The Painted Lady cr-6

by Edward Marston

  ‘Who is the architect?’

  ‘A very clever man — Christopher Redmayne.’

  Christopher Redmayne examined the model with great care, looking at it from every angle. Jonathan Bale, the man who had made it, watched him nervously, desperate for approval and fearful of rebuke. Bale was a big, solid man in his late thirties with the kind of facial features that only a loving wife could find appealing. When working as a parish constable, he knew exactly what to do. As the maker of a scale model, however, he was in uncharted territory.

  Christopher let out a sigh of admiration. ‘It’s good, Jonathan.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘In fact, it’s very good.’

  ‘I did my best.’

  ‘It far exceeds my own mean abilities,’ confessed the architect. ‘I can see a building in my mind’s eye, and I can draw it to perfection, but I’m all fingers and thumbs when it comes to making a model. You have a real talent.’

  ‘I was a shipwright for many years,’ said Bale, nostalgically. ‘You never lose the knack of working with wood.’

  ‘Building a galleon is very different from creating a model of a new house, yet you adapted your skills with ease.’ He reached for his purse. ‘Let me pay you.’

  ‘No, no, Mr Redmayne — not a penny.’

  ‘A labourer is worthy of his hire.’

  ‘It was a joy to work on.’

  ‘Designing the house was also a joy,’ said Christopher, ‘but I expect Monsieur Villemot to pay me for it. Come now,’ he went on, extracting a handful of coins from his purse. ‘Let’s have no more of this nonsense. Take what you’ve rightly earned.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Bale, holding out a reluctant palm.

  Christopher paid him the agreed amount and added some extra money by way of a bonus. Bale had done exactly what had been asked of him in half the time allowed. The constable looked at the coins.

  ‘You’ve given me too much.’

  ‘It will help to pay for all the midnight oil you burned.’

  ‘Sarah will chide me for taking more than I deserve.’

  ‘Your wife has far too much common sense to do that. There are scant rewards from being a parish constable,’ said Christopher, ‘and only someone as public-spirited as you would take on the work. When you’re employed by me, you’ll get a decent wage.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bale, touched. ‘You’re very generous.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, it’s Jean-Paul Villemot’s generosity so you should be grateful to him. Every penny I’ve given you comes from my client.’ He pointed to the model. ‘He’ll be overjoyed with this.’

  ‘Good.’

  They were in Christopher’s house in Fetter Lane, a place that was so much larger and better furnished than Bale’s humbler abode that he always felt vaguely uncomfortable there. Holding his hat in both hands, he stood beside the table as the architect subjected the model to an even closer scrutiny. Tall, lithe and dashing, Christopher had long reddish hair that curled at the ends. Even in repose, he seemed animated. He and Bale were unlikely companions, divided by religion, social standing and every other measurement against which they could be set. Yet they had been drawn together over the years and each had come to value the friendship highly.

  Christopher had first met the dour constable when the client for whom he had designed a house had been murdered. Since the crime had taken place in Bale’s own ward of Baynard’s Castle, he dedicated himself to solving it with the aid of the architect. In the course of their partnership, a mutual respect had developed and it had slowly increased with the passage of time. It was gratifying to both of them that they could at last work together on something that was quite unrelated to crime.

  ‘What do you think of the house?’ enquired Christopher.

  ‘Too grand for the likes of me, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘More suitable for Paris than for London?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bale, wrinkling his nose, ‘it is a bit Frenchified.’

  ‘A man is entitled to reside in a house that reminds him of his native country,’ said Christopher. ‘And there are aspects of French architecture that I find very endearing. When I was studying my trade, I learned a lot on the other side of the English Channel.’

  ‘I prefer a plain house with none of this decoration.’

  ‘Engage me as your architect and I’ll design it for you.’

  Bale smiled. ‘I’m happy with the house I’ve got, sir.’

  ‘And with the wife and children you share it with, Jonathan.’

  ‘I’d not change them for the world.’

