The Notorious Countess

by Liz Tyner

  Andrew turned and shut his eyes. He had never been in love. Wasn’t sure he believed in it.

  ‘I expected you to be more like the old duke.’ Fawsett’s musing voice reached Andrew.

  Andrew stilled. His fists clenched and he turned, ready to thrash Fawsett. But the valet rummaged inside the wardrobe. The comment had merely slipped from Fawsett’s lips and meant nothing.

  Idle chatter.

  Andrew ignored the sweat on his brow and left the room. In the hallway he stopped, remembering the moment he’d discovered the name of his father’s mistress. He’d been home on his last school holiday and finishing a book by Defoe. His mother had been reading, shuffling pages of newsprint. Her gasp had caught his attention and he’d looked up. He’d thought her choking and rushed to her side. She’d been trembling and crashed her hands together, still crushing the paper in her grasp.

  Not a word was spoken, but her face turned ashen. He’d never forget that. He’d reached for the paper, but she’d not released it, pulling it close to her body, refusing to loosen her grip.

  But he’d not backed away. He’d snatched the sheets, ripping them from her fingers.

  ‘What?’ he’d demanded.

  She’d still not spoken and reached towards him, trying to keep him from seeing. He’d turned, keeping control of the scandal sheet, his back broad enough to prevent her from taking the rag.

  She’d cried out and run from the room.

  Then he’d seen the print and even though the names were not completely spelled out, he knew. His father. The mistress. The birth of a child.

  Chapter Ten

  Andrew stepped into Astlin Manor, the house the architect had skilfully bargained to have built for his sister during the marriage settlement with the earl. Andrew had seen sketches of the Palladian staircase, heard stories of the gold trim on the ballroom ceiling and seen a drawn version of the alcove.

  He ran his hand along the banister as he ascended the stairway. The home was fairly small in the number of rooms, but big in scope.

  Each craftsman had been presented with a drawing of a lace design and instructed to do a one-of-a-kind creation they would give to a lover for her home. Chairs’ legs had the tiniest trails of lacework carved into the legs. Sconces had the pattern as well.

  These kinds of details were what Andrew insisted on for his own home as well. Unobtrusive but visible treasures around him. Items with stories behind them. Fixtures that went deeper than their obvious need, but nourished the spirit as well.

  Directly in front of him, the first steps rose up in the same way of a usual staircase, but then two separate curving paths split from it, circling behind and up, meeting slowly on the first floor, like the curve of a giant tiara. A walkway at the top circled the cut-out of the staircase, making him able to walk completely around the banister overlooking the ground floor. Palladian columns rimmed the overlook and the structures reached to the second level.

  The butler stopped, giving Andrew a chance to take in the surroundings before leading him on to the parlour.

  Slippers clattered across the marble tiles. He looked up in time to see Beatrice, her brown hair piled into an unruly mass of curls, moving towards them. But he couldn’t take his eyes from her. The image of her Warrior and the true woman melded in his mind.

  He could not speak. Perhaps he did believe in love.

  ‘Lord Andrew.’ She swirled forward, her moss-coloured dress fluttering about. The last few inches of the hem had been decorated in yellow fabric cut in circular shapes, adding weight which caused the flare around her feet, concealing her slippers. ‘We meet again.’ She walked to him.

  Then she looked at him and an eyebrow rose in anticipation of his answer. ‘What did you think of the...?’

  He missed what she said next, expecting she would ask him what he thought of the portrait and knowing he could not find the words to tell her how the portrait had affected him. Then he realised he’d misheard. ‘Pardon?’ he asked.

  She leaned forward. ‘What did you think of the stairs?’

  ‘Magnificent. Beyond belief. Two points of splendour. A pathway to incredible wonder.’

  ‘I think they’re a bit overdone myself and a long way to get a short distance, but they work for me.’ She moved back to the circular area of the stairway. ‘Come along, I’ll show you the owl cove.’

