The American Heiress

by Daisy Goodwin

  Louvain laughed. ‘That one is called the fisherman’s wife. Lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Unexpected, certainly,’ said Cora faintly.

  ‘Till tomorrow then, Duchess.’ Itaro opened the door, bowing, She looked round to tell Louvain that in no circumstances would she be coming back tomorrow, but he had gone.

  But the next day Cora found herself in the carriage heading towards Chelsea. This time she had brought Bertha with her.

  She had decided to make the portrait a surprise gift for Ivo. Something to remind him of the way she looked now, before she was all swollen with the baby. She sensed that his attitude to her had changed since she had started to show; she wanted to remind him that she would not always look like this.

  Her mind wandered. Perhaps there would be a party for Ivo’s birthday. It was not the season, of course, but there would be enough people in town to have a reception. She would ask Mrs Wyndham.

  She tried not to look at the shunga as she walked down the corridor towards the studio. Louvain started towards her as she came in but stopped and smiled when he saw Bertha.

  ‘So you have come prepared,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I felt awkward yesterday going home with my hair down. If Bertha is here she can make me look respectable first.’ Cora smiled.

  ‘Respectability must be preserved at all costs, Duchess. Perhaps your maid would like to sit here.’

  He pulled out a chair from behind a screen and placed it so that Bertha would have no view of the painting. Cora went over to the chaise longue and turned her back to him as she began to take the pins out of her hair; she found she did not want to look at him as she did so, it was too intimate somehow. But she spoke to him over her shoulder.

  ‘How long do you think the portrait will take, Mr Louvain? I want to surprise my husband with it for his birthday.’

  ‘It will take as long as it takes. If you sit still and don’t fidget, it might be faster,’ Louvian said tetchily.

  ‘I will be as still as a graven image, I promise, but would a month be unreasonable?’ Cora put a pleading edge to her voice.

  ‘I never give guarantees. But if you are an obedient model, there is a chance the picture might be finished in a month. But you will have to do exactly as I say, mind. Now, unbutton your jacket like you did yesterday. And try to remember how you felt yesterday, the expression on your face was just as it should be.’ He winked at Cora who blushed.

  ‘I’m not sure if I can remember how I felt yesterday. I think I was trying not to fall asleep. It is hard keeping still for so long,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like me to remind you, Duchess?’ Louvain made a step towards her. Cora moved back alarmed.

  ‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I am sure I can remember enough. Bertha, come here and help me with my hair.’

  Bertha started the long process of unpinning hair that she had put up only an hour or two ago. Now she understood why Miss Cora had rushed off yesterday wearing the simplest navy-blue tailor-made and had come back with her hair knotted under her hat. She had scurried into her room and insisted on Bertha fixing her hair properly before going downstairs, but she had not offered a word of explanation. Bertha had been surprised, to say the least. Miss Cora never made morning calls, and as for the hair, that was completely unprecedented. The speculation in the servants’ hall had been rife. The coachman, who had seen an oriental servant opening the door, had hinted that Her Grace had been visiting an opium den. He knew all about them as his last employer Lord Mandeville had been that way. Bertha had laughed this off but she had been curious and a little apprehensive.

  So she was relieved to find out that Miss Cora was sitting for a portrait, although there was something going on between the painter and her mistress that made her uncomfortable. Miss Cora had always been a flirt, but now she was married she should be more careful. Bertha wondered what had happened yesterday. She looked at her mistress who lay on the chaise longue with her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders to her waist and her jacket unbuttoned to reveal her chemise, her mouth parted in a half smile. She looked as she had on her honeymoon in Venice, her sharp edges blurred. Bertha sat awkwardly between Cora and the painter; every so often she would look up from the mending she had brought with her and feel the heat of their mutual gaze.

  On the way home, Cora told Bertha to get in beside her instead of sitting on the box with the coachman.

  ‘What did you think of the studio and Mr Louvain, Bertha?’

  ‘Does he make money from his painting, Miss Cora?’ Bertha asked.

