by Joan Smith
His death had not been sudden. He had faded away slowly over a period of two weeks—ample time to be rid of the evidence of his past sins. Barry had, presumably, told Andrew of his mother’s passing. I wondered how the poor fellow had heard of his father’s death. It seemed wrong that the newly found son had not attended the funeral of either parent. As I thought of these things, Andrew began to seem like a real person to me, with worries and troubles of his own.
Who had raised him? Was he what we call a gentleman? He had been teaching in a boys’ school, so at least he had been educated. It was difficult to form any idea of his appearance. Lady Margaret was blond and soft-featured and plump. Barry was tall and dark and lean. Whatever the physical attractions of his youth, by the time I met Barry, he had hardened to a somewhat bitter man, with his skin tanned by the tropical sun of India.
Yet there had been occasional flashes of a warmer personality lurking below the surface. Sometimes when we had company, Barry would expand a little on his experiences in India, especially if the company included ladies. And when he chaperoned my lessons with Count Borsini, he and the count often fell into lively conversation, as two well-traveled gentlemen will do. Barry used to speak of his Indian adventures, and Borsini told tales of his life in Italy.
It would soon be time for another lesson with Borsini. To avoid it, I wrote to Aldershot and told him I no longer felt the need of his tutelage. I thanked him very civilly for past help, but made quite clear the lessons were over.
Steptoe continued on with us, without any change in salary. He was a reformed character, and we were too distracted to want the bother of finding a replacement. By Sunday, Weylin had still not returned from London. The length of his visit caused considerable worry at Hernefield. He had not deigned to reply to mama’s letter, so we had no idea what course he was following. It did not even occur to us to apply to Parham for information. We had no idea whether he had informed his mama what was afoot.
On Monday the painters came to paint my studio. I went upstairs with them to give instructions. Brodagan could not miss the opportunity to order two grown men about, and went with us. She cast one look at the floor and said, “I told Steptoe to see this carpet was rolled up and put away. They’ll destroy it with paint drops.”
“It hardly matters, Brodagan. It is already a shambles.”
“A shambles, is it? It is a deal better than the wee scrap of rug in my room.”
“We’ll not harm it, misses,” the painter in charge assured her, “for we’ll lay this here tarpaulin over it.” As he spoke, he took one end of the tarpaulin, his helper the other, and they placed it carefully over the shabby old carpet.
They opened the container of paint and began stirring it up. It looked a very stark white. I left them to it, and went belowstairs just as Mama was putting on her bonnet.
“I am driving into Aldershot, Zoie,” she said. “I want to get new muslin for Andrew’s sheets. And perhaps new draperies for the blue guest room. They have got so very faded.”
“We are not sure he will come, Mama, but the new sheets and even draperies will not go amiss. I shall stay home to keep an eye on my studio. This paint looks very cold. I may change the shade after they have done half a wall.”
“I shan’t be long.”
She left, and I took my pad to the garden to try my hand at sketching the gardener, who was working with the roses in front of the house. As there was no convenient seat, I sat on the grass and studied the gardener a moment, choosing the most artful pose for my sketch. It would be a full-length action drawing. He changed position so often that it was difficult to draw him. As he only gave us two afternoons a week, I did not like to disrupt his work and ask him to stand still.
Borsini had been teaching me a new exercise for drawing people in motion. It involved moving the pencil in quick circles to suggest movement. He was quite a dab at it, but when I had tried, I ended up with a whirl that looked like the onset of a tornado. I tried this technique again, and began dashing off an arm composed of circles. The gardener moved; I sketched more quickly. The more quickly I sketched, the larger the arm grew, until in the end I had executed yet another tornado, whirling off the edge of the page.
I was interrupted by the sound of an approaching carriage. I thought it was Weylin, and my heart raced, but when I looked to the road, I saw it was a jaunty little gig, drawn by a single nag. Mrs. Chawton drives such a rig, but hers is black. This one was a more dashing affair altogether, in dark green, with a handsome bay pulling it. As it came closer, I saw the man holding the reins was a gentleman, to judge by his curled beaver and blue jacket. Cousin Andrew!
