Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Oh,” I said, still a bit bewildered by all this.

  “The wife is delighted we’re having a guest for dinner tonight. You’ll have her specialty—duck prepared after the Hittite manner.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A secret family recipe. Apparently it’s been passed down from generation to generation for centuries. Mrs. G. won’t even tell me how she makes it.”

  “I—I really don’t know about dinner,” I said nervously. “I have no idea how I’ll get back to Covent Garden, and—”

  “I’ll send you back in the carriage,” he said, leading me over to the wardrobe. “Come along, lass, let’s find you something to wear. Pink isn’t your color, by the way,” he added, referring to my frock. “You need something bold, something dramatic. Purple, perhaps. Perhaps black velvet. I have a huge collection. What’s your name, lass? I plain forgot to ask you earlier.”

  “Angela Howard. Do—do you often snatch girls off the street to pose for you?”

  Gainsborough chuckled again, a merry sound. His blue eyes were twinkling. “Not often,” he admitted, “but the minute I looked out the carriage and saw that remarkable face I knew I had to snatch you. I knew at once you were going to be the subject of my greatest masterpiece.”

  Mr. G. certainly thought highly of himself, I reflected, but I guessed anyone who had painted something like Blue Boy had a right to be confident. I liked the artist a great deal now, you couldn’t help but warm to him, but I still felt a bit apprehensive.

  “I—really, Mr. Gainsborough, I think maybe I—maybe I should just go home. I don’t know anything about sitting for a painter and you’re terribly busy with that Duchess and—”

  “Nonsense. There’s no need to be nervous, Angela. You and I are going to get along handsomely and have a grand time. I’m going to make you a very famous young woman.”

  Chapter Ten

  My back ached terribly and my neck felt stiff and I longed to scratch my nose, but I didn’t dare move. Mr. G. was an amiable soul, warm, wryly humorous, extremely considerate, but when he was at the easel he became an absolute tyrant and fretted irritably if I moved a muscle. Expected me to sit perfectly still and not complain and sitting that still wasn’t a lark, believe me. Once I let out a sneeze and shattered his concentration and he flew into a frenzy. These artistic types were temperamental as could be. He stood at the easel now in a wrinkled brown frock coat and old gray breeches, palette in one hand, brush in the other, staring at the canvas, then staring at me, finally dabbing a bit of paint onto the canvas. His powdered wig was askew again, more gray than white, needed a new powdering, and his plump cheeks were pink.

  A fire roared in the fireplace, but the room was still chilly, for it was early November now, the gardens in back bare of greenery, the sky a bleak gray, but enough sunshine spilled through the panes of the skylight overhead for Mr. G. to work. I sat on a stool on the low wooden platform beneath it, wearing a scarlet velvet gown with full elbow length sleeves worn off the shoulder and a form fitting bodice cut quite low. The plush skirt spread out in rich scarlet folds. I was turned slightly to the right, one hand in my lap, the other holding an unfurled fan of scarlet lace. My hair was stacked on top of my head in an elaborate arrangement of glossy chestnut waves with three ringlets dangling in back, one of them resting on my bare shoulder. It was bloody uncomfortable sitting like that, holding that fan, looking pensive. Hated it, I did, though I rarely complained aloud.

  Didn’t care for the dress, either. Too red, I thought, but it was better than the purple velvet I’d tried on, and the black had been all wrong. Gainsborough had been delighted when I finally put on the scarlet, declaring it absolutely perfect, bold, dramatic, extremely daring as well. All the other women he painted wore soft pastels and ribbons and laces, looked soft and dreamy and fragile, but this … this was revolutionary. Scarlet, deep, rich scarlet. Perfect! At first I had worn a wide-brimmed scarlet velvet hat dripping with black and white plumes, a gorgeous hat, I thought, but Mr. G. had decided it was too fussy, too traditional. They all wore beplumed hats. With glorious hair like mine, who needed a hat? So I sat on the stool without a hat and held the fan, a backdrop behind me depicting a pale, pearly gray sky with just a few wispy white clouds drifting about.

  “Tilt your chin just a bit more, Angela,” he said.

  “Like this?”

  “Not quite so much. There. That’s it.”

  “I’m dying for a cup of tea.”

