Angel in Scarlet (32 page)

“Truer words were never spoken,” Gainsborough said wryly. “You've got a keen eye, Johnson.”

“Come along, Boswell,” Johnson grunted. “I've seen the painting. Now I want my tea.”

“There are several more paintings to see,” Boswell protested. “Reynolds has one, and—”

“No point in seeing any more. They'd all pale in comparison to this one. My stomach's grumbling. If I don't have my tea I turn
very
unpleasant, as you well know.”

Boswell sighed, defeated, and led Johnson away. The room buzzed with excitement as they left, and an even greater mob congregated around my portrait, their comments even more laudatory now that Johnson had placed his stamp of approval on it. Flushed with pleasure, Gainsborough led us away from the canvas and insisted we have a glass of champagne with him. Three journalists hurried over to us and bombarded him with questions, notebooks at the ready. Who was his model for
An Angel in Scarlet
? Where did she come from? Blue eyes twinkling, Gainsborough looked at me and informed the gents from Fleet Street that she had been sent to him from Heaven. He was in fine form, Gainsborough was, but he had every right to be. When the journalists finally left, he finished his champagne and gave me a merry smile.

“This is our success, Angela, yours as much as mine. I'm so pleased you and Miss Sloan could come and share the excitement—and what clever disguises. Two most beautiful women here, even if you
are
wearing masks.”

“Thank you, sir,” Megan said, giving him a pert curtsy.

“We'd better be leaving now,” I told Mr. G. “Our friend has to have the carriage back by six. Please give Mrs. Gainsborough my regards. Tell her the Christmas cakes were delicious.”

Gainsborough escorted us to the door, waving to the lovely Georgiana, who looked quite sulky because
her
portrait wasn't on display. He nodded to David Garrick and gave the pompous Sir Joshua Reynolds a triumphant smile, chuckling to himself as Reynolds grimaced.

“Stole
his
thunder,” Gainsborough said happily. “By this time tomorrow, all London will be talking about
An Angel in Scarlet
—and the mysterious beauty who posed for it.”

“Do—do you really think so?” I asked.

“I know so, lass. We've created a furor.”

We said our good-byes at the door. Megan was visibly thrilled by our adventure, fluttering her fan quite rapidly.

“Lord, luv,” she exclaimed as we started down the steps, “it was really
some
thing, wasn't it? All those important people talking about your portrait, wanting to know who you are. Why, Angela, just think—you're going to be famous!”

Chapter Eleven

Lord, what a to-do they were making over a simple painting, what a sensation it was causing. The public flocked to the Royal Academy in droves, mobbing it every day, and Fleet Street produced a veritable flood of words about the painting and the woman of mystery who had posed for it. I was amused to find myself identified as an Italian noblewoman living in England under an assumed name, as an obscure French actress, as the illegitimate daughter of an English noblewoman and a Russian Grand Duke, as a prostitute Gainsborough had picked up in St. Giles. A dozen histories were invented for me, all of them highly fanciful. I was repeatedly hailed as The Most Beautiful Woman of The Age, which did not sit at all well with celebrated beauties like Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, who heartily damned the painting and its artist as well. Gainsborough had sold reproduction rights for a huge sum to an enterprising print-shop owner, and thousands of prints were sold each week at sixpence a copy.

London had gone quite mad over
An Angel in Scarlet
, the mysterious “Angel” setting a new standard in feminine beauty, just as Gainsborough had predicted I would. Blondes were no longer in favor. Shop girls and grand ladies alike began to dye their hair brown, with often disastrous results, and the more enterprising simulated high cheekbones with inventive applications of rouge and shadow. Scarlet velvet was all the rage, every single bolt sold out, frantic orders placed for more, and soft pastels were suddenly démodé. Hundreds of imitation Angels paraded about the city sporting the New Look, and the original went right on working at Dottie's, amused by the furor and, with hair down and wearing her everyday clothes, never once recognized on the street or by any of the people who came into the shop.

