As he was preparing his gear and clothing to leave, there was knock on his door. Rebecca came in at the sound of his voice.
“Sir,” she said, “I have another effort of my own that you may be interested to see. And I’d like your opinion of it.”
“Certainly, Rebecca.” He turned enthusiastically toward her. She unveiled yet another painting, a portrait.
It was a portrait of herself, painted in a pose similar to his own portrait. But the face occupied much more of the canvas, as if to reverse the English tradition displaying chiefly garment or drapery and setting. The portrait showed none of that common ambition to look, in pose and the latest emblems of gentility, like one’s aristocratic betters. Nor had the girl produced a literal transposition of herself, or of his painting of her; nor was there any familiar formality—the etiquette and posture of polite society—about the demeanor. The portrait, the face in particular, was alive with the energy he had come to expect, as if her very soul suffused the girlish figure on the canvas. It was so superior to his own (yet so much more strange) that he had to check his rage. His perfect day was to be ruined. His success was to be undercut.
Not that he believed the Brownes would prefer her painting to his. No, but she had affronted his painterly vanity. She had captured an antic vivacity. She had evoked . . . he could think of no other word in the heat of the moment . . . an “otherworldliness.”
“Why have you done this?” he said. His voice sounded desperate even to himself.
“Sir?” she said, looking wounded. “I thought you would approve. I thought you found me, my paintings . . . remarkable.”
He didn’t speak. Was she mocking him? He suppressed a sudden urge to strike her. The Brownes were sending her away. Perhaps there was reason. But he would do nothing to put the family off him.
“Sir?” she finally repeated.
“I must leave,” he said, trying to contain himself. “Immediately. I have rooms to get, and my dinner. I have other work to do.” This latter was of course a lie; he had no other commissions in Portsmouth. He picked up his bags and walked past her. “Good day, Miss Browne.”
When he glanced back, she was standing in the doorway to his room with an utterly confused look on her face, and more than a trace of sorrow.
Chapter 4
AS HE WAS LEAVING, he encountered the governess Miss Norris, who approached him in a kindly, interested manner. He asked whether she could recommend an inexpensive private room. She was pleased to suggest one Widow McCullough, so he was in luck. A small room on the top floor, its single window facing the wharves over sunlit rooftops.
He unpacked his bags and sat looking out his window, getting his bearings and wondering about this child he had painted. He saw now that he had not captured a shred of her strangeness in his portrait. Would he paint a different portrait of her, given another opportunity? Who was she, really? The family was sending her away, yet they were fond enough of her to go to some expense to arrange for her portrait. Where, how, had she acquired her eccentric yet undeniable gifts? And why had she mocked him with a portrait of her own?
As he sat facing his window he grew more convinced that she had intended to show him just how dull he was. She had mocked him! Of course she had. But why should he care about a mere child’s opinion? He was an academy-trained artist. His portraits were perfectly acceptable to responsible well-bred adults, not merely to men and women in the middle stations of life, as might be pleased by some raw dauber, but to men and women of figure. Why this silly anger at the child then? In fact, the more he thought it over, he found his anger at her effrontery diminishing. It was good to be out of her house. And he was growing hungry for his dinner. He would need to be busy garnering new commissions or return soon to Boston.
He changed into a clean Holland shirt and neck cloth and put on his coat. He looked in the small glass he carried and retied his hair. It was a matter of pride to him that he wore his own abundant brown hair. And why should he—a young man of accomplishment—not be allowed a minor eccentricity? Moreover, he had learned gradually that top people seem to appreciate a plainness of presentation in clothing and hair, a simple elegance unlike their own operatic display. And then, too, they preferred a degree of cultivation. In short, a modest personal presentability seemed to earn their trust, assure their own sense of position, and smooth their delicacies of taste as to the acceptability of associates beneath them. He was, after all, to be entering their homes and spending hours in their company.
