he held in his hand.
“Here is your picture,” he said, “and I shall see that you have the means with which to complete several more while you are staying in my house.”
Tempera looked at him, not sure what she should say or do.
She could hardly believe there was anything reprehensible in accepting some canvases from the Duke as a present, and yet the whole conversation was something which she was sure should not have occurred.
It was not at all in keeping with the part she was playing.
“May I tell you that while I am a Patron of many of the Arts and in fact considered something of an authority,” the Duke said in an amused voice, “I think never before have I knowingly provided a blank canvas for an artist.”
“Then perhaps it is something Your Grace should – not do now,” Tempera said.
“Why not?” he asked. “I only ask one thing in return for what you call my generosity, and that is that I may see your pictures when you have finished them.”
“I would – much rather you did not – look at them.”
“I want to look at them. I think you have a very unusual talent, Miss – ?” He smiled, “You have not told me your name.”
“Tempera – ”
There was a little pause.
“ – Riley.”
“Tempera,” he repeated. “That is unusual, as everything else about you is unusual. I am sure there is no need for me to tell you that Tempera paintings were characterised by a brilliance and luminosity unequalled by the use of other media.”
“They are also less likely to crack than oil-paintings,” Tempera said, “but one can never be quite sure of it!”
Even as she spoke she thought it was extremely stupid of her not to have thought of changing her Christian name. Tempera was so obviously the sort of name that only an artist would give his daughter and she had been extremely indiscreet in answering the Duke without really considering what she was saying.
The Duke laughed then said reflectively,
“I have never before met anyone called Tempera. It is a delightful name and what I might have expected, Miss Riley, in someone so original as yourself.”
“I have no wish to be anything but conformable and to look after her Ladyship as she expects me to,” Tempera said. “It has been a great privilege, Your Grace, for me to come to the South of France and I hope that nothing I have said has seemed out of place or indeed – impertinent.”
“I should think neither of those things could apply to you, Miss Riley,” the Duke replied.
“Then I must thank Your Grace for the encouragement you have given me.”
Tempera curtsied as she spoke, turned and walked away along the twisting path among the cypress trees which would lead her eventually up to the Chateau.
As she went she had the feeling that the Duke’s eyes were following her and it was with difficulty that she forced herself not to look back.
Only when she was quite sure that she was out of sight did she ask herself how this could have happened.
How could she have spoken to the Duke of all people in such an easy, conversational manner?
If nothing else, he must have thought her a very strange lady’s maid, and that was something neither she nor her stepmother wished him to think.
“I wish I had not come,” Tempera said aloud.
She knew even as she spoke that she lied.
Chapter Three
By the time Tempera got back to the Chateau she felt her mind was in a whirl and it was difficult to think coherently. How could she have talked in such a manner to the Duke which, she felt, had been far too self-revealing?
Then she told herself there was no reason why he should connect her with her father, and after all it was possible for a lady’s maid, like other servants, to have a talent.
The thought was however not reassuring, and in the time that followed before Lady Rothley returned from Monte Carlo Tempera could only go over and over again her conversation with the Duke and wish that it had not happened.
He was undoubtedly the best-looking and the most attractive man she had ever seen, but as she had thought at first sight there was something else about him, something that she was sure would make him outstanding even in a room full of distinguished men.
Then she wondered if perhaps in her own mind she was associating him with his pictures and giving, him an aura he did not really deserve.
It was his father who had made the collection and it was to be expected that he should appreciate it. But that was not to say that he was on the same level as a connoisseur and authority like her father whose judgement had been respected all over the world.
If the Duke was a real connoisseur, Tempera tried to tell herself, he would not appreciate her amateurish painting. She looked at her unfinished canvas and knew that, while it was good, it could not in any way begin to emulate the Great Masters of flower pictures like Jan De Heem whom the Duke had mentioned.
She could copy them to a certain extent and her brushwork, because she had been taught by experts, was outstanding.
But she knew she had not the spark of genius which her father would search for when he was shown a painting so that he knew immediately whether it was genuine or a fake.
“I am a fake,” Tempera told herself and thought that was true in more than one way.
She was a fake painter and a fake lady’s maid. If the Duke was perceptive he would be aware of that.
She felt herself tremble
with sudden agitation.
If she had spoilt her stepmother’s chances of marrying the Duke she would never forgive herself.
She walked up and down in Lady Rothley’s bedroom and for the first time since she had entered the Chateau the view outside had no attraction for her.
All she was trying to find was some reasonable explanation that her stepmother could give if the Duke mentioned her, which she was sure was inevitable.
When Lady Rothley returned she was flushed and excited at how enjoyable the day had been.
“The Duke’s yacht is fantastic!” she said. “It is enormous, so comfortable and Monte Carlo is all I expected it to be. Oh, Tempera, I am enjoying myself!”
“The Duke came home alone.”
“How do you know?” Lady Rothley enquired. “He said he hated Monte Carlo and we left him on the yacht. When we had finished visiting the Casino there were carriages waiting to bring us back.”
Tempera drew in her breath.
“The Duke found me in the garden and spoke to me.”
“Did he?” Lady Rothley asked, quite unperturbed. “Now you have seen how attractive he is! There was another most delightful man at the Casino who is coming here to stay tomorrow.”
“I do not think you understand what I am trying to tell you, Belle-mère,” Tempera said slowly. “The Duke found me painting and I am sure he will think it a very odd accomplishment in a lady’s maid.”
“Why should you not paint if you want to?” Lady Rothley asked, studying her reflection in the mirror. “After all, lady’s maids embroider. I cannot see much difference between sewing and painting.”
“I am afraid that because I am your maid he might somehow connect me with Papa.”
“He has only mentioned your father once,” Lady Rothley said, “and that was to say that his father the old Duke had a great admiration for him. As a matter of fact I do not believe they ever met.”
“No, I was thinking that might be so,” Tempera said with a note of relief in her voice.
“It therefore follows he would not be interested in your father’s daughter,” Lady Rothley said. “Do not fuss, Tempera. If he thinks that you are interested in painting, it may make up for my deficiencies!”
She laughed as she spoke, but Tempera’s face was serious.
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