The Painted Lady (3 page)

‘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.

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 is 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.

Jean-Paul Villemot was so delighted that he clapped his hands.

‘They have begun work already?’ he said. ‘
Merveilleux
!’

‘I’ve just come from the site,’ said Christopher Redmayne. ‘They have started to dig the foundations.’

‘And the builder?’

‘Samuel Littlejohn – a man I’ve worked with many times before, Monsieur. He employs skilled men and knows how to get the best out of them. It’s a pleasant change for him to work on a house in the French style.’

‘Designed by a genius of his profession.’

‘I merely followed where you led, Monsieur.’

‘Every idea you give me, it is very good.’

Christopher was grateful for the compliment but felt that it was undeserved. He had not so much designed the house as copied it from a set of prints that his client had brought from France, incorporating features from a number of them, into a unified whole. What had needed skill was the problem of adjusting the dimensions of the various elements to the available land. Since the site was not large, the house would have a narrower façade than he would have liked but he compensated for the lack of width by introducing additional height. Occupying a position between houses with Dutch gables, the Villemot residence would certainly stand out.

‘I love the wooden model you show me,’ said the artist.

‘Good. An immense amount of work went into it.’

‘I cannot wait to show it to my wife, Monique.’

‘The model or the house?’

‘Both,
mon ami
!’

‘Sam Littlejohn will not keep you waiting,’ Christopher promised him. ‘He builds fast and he builds well. Now that spring is here, he can count on better weather. He does not dally.’

‘Then he is the man after my own heart. Some artists, they take an age before they even begin a painting. Not me. At a first sitting,’ said Villemot, with a gesture towards the easel near the window, ‘I draw all the sketches I need. At the second, I am putting paint on the canvas. My rivals, they say that I rush things.’

‘They are simply jealous of you.’

‘None of my clients complain.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Christopher, looking around the studio. ‘I’ve seen some of your portraits and they are exceptional.’

‘Does that mean you wish me to paint you, Christopher?’

‘No, no! I’m not a suitable subject.’ He smiled as an image of Susan Cheever came into his mind. ‘But I may know someone who is.’

The Frenchman winked at him. ‘A lady?’

‘A very special lady.’

There was a tap on the door and it opened to admit Emile, who escorted Araminta Culthorpe into the studio. Taken aback by her poise and beauty, Christopher blinked in astonishment. The whole room seem to fill with her fragrance. After dismissing Emile with a nod, Villemot moved forward to greet her.

‘And here is another very special lady,’ he said, bestowing a kiss on the back of her hand. ‘Delighted to see you again, Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Villemot.’

The artist stood back to introduce her to Christopher. When she heard his surname, the smile froze on her lips and she became wary.

‘You are not related to Henry Redmayne, I hope,’ she said.

‘My brother,’ confessed Christopher.

‘I see no resemblance at all between you.’

‘I think you’ll find none, Lady Culthorpe. We do not look alike, think alike, or act alike. Henry and I have chosen very different paths through life. While he works at the Navy Office, I toil away as an architect.’

‘Christopher has designed the house for me,’ explained Villemot.

‘Oh,’ said Araminta with interest.

‘I showed you the model yesterday.’

‘It was very striking. Did you build it, Mr Redmayne?’

‘No, Lady Culthorpe,’ he replied. ‘I drew up the plan but someone else did the carpentry. Actually, it was his first venture.’

‘Then you must retain his services. I’ve never seen anything so intricately done. It was like a magnificent doll’s house.’

‘Wait until it’s built. Then you’ll see it in its full glory.’

‘I look forward to doing so, Mr Redmayne.’

While she had been speaking, Araminta had been appraising him and she was clearly impressed by what she saw. She decided that it was unjust to take a dislike to him because he bore a surname that she had come to detest. For his part, Christopher was both stirred and alarmed. He could see only too well why Henry had come under her spell. Lady Culthorpe was a remarkable young lady.

But she was quite unlike any of the women that his brother had pursued in the past and that disturbed him. There was something almost ethereal about her, an other-worldly quality, compounded of beauty, innocence and shining integrity. Instead of furthering his brother’s lecherous designs, Christopher vowed to do everything in his power to shield her from him.