  ‘I’m sure.’ Cora spoke with the unconcern of a girl for whom money had never been anything but abundant. ‘I would imagine he can charge what he likes. We haven’t discussed a fee for this painting but I’ve no doubt it will be exorbitant. Father says that being American adds fifty per cent to everything.’ She leaned over to Bertha’s side of the carriage conspiratorially. ‘This must be kept a secret from the Duke. I want to hold a reception before I get too big and give it to him then. I’d like to do something while I am still respectable.’

  Bertha could see some pitfalls to this scheme.

  ‘But suppose you don’t like the picture, Miss Cora? Won’t it be awkward asking folks to see a picture you ain’t fond of?’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to happen! Louvain is a genius. This is going to be his last portrait,’ Cora said.

  ‘And what if the Duke don’t like it? I ain’t sure he cares for surprises,’ Bertha said carefully. There was something about Louvain that worried her.

  Cora remembered the scene in the chapel. Perhaps Bertha had a point. And yet she felt reluctant to tell her husband what she was doing. The thought of him in the studio made her feel quite uncomfortable. And surely this picture was quite different from the Rubens.

  ‘I think he will be delighted to have a portrait of the woman he fell in love with,’ Cora said firmly. ‘Louvain says he can’t work with other people’s opinions hanging over him. He says if you want something completely faithful, take a photograph.’

  Bertha thought that Louvain had found a way of spending unlimited time with beautiful women without their husbands, and getting paid for it.

  Cora was delighted when Charlotte sent up her card that afternoon. She wanted to talk to her about the party. She was determined it should be smart and she needed Charlotte’s advice. Mrs Wyndham was always reliable but Charlotte had style.

  To her relief, Charlotte approved of all her plans.

  ‘You’re so wise not to make it too serious, Cora. London really doesn’t need any more high-mindedness.’

  ‘I want to give Ivo the portrait. I thought it should be an occasion.’

  Charlotte smiled slyly. ‘And there is no harm in reminding the world that Louvain has chosen you as the subject of his last portrait.’

  Cora blushed. ‘Well, I suppose you could look at it that way. But don’t tell anyone, please.’

  Charlotte leant forward. ‘And how do you like Louvain? Is he being frightfully strict with you?’

  Cora busied herself with the tea things. ‘He certainly knows what he wants. It’s very hard to argue with him.’ To her relief Sybil arrived at that moment, gleeful because she had managed to evade her stepmother. Sybil had come to rely on Cora for sympathy when she found life under Duchess Fanny particularly trying.

  Charlotte was less warm to Sybil than she had been to Cora. She listened to her complaints for a few minutes and then said a touch impatiently, ‘But if Aunt Fanny is making your life so irksome, why don’t you get married? You must have had plenty of offers.’

  Sybil looked stricken and Cora, seeing her expression, jumped in. ‘You must come and stay with me, Sybil. I would love some company at Lulworth and who knows, we might be able to get up a party.’ She looked meaningfully at Sybil, who found her smile again. She knew that by ‘party’ Cora meant Reggie Greatorex, who so far had failed to make her an offer. Charlotte, who had no interest in matchmaking, made her excuses and left.
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  After she had gone, Sybil sighed. ‘Charlotte is so magnificent, isn’t she, but don’t you think she’s just a tiny bit frightening?’

  Cora thought for a moment. ‘You know, I thought that at first, but she has been quite charming to me. Apart from you, dear Sybil, I would say that she is my only friend here in England.’

  Sybil made no reply.

  When Cora told Ivo that she wanted to give a reception before, as she put it, she became indecent, he was, rather to her surprise, enthusiastic.

  ‘So you are going to be a hostess, are you? I am delighted. There are some people I would like you to invite.’

  The list, when Ivo handed it to her at breakfast, surprised Cora. It was full of politicians, many of them titled, it was true, but politicians none the less. At home, politicians were in the same league as actresses, an unavoidable fact of life but not suitable for the drawing room.

