The King of Threadneedle Street

by Moriah Densley

  Alysia was taken aback by Madeline’s remarkably apt assessment. Stunned, she let her continue.

  “Yet it is his eyes that move me. Although they are cast partly down, they seem filled with secrets, and kind, and warm. I presume the live subject has brown eyes?” Alysia nodded. “I think you like him, this man. The way you portray him; it makes me want to touch his face and believe he would welcome it. How does an artist capture such things?”

  Alysia had to clear her throat before she could speak. “First, an artist must see and feel the essence in order to capture it. Next, it’s a matter of technique, of interpreting shapes and lines as well as portraying texture, which I can show you. We haven’t done much with drawing people yet; perhaps it is time we began. I will need to discuss the extent of our anatomical studies with Lady Devon first, of course.”

  “You mean nudes? I like the one of the same man in your book. I would like to draw like that.”

  “Madeline!” Alysia nearly shrieked. “You were not supposed to see that! You shouldn’t look in my private things.”

  “You left it out in the library, Alysia.”

  “I did not! You had to have fetched it from the bottom of my case.” She groaned, “Lady Devon will have my head.”

  “Nonsense, Alysia. I have seen dozens of pictures of naked men before, it doesn’t scandalize me. It was Aunt Sophia who showed them to me when we studied Italian art.” Madeline gestured to the sketchpad. “And I already know it’s Lord Preston. He is our friend here, and I overheard Aunt Sophia talking to Uncle Wil about how he is in love with you.”

  A male voice startled her, “Mind your teacher, Madeline.” It was Lord Devon, and Alysia didn’t know he was in the library. He didn’t seem angry. “And stop snooping through her things.”

  Lord Devon’s dark-haired little boy, one of the four-year-old twins, ran to him and clutched his leg, staring at Alysia. She enjoyed watching Richard. He walked with his arms held away from his sides, fists clenched in an adorable war-like strut. Last evening Alysia had watched Lord Devon wielding a croquet mallet like a broadsword to spar with the fearsome toddler, and Richard struggled to handle an iron poker from the fireplace. He did manage to crack his father in the knee with it, and Lord Devon fell obligingly to the ground, perhaps groaning sincerely in pain.

  Alysia had thought the Tilmores were particularly attentive to their children, but they were nothing like the Montegues, who spent nearly every day in each other’s company and seemed blissfully happy. It was contagious.

  Coming out of her reverie, Alysia suggested to Madeline, “We shall consult Lady Devon about anatomical study. Meanwhile, you might enjoy drawing horses. Their musculature is a challenge you should appreciate.”

  Lord Devon nodded in approval. He tossed Richard into the air and set the boy on his shoulders. “Shall we bow to the ladies, Richard?” The boy squealed as he dipped forward, clutching Lord Devon’s head.

  He prompted Richard to say, “Good day,” but the boy pointed his arm at Alysia and Madeline, as though threatening them at knifepoint.

  He scowled menacingly. “En garde!” he shouted.

  Everyone laughed, and Lord Devon smiled apologetically, then took his leave. “Let us go and find your mother,” he said to the precocious little boy.

  Alysia tried not to sigh. Living at Rougemont felt like being written into a fairy tale as a secondary character. Holding a hand out for her sketchbook, she said to Madeline, “And now for your brush stroke exercises?”

  Madeline surrendered the book with a sigh. “I want to paint something romantic.”

  “Skill before expression,” Alysia recited, handing Madeline her brush set.

  ****

  After dinner, Alysia listened to the Montegues’ music in one of the drawing rooms. Only it was not drawing room music at all. She herself was only capable of music among friends; nocturnes, preludes, and lyrical songs. The Montegues, however, played music that belonged in a concert hall. Music was their passion, and they excelled at it — all of them.

  Lord Devon astounded her with his Chopin Fantasie Impromptu; masterfully executed in a technical sense, and heart-breakingly romantic in expression. Andrew would have eaten his heart out. Lady Devon was nearly his equal, Madeline promised the same accomplishment, and Mary was not as musically talented as Madeline but certainly outshone Alysia’s own mediocre abilities. And they sang too, as heavenly as angels. Rose, the other of the four-year-old twins, had a high clear voice and could sing simple lieds on pitch. She knew she was adorable and didn’t mind performing.