Once upon the street he entered the first respectable-looking tavern he came to. He took a seat and began to feel pleased with himself again. Cod and potatoes, and plenty of cider. He would have to advertise, he was thinking. And he would send the Brownes his card with his new address written in, as he had promised. If he could find work within the week, or at most a fortnight, he could stay on. He might well continue the good fortune that had brought him here. And why not?
The afternoon crowd was arriving in small groups; from his corner seat he enjoyed watching and speculating about these people in his newfound home. He was already beginning to think of Portsmouth that way. A good sign, he told himself. He finished his dinner, paid his bill, and went back out into the street bathed in afternoon sunshine. He decided to explore a bit. He would start with the port itself, the wharves and docks—the source of all this wealth. He would see just how it was being done here.
Walking along the water on busy Dock Lane he crossed the swing bridge over the mill creek, noted well the gravid ships at anchor and others upon stocks, met the road from town entering Pickering’s Neck, and returned north on that highway past the pound and gallows toward the Parade and market. When he reached the main highway, Graffort’s Lane, he followed it back to the waterfront. He thereby discovered that the town’s four main streets met in a perfect cross. And that the town itself, situated on a rise of ground overlooking the great tidal river and harbor, afforded a prospect of the surrounding country on all sides. Radiating from these main roads of about thirty feet in width were many irregular and crooked byways, perhaps ten feet wide, with dwellings and with vacant lots used as gardens. He found shops and taverns and many large houses, well sashed and glazed, often of three stories—comforting signs of the wealth he hoped would support him. He had passed two independent meetinghouses and, finally, upon heading north along the waterfront, the Established Church. All these were built of wood and well spired, which spires he recalled observing as he had approached from the sea.
Within an hour he found himself in a tavern again, but this one in a more shabby side street of slop shops and tippling houses. It was filled with seamen, common laborers, and, he suspected, jump-ship sailors and troopers—and even a servant or apprentice enjoying his illegal grog. But he had always been able to travel in all company, so the clientele didn’t trouble him. He took a seat at a table where a mild-looking older man nursed his mug of toddy, his dinner dish pushed aside. A pretty yet unkempt serving woman asked whether Sanborn would like dinner, but he asked only for a pitcher of flip, indicating he wished to share it with his table mate. She removed the man’s empty dishes.
The man nodded to him when she left.
“Good-day to you, sir,” Sanborn said. He smiled. “And a fine day it truly is,” he added. The man nodded again in agreement.
They looked about the establishment for a moment without further exchange, as if they were friendly acquaintances assessing the comforts and possibilities of their circumstances. There was a considerable hubbub of laughter and coarse talk and gesture. He rather liked the feeling of the place.
The serving woman arrived, placed a mug before Sanborn and a full pitcher between the men, took his coin, and left behind a scent of stale perspiration and something else. Sour bed linen? He couldn’t quite identify it. He looked after the woman as she left, and his table companion snickered in a knowing manner.
“Not as sweet as some, mind you,” he said, “but a good rough go for all that.”
T
hey laughed companionably.
“Daniel Sanborn, sir, and happy to make your acquaintance.” He stuck out his hand.
“Jeremy Weeks,” his companion said. “A pleasure, Mr. Sanborn. New to the port?”
“Indeed, Mr. Weeks. Is it so plain?” They smiled at one another. “I’ve been here but four days and have taken a room at Mrs. McCullough’s. I toured the wharves just now. Boston does not put you to shame.”
“You’re from Boston then?”
“Yes, recently. From London just several months now.”
“In the shipping trade?”
“No. I’m a traveler, sir. Looking to settle. I’m a painter of portraits.”
“Portraits is it? Well that’s a scheme.”
“And yourself, sir?”
“I keep certain of the account books for the customs house, trying to keep my betters honest.” He grinned. “Before that, many years as a third mate. West Indies trade.” He grew wistful. “I’ve spent my life in the middle.”