I hurried forward, and saw that it was Count Borsini. He usually rode a hack, or in bad weather, we sent the carriage for him. My annoyance with him gushed forth. If he had come to try to talk me into continuing the lessons, I would let him know his game was up. He drew to a stop and lifted his hat.
“Buongiorno, Signorina Barron. How do you like this, eh?” he asked smiling in his old conning way. “What a pleasure to have the reins of a carriage between my fingers again. I have missed it. At the Villa Borsini I used to drive Papa’s team.”
I had always found him attractive. Really quite handsome, and his charm and his few foreign phrases made him appear dashing. He has chestnut hair and blue eyes. His features are regular, his physique adequate, though on the slender side.
“You must be doing well for yourself, Borsini,” I said, running an eye over the rig. “Very handsome.”
“Papa’s wine did well last year. We even sold some to the Vatican—a great honor. Papa sent me a little bonus. I have come to see if you would like a ride in my chariot.”
Occasionally I had an outing with Borsini, besides my lessons. These outings were chaperoned by my uncle, and usually involved art in one way or another. We had been to a few exhibitions, and he took me to other artists’ studios a few times. Once he went shopping for art supplies with me, as he did not approve of the brushes I used. We had never before gone out driving unchaperoned, just for pleasure. Of course, he had not had a rig before, so he could hardly ask me.
“Actually, I am busy,” I said.
He looked across the grass, spotted my sketchpad, and picked it up. “Good! I am happy to see it is only Borsini you are abandoning, and not your art.” That was his only verbal reproof, but his soulful eyes made me feel like a murderer. He glanced at the tornado and shook his head. “You have not got the knack of this technique. It is like this. Prego?” He took the pencil from my hand, whirled it about for a moment, and with absolute sleight of hand had soon done a good likeness of the gardener. I could almost see the man’s movements in those whirling circles.
Whatever Weylin might say, Borsini was a good artist. What if the prince had not commissioned him to do his painting? What if he did need the money? Was that not a reason to continue the lessons, rather than cancel them? Perhaps Cousin Andrew’s position influenced my thinking. I often thought of him, a poor fellow, cast off to shift for himself, until he was rescued.
Borsini handed the sketchpad back, smiling at me. “I think you could still use a few lessons, signorina,” he said. “If it is the money—psh!” he tossed up his hands in disdain. “As I said, I have come into a few hundred pounds. I would be happy to go on teaching you without payment. It is a shame to stop, just when you are making such strides.”
“I shall have to think about it, Borsini.”
“I hope I have not done something to offend you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Grazie,” he said, with an elaborate bow that would look absurd if performed by an Englishman. It involved clutching the heart, as if to quell its rampage.
“How is our—your studio coming along?” he asked, in a wistful sort of way. It was Borsini who first suggested I ought to have a studio. I think he had been looking forward to it quite as much as I.
“The painters are at work on it this minute. I meant to check. The white they are using on the wa
lls looks very stark.”
“You don’t want a dead white. A little yellow, or red addolci—how would you say—softens the effect.”
“Will you come and have a look with me?”
“Delizioso! I shall just run my gig around to the stable.”
I asked the gardener to take care of the gig, and we went into the house together. Steptoe was not at the door to admit us. He was gradually returning to his uppity ways, but his days were numbered. Brodagan had been peeking out the window at Borsini, with whom she had fallen in love, and came to meet us. He flirts with her, and even tackles a brogue, to please her.
“Brodagan, me old flower,” he said, handing her his hat. “Have you missed me?”
“When did I ever have time to miss anyone?” she asked, in her grim way. “Between answering the door and cooking and cleaning and fixing up melady’s studio, I wouldn’t have time to miss my own self.”
“Ah, but we would all miss you if you left us, me darlin’,” he said with a laugh.
“I’ll fetch you a cup of tea,” Brodagan said. She simpered, curtsied, and went happily on her way, carrying his hat as if it were a priceless crown.