  As much as Richard was averse to Alysia, Rose adored her. The first time she saw Rose, all honey ringlets and innocent brown eyes, she ran and latched on to Alysia’s skirts. Lady Devon had apologized, “Well, she seems to love you even more than the average stranger.” The way Rose followed Alysia around the house reminded her of Daisy the mastiff. Rose sat next to Alysia now, her head resting on her arm. Rose had already sung that evening and was slowly falling asleep, mesmerized and breathing in tempo with the music.

  Alysia channeled the inspiration from the music into her drawings, once she learned they weren’t offended that she sketched while they played. A particularly tender scene was her subject now. Madeline played the piano, and Lord Devon pulled Lady Devon onto his lap. Alysia had also noticed Lady Devon irritably rubbing the small of her back all day, now her husband massaged deep circles there as she rested on his shoulder. But that wasn’t what captured Alysia’s interest. The way he bent his head over hers as though praying, and the gentle but firm embrace of his arms, making it seem he feared the opportunities to do so were limited — heartbreaking. Spiritual.

  When their eyes met, Alysia felt the spark secondhand from across the room. She had never witnessed such desperate adoration, and certainly not between a married couple. It seemed almost too private to watch; even in lines and strokes they appeared secretive, and a bit tragic.

  Lord Devon unknowingly perfected the scene for her drawing. He plucked the pins from his wife’s hair and let it down, running his fingers admiringly over it. She sighed in contentment and tucked her head into his neck, turning her graceful Mediterranean profile at an ideal angle for Alysia.

  Lady Devon was easily the loveliest woman Alysia ever had the privilege of envying. Uncommon that a lady should possess such exotic beauty yet be so fair-skinned. Sophia was tall and built like a dancer; proportions fit for mythical and classical art, yet she was not out of place in a scene of domestic tranquility.

  It was surprising to learn that Lady Devon had first come to Rougemont in disguise as a housemaid. She was hiding from her father, the late Lord Chauncey, who had cruelly beat her and attempted to force her into marrying a despicable man in order to steal from the estate. Lord Devon had protected and defended her; the story was a sensation with the Tilmores. Lady Devon appeared none the worse for wear after mothering twins and carrying another, and unaccountably serene.

  Though approaching forty, Lord Devon remained an inspiring vision of masculine vitality. Only his visage of wisdom and the shrewd wariness in his expression gave away a lifetime of experiences — mostly troublesome, judging by his appearance. The same careworn signs were reflected in his wife’s countenance as well. It seemed their souls found sanctuary in the other. Alysia wondered if she could capture such emotion. Was it trite to poeticize the scene? Was she doing it justice or exploiting it, she wondered.

  Just then Lord Devon slid his hand around Sophia’s side and caressed the round top of her belly, full with his child. The worship in his expression made Alysia decide she would not shrink from the task. She quickly drew the outline of that pose before the moment passed. Exasperated with herself for being so weepy, she used her handkerchief to prevent marring the paper with any escaping tears.

  Alysia cross-hatched the shadows then began filling in the detail of their faces. Sophia was easy to draw; she rested securely in her husband’s embrace with her eyes cast down, the sweep of her eyelashes slanting lo
ng shadows across high, sharp cheekbones. A strong but feminine jaw and delicate straight nose — the archetypal Baroque Madonna.

  Lord Devon was more of a challenge. Unlike Andrew with his profusion of dark Gallic beauty, Lord Devon was the ideal classical Roman, Apollo or Mars, perhaps. His features stark and severe; he could appear frightening, but it wasn’t in his expression now with his wife on his lap and his son curled next to him on the sofa. His contentment seemed painfully dear, as though he felt a blessed reprieve from suffering. That is it, Alysia decided — the intensity of a man who doesn’t take his blessings for granted, not even for a moment.

