by Liz Tyner
Time passed while she stared at the whiteness before her. Her eyes imagined the ratios, the pose, the variations of light she’d need to capture.
She would create a masterpiece. Her shining moment. This would be the best work she’d ever done.
Reverently, she picked up her brush. Astounded by the prospect before her. The gift she had been given and the prospect of a lifetime.
A painting for her eyes only. A painting only she could paint. She would capture a man’s desire and strength in his expression, and create a vision a woman could not forget.
Something only to be viewed long after the present time had passed. Not something for this generation, but art to let the future discover the man of today.
It only saddened her that she would not be able to share the painting with Andrew and the world.
Chapter Twelve
When Andrew next arrived at Beatrice’s home, the butler was leading him to the sitting room when a voice interrupted. He carried the latest scandal sheet. The one with a story relating to Beatrice’s recent visit to Somerset House.
‘I suppose you are here to see me.’ The shrill pierced his ears and the cackle which followed made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention.
He turned to see an older version of Beatrice standing in a doorway and the years had been kind to her. The weight of her necklaces alone could have stooped a lesser woman. Although her eyelids drooped, the sparkle of azure beneath them jabbed. He supposed she still would be considered attractive—if it weren’t for the sense of unease one felt when looking at her.
‘Beatrice told me to expect you.’ She frowned, touching the pearls around the silver knot of hair she had piled on her head.
At first, he thought she might be walking so delicately because of her age, but when her hem moved, he realised she also perched on tall slippers.
He moved towards her, taking her hand to bow over it, and noticed a whiff of tobacco.
‘I suppose we can talk in the sitting room. Beatrice’s busy.’ She moved to a doorway, and whirled around, putting both palms on the facing. ‘You know I want to welcome you into the family. I want you to marry my daughter even though she claims it will never happen.’
‘One never knows what the future holds,’ he said.
‘Oh, that answer is so full of nothing.’ She smiled. ‘I like that. It would work well for a son-by-law. I can overlook that you are related to Foxworthy, who does manage to get himself in trouble. You know he is quite bold. It is said he has consorted with the likes of Sophia Swift.’
Andrew let his head fall sideways, expelled a breath and raised a brow. ‘Sophia Swift? Should I know of her?’
The woman pursed her lips. ‘I would not lay it on so thick. You might be able to pull that off with others, but not with me.’
‘Well, I have it on good authority Foxworthy is not fond of Miss Swift.’
‘It is a good thing for him. I have heard her personal diary is quite revealing.’
Crashing cymbals could not have overridden the thoughts in his head. A diary?
She frowned, bringing the wrinkles around her eyes into prominence. ‘It is hard to believe Foxworthy is your relation.’
‘I have trouble with it myself.’ Of course, if Sophia kept a diary, that could all change.
‘But you are acceptable,’ she said. ‘I believe in arranged marriages and have no problem with doing the work myself. Unfortunately laws and such get in the way. A mother simply cannot force her daughter into marriage as one could in the old days.’ She paused. ‘You can nod at any time.’
‘I doubt that would be safe around you.’
‘Doesn’t matter, I will take your silence as agreement.’
‘Then you will be mistaken.’
‘What’s that in your hand?’ she asked.
He did not hold the paper out. ‘Just the last printing of a scandal rag.’
‘I’m sure if it’s important I’ll hear of it,’ she muttered. She lowered her arms and waved him to follow her into the room. Once inside, she made a non-threatening fist that she put to her chest.
‘My Bea is simply not understood. She is not. She tells me you only wish to help her be recognised for her art. That cannot be true.’
He didn’t answer. He would not discuss with her what he didn’t fully understand himself.
‘Riverton said he loved her dearly. He did not. I thought her marriage would be the best thing for her and it nearly crushed her. I so wished for him to be converted to an angel—either by prayer or ambush. Took a while, but wishes do come true.’ Teeth flashed. ‘I actually cried when I received the news of his death. I was so happy. A first for me.’
Beatrice’s mother made a rough, clearing-her-throat sound. ‘May his corpse rot with such a stench he can smell himself in death. Not that I bear him any ill will, of course,’ she said, her eyes widening. ‘I asked that he be laid to rest with a boulder on his chest, should there have been a mistake and he be alive when he was put away.’ She looked at Andrew. ‘So how soon before you propose?’
‘Neither of us is inclined to marry. And I know you want your daughter happy with her choice.’
‘Happy?’ She shrugged. ‘I just want her married to a man we are disinclined to dismember.’
‘That would be for the best.’
‘I thought because Riverton was older, yet so much like her in many ways, he would be perfect for her. Perhaps if he had not had that one little problem. Of being born.’ She rubbed her chin as if checking for stubble. ‘I see now I was mistaken.’
‘Perhaps she would be happiest of all painting.’
‘Perhaps. She assures me you will help change the cruel way the scandal sheets refer to her with your quiet ways.’ She shook her head. ‘I did all I could to bring her up strong. I saw that she was taught fencing, painting and how to load and fire a flintlock. All the things I missed out on because I was female. I encouraged my daughter to do as she wished. It is hard for the world to accept.’ The older woman shook her head. Straightening the strands of a necklace, she said, ‘I do not meddle in my children’s business—any more than is necessary. I mention small motherly concerns and try to give them a kick in the right direction. But do they listen?’
