The Painted Lady

by Edward Marston

  ‘Yet women account him irresistibly handsome.’

  ‘Frenchwomen, perhaps – the English have more taste.’

  ‘That is not the case, Henry. More than one English rose has praised Villemot in my presence – Lady Hester Lingoe, for instance. She said that sitting for him was one of the most exhilarating experiences of her life.’

  ‘Everything is a most exhilarating experience to Lady Hester,’ said Henry, tartly. ‘Her emotions have the consistency of gunpowder. Apply the smallest amount of heat and she explodes into exaggeration. I remember her telling me once that reading Catullus in the original Latin had uplifted her soul to a new eminence. What nonsense! Besides, he went on, ‘we are not comparing like with like here, Sir Willard. The gorgeous Araminta is a species of saint. No woman with Lady Hester’s history could ever aspire to canonisation.’

  ‘I still have qualms about Villemot.’

  ‘Set them aside.’

  ‘I’ll not be bested by a foreigner.’

  ‘No,’ said Henry, boldly, ‘you’ll be bested by me, Sir Willard.’

  Before the other man could reply, the waiter came up to their table and they ordered a bottle of wine. No sooner had the waiter gone than Elkannah Prout took his place, exchanging greetings with his friends before taking the empty chair at the table. The newcomer’s eyes were darting. His wig was so full and luxuriant that he looked like a ferret peering through a bush.

  ‘I bear tidings,’ he announced.

  ‘We have already heard them, Elkannah,’ said Sir Willard.

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Henry has just been apprised of the information. Araminta’s portrait is being painted by that creeping Frenchmen, Villemot.’

  ‘Is that the sum of your intelligence?’ asked Prout.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you know only half the news.’

  ‘There’s more to add?’

  ‘Much more – though I suspect that Henry already knows it.’

  ‘Not I,’ said Henry, feigning ignorance.

  ‘Your brother must surely have told you.’

  ‘Christopher and I rarely speak, Elkannah.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Prout. ‘You are always trying to borrow money off him to settle your gambling debts. Something as important as this would hardly go unmentioned.’

  ‘Something as important as what?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘I am still in the dark here. Pray, shed some light, one of you.’

  ‘Jean-Paul Villemot is having a house built in London.’

  ‘He’s rich enough to afford it.’

  ‘He’s also astute enough to choose a talented architect. The fellow goes by the name of Christopher Redmayne.’

  Sir Willard goggled. ‘Henry’s brother?’ he said, understanding the situation at once. ‘But that means he will have an excuse to call on Villemot at any time. He could devise a way to meet Araminta.’

  ‘It would never cross his mind,’ said Henry.

  ‘It would cross your mind.’

  ‘That’s a gross slander, Sir Willard. I abide by the rules of the Society. The four of us fight on equal terms. I would never stoop to subterfuge in any way,’ he lied, bristling with righteous indignation. ‘I had no knowledge of the fact that Christopher had been engaged by the artist and would never use him to further my ends. Were I to attempt such a thing, he would reject the notion outright. My brother is no puritan but neither does he take any delight in the chase. The mere whisper of what our Society was about would discountenance Christopher. He believes in love and marriage.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Sir Willard, ‘when occasion serves. But I still fear that you may have stolen a march on us, Henry. If your brother calls on Villemot while that Jewell among women is there, he will be able to bring back gossip about her that only you will hear.’

  ‘Christopher is not given to passing on gossip.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Prout. ‘I’ve met him. Henry’s brother is a decent, honest, conscientious young man and, unless I am mistaken, he has another glaring defect – he is a devout Christian.’

  ‘That’s true, Elkannah. Our father is forever holding Christopher up as an example to me. My brother leads a good life while I prefer to lead an adventurous one.’

  ‘If you want someone to worry about, Sir Willard, it is not him. The real danger comes from within the Society.’

  Sir Willard was puzzled. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘The person to watch is Jocelyn.’

  ‘Why – what has he been up to?’

  ‘Telling the truth,’ said Prout, ‘and it unnerved me. When we heard that Araminta had been married, all of us were shaken to the core but we three have at least accepted the situation and determined to make the best of it. Jocelyn will not accept it.’

  ‘He must,’ said Henry.

  ‘Facts are facts,’ added Sir Willard. ‘Araminta will not divorce her husband for our benefit.’

  ‘More’s the pity!’

  ‘Jocelyn wants to effect his own divorce,’ said Prout. ‘We spent last night together and I saw him in his cups. I’ve never known him so roused and belligerent.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘That he’ll not let anyone stand between him and Araminta. He’s set his heart on winning her love. Jocelyn told me that his mind is made up. If he cannot enjoy her favours by fair means, he’ll not scruple to resort to foul ones. His meaning was clear,’ warned Prout. ‘To achieve his ambition, he’s even prepared to murder Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

  When she was finally released from the long morning session in the studio, Araminta Culthorpe was grateful. She was not merely spared the discomfort of sitting in the same position for an hour at a time, she was liberated from the searching gaze of Jean-Paul Villemot. The artist did not upset her again with any suggestive remarks but she no longer felt completely safe in his presence. Their relationship had subtly changed and Araminta needed to get away in order to examine the changes from a distance. As the carriage bore her back home to Westminster, she reflected on what had happened and speculated on what might come at a future meeting.