  “You’ll have your tea in a few minutes, brat. Be quiet. Be still.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. He made a face and resumed his work. When would it ever be done? I had been coming here to the studio four times a week for three months now—Gainsborough sent a carriage for me, sent me home in it as well—and I hadn’t been allowed one peek at the painting. Covered it with a cloth as soon as he finished each afternoon, he did, said I could look at it when it was done. He gave me a pound for each sitting, a tremendous windfall. Dottie thought it was a great honor for me to be painted by such a famous artist’ and refused to dock my pay. I came in an hour early each morning and took work home at night, worked on the weekends, too, and she insisted that made up for the afternoons I came to the studio.

  It was rather fun, I admitted, for a number of interesting people were always popping into the studio to chat while Gainsborough worked. Didn’t bother him at all, long as I kept still. Several of the men—that horrid Boswell in particular—were extremely interested in me and wanted to know who I was, but I had told Mr. G. all about Marie and made him promise never to reveal my last name or where I lived and worked, so I was merely “Angela,” a woman of mystery. That intrigued them all the more. David Garrick had come once, and I had been terrified he’d recognize me from Dottie’s, but the actor had paid no attention to me. Sir Joshua Reynolds, Gainsborough’s archrival, had come to call, too, come to spy, Gainsborough insisted, and he refused to let him in. Boswell had undoubtedly been blabbing, he grumbled. Should never have allowed that rascal to come, either, he declared, Boswell and Reynolds being thick as thieves, but who could resist the Scot’s ebullient charm? Me, for one, I told him.

  Once I had arrived a bit early and had encountered the beautiful Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, in the hall, departing after her own sitting for the artist. Two years younger than I and already notorious, the Duchess wore a pale lime green silk gown adorned with beige lace ruffles, beige plumes affixed to the side of her elaborate coiffure. Tall and willowy, she was absolutely breathtaking with her fair hair and cool blue eyes and perfectly chiseled features. The lady didn’t deign to acknowledge my nod, sweeping on down the hall with her plumes aflutter. A compulsive gambler, she lost staggering sums weekly, but her husband willingly paid her debts, perhaps because he was so content with the arrangement at home. Lady Elizabeth Foster, the Duchess’s best friend, lived with them, and both ladies shared the Duke’s bed. An open scandal, it was, but because their blood was blue society chose to ignore the ménage à trois, pretending it was merely “close friendship,” though there was much whispering behind fans when the trio appeared in public together.

  Megan had told me this delicious bit of information about Gainsborough’s other current model, along with an even more interesting item about Georgiana and none other than Mr. James Lambert. Three years ago, when she was scarcely sixteen and still Lady Georgiana Spencer, the gorgeous, impetuous teenager had developed a passionate infatuation for the playwright-theatrical manager, determined to have him at any cost. Pursued him like a poodle in heat, Megan said, literally throwing herself at him and once climbing through his bedroom window in the middle of the night. Having no interest whatsoever in the willful, deplorably spoiled teenager, Lambert had turned the minx over his knees, spanked her soundly and hurled her out of his flat, whereupon she had slashed her wrists with the jagged edge of a broken champagne glass. Quite an uproar that had caused, Megan told me, but Lambert had survived the scandal and Lady Georgiana married the Duke soon after.


  Wonder what she saw in him, I thought now, still longing to reach up and scratch the side of my nose. Would Gainsborough ever finish? The sky was beginning to turn a darker gray, the sunlight slanting down through the skylight pale and silvery, growing dimmer. Looked like it might snow soon. I held the pose, numb all over, it seemed, and my tormentor continued to work, humming to himself. Lambert’s play had closed six weeks ago after a disappointing run to half-empty houses. Not in the least discouraged, he was busily writing another, according to Dottie, and we would soon be making the costumes. Why should I be thinking about him so often? I’d only seen him the one time and had been absolutely appalled by his loud, loutish manner. He was an interesting man, I admitted, but I certainly didn’t look forward to seeing him again. He was altogether too disrupting.

  “Well,” Gainsborough sighed, stepping back from the canvas. “Guess I’ll have to stop now. Light’s gone.”

  “So am I,” I said, arching my back. Tiny bones cracked. “Won’t you let me have just a peek?”