‘My mother would say the same about us, I suppose.’
‘Possibly. Sometimes it is a waste of effort to speak to children.’ She touched her fingertips to her forehead. ‘And men.’
He became aware of movement in the doorway and looked around to see Beatrice. She again wore a dress dotted with paint. In her hands, she held a cloth, muddyed by colours, and rubbed it over her skin, trying to remove stains.
Her mother brushed by them, marching to the doorway. ‘Dears, do be discreet,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Spend all the time alone together you wish. Pretend I am not here. I will not speak of it.’ She walked away, humming.
‘Mother can keep a secret,’ Beatrice said, leaning towards him. ‘However, she rarely chooses to do so. I have told her this time she must because of how you are assisting me and she’s agreed because she hopes it might lead to my marrying again, either to you or someone else. Strategy is very important in my family.’
She arched a brow. ‘Do not play cards with her. Do not be misled into believing she hardly knows any game she might ask to play. She is quite skilled and even cheats when she is winning.’
‘Is anyone meek in your family?’ He stepped closer to Beatrice so his voice would not carry into the hallway.
‘My aunt. But we cannot figure out what caused it.’ She turned towards her studio. ‘Follow me.’ Her shoes clattered away.
Andrew only half-heard them. The little smear of blue on the derrière of Beatrice’s gown when she walked away had caused everything else in the room to dim. He took a moment to appreciate the moment. The graceful twitch of the blue paint lingering in his mind.
‘Have you worked on the portrait?’ he asked, following her and imagining his Boadicea.
‘Car
e to see?’ she asked, taking him down the path to the studio. At the cottage, she opened the door and moved to the easel.
The new scent he associated with her swirled around him—not baked goods this time, but the brush wash and lavender. Nothing had been straightened while he’d been away. If anything, more disarray had appeared. One window was open, but even that didn’t take the scent of oils from the room.
‘I think you’ll be pleased.’ She frowned. ‘Mostly.’ She twirled around, putting enough distance so she could look at him from top to bottom. And she did, slowly, all the way to his boots. He felt he should cover himself, her eyes were so direct.
‘I hope you do not look at all men this way.’
Lips parting, she hesitated before speaking. ‘And what is wrong with it?’
‘Too direct, Beatrice.’
‘Not—’ she raised her chin high ‘—for an artist.’
He gave a deep bow. ‘My pardon. But I do not think Lawrence looks at the men he paints with quite the same intensity.’
She shook her head and laughed. ‘I cannot speak for other artists, but I do take my research seriously.’
‘You have work to do. And not on the painting.’ He handed her the newsprint in his hand. She would never be a meek woman. A woman who was right for him so he could continue the work he loved. And if he did not give his heart to her in all ways, then how could he be certain he would not become like his father? The image he saw when he looked in the mirror.
She looked at the story. ‘I read it. Isn’t it what we wished for? I was merely enhancing my image as an artist and wished to find a particular painting.’
‘Beast hunts Boadicea?’
‘I only went because I do not believe the artwork looked as much like me as you claim and I wanted to examine it again. It wasn’t there and I made a bit of a stir.’ She preened. ‘See, Andrew. It is a beautiful painting. A patron of the arts has taken it.’ Her eyes looked downward. ‘But I so wished to see her again. The sad part of painting is that you must sometimes see your best work go away. It is like losing a friend, but you cannot keep them all. ‘
‘No one would argue your skill. Your subject is the only thing in question. And the attention you received was not printed as we would have wished.’
‘Everything has been exaggerated...mostly.’ She shrugged. ‘I merely jumped to a few conclusions.’
He tossed the paper on to the sofa, watching it land near the skulls. ‘So does everyone else. You must remember that.’
* * *
Andrew walked to the undraped window and stood, his back to her. She stopped. Memorising. Shoulders—in proportion, but leaning to width. Shape of his head—hair falling into a picturesque disarray.
Beatrice’s stomach tumbled pleasantly. She’d not lied to him. His form arrested her in a way none other ever had. She must do him justice.
‘What is the Newgate incident, Beatrice?’ He turned slowly. ‘I saw the reference and had not heard of it in the past.’
She plopped the cloth she carried over her shoulder, motioning him to the pedestal. ‘I met a man—a sort of criminal, I suppose. I conversed with him, quite politely, as he agreed to pose for me.’ Her voice tightened. ‘It is hard to find a suitable male to paint. And his eyes were quite attractive. The scar on his face, so fascinating. But before we settled on the details, he ended up in Newgate. As I was getting him released, someone hoping to curry favour with Wilson sent my brother a note. My brother forbade releasing the man and managed to raise such a fuss, I could not continue in my efforts.’ Looking at the pots, she continued. ‘Wilson claims to want a proper family, one accepted by society, but if he had kept to himself concerning Newgate, it would certainly have drawn less attention. And finishing the portrait was not easy as a result. I managed, of course.’