  ‘Ivo, do you really want me to invite all these politicians? I don’t want my first party to be dreary.’ Cora’s tone was light but Ivo replied in his quietest voice.

  ‘So you think politicians are dreary, do you, Cora?’

  Cora bridled. ‘I don’t think they are the ideal guests.’

  Ivo turned on her. ‘Doesn’t it occur to you that I might have a reason?’

  Cora looked at him resentfully. She hated the way that Ivo, who made fun of everything, would suddenly become serious without warning.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ivo, I had no idea that you had political ambition. You’ve always laughed at me when I’ve asked you about the House of Lords. Forgive me for my ignorance, but in my country, we don’t have aristocrats, we have men like my father who go to work.’

  There was a pause before Ivo spoke.

  ‘Oh yes, your father, the Golden Miller’s son, who came into his first million when he was twenty-one years old. What work, exactly, does your father do? Apart from auditioning promising chorus girls, that is. I thought his only employment was avoiding your mother.’

  Cora threw the cup she was holding at her husband. He ducked, and the cup landed on the floor in a mess of china and milk.

  ‘How dare you sneer at my father? What did you ever do before you became Duke except have “friendships” with the likes of Mrs Stanley? My father, on the other hand, runs the biggest mill in North America. Sure, he inherited his fortune, but he has made it grow. Don’t forget that his money paid for this house and everything in it.’ She stopped, panting with rage.

  ‘Even the china that you just you hurled at my head, I believe. And what exactly is your point, Cora? If you had such a yearning for men who do things, why didn’t you stay in America and marry one of them? I am sure a girl like you must have had plenty of suitors. And yet you chose to come to England and marry a duke. What could you have been thinking?’

  Ivo stopped as a footman came in with a silver chafing dish.

  ‘Robert, I have been very clumsy.’ He pointed at the mess on the floor. ‘Can you ask one of the maids to clear it up? And I will have some more coffee while you’re about it. Oh, and I believe Her Grace needs a new cup.’

  Ivo’s tone to the footman was completely neutral, without any of the heat he had displayed a few moments earlier. His self-possession enraged Cora even more than his jibes about her father.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Robert, I am finished.’ Cora left the room without looking back.

  In her bedroom she picked up one of her silver-backed hairbrushes and hurled it against the wall. Then she kicked the bedpost so hard that she hurt her foot and only after that did she sit down on the bed and cry fat tears of anger and frustration.

  Five minutes later, the door opened and she heard Ivo’s light tread.

  ‘Go away, I don’t want to speak to you.’

  ‘You don’t have to say a word. In fact, I would rather you didn’t. I just came to tell you that the reason I wanted you to ask Rosebery is that he has been looking for my support in the Lords. I think he may even want me to join his ministry. I don’t know if you understand what that means; my family have been beyond the political pale for three hundred years because we are Catholic. You asked me if I had any ambitions, well, I don’t for myself but I do for my family. The Maltravers have a chance to be something again and it is my duty to make that happen.’

  He paused. Cora knew without looking that he was stroking his chin, which he always did when he was serious.

  ‘Your fortune has made that possible, Cora. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t found you that day in Paradise Wood. So let’s not quarrel any more.’

  She felt his hand touch her shoulder; she rolled over slowly, reluctant to show him her tear-stained face.

  ‘I like you when you’ve been crying.’ He snaked a finger across her wet cheeks. She tried to bat his hand away but he was determined, stroking her face and hair now as if she were a frightened animal that needed soothing. And then his breathing began to quicken.

  Cora tried not to look at him but he was already pulling at the buttons on her dress. She was still angry with him, but he had hardly touched her since she had told him about the baby and she could not help but arch towards him as he began to kiss her throat and chest. She was relieved that there was still that same sense of urgency. He began to push her skirts up.