  Christopher felt a pang of envy. Whenever Bale returned to his home in Addle Hill, his family were invariably there to welcome him. Though he shared it with two servants, Christopher’s house always seemed rather empty by comparison, even more so since Susan Cheever had returned to Northampton for a while with her father. Shorn of his beloved, Christopher felt desperately lonely and could only keep sadness at bay by throwing himself into his work. He longed for the day when he and Susan could share a home and have children of their own. Until then, he reflected, the only family he had in London was his brother, Henry, whose sybaritic existence appalled him and whose proximity was often an embarrassment.

  It was uncanny. Even as he popped into Christopher’s mind, his brother came calling. The bell rang insistently, Jacob, the ancient servant, went to open the front door, and, seconds later, a grinning Henry Redmayne was shown into the room.

  ‘Christopher!’ he said, doffing his hat and embracing his brother affectionately. ‘How good to see you looking so well.’

  ‘I wish that I could say the same of you,’ said Christopher.

  ‘My doctor tells me I’m in the best of health.’

  ‘Then you must change your doctor. Your eyes are bloodshot, your cheeks are sallow and you look as if you’ve not slept for a week.’ He indicated his other visitor. ‘You know Jonathan, of course.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Henry, seeing Bale for the first time and frowning with candid dislike. ‘Yes, I’ve met your tame Puritan once too often.’

  ‘Learn from his example and lead a cleaner life.’

  ‘I’d die of boredom!’

  ‘There’s nothing boring about my life, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, staunchly. ‘It’s full of interest. Unlike some, I do an honest job.’

  ‘Why, so do I,’ retorted Henry, stung by the insinuation, ‘so you can take that note of criticism out of your voice. I work at the Navy Office and serve my country accordingly. I venture to suggest that I contribute more to the safety of the nation than someone who merely arrests a few drunkards and stops an occasional tavern brawl.’

  ‘You forget something, Henry,’ said his brother. ‘There was a time when you and Jonathan were colleagues. You might victual the ships but he helped to build them, and that’s a much more difficult proposition. See here,’ he continued, standing back to reveal the model on the table behind him, ‘this is an example of his work. Jonathan is still a master carpenter.’

  Henry was impressed. ‘You made this, Bale?’

  ‘At your brother’s instruction,’ said the other.

  ‘Then I congratulate you. That house is fit to stand in any street in Paris. If I’m not mistaken,’ he said, excitedly, ‘what you have brought to life is the London residence commissioned by none other than that greasy Frenchman, Jean-Paul Villemot.’ He leaned over the model to inspect it. ‘Is that not so?’

  ‘I believe it is, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘Then this is a happy coincidence because it’s the very matter I came to discuss with Christopher.’ He turned to bestow a meaningful smile on the constable. ‘Good day to you, Bale.’

  ‘And to you, sir.’

  After a round of farewells, Bale took his leave, even though he was pressed by Christopher to stay. When he had seen his friend out, the architect came back into his study. Henry had crouched down so that he could peer through the front door of the model.

  ‘You
had no right to put Jonathan to flight like that,’ said Christopher, sharply. ‘He was here as my guest.’

  ‘That gloomy face of his makes me shiver.’

  ‘He’s a friend of mine.’

  Henry stood up to face him. ‘Since when has a friend taken precedence over your own flesh and blood?’ he said, irritably. ‘I’m your brother, Christopher.’

  ‘I have regretted the fact many times.’

  ‘Do not jest with me.’

  ‘I speak in earnest, Henry, as you well know.’

  ‘Put my past mistakes aside,’ said the other. ‘I’m aware of my faults and I’ve done everything in my power to address them. What you see before you is a new, reformed, reclaimed, utterly responsible Henry Redmayne.’ He spread his arms. ‘What think you of him?’

  ‘That he looks horribly like the same old reprobate.’

  ‘The change is within me, Christopher. It’s not yet visible to the naked eye. But it will be, it will be. I have renounced sin.’

  ‘You’ll tell me next that the Thames has renounced water.’