  Then she led him to the white alcove. He could almost reach from wall to wall should he stretch his arms. Bas-relief trees surrounded him. Several marble owls perched around the area, just above the viewer’s head. The creatures’ eyes were tinted glass and hollow behind. ‘I can have the candles lit if you’d wish,’ she said.

  He’d been told of the hidden-access passageway behind the alcove.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I can imagine their eyes flickering.’

  She nodded. ‘I once had the candles lit at night. Once only. I did not expect to feel frightened at all, but somehow, the sight of all the eyes glowing did not impress me.’ She turned. ‘Now the ballroom. My personal favourite. This way.’

  She turned away, moving with the freedom of a youth, taking him down a wide hallway into a grand chamber.

  He turned his head to the left, noting the fireplace large enough for four chairs inside.

  Then she moved into the centre of the room and looked up, spreading her arms. ‘But there’s where the purse emptied, or so my husband said. Eight thousand and ninety-three pounds on the ceiling alone and the artists worked for almost nothing. Lived here and I fed them, clothed them and gave them the good wine and brandy when they’d been working the hardest. But Riverton made them cover up all the indiscreet parts.’

  He looked up and took a few steps backwards while his eyes searched. He realised he could have spent hours, days, examining the ceiling.

  ‘No two cherubs are alike,’ she said. ‘I had them named once upon a time, but I’ve forgotten now. Even that many little angels watching over me didn’t bring happiness. I could not imagine...’ she extended her arms and twirled around. ‘I was a countess. I had a home like this. I had the finest clothing. A staff to meet my needs. And I was not one bit happy. My husband had been gone for months. He lived with his mistress, or so I thought. I decided to have a house party with only a few people to attend, Tilly being one—so now I know how the tale was spread. I stepped out of the gardens to see his carriage roll up at my home with a woman bringing her trunks. No one even knew where Riverton was at that time.’

  ‘You attacked the vehicle with the woman inside.’

  ‘I only broke a window when she was trying to pull her belongings out. She would not leave. She kept insisting I had Riverton hidden in my home and claiming he’d given it to her.’ She shrugged. ‘My grandmother was in the house. My husband most definitely was not. I could not possibly let the woman move in.’

  She paused. ‘Once he returned, months later, dressed in rags, I did try to keep him home, but let him do as he wished. His mind was so...sad, that I had to stay near him to prevent him from getting worse. In his corner of the house, he could do as he wished. With my acceptance of his actions, he was less likely to get his throat cut in Seven Dials and servants could pick him up from the floor. I didn’t want people to see him so, yet it appeared I was supporting his problems. Again, I was portrayed badly, but I could not let him die in the cold.’

  ‘You cannot think about the past, you must concentrate on the future if you want to change it,’ Andrew said. He could not imagine living so.

  ‘I am. But that part of my life is in my memory every day.’

  ‘Push it aside because it is not who you are to be now.’ He moved to stand in front of her. ‘Beatrice. I saw the painting at Somerset House. You were barely dressed. You are not helping change the perception.’

  ‘You recognised me?’ The words squeaked out. Eyes widened.

  ‘It is a wonder I looked at your face at all, though I suppose most men wouldn’t. But I knew instantly.’ He frowned. ‘It is a self-portrait. How c
ould I not recognise you?’

  ‘No. It’s not me. The woman in the painting has red flowing hair, a delicate nose and much bigger—everything than I do.’

  His thoughts jumped to her words. Beatrice had ample everything, she did not need to change them.

  He stared at her face. She had not expected to be recognised? ‘I knew you instantly. And Fox led me right to it.’

  ‘Tilly,’ she grumbled. ‘Tilly knows him, and Tilly, well, she may have been in my studio when I worked on it.’

  ‘You cannot paint portraits like that and have them displayed—’ his voice toughened ‘—if you wish to change your image.’

  She blinked up at him. ‘What did you think of it?’

  He didn’t answer. Just stared at her.

  She prodded, brows tight. ‘Andrew. What did you think of it? I worked very hard on the hands.’