Gainsborough was riding the crest, turning down commissions by the dozen, and he merrily reported that Sir Joshua was gnashing his teeth. Mr. G. refused to divulge any information about me to Fleet Street, and Boswell kept his mouth shut, too, although he claimed he “knew the lady well” and intimated I had been his mistress! At first, I had been terrified that Marie might see the painting or one of the prints and recognize me and track me down, but after a few weeks, when nothing happened, I realized that my stepmother lived in an isolated world where art, fads or fashion had little or no impact. She would certainly never step foot inside the Royal Academy, nor was it likely she would ever see one of the reproductions. One of my stepsisters might, I realized, but I wasn't going to worry about it. It was late February now. I had turned twenty-one two days ago. Though she might still cause trouble, Marie was no longer the threat she once had been.

“Scarlet velvet!” Dottie said, shaking her head. “Mrs. Barry insists she have a scarlet velvet gown for the second act of
The Jealous Wife
and it's simply not to be had! She'll have to make do with purple.”

“Has she dyed her hair yet?” I inquired.

“She has—had, rather—dark raven hair. She attempted to lighten it and now it's a curious shade of beige. She uses brown
boot
polish on it now. What madness have you
wrought
, my dear?”

“I find it all terribly silly,” I told her. “It's merely a painting, you know.”

“It's a phenomenon,” Dottie corrected me.

“I still don't understand it. Why would anyone want to look like me?”

“Because you're absolutely lovely. Attractive, unusual, striking—if you had asked me before, those are the words I would have used to describe you. It took a great artist to show us just how beautiful you are.”

“I don't
feel
particularly beautiful. I still think my mouth is too large and my cheekbones too high.”

“I must say, Angela, you've certainly remained very levelheaded about all this excitement. Most young women I know would have a head this big—” Dottie spread her hands wide. “You, on the other hand, don't even want people to
know
you're the girl in the painting. Refuse to get caught up in the excitement. I find that very admirable.”

“It'll die down,” I said. “In a few weeks or so there'll be another sensation to take its place and ‘Angel' will be quite forgotten. I prefer to keep a sensible perspective.”

Dottie sighed and started sewing another gold tulle ruffle on the skirt of the gold satin ball gown we were working on. The gown had to be delivered first thing in the morning, and I had stayed late to help Dottie finish it. The other girls had left over an hour ago, and we had already lighted the candles. It was almost seven. Megan would probably be in the drafty basement dressing room at the Aldwych, getting ready with the rest of the supers. She had finally obtained another job in the theater and was ecstatic about it, even though it was merely a walk-on in a Restoration comedy.

“There!” Dottie said. “The last ruffle. Skirt's finished. We just have to gather it and fasten it onto the bodice.”

“The bodice is done, too,” I said, holding it up. “Those invisible hooks in back drove me mad. You look very tired, Dottie. Why don't you go on up and let me finish the gown? It'll only take an hour or so. I'll lock up.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, my dear. You work much too hard as it is. I declare, I don't—”

“—know how I ever got along without you,” I finished for her. “I
am
going to get a swelled head if you keep saying that, Dottie.”

“It's quite true. I bless the day Megan brought you to me.
She
's a treasure, too. I never had a better girl in the stockroom. So lively and amusing as well. She's such a dear to keep on helping me out for a few hours every afternoon even though she has found work at the Aldwych.”

“I hope the play runs,” I said.

“Oh, it'll have a good long run—they adore bawdy Restoration comedy, and those costumes we made are—”

Both of us were startled by the sudden pounding on the front door. Dottie cut herself short and slammed a hand over her heart, and I jumped. Someone was banging furiously and yelling something we couldn't make out. We were both paralyzed for a moment, and then Dottie clutched a pair of scissors and moved cautiously toward the door, peering through the glass pane. I felt myself growing tense. There was little crime in this neighborhood, but one needed to be careful nevertheless. Dottie squinted, leaning her forehead against the pane, and then she gave an exasperated sigh and threw open the door. A young man in his early twenties stumbled into the room, looking quite distraught.