  Henry laughed. ‘You are right to be cynical,’ he conceded. ‘I have wandered too readily from the straight and narrow until now. I own it and I condemn it. Henceforth, I’ll mend my ways.’

  ‘How many times have I heard you say that?’

  ‘This time, I mean it, Christopher.’

  His brother was sceptical. ‘To what do we owe this miraculous transformation?’ he asked, wearily.

  ‘To the only thing that matters in this world — to love, a love so deep and all-embracing that it’s brought me to my senses. I’ve met her at last. I’ve seen the woman I wish to marry, the divine creature I intend to worship for the rest of my days. And you, my dear brother,’ he added, waving a hand at the model, ‘are in a position to help me win her love. Who commissioned this house?’

  ‘You guessed aright — Jean-Paul Villemot, the artist.’

  ‘So you will be in constant discussion with him.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Christopher. ‘I intend to take this model across to him tomorrow morning.’

  Henry quivered all over. ‘Then she will be there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The lady I adore, my wife-to-be.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Destiny.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Christopher with growing suspicion. ‘I’ve heard you talk of destiny before and it always brings disaster in its wake.’

  ‘Not this time,’ insisted Henry. ‘All I need is a little assistance from my brother and my destiny will be fulfilled. Play Cupid for me, I beg you. Bear letters to the lady and contrive a moment when I may speak to her alone.’ He tapped the miniature house. ‘Distract the artist with one model and leave the other one — namely her — to me. Chance has contrived more than I could have dared hope. You are my bridge to Paradise. Help me now and you will one day welcome Araminta as your dear sister-in-law.’

  ‘Araminta?’

  ‘Araminta Jewell. Villemot is engaged to paint her portrait.’

  ‘I do not know the lady.’

  ‘Then you have never looked upon perfection.’

  ‘Indeed, I have,’ said Christopher, thinking of Susan Cheever.

  ‘Araminta is a Jewell by name, and a jewel by nature. I’m consumed with passion for her. She must be mine.’

  ‘Then find someone else to be your pander for I’ll not take on the office. My only business with Monsieur Villemot concerns the new house he asked me to design.’

  ‘Could you not oblige your brother in the process?’

  ‘No, Henry, I could not. Let’s hear no more of Araminta Jewell.’

  ‘Culthorpe,’ corrected the other.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She was tricked into marriage by Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

  Christopher was aghast. ‘You want me to ease you into the bedchamber of someone else’s wife?’ he demanded. ‘Even by your low standards, that’s a revolting suggestion. How could you even ask such a thing of me?’

  ‘Her marriage was a grotesque error.’

  ‘If it took her out of your reach, I’d say that it was a tactical triumph. What can you be thinking about, Henry? Do you really mean to pin your hopes of happiness on such a patent impossibility?’

  ‘Amor vincit omnia,’ declaimed Henry, groping for the only Latin tag he could remember. ‘Love conquers all. Araminta wants me, needs me and yearns for me. The fact that she is at present encumbered with a husband is but a disagreeable irrelevance. She’s mine, Christopher,’ he asserted, a hand to his heart, ‘and I call upon you, as a brother, to smooth the path of true love.’

  ‘The lady and her husband have already found it.’

  ‘You refuse my request?’

  ‘It would be ignoble of me even to consider it,’ said Christopher with vehemence. ‘She is protected by the bonds of holy matrimony. You meddle with those at your peril.’

  Henry crossed to the door. ‘Then I’ll do so alone,’ he said, huffily. ‘Since you have failed me, I’ll achieve my ends without your help. Come what may, I’m determined to have her — and a dozen husbands will not stand in my way.’

  Sweeping out with a theatrical flourish, he slammed the door.

  Christopher groaned. There was trouble ahead.

  Chapter Two

  Traffic was heavy in the Strand that morning but the carriage rumbled along at a steady speed. Inside the vehicle, Sir Martin Culthorpe was too busy giving instructions to his wife to notice the endless series of coaches, carts, barrows, riders and pedestrians that went past. Lady Culthorpe sat beside her husband and listened patiently.

  ‘Be polite but not too forward,’ he told her.

