Angel in Scarlet (28 page)

“Your mouth too big? Nonsense. It's a full, sensuous mouth, beautifully shaped, not one of those tiny rosebud mouths so much in vogue these days. Your cheekbones are divine, give you a cool patrician look few patrician women ever attain, and your eyes are incredibly arresting. You're undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.”

I believed that. Sure. Bloke
was
a liar. Not to be trusted.

“More beautiful than Perdita?” I inquired.

“Far more beautiful. Perdita looks like an Afghan hound with her long neck and those sharp, pointed features. Thought so when I painted her. If you'll look closely at my portrait of her you'll
see
the resemblance.”

The carriage was slowing down, and through the windows I could see that we had turned into an elegant square. Gracious white houses with tall white columns holding up the porticoes and fanlights over the doors. Smooth grassy green lawns and neat flower beds behind slender iron fences. Private drives. I eyed the door again as the carriage turned into one of the drives and came to a halt. Jenkins' hand clamped around my wrist, as though he were reading my mind.

“I'm going to scream,” I threatened.

“Wouldn't advise it, ducks.”

“It seems our guest is still a bit nervous, Jenkins. Why don't you escort her to the studio. I'll just pop into the parlor and speak to the wife and join you in a few minutes.”

Another footman had come outside and opened the carriage door, and Thomas Gainsborough, if, indeed, that was his name, scrambled out and climbed up the six flat marble steps and went into the house. Jenkins pulled me out of the carriage without undue gentility and told me I was bleedin' fortunate to 'ave a gent like Mr. G. take an hin-trest in me. I tried to pull free. His fingers tightened around my wrist. Place doesn't
look
like a brothel, I told myself. Looked even less like one inside. Jenkins dragged me down a lovely wide hallway with elegant white walls and a dark blue runner on the polished dark oak floor and a graceful white spiral staircase curling up to the floor above. A long mahogany table with pieces of porcelain and vases of flowers. A gorgeous chandelier with crystal pendants gleaming. Must be a huge amount of money in painting … or pimping. I intended to crack Jenkins over the head with something as soon as I spied the right object to grab.

He opened a door at the end of the long hall and pulled me into a large studio with windows looking out over a back garden. There was a skylight at one end of the room as well, a low wooden platform beneath it, and all those rays of sunlight streaming in emphasized the incredible disorder. Dozens of canvases leaning against the walls. Tables littered with tubes of paint and brushes in jars and dirty rags. Sketchpads, papers everywhere. An enormous wardrobe with doors standing open to reveal a bewildering array of garments, all crammed together, a dusty pyramid of hatboxes beside it. A large easel draped in cloth held what was obviously a work in progress, and other easels stood here and there holding paintings already finished. Jenkins closed the door and scowled at me.

“Goin' ter be'ave yourself,” he said, “or ham I goin' to 'ave to get rough again?”

“You can let go of me, Jenkins,” I said haughtily.

“You act up an' I'll clip-ya on th' jaw.”

He let go of me and moved over to stand guard at the door, looking like a comical gremlin with that fierce expression, in that preposterous gold and white uniform. Wasn't a bit scared of him. Wasn't scared at all now that I was convinced Mr. G. really
was
a painter. Fancy him wanting to do a painting of
me
. I wandered about the studio, idly examining things and trying to ignore the strong smell of turpentine. I looked at the paintings that stood on easels—several landscapes with carts and cows and feathery green trees, one or two portraits of pretty-pretty ladies with haughty faces and gorgeous gowns and beplumed hats—and then I turned around and spied another painting that stood all by itself on an easel across the room.

I crossed over to the easel, drawn, it seemed, by those sad, thoughtful eyes, for the lad in the painting was so real he seemed about to speak to me. He had long dark brown hair and blue eyes and was dressed like a cavalier in a dark blue suit. One hand was resting on his hip, the folds of a blue cape draped over his arm, and the other hand hung listlessly at his side, holding a brown hat with a curling white plume that almost touched the floor. Never had I seen such vibrantly glowing colors—such sumptuous blues, such creamy whites, such rich browns—nor had I ever seen a portrait so touching. Were the boy to speak, I knew his voice would be sweet and dreamy, his words full of sadness.

“Like it?” Gainsborough asked at my side.

His voice startled me. I hadn't heard him come into the studio. Several moments passed before I could reply, so moved was I by the sad young man in blue.

“I—I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“
The Boy in Blue
, more commonly known as
Blue Boy
. One of my more successful efforts. That's a copy I made, by the way. The original canvas is much larger.”

“You
must
be a great artist if you painted this.”

“It's nothing compared to the painting I'm going to do of you,” he informed me. “Come, lass, we'd best get started.”

“You're going to paint me to
day
?”

Thomas Gainsborough chuckled at my ignorance. “Gracious no, lass. Today—while the light lasts—I'm just going to do some preliminary sketches. It will take weeks, maybe months to complete the painting. I'm going to have to work you in. I'm currently painting the Duchess of Devonshire—” He nodded toward the easel draped in cloth, “and time and the beauteous Georgiana wait for no one.”

“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.