Borsini looked after her retreating form. “Whatever of our lessons, signorina, you must let me paint Brodagan. It would be a crime for posterity not to have a picture of that steeple she has constructed atop her head. I adore her.”
“And she dotes on you, Borsini.”
“She will bring us tea strong enough for a mouse to trot across. That is the way they take it in Ireland, no?”
“And at Hernefield. The studio is on the third floor. It is a bit of a climb,” I said, leading him up the stairs.
Borsini looked all about him as we reached the landing. It was the first time he had got abovestairs, but I think he might have quelled his curiosity. When he saw my displeasure, he said, “I was just wondering which is your room, Miss Barron.” “Signorina” usually settles down to “Miss Barron” after a few minutes conversation.
“You cannot see it from here,” I said, continuing toward the narrower staircase leading to the octagonal tower. The smell of paint came down the staircase to greet us. At the top, a blinding wall of white stared at us like a snowbank.
Borsini made a strangled sound in his throat and hid his eyes. “The glare! The glare! It is blinding! Fermata! Stop this vandalism at once!”
The painters looked at him as if he were mad. He darted forward and snatched the paintbrushes from their hands. “It will be winter in your studio twelve months of the year if you continue with this crime against the human spirit. Yellow. Bring me a golden yellow pigment, bright as the sun, and I, Borsini, shall create a color to bring warmth to this studio.”
Already the studio seemed warmer. I decided I would continue my lessons for the time being.
Chapter Sixteen
Borsini personally oversaw the blending of the oil paints. The workers had brought colored paints with them for mixing. Borsini had cans of red and yellow, gold as the summer sun, opened, and mixed a portion of both in with the white to achieve the proper shade. Of course, he removed his jacket to avoid getting paint on it. Before long, Mary, the maid, came to tell us tea was ready, but as Borsini was in the throes of creation, he ignored her.
“We shall be down in a moment, Mary,” I said. “Or would you like you tea now, Borsini?”
“Later, per cortesìa.”
Mary left, and Borsini continued mixing and stirring. He added another two or three drops of red to the white paint, stirred it up, and applied a daub to the wall. “Ecco! That is the shade I wanted. The first pale saffron blush of sunrise over the Grand Canal.”
It was a pretty shade, nearly white, but with a flush of color to remove the harshness. I approved, and suggested we go down to tea.
“Presently,” he said. “I want to remain just a moment longer, picturing to myself Signorina Barron at her easel.” His moist eyes toured the room.
I thought his lower lip trembled, but I could not be sure.
“Picture Count Borsini with her,” I said. “You are right. I do require more lessons.”
His whole face glowed. “Ah, signorina! You are too kind!” In his excitement, he grasped my hands, and would have kissed me if the painters had not been squinting at him.
I was trying to disentangle my hands from his when Brodagan’s sharp voice brought me to attention. “Checking on the painters, is it? It’s a good thing I came up, for you need someone to check on you, my girl.”
Brodagan’s tone told me she was not happy to see me stealing her beau. I turned to her, and saw, to my horror, that she had brought Lord Weylin up with her. “His lordship wants a word with you,” she said. “If you don’t get downstairs, the tea will be cold as ice.”
“Miss Barron,” Weylin said, with a curt, graceless bow. His eyes moved to Borsini, taking in his paint-smeared hands, his jacketless body, his smiling face, and condemning the whole without uttering a word.
“Allow me to present Count Borsini, my art teacher,” I said. “Count Borsini, this is my neighbor, Lord Weylin.”
Borsini performed a flourishing bow, then stuck out his hand, as Weylin had extended his. “Scusi,” Borsini said, noticing the paint on his fingers. My own were daubed as well.
“We need turpentine,” I said, and escaped to fetch it and a clean rag, while Brodagan helped Borsini on with his jacket.
“Doing a little redecorating, Miss Barron?” Weylin asked, while we wiped away the paint.
“This will be my studio,” I explained. “Count Borsini was kind enough to help me choose the color.”