Sanborn raised his mug. “To the eternal middle,” he said. “It cannot be an easy task, that.”
“Scrutinizing my betters?” He laughed. “Not so easy, sir. But I know most of the tricks, have helped more than one ship’s master in my former years ‘exercise his prerogative,’ as we used to say. But now I keep an eye after the king’s business. There’s no respite for such as me, what with illegal timber operations and dodging customs’ duties the most common paths to quick wealth hereabouts.”
“Perhaps the new governor will put an end to it once he returns from London.”
“Perhaps.” Weeks considered and took a long tug on his pipe. “He’s an eye for quick wealth himself, I’d say. But he’ll never be the prey of such as Jeremy Weeks. I fish a smaller pool.”
For whatever reason the crowd was beginning to thin out. Weeks and Sanborn enjoyed another mug each. Sanborn asked any number of questions about the town and Weeks obliged him. Would he still have to advertise in the Boston newspapers? (He would.) The best cheap eating establishments. The scuttlebutt and reputations among the town folk of certain families and officials. The presence, or lack, of other limners. If Weeks were to be believed, Sanborn would not have much competition. There were few limners who passed through, and none to match his training and skill. He would succeed here; he felt more confident than ever.
A woman came in from another room, an obvious jade. She looked about and finally caught Sanborn’s eye. Black haired, brightly dressed, and full-fleshed yet hard-looking, she smiled knowingly at him just as another man stepped to her side and began to speak to her as if he were an old friend.
“That’s Gingher,” Weeks said and laughed. “Not named for her hair, as you can see. But plenty of spice there, if you’ve a taste for it.”
Sanborn had looked away so as not to appear overly interested in her, but she had indeed caught his eye. Young, vigorous, unmarried, he had known his share of jades.
“And do you recommend her spice trade, Mr. Weeks?”
Weeks laughed. “I can’t say, but there’s others who would. I don’t think she’ll disappoint.” He puffed his pipe. “But you’ll need plenty of specie to bustle in her corner.”
Sanborn glanced back at the woman, who was now moving to another man of her acquaintance, a rough-looking tar who, cleaned up, would probably have been handsome. “No, she has not the appearance of one who would disappoint.”
It was still early, and no one was prepared, apparently, to enlist her services. Moreover, the room was continuing to empty out. One might wonder why she had chosen this time to ply her trade, if that was what she was doing. Before long, she took a seat and was soon attended by the serving woman.
“I’ll be missed back at customs,” Weeks said. Finishing his flip, banging his mug down on the tabletop, he extended his hand and excused himself. He gave his head a slight nod toward Gingher and winked at Sanborn, but he said nothing more about her. Sanborn stood up and said good-bye to his new acquaintance. Since Weeks had told him he often came here for his refreshment, Sanborn knew where he would find him again, if he wished to. He sat down to finish his flip after his companion left. He took out a notebook he carried with him and began to sketch a few ideas of how he might present Madam Browne upon a canvas. She was a prepossessing woman, to be sure. Should a commission for her ever come his way, he would have to be very careful about her intriguing face. Faces required more attention, perhaps, than he had given in his usual trade. Perhaps that was one thing Rebecca’s self-portrait was telling him. It was more than simply a proper modeling technique, it was a matter of character, revealing the sitter’s character. He was full of youthful confidence in his own capability. He sketched some thoughts about her face from different angles. When the serving woman passed by again, he shook his head to refuse a refill. He found in his sketching the pleasure of solving a problem or a puzzle.
“Seat no longer taken, sir?”
He looked up in confusion, like a man coming out of a daydream or a light sleep. It was Gingher herself. He was speechless for a moment, coming back into the world from the reveries of his craft.
“It is no longer taken, but I was just preparing to leave,” he managed to say. He looked at his sketch.
“What be ye drawing?” she asked, ignoring his lie.
“Faces. Just faces.”
“A limner then?”
“If you wish.” Why was he indulging her?
“Clever sod.”