He became conscious that he was holding the two of them up.

‘I do apologise,’ he said, eyes never leaving her. ‘I am obviously in the way so I will bid you both farewell.’

‘Wait!’ said Villemot, intercepting him before he could leave. ‘You have not told me how Lady Culthorpe comes to know your brother.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Well?’

Christopher was discreet. ‘That’s immaterial,’ he said. ‘Henry belongs to Lady Culthorpe’s past and is best left there.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ she said.

‘Goodbye, Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Goodbye.’

He gave her a polite bow before letting himself out of the room.

‘I think, maybe, there is an interesting story here,’ said
Villemot with a conspiratorial smile. ‘About you and Christopher’s brother.’

Araminta would not be drawn. ‘You heard what Mr Redmayne told you,’ she said, briskly. ‘It belongs in my past.’

‘Of course.’

‘So I’d be grateful if you did not raise the subject again.’

‘My lips, they are sealed.’ His exaggerated pout made her laugh and she relaxed. ‘Is there any drink Emile can bring for you before we start, Lady Culthorpe?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Sitting in one position, it is thirsty work.’

‘I’ll be fine, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Then let us begin.’

He conducted her across to the couch, waited for her to sit then arranged her skirts so that its folds fell in the correct way. Going across to his easel, he removed the cloth that covered the painting and checked the position that Araminta had been in earlier. Villemot came back to her to make a few adjustments, turning her head slightly to the left and asking her to hold her hands in her lap. Clemence, the black cat, watched it all from the comfort of her chair. It took some time before the artist was completely satisfied with the angle at which Araminta was sitting. Losing interest, Clemence yawned lazily and went back to sleep.

‘How much longer must I do this?’ asked Araminta, taking care to hold her position.

‘You are tired already?’

‘No, Monsieur Villemot.’

He was hurt. ‘You do not like it here?’

‘I like it very much.’

‘Then where is the problem?’

She gave a slight shrug. ‘I suppose the truth is that I’m not used to being looked at so intently.’

‘But you were
born
to be looked at, Lady Culthorpe,’ he said with an admiring smile. ‘Such beauty should not be hidden
away. It should be seen and enjoyed. Jean-Paul Villemot, he is the artist who will capture that beauty for all time.’

‘You flatter me, sir.’

‘No man could do that.’

There was a glint in his eye that she had not seen before and a note of esteem in his voice that bordered on veneration. It was the first time that he had ever expressed his affection for her so openly and it unsettled her. Araminta was worried what he might be thinking as he gazed at her for hours on end.

‘You did not answer my question, Monsieur,’ she said.

‘What question?’

‘How many more sittings will there be?’

‘One,’ he said, picking up his palette and starting to mix the oil paint. ‘Two, at most.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, Lady Culthorpe. I have been working on your head and shoulders and, for that, I need you here in person. No other woman could have such a lovely face, such skin, such hair, such a neck. Is like painting a Venus.’ Arminta’s discomfort increased. ‘When I work on the dress, someone else can wear it for me.’

‘Someone else?’

‘Why should you have to sit there when someone can do it in your place? I have a couple of models to call on or I could even use that pretty maid of yours.’

‘Eleanor?’

‘She is the same height and shape as you – the same age, too. I think you would like to lend the dress to someone you know.’

‘I’d certainly not allow a stranger to wear it.’

‘What about the pretty Eleanor, then?’

She pondered. ‘It’s a possibility,’ she said at length.

‘Then let her be your double.’

Araminta was not at all sure that she liked the idea. Eleanor was familiar with her mistress’s wardrobe and had handled its
contents of it many times, but she was still only a maid. She lacked the bearing to wear such an exquisite dress. Araminta had another reason to feel disquiet. Visiting her London home, Villemot had only met Eleanor for a fleeting moment yet he had noticed how young, petite and shapely she was. Her elfin prettiness had not escaped him either. The readiness with which he suggested using her as a model for Araminta showed that he had taken an interest in her. Eleanor was a capable and
self-possessed
young woman, but she would be more susceptible to the artist’s flattery than her mistress was.