“One would obviously require assistance for such a demanding task,” he said, with a satirical glint in his eyes.
“Yes, I am happy I consulted him, for the painters were using a horrid, cold white. It takes the artist’s touch.”
We all went belowstairs for tea. I was happy to see Borsini controlled his passion for Latin tricks. He did not sprinkle his conversation with Italian phrases, or call Weylin signor, or whatever the Italian word for milord might be. I had noticed before that these Latin airs were confined to ladies. When he conversed with Barry, for instance, he spoke only English, with a light accent.
Of course, I was on nettles to hear what Weylin had to say about London and Mr. Jones, but that conversation must wait until Borsini had left. He stuck like a barnacle. I think he sensed a potential client in Weylin, and was at pains to charm him. He spoke of the medieval architecture of Parham, and inquired minutely into its history. Strangely, Weylin seemed equally interested in the artist, while paying only a polite minimum of attention to myself.
“As you are an artist, you might be interested in the Van Dycks at Parham, Count,” he said. “Van Dyck painted a few of my ancestors in the last century.”
Borsini opened his mouth to correct that erroneous date. Of course, he knew perfectly well Van Dyck had painted in the seventeenth century, but he was too polite to reveal Weylin as an ignoramus. “That would be charming, milord. Do you have any Italian paintings? They, of course, are of interest to me. My papa has some wonderful Titians. The loggia at Villa Borsini has a mural ascribed to Raphael.”
Weylin smiled like a cat. He thought he was proving Borsini a fake. “I believe I can show you a few Renaissance pictures worth the trip,” he said. “Your papa’s villa, Count—just where is it, exactly?”
“In Tuscany,” Borsini said. “We have vast vineyards in Tuscany.” He did not say a word about the palazzo in Venice.
I was sure that villa in Tuscany had begun life as a palazzo in Venice. I had mentioned at the time my surprise to hear there were vineyards in that watery spot.
“I do not recall ever seeing a Borsini wine,” Weylin said, looking innocent.
“The English prefer claret, or sherry.” Borsini smiled forgivingly. “My papa sent me several cases of his excellent Chianti, if you are interested to try it, Lord Weylin.”
“I should like that very much. Is your schedule quite f
ull at the moment, Count, or would it be possible for you to execute a small commission for me?”
Borsini smiled in delight. “I can always make time for such patrons as yourself, milord. Is it a portrait of yourself, or some member of your family, you wish for?”
“Actually, it is my mama’s pug dog,” Weylin said. “Mama’s birthday is not far off, and I require a present for her.”
“Count Borsini does not paint dogs!” I said angrily.
Borsini just gave a tight little smile. “Lord Weylin wishes to see an example of my skill, before committing himself to a portrait. Am I right, milord?” Weylin did not deny it. “It is not necessary to waste time painting a dog. Come to my studio in Aldershot.”
“Why did you set up shop in Aldershot, when your noble connections would assure you plentiful patrons in London?” Weylin asked. His suspicious tone cast aspersions on Borsini’s claim to a title.
“My preferred customers nowadays are trees, milord, which are plentiful in this delightful neighborhood.”
“Surely trees do not commission portraits?”
“When I need money, I shake the family trees,” Borsini said, smiling tenaciously throughout this rude catechism. “I have no trouble finding customers for my landscapes as well.”
“I shall call at your studio tomorrow,” Weylin said.
“That will be satisfactory. I am at liberty between two and five.”
“Let us say four-thirty,” Weylin said. I looked to Borsini, hoping he had got what he wanted, and would now leave us. I was out-of-reason cross when it was Weylin who rose and said he must be leaving.
“Oh, do stay, Weylin!” I said. “Have another cup of tea.”
“Another time, Miss Barron.” Then he turned to Borsini. “Are you free now, Count? Are you quite happy with the color of Miss Barron’s studio? Perhaps you would like to see the Van Dycks—and the Titians—while you are in the neighborhood. I shall tell my groom to take you back to Aldershot. No need for Miss Barron to have her team harnessed up.”
