The Painted Lady (4 page)

While he painted, Villemot liked to hold a conversation, believing that it helped his sitters feel more at ease, rescuing them from having to hold a pose in silence for lengthy periods. To dispel her faint uneasiness, Araminta initiated the discussion, moving it to what she considered to be the safe topic of Villemot’s married life.

‘Has your wife ever been to England before?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘not yet.’

‘What will she think of London?’

‘Monique will love it. The English, they are friendly. I first came here to paint a portrait of Lady Bellstock and her husband was kind enough to help me meet many people.’ He applied the first paint to the canvas. ‘Do you know Lord Bellstock?’

‘My husband does,’ she said. ‘In fact, when Sir Martin first decided that he wanted a portrait painted of me, he asked Lord Bellstock for advice about a suitable artist. He recommended you.’

‘Then I owe him my thanks.’

‘He was obviously pleased with what you did for him.’

‘I like to give my clients exactly what they want,’ he said, easily. ‘You must make sure that I do so for you, Lady Culthorpe. At least, with you, I do not have to cheat on the canvas.’

‘Cheat?’

‘I can paint you exactly as you are – not a blemish in sight.
With Lady Bellstock, it was different. Her husband, he wanted me to make her younger and thinner than she was. The portrait was a disguise.’

‘Well, I don’t wish you to disguise me, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘That would be – we have the same word in French – sacrilege.’

The glint returned to his eye and it troubled her once again.

‘What is Paris like?’ she said, trying to find a neutral subject.

‘Very beautiful?’

‘More beautiful than London?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, proudly. ‘It does not smell any sweeter and it is just as noisy with all those people, but Paris, it was not destroyed by a fire like London. When I first come here, the city was still in ruins. It looked so ugly. Slowly, it is getting better.’

‘Will it ever rival Paris?’

He shrugged expressively. ‘I am French. To me, no city in the world will ever be as good as Paris.’ He beamed at her. ‘I’ll take you there one day. Would you like that, Lady Culthorpe?’

The directness of his question shocked her and she was lost for words as she considered its implications. A faint blush came to her cheeks. Noticing it at once, he gave her an emollient smile.

‘With your husband, of course,’ he added.

‘I’m still not sure if I should have taken the money,’ said Bale, guiltily.

‘Then I’d have taken it for you,’ said his wife.

‘All I did was to help a friend, Sarah.’

‘There was more to it than that.’

‘No, there wasn’t.’

‘Mr Redmayne employed you, Jonathan. He told you at the very beginning that he’d pay you for your work.’

‘But that’s the strange thing,’ said Bale, scratching head. ‘It did not really feel like work.’

‘Well, it felt like work to me, I know that. You laboured for hours every evening. We hardly saw anything of you.’

‘Mr Redmayne wanted it finished as soon as possible.’

‘And you did exactly what he asked of you,’ she pointed out, ‘so you ought be rewarded for your pains.’

‘What pains?’

Sarah was forthright. ‘You may not have felt any, but I did. So did the children. We
missed
you, Jonathan. It’s not enough for you to spend the whole day walking the streets in all weathers. When you get back home, you have to find something else to keep you away from us. I want to see my husband,’ she said, giving him an affectionate dig in the ribs. ‘The children want to see their father.’

‘I read to them every night.’

‘Yes – then you went straight back to that model.’

They were in the kitchen of their house in Addle Hill and Sarah Bale was tiring of her husband’s inability to accept the wage that he had earned. She was a stout woman of medium height with an energy that never seemed to flag and a love of her husband that was never found wanting. However, it did not mean that she was blind to Bale’s faults or slow to remind him of them. Above all else, she was a supremely practical woman and she knew how crucial the extra money was to the family. She gave him an impulsive hug.

‘It’s good to have you back again, Jonathan,’ she said.

‘You were the one who told me to accept Mr Redmayne’s offer,’ he remembered, ‘so it’s unfair to blame me for what happened.’

‘I’m not blaming you.’

‘I was so pleased to be asked, Sarah.’

‘So you should be. It was an honour.’

‘Mr Redmayne has done us so many favours in the past.’

‘And you’ve done favours for him. Don’t forget that.’