  Alysia noted with amusement that apparently Lord Devon had the same disdain for proper dress as Andrew. His jacket, waistcoat, and necktie were long gone, his sleeves rolled past his elbow. She could see his arms, riddled with a shocking array of brutal scars. She didn’t emphasize them unkindly in her drawing but didn’t omit them, either. It seemed Lord Devon should be a bit young for a Crimean officer, but she already knew he and Lord Courtenay had served together in the Russian War. At any rate, Alysia could certainly imagine him in violence. He wore the experience and readiness in his eyes as well as a sadness she could only describe as haunted, which she had come to recognize in a soldier.

  Puzzling, fascinating subjects.

  She paused to examine her nearly finished work. Yes, she thought with a flush of gratification, it is all there. Beyond the physical beauty of her subjects was portrayed subtle but exquisite love. She hadn’t diminished the traces of suffering she saw in them, but thankfully their happiness had shone through faithfully. And peace. It was captured foremost; in the father’s gaze and his gentle hands, in the mother’s trusting expression. Alysia finished by adding Richard, who had fallen asleep curled against Lord Devon’s side. She cursed the itching pangs behind her eyes and dabbed with her handkerchief again.

  It truly was out of sympathetic happiness and not so much jealousy. Not much, anyway. And her sensitivity to pathos made her useful as an artist. If she were not touched by what inspired her to draw, she wouldn’t do it.

  Alysia sighed with satisfaction at her completed drawing, thankfully unmarred by salty splotches. She became aware of her surroundings again in time to clap for Madeline at the conclusion of her performance of a Mozart sonata — all three movements, from memory. With her talent, intelligence, and uncommon porcelain-doll beauty, she would be a triple threat when unleashed upon society in a few years.

  Said future heart-breaker sat next to Alysia and spied her drawing before she could cover it. “Oh!” Madeline exclaimed too loudly, stirring those who had settled comfortably in their seats. “Alysia, that is remarkable. Oh my, Aunt Sophia, you simply must see this! Uncle Wil, look!” She gestured to the sketchbook, and Alysia flushed with embarrassment. Lady Devon scowled in disapproval at Madeline’s precocious behavior but also curiously eyed Alysia’s book and raised an eyebrow.

  “May I show them?” Madeline asked too late. Alysia had no choice. She surrendered her book with as casual a nod as possible. She had been drawing the Montegues since she arrived, but they didn’t know they were subjects.

  Lord and Lady Devon bent their heads over the drawing with Madeline, and Mary came over to look as well. It was silent so long Alysia grew anxious. Had she rendered something offensively? Alysia nervously recounted what she had done, wondering what might have caused all four of them to remain speechless.

  Finally Lady Devon spoke. “Alysia, this is… beautiful.” Her voice shook slightly, and Alysia didn’t understand. “Do you think I might have it?”

  Resisting an unseemly sigh of relief, she replied, “Of course, my lady. I am honored.”

  “Sophia,” she corrected for the third time that day. “I can’t believe you did this just moments ago,” she breathed, still looking at the drawing. “You have a gift. I have never seen such vivid, emotional expression. On the contrary, you honor me with… I don’t quite know what to say.”

  “I hope you will consider accepting a commission,” said Lord Devon. “Perhaps of the Cavendish girls and the children now; and after the baby is born, portraits of the entire family?”

  Alysia hadn’t expected that. She didn’t answer for a moment in order to avoid stammering. “Of course, my lord. Again, you do me great honor.”

  Madeline was already flipping through the pages and displaying Alysia’s work over the past few months for everyone to see. Alysia tensed as she remembered the drawings of Andrew she couldn’t bring herself to remove; hoping Madeline had the good sense to stop before Alysia was truly humiliated. As though she heard her thoughts, Madeline turned and winked, which was somehow reassuring.

  Lord Devon had been serious about the portrait commissions. The next morning, his steward asked her for a list of supplies. Alysia sent him to London for oil paints and large canvases befitting the Rougemont gallery. Madeline and Mary were ecstatic about having their portraits done and preened nervously while posing for sketches. For Alysia, it was a most welcome distraction.

  Chapter Eleven

  O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!