She picked up the paints, adding bits to her palette. While she mixed the flesh tones, she grumbled. ‘The man from the gaol—I would have paid him well enough to satisfy his greed. Harming me would have ended the funds he stood to make. I wasn’t worried and told him he must leave his cudgel at home. I had a stable man nearby to keep an eye on him. My brother overreacted.’
‘Strong reactions are common in this family, I’d say. But you must be sure to remember how they will be exaggerated in print.’
She did not mind the unappealing words about her as much as the gnawing knowledge of his desire to change her.
Andrew could never understand. He was the opposite of Riverton, yet Riverton did not love her for the person she was. Andrew could not love her for the person she was. They were both equally disastrous.
But it did not matter. She shoved away those thoughts. This was about something bigger than either of them. A masterpiece.
* * *
He stood behind Beatrice’s shoulder and stared at the canvas. She’d completed the head and shoulders outline of a man, filled in with base colours only and pencil streaks showing dimensions. His eyes were there, but he could not see that she had painted at all in his absence. ‘I assumed you would work on it while I am not here.’
She picked up a brush and clamped it in her teeth, crossways. She scooped up the palette and knife, tapping at the colour, stirring it. She pointed. He saw his perch—a stool which looked to have been cobbled together in a hurry, but would put him almost at the same height as if he stood.
She put the knife aside and took the brush from her mouth, staring at the tools. ‘I do work on it while you are not here.’
Andrew took his place. His back hurt from lifting boards. He tried to get comfortable on the stool. Beatrice peered around the canvas, the look of a disgruntled tutor on her face.
‘I did not mean to criticise, I just thought it would go faster.’ He moved his boot heel on to one of the rungs.
‘Art takes effort and time.’ She peered around the canvas again for only long enough to speak. ‘And passion.’
‘You are a very passionate woman.’
‘Of course. I must be to create. One has to be driven to sit for hours on end, trying to translate the subject from their mind into a view others can see.’
‘Why do you feel that way about art?’
She held the brush between their line of vision for a moment and he watched the wistful expression on her face. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps when I was a child and practising with my watercolours someone told me how fine it was and I thought that nice and did more. Or perhaps I loved art from birth. Perhaps I was complimented on several things, but only the memory of the praise of drawing remained in my mind. Do you not think it is the same with your architecture?’
‘The houses I improve make better homes for people to live in. They are more comfortable. Warmer in winter.’ He blinked the words away. ‘And it’s profitable. I did not wish to change my brandy, leave Hoby boots behind or find a new tailor when I left the duke’s household.’
He had also liked the privileges of his youth and wanted to give his children the same advantages he’d had. His house was not as grand as the ducal residence, but the nursery was better. He’d even made sure its windows looked out over the best view so he could have something to point out to his children while they grew.
She turned to her tools. ‘You could have just married for money.’
‘I’ve heard ninety-five-year-old heiresses with waning senses are in short supply and I think Foxworthy would not let an opportunity like that escape him.’
She laughed. ‘I wondered if funds made inevitable my tumble into an unhappy marriage.’ She wiped the tip of her brush into a fine point. ‘I loved my husband—but if he had not had so much status and wealth, might I have seen his weaknesses sooner?’ She placed the brush in the holder, the wood clinking against the glass, and picked up the larger one. ‘But I learned from that dreadful experience. A woman should not let herself be blinded, either by a man’s wealth or—anything else.’
‘I agree. Completely.’
‘When I look at you, my artist’s vision takes over. And when you loo
k at me, you see someone to change. The first night you thought I was someone else. A mild companion and that entranced you. Only moments later, when you found out who I truly was, you began trying to alter me.’
Her head tilted around the canvas. ‘Palmer sent me a note.’
Andrew did not move. He exhaled a rumble from his throat in acknowledgement. That was almost as good as a proposal from Palmer if Beatrice wanted to turn it into one. The other man would not be able to be near Beatrice without falling under her spell.
He stared at the back of the canvas, noting the wood and the easel.
‘After I finish your portrait,’ she said, ‘I might ask him to sit for me. It will not be the same, but he is... He mentioned he has been quite forlorn since his wife died.’
‘Perhaps he might pose for your warrior painting.’
Her sigh filled the room. ‘Perhaps. I do not think he would mind to be seen in such a light. I think he would be proud.’
Chapter Thirteen
He heard another little moan. Not really much of a sound. But she painted, then gave a short murmured commentary on her work. Not words, just mumbles. The whispers captured his imagination.
He leaned more into the pedestal so he could see around the canvas and have a better view of her face. Her eyebrow would quirk. Her lips would part and then compress, and she would look at him with absolutely no expression, then look at the canvas and her face would reflect her thoughts—but he didn’t think they could truly be her thoughts every time. She frowned, pursed her lips and then peered over at him. Dissecting parts of him.
He crossed his eyes and she didn’t seem to notice. He touched his nose.
She gasped and moved backwards. ‘You need to sit straight and still.’
‘Certainly.’ He moved back into position.
He crossed his eyes. She peered around the canvas and never noticed. He bit his bottom lip. Nothing. He scratched his nose.
‘Pul—eese.’
‘Pardon.’ He regained his stoic look. ‘Are you working on my nose?’ he asked.