“Andrew Dobson!” she exclaimed. “What's the meaning of this! Banging on the door like that! You gave us quite a turn! And you in a thin coat in weather like this. Nothing on your head, either. You'll catch your death.”

“It's an emergency!” he cried.

“Get yourself over there by the stove this minute. You're having a cup of hot tea, too. This is Andy Dobson, Angela. He's stage manager at the Lambert, even though he
is
still wet behind the ears.”

“I've no time to lose!” young Dobson said breathlessly. “It really
is
an emergency, Mrs. Gibbons! Mrs. Tallent has split a seam in the side of her gown and curtain's going up in less than an hour and no one has any thread or—Lambert's in a fury! He grabbed my
throat
and told me to get myself over here and get you back fast with needle and thread or he'd
mur
der me!”

“Typical behavior,” Dottie said calmly. “Lamb always has gone in for histrionics. I altered those costumes of hers once, Andy, and if Mrs. Tallent insists on stuffing herself like a pig—”

“That's what
he
said!” Dobson broke in. “He said she'd been stuffing herself like a pig, said she
looked
like one, said it was her own bloody fault the seam split open. Mrs. Tallent was in a fury, too, shrieking like a banshee. I thought they were going to kill each other!”

“Be a blessing if they did,” Dottie observed. “I'm much too old and much too tired to go chasing about Covent Garden in weather like this. You can tell him I said so.”

“You've got to come, Mrs. Gibbons! Lambert'll have my hide if I come back without you!”

Dottie poured herself another cup of tea. “It's entirely out of the question,” she informed him.

Poor Dobson was filled with panic. His blond-brown hair was windblown and several locks tumbled across his brow. His light blue eyes were wide with apprehension. His lower lip trembled. He was an attractive youth with an air of youthful innocence, and although I doubted Lambert would actually murder him, I was sure the lad would lose his job if he failed to bring Dottie back. She
was
too old and too weary to go rushing through the streets in this cold, but I wasn't. I squared my shoulders.

“I'll go, Dottie,” I said. “I'll come in an hour earlier in the morning, and I'll finish the gown then.”

“You don't have to go, dear. Let Lamb stew in his own—”

“
Please
come!” Dobson exclaimed. “It won't matter who comes just as long as the gown's sewn up.”

“Which gown is it?” Dottie asked.

“The purple and mauve she wears in the first act.”

“Very well,” she sighed. “I'll put a few things in a bag for you, Angela. You'll need needles, scissors, purple thread, mauve, too, just to make certain, and I'll toss in a few scraps of cloth in case you need to do some patching. I intend to give Jamie Lambert a piece of my mind next time I see him, you can be sure of it!”

“You've saved my
life
,” Dobson told me.

I smiled, liking the lad a great deal. A few minutes later we were hurrying through the labyrinth of cobbled streets toward the Lambert. Covent Garden was bustling with activity, despite the cold, despite the icy wind. I clutched my heavy cloak close about me as we rushed up Bedford Street and down King, passing the Market, turning up James Street, crossing Hart and making for Longacre as fast as we could. The streets were crowded with carriages bound for the theaters, and there was a congestion of them in front of the Lambert. Torches illuminated the soot-stained marble portico, and a noisy throng moved up the wide steps to the entrance.

“This way!” Dobson panted.

He led me around the side of the building to the dark alleyway in back and then to the stage door. My first sight of the inside of a theater was a large, dimly lighted area with dusty flats leaning against the walls and coils of rope on the floor. Discarded scenery and props were littered about, and there was a rack of old costumes mothy with age. Dobson led me up a narrow hall to a larger area in front where people bustled about in what appeared to be total confusion. I caught a glimpse of the stage, a garden set in place, white trellises draped with artificial leaves and flowers, a painted backdrop depicting distant green hills with trees, a misty blue sky, footlights bathing it all in extremely bright light. There were catwalks in the darkness above, a veritable jungle of ropes looped about, and the front curtains were closed. Looked quite shabby from here, I thought.

“This must be the wings,” I said, dodging a chap in shirtsleeves who hurried toward the stage with two white lawn chairs. “I've often heard my friend Megan mention—”