‘I wasn’t sure if I could do it at first,’ he admitted, ‘but, as soon as I picked up my tools, I felt as if I was back in the shipyard
again. There’s something about the smell and feel of wood.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It keeps you away from your family.’

It was only mild criticism. Sarah was very fond of Christopher Redmayne and always delighted to see him. When he had last called at the house, she expected him to ask her husband to help him solve another crime. Instead, it was Bale’s skill as a carpenter that was in demand. She was thrilled by the thought that a rising young architect should entrust such an important task to her husband, and, during his moments of
self-doubt
, had urged him on.

‘Mr Redmayne obviously liked what you did for him,’ she said.

‘He seemed very happy with my work.

‘What were his exact words?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You must do, Jonathan. Tell me what he said.’

‘He didn’t have time to say very much at all,’ recalled Bale. ‘His brother arrived and I felt that I was in the way.’

Sarah scowled. ‘Is that the infamous Henry Redmayne?’

‘Yes, my love – it is.’

‘How can such a fine gentleman as Mr Christopher Redmayne have such a disgraceful brother?’

‘It’s a mystery to me, Sarah. I’ve never met two siblings so unlike each other. Their father is the Dean of Gloucester Cathedral, as you know. A true Christian gentleman. He must be so proud of one son and so disappointed in the other.’

‘What exactly is Henry Redmayne like?’ she pressed.

Bale took a deep breath. ‘I will tell you…’

Henry Redmayne was the first member of the Society to arrive at Locket’s, the celebrated ordinary near Charing Cross, where excellent meals were served at fixed prices and regular hours. Frequented by the gentry, Locket’s was a babble of excited voices as Henry took his seat at the table. Sir Willard Grail soon joined him, sweeping off his hat before
giving his friend a cordial greeting. Sitting beside Henry, he imparted his news.

‘Some devilish intelligence has come to my ears, Henry.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘It seems that we may have a competitor.’

‘What do you mean, Sir Willard?’

‘Araminta – I simply refuse to call her Lady Culthorpe – our own, dear, matchless Araminta is having her portrait painted.’

‘Really?’ said Henry, concealing the fact that he already knew. ‘What artist has been given the privilege of gazing upon her until he swoons with her beauty?’

‘That confounded Frenchman – Jean-Paul Villemot.’

‘This news is worrying.’

‘So it should be,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He has the advantage over us. While we can only approach her by letter or by sending her gifts, he is left alone with her in his studio. It’s monstrously unfair. In such a situation, Villemot may achieve what the four of us seek.’

‘Surely not,’ said Henry, confidently. ‘Culthorpe would not entrust his young wife to the man if he had the slightest doubt about him and Villemot has to beware of scandal. He would not dare to lay a finger upon Araminta.’

‘Yet women account him irresistibly handsome.’

‘Frenchwomen, perhaps – the English have more taste.’

‘That is not the case, Henry. More than one English rose has praised Villemot in my presence – Lady Hester Lingoe, for instance. She said that sitting for him was one of the most exhilarating experiences of her life.’

‘Everything is a most exhilarating experience to Lady Hester,’ said Henry, tartly. ‘Her emotions have the consistency of gunpowder. Apply the smallest amount of heat and she explodes into exaggeration. I remember her telling me once that reading Catullus in the original Latin had uplifted her soul to a new eminence. What nonsense! Besides, he went on, ‘we are not comparing like with like here, Sir Willard. The gorgeous
Araminta is a species of saint. No woman with Lady Hester’s history could ever aspire to canonisation.’

‘I still have qualms about Villemot.’

‘Set them aside.’

‘I’ll not be bested by a foreigner.’

‘No,’ said Henry, boldly, ‘you’ll be bested by me, Sir Willard.’

Before the other man could reply, the waiter came up to their table and they ordered a bottle of wine. No sooner had the waiter gone than Elkannah Prout took his place, exchanging greetings with his friends before taking the empty chair at the table. The newcomer’s eyes were darting. His wig was so full and luxuriant that he looked like a ferret peering through a bush.

‘I bear tidings,’ he announced.

‘We have already heard them, Elkannah,’ said Sir Willard.

‘I think not.’