  “You’ll have your peek when the painting’s finished, not before, so don’t keep pestering me.”

  “You’re horrid.”

  “I’m a charming chap, and you bloody well know it.” He thrust his brushes into a jar of turpentine and carefully lowered the cloth over the painting. “I’ll summon Jenkins. He’ll bring us a nice tea. You go ahead and change into your clothes.”

  I stretched. More bones cracked. My legs felt leaden.

  “When will it be done?” I asked.

  “The portrait? Shouldn’t be long, now that I’ve finished with the delectable Duchess. Georgiana was most trying, chattering all the while, eating bonbons, having her friends come visit while she sat. Thought I was going to murder the woman. You, on the other hand, have been an angel.”

  “Your painting of her was lovely,” I remarked, stretching again. Gainsborough had let me see the portrait before it was sent off to Devonshire House in Piccadilly. “She looked ethereal, like a goddess.”

  “A routine commission, a routine job. Plumes, pastels, luminous lighting and lace. She’s quite happy, the Duke’s delighted and I’ve put a whopping big sum in the bank. My portrait of you is entirely different, art, not artifice. Georgiana’s portrait will hang in some musty, stately hall someday, while your portrait will be hailed as a masterpiece.”

  “Like Blue Boy?”

  “It’s going to be better than Blue Boy. Go ahead and change, Angela. We need food.”

  I moved behind the screen and took off the heavy red velvet gown and carefully hung it up, then changed into the new violet-blue silk I had made for myself. Dottie had let me have the silk at cost and had given me the black lace I had used to make ruffles for the skirt. I adjusted the modestly low bodice, fluffed up the short puffed sleeves and took my hair down, chestnut waves spilling to my shoulders. I heard Jenkins coming in with the tea trolley and then heard footsteps coming down the hall and a hearty, jovial voice calling out in glee.

  “Tom! Hark! It’s me. Just in time for tea, I vow!”

  Boswell! Damn, I thought, smoothing my hair. Why couldn’t he have waited until after I was gone? I didn’t really dislike him—one couldn’t, he was much too jolly and, yes, engaging, too, in a vulgar sort of way—but if he attempted to pinch my bottom again I vowed I’d crack a plate over his head. Reluctantly I moved from behind the screen just as Mr. James Boswell came bursting into the room, radiating vitality and robust good nature.

  “There she is! I haven’t missed her after all. I stopped by the Burneys to return a book I’d borrowed and got caught up in one of those dreadful musical afternoons. Bach. Bah! Couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Little Fanny was enchanting, of course. Sat quietly in a corner, scribbling in her diary. I had the feeling she was scribbling libelous things about me. A sly one, Miss Fanny. Claims she’s going to become a lady novelist, like Miranda James. Minx probably will!”

  “Hello, Boswell,” Gainsborough said glumly.

  “Perk up, Tom! I vow, Miss Angela grows lovelier each time I see her. I have a present for you, wench.”

  “I’m not a wench, you sod! What kind of present?”

  “A very special book. A masterpiece, in fact. Several critics said so—I have the clippings, look at them often. An Account of Corsica, by Yours Truly. Lovingly inscribed by the author.”

  “Dreadful book,” Gainsborough said.

  “I resent that, Tom!”

  “Too much about Boswell. Not enough about Corsica.”

  “It went through several editions. Sold out in all the shops. An enormous success! You’ll adore it, Miss Angela, although it’s—uh—a bit ribald. Like its author!”

  I smiled at that. Bloke always made me smile, despite myself. He pulled the book from behind his back and handed it to me, and I thanked him politely. Boswell beamed. Robustly built, rather stocky, he had dark red hair and lively brown eyes and a full, decidedly sensuous mouth. He wore black pumps with silver buckles, gray silk stockings and knee breeches and frock coat of rich plum satin. His gray satin waistcoat was embroidered with plum silk flowers, and a row of silver buttons adorned his frock coat. Fancied himself a dandy, he did, yet somehow he always managed to look like a rowdy, overgrown boy playing dress-up.

  “What luscious-looking tarts!” he declared. “Your wife’s famous apricot tarts, I vow! Hot, buttered scones! Small slices of bread spread with cheese and olive paste! A veritable feast! Will your enchanting wife be joining us, Tom?”