  King Richard III, William Shakespeare

  Rougemont became as busy as Victoria station. It seemed every neighbor between Cockington and Torquay came see the four new portraits in the gallery of Mary and Madeline Cavendish, and Richard and Rosalie Montegue. Word spread until visitors came from London, the sort who bought commissions. A little boasting and flattery from Lord Devon, and Alysia had enough work to keep busy into the next year.

  As Lady Devon approached the delivery of her baby, family began to arrive. Elyse Sherman, the Cavendish girls’ oldest sister, Louisa Mandley, Lord Devon’s aunt, and Lady Chauncey, Lady Devon’s mother; all arrived a month before the baby was due, citing what happened “the last time.”

  Alysia knew they meant Lady Devon’s suffering a difficult labor and delivering a month early, which caused no small panic before they discovered she was having twins instead of dying in childbirth. Apparently Lady Devon fared much better this time. She joked that since everyone came early, the baby would be late.

  The Cavendish sisters sent word to their elder brother, Captain Philip Cavendish, and he came with his young son. Elyse brought her two children and her husband, a Lieutenant Sherman who served in the navy with Captain Cavendish. Alysia learned that Lord Devon’s aunt Louisa had married Sir Walther Mandley, the famous horse breeder and friend of Lord Devon only two years past. Sir Mandley arrived last, totaling a bustling household of sixteen, counting Alysia. It should have been mayhem, but it was a continuous, riotous party instead.

  Alysia wondered if Lady Devon would regret hosting, but no one let her lift a finger. She spent the rest of her accouchement resting on the sofa, laughing herself silly and being fawned over by her husband.

  Lord Devon stopped Alysia in the hallway and told her he had received a letter from Lord Preston that day. Andrew was distressed that his parents were going abroad and intended to send Christian away to school. It seemed Christian didn’t want to go, and Andrew was trying to convince Lord and Lady Courtenay to allow him to watch over Christian himself. Lord Devon wanted to ask Alysia’s opinion before offering to have Christian come to Rougemont, since she would be tutoring two instead of one.

  She no doubt startled Lord Devon by laughing. “I have long thought that Lord Christian and Miss Madeline would be peas in a pod, my lord. I adore Christian and would love to have him here, though I warn you now; those two characters together will definitely equal mischief. You may be sorry.”

  At that Lord Devon laughed as well and said he considered himself warned. Lord Christian arrived only days before the newest Montegue was born, making the household seventeen, and then eighteen with the baby. Christian eagerly observed the new baby like it was an exotic species of beetle. Alysia thought perhaps he might be a famous surgeon one day, since he found injuries and diseases equally fascinating.

  There was no shortage of babies to go around at Rouge
mont. Alysia supervised Madeline and Christian’s studies while she held the baby boy of Captain Cavendish, Madeline’s widower older brother. He rode out in the park on horseback, tending to Lord Devon’s landlord duties while Lord Devon hardly ever left his wife’s side. His bloodshot eyes indicated that he got up at night to help. Alysia had never seen such a devoted husband.

  Jacob Cavendish, not quite a year old, curled contentedly in Alysia’s lap while she spoke in a low voice to Madeline and Christian. Jacob had just awoken from a nap and swatted at the fringed edging of her shawl as she gestured in the air to demonstrate a brush stroke. The baby chortled and twittered, his cheeks deeply dimpled like his father’s. A mop of black curls atop his head bobbed as he laughed.

  Soon it was useless to worry about elliptical strokes with filbert brushes, and the giggling baby stole the show. The little boy thought almost anything was hilarious — Christian’s spectacles, Madeline’s hair ribbon, and Alysia’s crossed eyes and stuck-out tongue. They laughed along with the baby until their bellies hurt, and finally little Jacob grew weary of the entertainment. He turned and burrowed his face into Alysia’s bosom then fell asleep again.

  Alysia resumed the lesson with Madeline and Christian but startled moments later as she noticed Captain Cavendish watching from the doorway. It was more his expression than his presence which jarred her. The pain and longing in his tired, handsome face meant he had been watching a while. She knew his young wife had died giving birth. He hadn’t returned from a voyage in time and arrived home to find devastation and his uncanny likeness in his baby boy. Alysia returned his tortured gaze with an apologetic one. He was only twenty-and-six, yet he wore the grief of a much older man.