The True Darcy Spirit (24 page)

“There is someone to see you,” Petifer said, in tones of the strongest disapproval. “That painter, from Rosings, the foreign person, Mr. Lisser.”

Cassandra looked up from the water-colour she was working on, her brush suspended in mid-air.

“Mr. Lisser! Here?”

“Yes, and asking for you as Mrs. Burgh, moreover.”

“How very odd. Ask him to come up, please, Petifer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well, I shall stay with you all the time he’s here.”

“You will not, Petifer. I am in no danger from Mr. Lisser, I assure you.”

“It isn’t proper.”

Cassandra put down her brush and gave Petifer a very direct look. “You and I are going to fall out if you try to treat me as a child, or a green girl, Petifer. I am now in quite a different situation, and I must shift to look after myself. No serious artist has a chaperone hanging about her studio lest callers step over the line—which I assure you, would never be the case with Mr. Lisser. Now, you are keeping him waiting, which is impolite.”

A few minutes later, Henry Lisser came into the room. Cassandra
put out her hand, and, after a moment when she felt he was going to raise it to his lips, he gave it a hearty shake.

“I never shall get used to these English habits,” he said cheerfully. “You are working? Then it is wrong of me to disturb you, but this call is of a professional nature.”

Cassandra was surprised to find how pleased she was to see him. She had liked him at Rosings, feeling that he was a kindred spirit, and now his open manners and genuine pleasure at meeting her again made her smile.

“A professional matter?”

“Yes, my dear Mrs. Burgh, for I gather this is now your professional name.”

The smile faded. “May I ask how you know that?”

He held up his hands. “No, do not look at me in quite that way. When you do so, you resemble the portrait I saw at Rosings of your terrifying grandmother. There is nothing mysterious about it. One Mrs. Wytton, who is Miss Belle’s sister, so I learn, called upon me. She told me that, for reasons which need not concern me, you are obliged to make your way in London as an artist. You had previously gone under another alias, but have now assumed the new name of Mrs. Burgh.”

It sounded somehow deceitful, put like that. “There are people in London who knew me as Mrs. Kent who do not wish me well. I should be obliged if you never mention to any living soul that I am Miss Darcy, nor that I have gone by any other name than Burgh.”

Mr. Lisser bowed. “I am the soul of discretion, believe me.” He paused, and said with a little smile, “I have some idea of what it is like to be obliged to go by another name than one’s own.”

Cassandra was about to ask why, but saw by the look on his face that he regretted having said so much, so she merely thanked him for his understanding.

“Mrs. Wytton felt, and she is in the right of it, that it is very difficult to do any such thing without friends in the same line who are already established. I hope I may count myself your friend?”

Cassandra was torn between anger and gratitude. Camilla was a
wretch to do this; it bordered on interference, yet she knew it was done in a spirit of practicality, not from any misguided sense of patronage.

“She brought me this,” Henry Lisser went on. He put down the flat package he had under his arm, and took off the protective card.

“Good heavens, my water-colour of Belle. I had no idea she had taken it. Just wait until I see her.”

“She has done you a great kindness, as it happens,” he said gravely, looking down at the wilful face which Cassandra had captured so well. “I admired your painting when I was at Rosings, but at that time there was no question of your having to earn your living as an artist. Now it becomes a matter of urgency and importance that you can do so, and I assure you, it is not at all an easy thing to do. You are very young and inexperienced, and although you have had the inestimable good fortune to have been taught for many years by a master such as my good friend Herr Winter, you have not studied in London, and you have none of the contacts that aspiring artists acquire as they learn.”

These were words to make her despondent, especially since she knew them to be true.

“But what am I to do? I hope to find some hours of teaching, I am sure I can instruct children and young ladies in the rudiments of drawing and painting. And, as for the rest, I must study and practise and learn as best I may.”

“Do not be so quick to give up hope. You have talent, real talent. I think Mrs. Wytton has told you how keen many people in London are to have their portraits done. In particular, looking at this picture of Miss Belle, I think there are fathers and mothers who would like the world to see their marriageable daughters in the best possible light; you have caught not only character here, but the radiance and freshness of youth, which will be present even when your subject, unlike Miss Belle, is a young lady with no particular degree of beauty. As you know, I am not a portraitist myself, but I believe I may be able to put commissions your way. To begin with, however, you must have a calling card, if you understand me.
A water-colour such as this is fine in its way, but you need to paint in oils.”