  ‘I...any man looking at it would want to kiss those fingertips, Beatrice.’ He kept his gaze on hers.

  Her voice changed, became soft, sad. ‘It is not about kissing. It is about strength. A woman’s strength. If you did not see that, I failed.’ She stood, took a step and wobbled. Andrew caught her arms, steadying her. His palms burned in the most pleasant way.

  ‘It is not in your best interest to have that artwork on display,’ he said.

  She swayed sideways and he kept her upright. ‘Pardon me,’ she said, reversing her hand so she gripped him. She leaned down, removing one slipper while teetering.

  He put a hand at her side, helping her remain standing. She removed the last one, stumbling herself right into his arms.

  ‘That was no accident,’ he said, extracting himself, but only partway. Their clothes still touched.

  ‘I’m getting my coin’s worth for those torture-chamber shoes I paid well for.’

  ‘I cannot believe you are so comfortable with notice and notoriety, yet you wear slippers that hurt.’

  ‘They make me more visible. Taller.’ She raised her chin. ‘Powerful—when I do not stumble. I feel like they are my soldier’s boots and I am an eminent leader in them, announcing my arrival.’

  ‘All leaders are not great. In fact, it may be quite rare to be a great leader. Even a mediocre leader with the perception turned his way can sound like the best superior.’ He wanted her to understand how important it could be for her to turn the talk in her direction. Her art would receive more notice. She could do more, in whatever she chose.

  ‘You do not want to be Boadicea, leading yourself into a fight you cannot win,’ he said. ‘You must plan ahead so you can be a better Beatrice.’

  ‘I rather like the warrior.’

  ‘Now is the time to finesse. Not storm ahead.’

  ‘The picture is art. Some day I wish to be known all throughout England for my portraits,’ she said, holding her chin high.

  He could not keep himself from smiling. ‘Your brush is wicked.’

  She narrowed her gaze. ‘It is a very sincere painting.’

  His eyes stayed on her when his chin briefly darted sideways. ‘I will not argue that with you. I have no complaints at all about the painting, except that she decidedly resembles you and it could gather attention we don’t wish for. I thought you might paint, perhaps, some flowers. A landscape or two with baby rabbits or baby chickens. Clothed people even?’

  ‘I am not inspired to paint fluffy things or landscapes in the same way I wish to capture the likenesses of people. Faces and bodies are intriguing. Each person is a masterpiece in his or her own way. But you are more than that. Your face inspires me in a way no other ever has. Go with me to my studio and you will see what I can do.’

  He met her eyes.

  She blushed. ‘With a paintbrush, unless you wish otherwise.’ Taking his arm, she moved towards the studio.

  * * *

  Beatrice took Andrew down the path set among carefully tended grounds and walked to a cottage surrounded by overgrown ivy, edged by a field. Five cattle grazed in the distance. Two were obvious milk producers. None were impressed by visitors or even seemed aware of the soft breeze which flowed in the air or the chip-chip call of a chaffinch.

  Sorrel, with its deep veins, and pineapple sage grew at the edge of the rock pathway. Many times she’d painted the pineapple-sage plants when they reached their height and had burst into their crimson flowers.

  The cottage was another work designed by her brother. Shaded by sycamore trees and oaks, it would fit nicely into the landscape of many paintings as a crofter’s home. The arched windows added a whimsical look.

  Having Andrew walk to the path of her studio made her feel the lightness of the world she’d lived in before she’d been introduced to stays and corsets. In those moments, she no longer cared that Tilly had not been a true friend and that Riverton had betrayed her.

  ‘When I married and needed to escape Riverton,’ she said, ‘sometimes I lived in the cottage and shut out everything but art. The servants would know of his ways, but we were in the country and that was safer for him.’

  She stopped on the rock path, staring at the structure. ‘It is quite plain.’ She’d hardly let a servant in to even clean it, preferring the solitude and dust over interruption. Splotches were here and there inside, and nothing was suitable for entertaining or guests. Yet it was her refuge. Her sanctuary. She missed it when she was at her brother’s house, but sometimes the solitude became too great and sometimes her mother became too motherly.

