Good lord, this woman, oh yes, the girl’s godmother, knew what she was about. Crispin hadn’t given a proper thought to the requirements of the piece. He didn’t expect to win. Perhaps he wouldn’t even enter the work. However, as an opportunity for a week or two of idleness, or rather indulgence, doing what he loved most, he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. As long as his father had no idea what he was actually doing, Crispin could look upon this week as a necessary holiday before the hard work of his career began.
“Whatever Miss Montague wishes,” he said, remembering she had little in the way of a wardrobe. And as Miss Montague would look lovely in whatever she chose, he didn’t want to embarrass her over her impecuniousness.
“And when would you like us to return?”
Crispin felt like a ten-year-old, the way he was being spoken to. He hoped Lady Vernon didn’t always insist on being present, though he supposed it was necessary. He certainly didn’t want to be responsible for anyone casting aspersions on Miss Montague’s good character. In fact, he rather liked the idea of aiding her in her quest to find herself a better match through his painting. A painting that would advertise her beauty to the world. A noble cause.
This would be a week of wicked indulgence for him when painting had been long forbidden. But it would be a means to elevate Miss Montague’s chances in the world.
An image flashed through his mind of the dead girl. Miss Montague would be his chance to atone for the past. He could improve her future prospects, and hopefully, because of him, see her enjoy prosperity and happiness rather than a cruel and impoverished destiny.
“Tomorrow.” He flexed his fingers, remembering how deft his hands were when he had a project that fired him up. “At noon.” He closed his eyes briefly and imagined the leisurely morning he would have constructing the scene in his head that he would paint. “And bring something warm. It might be a long evening.”
He would have to scout out a suitable spot by the lake in which to paint her. He’d have her in position when the sun went down, burnishing her hair with gold, while the long shadows turned her skin to toasted alabaster.
Chapter 11
The White Swan was a comfortable and respectable country inn. Fortunately Faith had her own bed chamber and had slept surprisingly well before she was disturbed by the knock on the door that heralded the start of her mission.
However, she was suitably docile as Lady Vernon selected her wardrobe. In fact, she barely troubled herself with any of the decisions associated with her sojourn as she sat up in bed reading the final of Victor Hugo’s essays. She’d found them instructive, even compelling reading, and was rather looking forward to discussing them with Mr Westaway. That is, if he’d really read them. Many times she’d caught out a gentleman in a lie. In her younger days at Madame Chambon’s when she’d served the girls refreshments as they’d entertained gentlemen in the drawing room, she’d overhear some pink of the ton boast of a literary accomplishment, only to discover, upon listening further, that it was likely he’d never truly read the book.
She tried to stifle her fears for the future. For any possibility of failure.
Now that she’d progressed to the stage where Mr Westaway wanted to paint her, and she’d be in his company for at least a week, she had to play her cards right.
Overcoming any physical barriers on her part would not be a problem. She was confident she liked him enough to do what she needed to.
Overcoming any gentlemanly restraint on his part would be the challenge.
Yes, she’d seen the admiration in his eyes that she was confident could be attributed to enthusiasm for his project on a number of fronts. But would he be easily persuaded to kiss her?
If she could manage just that, then she hoped matters would progress as Mrs Gedge required.
Her ugly encounter with Lord Harkom had put things into perspective. He was a violent brute.
Therefore losing her virginity to Mr Westaway didn’t trouble Faith too much if it meant she gained her freedom.
Having heard the primal grunts and cries of release through the thin walls at Madame Chambon’s for so many years, the sexual act held little interest and certainly no appeal. It was simply a means to an end.
A way for Faith to gain her independence and be free of Mrs Gedge and Madame Chambon.
And that detestable cockroach, Lady Vernon.
“The blue, I think.”
She could hear Lady Vernon muttering under her breath as if the decision were of the utmost importance. “The colour of forget-me-nots. An innocent colour; a simple yet alluring gown. Ah, my dear, he won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
This brought Faith’s head up with a jerk. When Lady Vernon turned back to her, her minder was all innocence herself, as if she’d never spoken of Faith in such terms.
“Are you ready? No, ten minutes longer, I think. We need to keep him waiting. Increase his impatience because you need to trade on every advantage. You are the supplicant, after all. The penniless creature who needs his good offices, yet you need to shore up your power. Impatience is the way to play the game, my dear, though I’ve no doubt Madame Chambon has taught you all the tricks of the trade.”
Faith stretched and put her feet on the floor but made no answer. The less she told Lady Vernon the better, and besides, she was hardly about to divulge such matters of a personal nature. That yes, for years Madame Chambon had included Faith in the regular sessions that acquainted her girls with a myriad of ways to whip up a man’s desire. Innocent things like the feather-light touch of fingertips grazing exposed flesh, a flare of promise at odds with demurely lowered lashes.
Once, Faith had been required to sit in on a lecture-like session involving a handsome, well-built young man, who’d reclined on a bed and exhibited to the newest and most innocent of Madame Chambon’s recruits the astonishing ways in which a man’s body reacted to certain stimuli.