  ‘No, husband.’

  ‘Do not, on any account, discuss any domestic matters.’

  ‘It would never cross my mind to do so.’

  ‘Touch on nothing of a personal nature.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Above all else, Araminta,’ he stressed, ‘guard against Monsieur Villemot’s charm. He is a ladies’ man with all the faults of the breed.’

  ‘You do him wrong,’ she said, earnestly. ‘He talks of nobody but his wife and he does so with great tenderness.’

  ‘In the company of a Frenchman, a young woman can never be wholly secure.’ She bit back a giggle. ‘I’m serious, Araminta.’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘As your husband, it behoves me to think of such things.’

  ‘You’ve dwelt on nothing else these past few days and your fears have proved groundless. Monsieur Villemot has shown me the utmost respect. Emile, his valet, has been kind and attentive to me. I have also got to know Clemence.’

  ‘Clemence?’

  ‘The cat,’ she said. ‘She is adorable. When I sit in that studio,’ said Araminta, ‘I feel that I am among friends.’

  She squeezed his hand and looked lovingly up at him. The new Lady Culthorpe was short and shapely with the kind of arresting beauty that would turn anyone’s head. She wore a blue dress whose delicate hue matched her eyes. Exposing her shoulders, it was back-laced and had puffed elbow sleeves slashed to reveal a darker material beneath. The looped skirt was tied back by bows at the rear to show the lining. Decorated with neat embroidery, the petticoat was also prominently displayed. Her high-heeled shoes were of blue satin with a bow at the instep.

  Jean-Paul Villemot had selected the clothing to complement her features and her complexion. Her oval face had an unforced loveliness and was surmounted by silken fair hair puffed above the ears and held away from her cheeks by wires. Since she was almost half his age, she looked more like Sir Martin’s daughter than his wife. But there was no doubting her devotion to him. For his part, he took the most inordinate pride in being with her, glancing at her time and again as if not quite believing that she had actually married him.

  ‘You must learn to trust me,’ she said.

  ‘I do so implicitly, my dear.’

  ‘Beauty i
s as much a curse as a blessing. It is pleasing to look at in a mirror but it does, alas, attract all sorts of unwanted admirers. Dealing with them requires tact and firmness, Martin.’ She pulled a face. ‘Against my wishes, I have perforce had a lot of practice in fending off amorous gentleman.’

  ‘I thank God that I was not one of them.’

  ‘You would never be listed among such unprincipled rascals and nor,’ she added, ‘would Monsieur Villemot. Where others tempted me with momentary pleasures, you offered your heart, your hand and all that you possessed. Rash impulse has no appeal for me. I chose the sweetness and commitment that can only come from true love.’

  ‘Thank you, Araminta!’

  ‘Having made that election, I’ll never go astray from it.’

  Sir Martin smiled fondly. ‘I am rightly censored,’ he said. ‘Why should I try to lay all this advice upon you when you are well able to take care of yourself? The truth is that I hate to have you out of my sight for a single minute.’

  ‘Then let me find the way to be constantly in view.’

  ‘I do not follow.’

  ‘The portrait,’ she explained with a laugh. ‘When that is done, you can gaze upon me every hour of the day. In releasing me for the sittings, you are ensuring that I will always be there with you.’

  ‘I need to see you in person as well as in paint.’

  ‘You shall see both.’ The carriage turned a corner and rattled along a winding street before slowing to a halt. ‘Here we are at last.’

  ‘One more thing…’

  ‘I’ll not hear it,’ she said, putting a hand to his lips. ‘I’m yours and yours alone. The only reason I agree to spend time alone with another man is so that I can forever be in my husband’s company.’

  ‘So be it.’

  Sir Martin was content. Using an index finger to lift her chin, he kissed her softly on the mouth. All of his anxieties had been stilled. He could leave her in a room full of French artists and be certain that her virtue would be untarnished. He reproached himself in silence for raising imaginary fears. When the door was opened for Araminta and she alighted from the carriage, he let her go without a tremor.