  ‘Mostly it is quiet, but sometimes too loud when Mother begins regretting her decision not to have grandchildren. She believes it was a grievous error to let me remain unmarried after Riverton died and to let Wilson remain unattached.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘The servants respect my privacy and Mother mostly tolerates it.’

  She paused before opening the door, wanting him to see the studio in the same light she did. But then she rushed forward, hoping he would understand.

  ‘I live here for weeks on occasion when I want to immerse myself in art. It is a perfect place to escape into painting. Servants bring meals and water at regular intervals, otherwise I am completely left alone, except for an occasional request—with teeth—that I join Mother for tea.’

  The scent of linseed oil welcomed her the minute she stepped over the threshold. She moved to unlatch the windows and push them open.

  One easel stood with a small painting, half-completed, of a dragon. On a table beside the easel, Boadicea’s sword.

  He picked up the weapon, enjoying the heft of it in his hand.

  ‘The sword is from a museum in Piccadilly,’ she said.

  He placed it back and continued examining the room. A roll of canvas stood propped against a wall and an artist’s stool sat near the easel. A sofa finished the askew tableau, the resting place of an unframed painting of a garish woman. Resting on the cloth upholstery of the sofa sat two skulls—one rather large and, he supposed, bovine. The other smaller, an animal he could not guess.

  ‘Inspiration?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure scandalmongers could have quite the print space for that information, but you cannot paint something without knowing exactly how it looks. How it fits,’ she said, picking up the whitened bone and letting her fingers trace the seams. ‘Imagine trying to paint a cow’s eye and not knowing the size in relation to the rest of the animal.’

  She held out the skull to him. Andrew took it from her hands, not looking at the object, but at her. ‘Today I am completely comfortable with not knowing the exact proportions of a bovine.’ He placed it back on the sofa and put a hand at the small of her back. ‘Should we begin?’

  She nodded, turning. Having him in her studio was more intimate to her than a bedchamber. Taking the paint-stained and dried cloth beside her easel, she brushed the dust from the two skulls and then wiped her hands.

  ‘Because of what you said at the theatre,’ he said, ‘I wondered if you might wish to maintain the notoriety you have.’ He clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Is that true?’

  Be
atrice shook her head. ‘I cannot like being the Beast.’

  When Riverton was alive, she’d been bombarded by so many feelings, heard and lived so many lies she’d really not concerned herself with the print much. How could she when she was living an even worse nightmare under her roof? ‘I am just now becoming myself again and am able to look at the past more objectively. Perhaps those tales in the sheets are helping me open my eyes. To see that it truly doesn’t matter so much what others think of my past. It will never go away. It will not be forgotten.’

  ‘You can make new memories in their minds. You can temper the responses. Images can be softened. Blended.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know. I am looking at the past very differently than I did before. I shrank from it. Wanted to hide in my art. My studio. I could not face the theatre again. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I should embrace the little tufts in the drawings. Those memories are far kinder than the ones I have from behind the closed doors of my marriage.’

  ‘It is the past.’

  ‘The past. But it is my past. My husband confessed to me that he’d only married me because his parents hated me so much—and that they’d been right. He said he preferred the taste of poppies far above the taste of my lips and he preferred to be insensible than to remember himself married.’

  She hadn’t minded so much hearing the words. They’d been a relief almost. She’d already known it by then and had been pleased he saw the truth of it.

  Silence filtered into the room much like the sunlight from the windows.

  His face had the look of stone again.

  This time she didn’t mind. ‘I have to admit, I probably would have preferred poppies to marriage at that point, too. Or arsenic or laudanum or gunpowder. But instead, I chose to immerse myself in the scent of linseed oil and pigments.’

  A blank canvas stood on her easel. The one she planned to use for Andrew.

  Her voice tightened. ‘It’s best to know how things look to paint them. If you guess the proportions...’ She shrugged. ‘And the shadows. Light is so important.’