Intrigued and horrified in equal measure, Faith, fortunately, never had to return to a similar lesson after she’d communicated her disgust to Mrs Gedge one afternoon tea at the Dorchester. Clearly, Mrs Gedge considered she was behaving with proper moral rectitude by simply housing Faith without requiring her to be a participant in the less savoury dealings of the household.
Mrs Gedge was biding her time for when she needed Faith and Faith’s pristine innocence to do her bidding.
Finally, it was time to go, Faith feeling like an obedient little lapdog, beautifully brushed and prepared for her afternoon encounter.
They found Mr Westaway in the garden, all impatience as he grasped his paintbrush and paced back and forth by the rhododendron bushes staring at the sky.
“Lady Vernon, Miss Montague.” He swept them a bow and then led Faith to an arbour amidst the trees and bushes where he invited her to sit. She could sense his urgency for something which he believed was purer than it was. She saw, also, Lady Vernon’s secret smile of satisfaction, but all Faith could recognise in Mr Westaway’s manner was his desire to fulfil an artistic challenge. Nothing more.
Concerning. She’d have to use everything she had at her disposal to change that.
“I’ve laid out a blanket and a cushion for your comfort though I’ll paint them out in the final rendition.”
Faith shrugged. “I don’t mind doing without such comforts if it’ll make your life easier.” Easy to please. She’d start with that.
“You may need to remain still for up to three hours.” His brows arched as if surprised by a thought that hadn’t occurred to him. “I’ve been told you’re practised at keeping still for long periods of time, Miss Montague?”
“Three hours is a trifle,” she assured him though secretly horrified at the prospect. But if this was necessary to please Mr Westaway, she’d gladly start with three hours of boredom.
Except that it wasn’t the kind of boredom or discomfort she’d expected. Yes, bees buzzed a little too close sometimes, and the odd beetle crossed her flesh and made her cry out in surpr
ise, but that just lightened the mood unexpectedly. And soon she and Mr Westaway were laughing companionably as Lady Vernon snored gently in a chair beneath the overhanging branches of an ancient elm tree.
“Stay! Just like that!” The sudden imperative was out of keeping with the earlier tone, but Faith recognised artistic passion when she heard it. She also proved adept at complying just as her benefactor had obviously wished judging by the gleam in his eye. Faith lay prone, relaxed upon the grass, her head resting on her arm and supported by her elbow, her expression enigmatic. Yes, enigmatic was what he wanted and apparently Faith did it well.
“Keep looking like that,” he murmured, moving away from his easel and kneeling at her side to tweak a fold of her forget-me-not skirts that the breeze had moved slightly. His expression was intense, his frown of concentration when he got closer suggesting that what he was about to do was of the greatest import.
To touch a fold of forget-me-not cotton twill?
A surge of pique made her shift position though she hid her frown.
He was not looking at her. She was an object. Not an object of lustful desire as Mrs Gedge would have her but upholding the same degree of value to him as if she were inanimate. A Sèvres vase, perhaps?
She was more discomposed by the realisation than she’d expected. After all, it wasn’t as if she desired to be desired. She didn’t. Yet, nor could she fail at her task.
Her task to make him fall in love with her.
But there was nothing in his eyes to suggest she might even come close.
As his fingers smoothed a fold of her skirt, she gasped, as if stung, and rolled onto her back and away from his hand while he blinked in surprise and said, “I suppose I should have warned you I was going to touch you.” He reddened. “I mean, touch your dress. Make it look exactly as it did before the breeze disturbed it. I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken,” she murmured, reddening also. How interesting that she could simulate these innocent responses when she didn’t feel embarrassed in the slightest. Merely a little frustrated that she was taking so long to elicit from him any kind of interest. She pressed her lips together. He was still on his knees beside her as he tried to explain. “I truly am sorry. Something happens to me when I paint. And it’s been so long I’d forgotten how intense I can be.”
His laugh sounded forced as he rose and returned to the easel where he spent a long time mixing paints and staring at the result, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Finally, he glanced at her from around the canvas. “It’s probably why my father detests my passion. He sees I can have no sensible thought in my mind when I am so preoccupied.”
“What does he consider sensible?”
“The security of England. The possibility of a threat from Germany. Assessing that threat. Mitigating it. Diplomacy.” Now his laugh was more genuine, though self-effacing. “None of the kinds of things a young lady like you would trouble herself about.”
Faith closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun while all the book learning she’d acquired floated through her mind. She’d been surprised to discover how much she loved history. Her tutor had loved politics, and the result was that she was often engaged in a series of spirited discussions on various topics in the old man’s musty little study in Maida Vale. Including the increasing threat posed by Germany.
“Your father was a diplomat, wasn’t he?” Faith didn’t want to look at Mr Westaway while she formulated her words. If she couldn’t impress him with her beauty, Mrs Gedge’s hope was that Faith would interest him with her mind.
“He was, and I am to follow in his footsteps.”
“He wants you to be just like him?”
There was a silence, and Faith opened her eyes to see him looking intently at her. “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “He does.”
Clearly, Mr Westaway wasn’t enamoured by the idea.