  The problem confronting her was simple. Should she or should she not confide in her husband? And if so, what exactly should she tell him? Araminta could hardly say that she felt threatened in the artist’s company because that was not true. In essence, all that had happened was that he had made some inappropriate comments. Other ladies would no doubt have accepted them as compliments but, as a young woman newly married, she had been somehow unable to do so. She had felt vulnerable. Jean-Paul Villemot, in her opinion, had overstepped the bounds of propriety.

  What she had to calculate, she decided, was her husband’s reaction. If she told him that she had been offended by the artist’s behaviour, he would cancel the portrait at once and engage someone else to paint it, and Araminta did not believe that anyone in London could rival Villemot. If, on the other hand, she made only a minor complaint, Sir Martin would feel obliged to challenge the artist and that, too, could result in the abandonment of the project.

  However she presented it to him, Sir Martin would be hurt and she wanted to spare him any pain. For that reason, she resolved to sort out the matter herself without involving him in any way. After all, Araminta consoled herself, there would be no more sittings to endure. Unless he called her back, she and Villemot might never be alone in the same room again.

  Having reached her decision, she felt much better. Her only concern now was to change out of the dress she had worn at the studio, ideal for the painting but not entirely suitable for a warm day in May. It was something she was more likely to wear to a formal event than put on at home for the day. When the carriage delivered her to her front door, she rang the doorbell. It never occurred to her that she was being watched by someone who stood on the opposite side of the road, partly concealed behind a tree.

  Let into the house, Araminta went straight upstairs to change with her maid on her heels. Eleanor Ryle was pleased to see her mistress retu
rn. A bright, open-faced, inquisitive young woman with a mop of brown hair, Eleanor helped her out of her dress.

  ‘Monsieur Villemot chose well,’ she said, stroking the material. ‘This has always been my favourite.’

  ‘Then you may get a chance to wear it, Eleanor.’

  ‘Me, m’lady?’

  ‘Monsieur Villemot does not need to keep me sitting there for hours while he paints the dress,’ said Araminta. ‘Someone else can wear it in my stead and he suggested you.’

  ‘But he doesn’t even know that I exist.’

  ‘Yes, he does. He noticed you when he called here.’

  Eleanor giggled. ‘Really?’

  ‘He thought that the dress would fit you perfectly.’

  ‘Oh, I could never wear it as you do, m’lady. It becomes you. On me, it would not look the same at all.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Araminta, weighing her up. ‘Let me see. Hold it against you, Eleanor.’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  Taking a step back, the maid held the dress up against her, grinning happily as she did so, as if a private dream was just being fulfilled. Eleanor was short enough and slim enough to wear it even though the dress was not the ideal colour for her. Araminta studied her for a full minute.

  ‘I believe that it will do,’ she said.

  Eleanor was overjoyed. ‘Then I am to wear it?’ she cried.

  ‘We’ll see. I need to discuss the matter with my husband.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘Smoking a pipe in the garden,’ replied Eleanor. ‘He asked me to call him as soon as you returned.’

  ‘Well, let me dress quickly,’ said Araminta, crossing to the wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to keep him waiting.’

  Sir Martin Culthorpe was a creature of habit. Twice a day, he always liked to smoke a pipe and the garden was the place in which he preferred to smoke it. Even on cold days, or when it was raining, he would venture outdoors and shelter in the arbour while he puffed away. Only heavy snow or a violent thunderstorm could confine his pipe to the house. It was not merely the pleasure of inhaling the tobacco that he savoured. Sir Martin was a contemplative man and a stroll in his garden was the perfect time to reflect on the issues that preoccupied him.

  By comparison with the garden on his country estate, the one in Westminster was quite small but it was still large enough for him to promenade for five minutes or so without retracing his steps. Formal in design, it had endless trees and neat rows of bushes dividing it up and creating private corners where he could sit without being visible from the house. At the centre of the garden was a large pond with a fountain in the shape of Neptune, and there was a great deal of other statuary dotted here and there.

  Pulling on his pipe, he strode along between an avenue of mulberry trees, wondering how his wife had fared at her latest sitting. Sir Martin still could not believe his good fortune in having married Araminta Jewell and he vowed to devote the rest of his life to her. What he did not realise, as he turned leisurely into a shaded grotto, was that his life was just about to come to an end.

  Chapter Three

  Christopher Redmayne liked to keep a close eye on any project in which he was involved. Even at the earliest stage, he visited a site regularly to watch work in progress. More illustrious architects would not have deigned to spend so much time amid the dirt and dust of construction, preferring to dispatch their assistants to take care of such matters, but Christopher worked alone and would not, in any case, have delegated such a task to another. He loved to see the foundations being laid and to watch a building rise slowly from the ground and take on the shape he had envisaged when bent over his preliminary drawings.