  ‘Oh, Ivo, do you think we should? What about…’

  But Ivo was kissing her and there was no more resistance she could offer. He pulled away the layers of petticoats and pushed himself inside her there and then. She was surprised at how little difference there was between the rage she had felt earlier and what she felt now; both passions were equally consuming. As she felt her body begin to contract with desire, she opened her eyes and looked at Ivo. His face was stern, concentrating; was he still angry with her? But the thought was lost as she felt the snap of fulfilment and her body went quiet.

  The following day she was in Louvain’s studio, stretched out on the chaise longue, Bertha sitting in her usual corner. Louvain had barely spoken to her when she came in but when he looked at her, she noticed that his pale eyes were alight with excitement. He was working very fast, almost quivering as he attacked the canvas with his brush.

  ‘Good news, Duchess, this will be our last session. The picture will be ready next week.’

  Cora felt a tiny stab of disappointment. She had come to enjoy her hours in the studio, she liked watching Louvain’s concentration. She knew there were moments when she ceased to exist for him as anything more than a collection of planes and colours. But she didn’t mind, she found his detachment appealing.

  ‘Will you let me have a look, Mr Louvain?’

  ‘Not yet, not yet. But I can tell you I am very happy with it.’

  As she left the studio for the last time, Cora dropped her handkerchief in the corridor. As she stooped to retrieve it, she saw the face of one of Utamaro’s courtesans, contorted in a spiral of desire.

  Chapter 20

  ‘That Pictured Countenance’

  CORA HAD SENT ONLY A HUNDRED CARDS FOR THE reception but by the day of the event, she had made so many new ‘friends’ that the likely number of guests had at least tripled. Mrs Wyndham, who had made much of her connection with the new American Duchess, suddenly found herself taken up by the very same people who had vanished so completely from her life after the death of her husband. Some women might have seized this opportunity to exact revenge on those who had slighted them, but Mrs Wyndham was far too pragmatic for that. She knew that people generally behaved only as well as they had to, so she was admirably even-handed in the recommendations she made to her friend the Duchess, only proposing those whom she thought might genuinely add to the evening’s entertainment.

  To every would-be invitee she said the same thing. ‘The Duchess wants this to be an intimate affair, where she can really get a chance to talk to people. I am sure the Duchess would love to meet you. She said to me, “Dear Mrs Wyndham, help me to make a short cut through London society and bring me its best and brigh
test.” I know she is longing to make real friends here in London. She really is a lovely girl, so unaffected and devoted to the Duke. And generous, my goodness. When she saw how shabby my stole had become she insisted on giving me this gorgeous sable. Of course, money means nothing to her, you know, she is the richest heiress of her generation. In the New York papers they call her an American princess and I must say her manners would not be out of place at Windsor. Even Duchess Fanny can’t find fault with her.’

  Mrs Wyndham thought that Cora was looking suitably princess-like tonight. She was wearing a pink and white striped silk dress with huge bows at the shoulders and at the waist. In her hair she wore a tiara of diamond stars and round her neck the black pearls. The enormous width at the shoulder led the eye away from the thickening waist. Only those women, and it would be women, who looked carefully would guess that she was expecting. Cora and the Duke were standing at the top of the marble staircase greeting their guests. Mrs Wyndham had thought she would be early but there was already a crush of people on the stairs. She could smell that unique mixture of powder, lily of the valley and sweat that always heralded a society event. Just ahead of her was an unusual-looking man with artistic hair that fell almost to his shoulders. She had hinted to Cora that it might be unwise to be too experimental in her guest list, but Cora had been firm that she did not want a stuffy party. As a result there was a greater mixture of guests than Mrs Wyndham was used to seeing: artistic young men, a few members of the Cabinet, idle aristocrats like Ivo’s friend Reggie Greatorex and busy ones like Lord Curzon, old money like the Atholls who owned most of Scotland’s land and new money like the Tennants who owned most of Scotland’s breweries: and the women ranged from the Double Duchess right through to Mrs Stanley. Such a mix would not have happened when Mrs Wyndham had first arrived in London, but these days society was no longer a closed circle. The thing was to have ‘tin’, lots of it, and then your place in the social firmament was assured.