‘Henry has just been apprised of the information. Araminta’s portrait is being painted by that creeping Frenchmen, Villemot.’

‘Is that the sum of your intelligence?’ asked Prout.

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know only half the news.’

‘There’s more to add?’

‘Much more – though I suspect that Henry already knows it.’

‘Not I,’ said Henry, feigning ignorance.

‘Your brother must surely have told you.’

‘Christopher and I rarely speak, Elkannah.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Prout. ‘You are always trying to borrow money off him to settle your gambling debts. Something as important as this would hardly go unmentioned.’

‘Something as important as what?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘I am still in the dark here. Pray, shed some light, one of you.’

‘Jean-Paul Villemot is having a house built in London.’

‘He’s rich enough to afford it.’

‘He’s also astute enough to choose a talented architect. The fellow goes by the name of Christopher Redmayne.’

Sir Willard goggled. ‘Henry’s brother?’ he said, understanding the situation at once. ‘But that means he will have an excuse to call on Villemot at any time. He could devise a way to meet Araminta.’

‘It would never cross his mind,’ said Henry.

‘It would cross
your
mind.’

‘That’s a gross slander, Sir Willard. I abide by the rules of the Society. The four of us fight on equal terms. I would never stoop to subterfuge in any way,’ he lied, bristling with righteous indignation. ‘I had no knowledge of the fact that Christopher had been engaged by the artist and would never use him to further my ends. Were I to attempt such a thing, he would reject the notion outright. My brother is no puritan but neither does he take any delight in the chase. The mere whisper of what our Society was about would discountenance Christopher. He believes in love and marriage.’

‘So do I,’ said Sir Willard, ‘when occasion serves. But I still fear that you may have stolen a march on us, Henry. If your brother calls on Villemot while that Jewell among women is there, he will be able to bring back gossip about her that only you will hear.’

‘Christopher is not given to passing on gossip.’

‘I agree,’ said Prout. ‘I’ve met him. Henry’s brother is a decent, honest, conscientious young man and, unless I am mistaken, he has another glaring defect – he is a devout Christian.’

‘That’s true, Elkannah. Our father is forever holding Christopher up as an example to me. My brother leads a good life while I prefer to lead an adventurous one.’

‘If you want someone to worry about, Sir Willard, it is not him. The real danger comes from within the Society.’

Sir Willard was puzzled. ‘How can that be?’

‘The person to watch is Jocelyn.’

‘Why – what has he been up to?’

‘Telling the truth,’ said Prout, ‘and it unnerved me. When we heard that Araminta had been married, all of us were shaken to
the core but we three have at least accepted the situation and determined to make the best of it. Jocelyn will not accept it.’

‘He must,’ said Henry.

‘Facts are facts,’ added Sir Willard. ‘Araminta will not divorce her husband for our benefit.’

‘More’s the pity!’

‘Jocelyn wants to effect his own divorce,’ said Prout. ‘We spent last night together and I saw him in his cups. I’ve never known him so roused and belligerent.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘That he’ll not let anyone stand between him and Araminta. He’s set his heart on winning her love. Jocelyn told me that his mind is made up. If he cannot enjoy her favours by fair means, he’ll not scruple to resort to foul ones. His meaning was clear,’ warned Prout. ‘To achieve his ambition, he’s even prepared to murder Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

When she was finally released from the long morning session in the studio, Araminta Culthorpe was grateful. She was not merely spared the discomfort of sitting in the same position for an hour at a time, she was liberated from the searching gaze of Jean-Paul Villemot. The artist did not upset her again with any suggestive remarks but she no longer felt completely safe in his presence. Their relationship had subtly changed and Araminta needed to get away in order to examine the changes from a distance. As the carriage bore her back home to Westminster, she reflected on what had happened and speculated on what might come at a future meeting.

The problem confronting her was simple. Should she or should she not confide in her husband? And if so, what exactly should she tell him? Araminta could hardly say that she felt threatened in the artist’s company because that was not true. In essence, all that had happened was that he had made some inappropriate comments. Other ladies would no doubt have accepted them as compliments but, as a young woman newly
married, she had been somehow unable to do so. She had felt vulnerable. Jean-Paul Villemot, in her opinion, had overstepped the bounds of propriety.