  The important work of designing churches, livery halls and public buildings in the wake of the Great Fire went to more famous members of his profession, but Christopher had no objection to that. There was still plenty for him to do. The blaze had destroyed over thirteen thousand houses, wiping them from the face of the city and leaving only charred remains in their stead. Architects and builders were therefore in great demand so there was no shortage of work for able men. All over London, Christopher had made his small, personal contribution to the rebuilding of a great city that he loved.

  ‘No disrespect to you, Mr Redmayne,’ said Samuel Littlejohn as he washed down his food with a swig of beer, ‘but, when my father was a builder, he never worked with architects. The client would tell him what he wanted, show him an example of it in a drawing then leave him to it. My father did the rest.’

  ‘That’s because he was a master builder, Sam,’ said Christopher with a smile, ‘part of a tradition that went back for centuries. It was a big mistake to let people like me take over some aspects of his work.’

  Littlejohn chortled. ‘We’ve learned to respect you, sir.’

  ‘That’s all we ask.’

  Having inspected the site that morning, Christopher was dining at a nearby tavern with Littlejohn, a man whose bulk belied his name. He was a brawny man of middle years with a capacity for hard work and a jovial manner. His weather-beaten face and rubicund complexion gave him the appearance of a farmer but he was essentially an urban creature, having begun with, then inherited, the building firm that his father had started. Christopher was very fond of him though the partnership between them had got off to a difficult start because the client whose house they were building was murdered when only the cellars had been constructed. Their contract with him was promptly declared null and void.

  There had been an additional problem for Christopher in that the builder’s daughter, Margaret Littlejohn, had become infatuated with him and caused him considerable embarrassment by stalking him. He had deemed it sensible to work with other builders for a time. As soon as the girl had been safely married to someone else, however, Christopher resumed his work with Littlejohn and they proved to be an effective team. The builder was a rough and ready man whose table manners were less than refined, but who was nevertheless an amiable dinner companion. What Christopher liked about him was that he always spoke his mind. After chuckling over an incident that had occurred during the last house on which they had worked together, Littlejohn became solemn.

  ‘We could have one problem,’ he warned.

  ‘I know what you’re going to tell me,’ said Christopher, trying to anticipate him. ‘That façade is too elaborate. We’ll need the very best stonemasons to work on it, Sam.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the façade, sir.’

  ‘Then it must be that staircase Monsieur Villemot insists upon having. I’ve never seen anything so grand outside a French chateau.’

  ‘Let him have his staircase, Mr Redmayne. Let him have anything and everything he wants. If, that is,’ he said, darkly, ‘he’ll occupy the house when it’s built.’

  ‘Why else would he commission it?’

  ‘Because he needs more room.’

  ‘Then where is the problem?’

  ‘He’s an artist.’

  ‘So? Artists need somewhere to live just as much as anyone else. Architects, too, oddly enough. We all need a roof over our heads.’

  ‘Mr Villemot is a French artist.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘Only this, sir – he could be unreliable.’

  ‘I don’t see why.’

  ‘I built a house for a Frenchman once before,’ said Littlejohn, taking another sip of beer, ‘and, before it was finished, he sailed back to France without a word. We never saw him again. He owed us a lot of money. We were left with a half-built house and no client. I’d hate to be in that position again.’

  ‘Was the client an artist?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking – he was a dancing master.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you that Jean-Paul Villemot is not going to dance off to Paris. He prefers to work in London, where he’s the toast of his profession. He won’t let us down, Sam,’ said Christopher, airily. ‘He intends to stay and see the project t
hrough.’

  ‘What about his fits?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was subject to them.’

  ‘Not those kind of fits, sir,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I was talking about the other kind – the sort that all foreigners seem to have, but especially the French. They have these fits of temper, funny moods, silly ideas, sudden changes of mind. The dancing master was like that. He made our lives a misery with his fits. You never knew where you stood with him from day to day.’

  ‘What you’re saying is that he was capricious.’

  The builder nodded. ‘That’s the word I was trying to think of.’

  ‘Well, you’ve no need to apply it to Monsieur Villemot.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that, sir.’

  ‘He seems to have a most equable temperament and he’s promised not to interfere in our work in any way. He’s far too busy, painting portraits of the rich and famous. Take heart, Sam,’ said Christopher, ‘nothing can possibly happen to stop this house being built and paid for in full. If it did,’ he added with a carefree laugh, ‘then I’ll be the one having a fit.’

  When she had changed her dress and her shoes, and had her hair brushed by her maid, Araminta Culthorpe took a last critical look in the bedroom mirror before deciding that she was ready.

  ‘Shall I find Sir Martin?’ volunteered Eleanor Ryle.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Araminta. ‘I’ll find him myself.’

  ‘Will you talk about the painting with him?’

  ‘In a while, Eleanor.’

  ‘I’d so like to wear that blue dress, Lady Culthorpe.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It would be wonderful to work as Mr Villemot’s model.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  Leaving the maid with reason to hope, Araminta went out of the room and down the stairs. She walked across the hall and along a passageway that led to the garden. When she let herself out of the house, she could see no sign of her husband so she assumed that he was sitting on a bench in one of his favoured places. She went off to explore the garden, looking for the telltale sign of tobacco smoke rising over a hedge or curling up into the sky behind some statuary.