“I daresay you discuss these matters with him,” Faith went on innocently. “France’s shattering defeat by Prussia a few years ago, for example. Do you think that means that France has been supplanted as a threat by a new potential enemy? Should we be worried?” She gazed at Mr Westaway with her most disarming half smile. Some men couldn’t resist the combination of a young girl’s innocent desire to impress, at the same time as be educated, she had learned.
He opened his mouth to reply but she wanted to push her advantage while she had it, going on quickly, “Germany is efficient, militaristic, ruthless, and ambitious. Of course, we should be worried, shouldn’t we, Mr Westaway? Your job is to reduce the risk to our country through gathering information, but of course you have to be discreet. Your father would want you to be as vigilant in your attention to detail as a diplomat as you clearly are as an artist.”
Crispin nearly dropped his paintbrush. Was this the same young woman whose quiet, artistic posture had first attracted his interest? She’d stood out from the many other debutantes that night on account of the plainness of her attire, which contrasted with her beauty. She had been unleashed upon society in the hopes of finding a husband who might see her looks as compensating for her material deficiencies, and Crispin had taken pity on her for no other reason than that she made a good model when he suddenly had the opportunity to paint.
A clandestine activity because it bore no relation to his work. His all-important work for which he’d been groomed since childhood—to follow his father into the diplomatic service.
Yet in a few sentences, she’d succinctly summarised the situation with which he and his father had grappled during long dinner conversations these past months.
He wished his father could have heard Miss Montague speak just now.
And then remembered his father must never know of Miss Montague’s existence or the fact that Crispin was painting.
“You have a remarkable grasp on the situation, Miss Montague,” he allowed. “Where did you pick up such information?”
“I read a lot.”
Her face was turned up to the sun, and her lids had drifted sleepily closed while a contented smile played about her lips. In her hands, she held a small posy of flowers he’d placed there for artistic value. Now, as he gazed at her, he was struck by a sensation he was completely unable to identify. He frowned as his eyes roamed the length of her. She was a beauty, and she seemed entirely unaware of the fact.
What else was in that mind of hers? He could wonder for it went without saying that any other part of her was out of bounds.
Into the lengthening silence, she volunteered on a small sigh, “There’s not much a girl like me can do except read…and do other people’s bidding.” She blinked open her eyes suddenly and smiled. It was like a shadow giving way to the sun. Her eyes were pools of crystal water; her skin dew-brushed petals.
“Don’t move!” he cried again, dipping his paintbrush into a blob of colour on the palette. “Keep smiling. You don’t smile enough. Yes, that was the problem before.”
Feverishly he returned to work. He’d thought a pensive creature suited the mood of what he sought to recreate. But that was before her lightness had transformed his work. His world. She was all vibrancy and life, not a half-dead creature lying languidly amongst the grass. Not a girl living a half life, burdened by a destiny that would not be of her choosing. He’d not thought any of this, but it flashed through his mind in a blinding maelstrom of insight—replacing in the vacuum left behind only the fear that he hadn’t the talent to capture the exquisite purity, the joyful radiance of a young woman, in that moment, uninhibited and alive.
She gave him a few minutes to satisfy the call of genius and then said lightly, “Ah, but I thought the problem was that you were too serious, Mr Westaway. I was afraid I’d fall in your estimation if I allowed my frivolous nature to reveal itself.”
She was teasing him. The chit of a girl so beneath him in age, station, and everything else was smiling her amusement with all the consummate confidence of a dowager holding forth in a salon.
He returned her smile, but beneath the veneer of a sudden shared camaraderie, lurked an uncomfortable realisation that she was becoming just a little too interesting.
He’d have to bring the session to an early finish.
“Thank you, Miss Montague.”
Her mouth dropped open as he nodded, suddenly brisk as he began to clean his brushes. He was sorry his words sounded unaccountably clipped and tried to ameliorate with a smile any sense she might have that he was displeased with her.
“You have been a wonderful subject.”
“Surely, you’ve not finished the painting, Mr Westaway? May I look?” Once she’d got over her surprise, her good nature seemed to have returned, and he was grateful. Relations between them must be utterly proper, verging on formal even—if he were to do what he had to do. Paint the picture that would satisfy his artistic urges, so he could do his father’s bidding and concentrate on more important matters in the world.
“Of course, though it is very raw in its current form.”
He was too conscious of her closeness when she came to stand beside him, pointing out various flourishes she liked, admiring the work that fed his desperate need to be recognised for what was most important to him in the world—his art.
He stepped away slightly and glanced from the beautiful, smiling girl whose head came up just above his shoulder, to the withered, sleeping woman in the wicker chair beneath the apple tree. The contrast between the two suddenly overwhelmed him with possibilities, and without thinking, he put his hands on her shoulders to move her into a position in the foreground where her youthful bloom would shine as the subject, and the old woman in the background, surrounded by fallen apples, would be the juxtaposition.
Fuelled by artistic excitement, he cupped her cheek. Smooth. The essence of eternal youth. Her halo of golden hair would complete the picture. It would be better than anything he’d done. His head throbbed with excitement, and unconsciously, he stroked the beautifully rendered contours of her brow, nose, and cheek. Her lips. Yes…this was the angle.
Keeping Faith Page 7