He looked up again. “Clever enough,” he said. He began to put his sketch things away, noticing as he did that there were only two patrons left, besides himself and Gingher. She stood there watching him as if he amused her. She was wearing some strong sweet scent that was rather overwhelming. He thought that perhaps such was her trademark. Her fan lightly tapped his cheek. He stood up and began to leave the table.
“Good day, then,” he said, for some reason not wishing to be rude. The two other patrons in the tavern were paying them no attention.
“I’m just up the way, there. Out the door, turn right, and right again at the first lane uphill. Third building, one flight up.”
He turned to look at her, a bit astonished because he thought he had successfully brushed her off. It was not that she didn’t interest him, and he was no hypocrite about his need for women, even a woman such as Gingher. His mind and aspirations simply were, had been, elsewhere. But she had his attention now. He looked about them again. They might have been alone for all anyone cared. She smiled at him. Surprisingly good teeth, gray-green eyes. Luscious breasts. She did not have the exteriors of a bawd given to drink. In proper dress she might have passed at a distance for a lady. She was a remarkable temptress. Gingher. He began to leave again.
She let him walk through the door where, once on the street in the afternoon sunlight, he felt dazed, and stopped to get his bearings. The flip was buzzing in his head. He had just begun to walk up the hill when he suddenly smelled her scent and then felt her arm in his. She was walking him up the street as if they were belle and beau. At the third building she gently guided him in and up the stairs. He let himself be swept up by her like a man helpless in dreamland, until they were in her room and he came to his senses.
“I have no money,” he said.
“That’s not what I saw.”
“I mean I have very little to get me through till my next commission. I’m just in town.”
“Let’s adjust the service to the purse, then,” she said, smiling slyly.
“I really must go.”
“Nonsense,” she insisted. She closed with him and put an arm over his shoulder. Her perfume overwhelmed him again, as if she were some enormous narcotic orchid the size of a full-fleshed woman. Against him, her body felt soft and his throat began to thicken. She reached for his pocketbook but he managed to arrest her hand.
“Tis only ten shillings. We’ll see what’ee can afford then,” she said. She looked down and her abundant hair, dark-odored, brushed his face. He replaced her h
and with his and took out two one-shilling notes and a few pence, counting them in his fingers still like a man in a dream. He burped and kept his breath in. He held out the notes.
“Well, sir, I can lend ye a hand, for that.” She smiled at him.
He knew it was a mistake but he was in her control now. “A hand,” he repeated, as she removed his coat. She slipped the notes into a pocket carried on the front of her dress. She caressed his groin and he felt himself tighten immediately, despite the excess of flip. She began to maneuver him backward toward the bed and he allowed himself to be maneuvered, fairly tripping on the bedstead and into a reclining position while she stood over him. With professional efficiency she lowered his breeches below his knees, threw up his shirt, and ran a teasing finger around his equipment.
When he shuddered, she laughed. “Now, now,” she whispered. “Not so soon as to miss your money’s worth.”
She was gripping him firmly now, with a practiced, relentless stroking and squeezing. A sickening ache flashed through his body and then the familiar innermost tugs and twinges. She began to laugh softly, devilishly, as if she knew he would be off, and then suddenly he roared like a silly beaten mule and disgorged all over her vigorously working fingers, which were now directing him away from her clothes.
“My my my, sir,” she said in a false sweet voice, and laughed again. “But it’s been much too long for ye!” She continued to work him, gently now, as he moaned and diminished in her hand. Then she removed his neck cloth and wiped his abdomen.
When she was done she stood up straight over him and said only, “There, now!” She patted her pocket with his shilling notes and smiled at him—almost, he thought incongruously, like a mother over a child she had been nursing back to health. He was unable to move for some moments. She straightened herself up, opened the door an inch, and turned to him. “No need to hurry yourself,” she said. She went over to her dresser and began to wash her hands and wrists in a basin.
Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction Page 3