  “Not today, alas. She’s busy putting up preserves.”

  “Such a marvelous cook. If you’re not careful I’ll snatch her right away from you. Will you pour, Miss Angela?”

  “Why don’t you make yourself at home?” I said dryly.

  Boswell laughed and reached toward my backside and I deftly sidestepped, avoiding the intended goose. Gainsborough shook his head at his visitor’s incorrigible behavior and sat down in one of the two old chairs covered in brown velvet. Boswell promptly took the other, crossing his legs and eyeing the heavily laden tea trolley with greedy anticipation. I poured the tea, served it, then took a chair safely out of reach.

  “Painting almost finished?” Boswell inquired, reaching for a tart.

  “Almost. I expect to exhibit it at the R. A. in January.”

  “Bound to create a sensation, Tom, if it’s anything like the model. Move your chair closer, Miss Angela. You look lonely over there.”

  “I bruise easily,” I told him.

  “Can’t resist a fetching wench. Never could, and marriage hasn’t changed me at all. Poor Margaret, pining away in Scotland. Misses me dreadfully, she does, but it’s quite restful for her.”

  Boswell’s amorous exploits were the talk of London. Parlor maids, aristocratic dames, serving wenches, actresses—he pursued them all with equal gusto and quite phenomenal success. Perhaps the gusto explained it, or his exuberant and unabashed delight in female flesh. Roistering rake though he was, his honest appreciation and boyish glee lent him a curiously innocent air, and I could never really be angry with him, no matter how outrageous his conduct.

  “And how is the mighty Sir Joshua Reynolds?” Gainsborough asked.

  “Terribly hurt that you wouldn’t see him two weeks ago, Tom. Couldn’t understand how you could be so rude to a fellow artist.”

  “I suppose he’s painting another simpering grande dame.”

  “He’s painting Hester Thrale, as a matter of fact.”

  “That woman! A chattering nitwit with a husband in trade.”

  Boswell had a vast circle of friends, was welcomed in the grandest parlors and the lowest dives with like enthusiasm, but of all his friends the mighty Dr. Samuel Johnson of dictionary fame was the greatest. After studying for the law and taking an extended Grand Tour of Europe, the ebullient Boswell had penned a number of books and articles and began to court the thorny, irascible Dr. Johnson. Gainsborough claimed Boswell spent most of his time trotting about after Johnson with notebook in hand, sc
ribbling down every word the Great Man uttered in order to preserve them for posterity. Seemed downright peculiar to me.

  “More tea?” I inquired when Boswell had finished his anecdote.

  “Please, and I’ll just have another of those tarts, too. When are you going to let me take you out to dinner and the theater, Miss Angela.”

  “Never,” I replied.

  “I say! That’s bloody unfair. Thousands of women in London, and the only one I’m interested in spurns my attentions. Tell me the truth, wench, is it my wicked reputation?”

  “It’s your groping hands.”

  “I could give you a grand time, wench.”

  “You could also give me a bad case of pox.”

  Gainsborough laughed, delighted by my retort. Boswell was taken aback for a moment, and then he laughed, too, and whipped out his notebook.

  “Must tell Johnson!” he declared, scribbling down my words. “He’ll get a grand chuckle out of it! Not only are you beautiful and mysterious, Miss Angela—you’re witty as well.”

  “Not witty. Merely frank.”

  Boswell stuck notebook and pencil back into his pocket and grinned, reaching for yet another apricot tart. I finished my tea and stood up.

  “I’d better be getting back now, Mr. G.”

  Boswell scrambled to his feet. “Let me take you home,” he insisted.

  “No, thank you,” I replied. “I prefer to get there with everything still intact.”

  Couldn’t resist that, even though it was stretching a point. Gainsborough laughed again and stood up, leading me into the hall. The cocky Jenkins handed me my cloak and scowled fiercely at Boswell, who had trotted along after us. I smiled at Jenkins as I slipped on the cloak. He came to fetch me on the afternoons I sat for Mr. G., always accompanied me back, too. We were great friends now and Jenkins had appointed himself my protector. I pulled my hood up, turning to Gainsborough. He handed me the copy of An Account of Corsica.