Cassandra nodded. “I know, and the worst of it is that I had started on the canvas of Belle’s portrait while I was at Rosings. It is still there, I suppose.” That is, if Mr. Partington hadn’t taken a knife to it, or tossed it out on to the midden in the farmyard.

“Can you send for it?”

“I don’t think so. There are reasons…”

“May we sit down?” Mr. Lisser said. “Thank you, we are more comfortable like this. Now, let your servant, who glowers at me in a most uncomfortable way, bring us coffee and we shall put our heads together to see what we can achieve.”

Petifer had, of course, been listening outside the door, so she was in the room in a flash when Cassandra called out to her. But instead of going off directly to see to the coffee, she lingered.

“What is it, Petifer?” Cassandra said. Really, she was being tiresome today.

“My brother-in-law, Robert, is in the fruit and veg line, as you know. Once a week or so, he gets extra stuff sent up from Kent, it comes up by the carrier, who’s from our village. Those paintings of yours, the oil paintings, they’re all stacked up in the eaves of your attic, yes, they are, for I put them there myself, not being sure what might or might not happen to them, and knowing you’d want them kept safe.”

“But Mr. Partington…”

“Mr. P. doesn’t know they exist, for he never knew what you did up in that attic, did he? Seeing as how he said water-colours and sketches were ladylike, and oil painting wasn’t, you never told him any different, and your mama never knew that you spent most of your pin money on paints. And if you ask me, a lot that Herr Winter got for you, he paid for out of his own pocket, but that’s neither here nor there.”

This struck Cassandra with some force. Now that she had seen for herself the price of those little bladders of oil, she realised that the sums she had duly paid to her teacher could never have covered the
materials she used. Dear, kind Herr Winter. One day, she would repay him.

Henry Lisser seemed to read her thoughts. He smiled, at her and then at Petifer, and even grumpy Petifer had to give him a reluctant smile in return. “You will repay him by becoming a successful artist,” he said. “So, these paintings are safe and sound, and this carrier who carries vegetables may also carry a canvas or two, I think. How can they be got from—the eaves, did you say?”

“Josh will do that for me,” said Petifer. “He owes me a favour or two, and he’s sharp-witted, or at least not so slow as most of them there. And he can read and write, so you give me a list, Miss Cassandra—writ clear, mind—of what you want, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“An invaluable servant,” said Mr. Lisser, as Petifer whisked herself triumphantly out of the room. He paused. “There is something I should like to ask you, if you permit. Nothing to do with painting, rather it concerns Miss Belle.”

Cassandra grew watchful. This could be slippery ground.

“Miss Belle?”

“There is a mystery here. One morning, a boy came over to Herr Winter’s house with a message that I was not to go to Rosings that day. It did not trouble me, for it was a damp, grey day, and I had drawings and sketches with me that I could work on in the studio there. The next day the message was the same, and so it continued for several days more. Then I decided enough was enough, and sent a message on my own behalf, to say that my time was limited, and that if I could not come to Rosings, to complete the picture, then I must return to London.”

Cassandra knew all too well what had been happening in those intervening days, as letters flew to and from Bath, and she and Belle were packed off to London.

“Then, suddenly, I could resume work, and I returned to Rosings to find that Miss Belle and you had departed, gone away, no one would say where. Also that Mr. and Mrs. Partington were grown very cool towards me.” He hesitated. “I feared that I was indiscreet, that I allowed the warmth of my feelings for Miss Belle—”

“Belle was not sent away on your account,” Cassandra said.

“That is what she said, in a note I received via a servant.” He took a deep breath. “She said you had been in some way compromised, and that it had been decided that she also was to leave Rosings, to go with you. She made me understand that I had been asked not to come to the house because the family were anxious that word of your—‘disgraceful conduct,’ she called it, forgive me, should not be spread abroad.”

For a moment Cassandra was filled with fury, and then her sense of humour got the better of her, and she burst out laughing. How like Belle, how
very
like Belle! What a minx she was, just let her wait until she saw her again. But that sobered her, for what chance was there that she would see Belle again?

Henry Lisser was regarding her gravely. “Miss Belle was up to mischief? Perhaps you had better tell me the whole story.”

Cassandra did not at all want to do that. It belonged to a past that might be recent in terms of days and weeks, yet which was part of an another life entirely.

“There was a misunderstanding, on account of which, I went away to Bath and Belle back to London. What brought me to my present circumstances was to do with Bath, it had nothing to do with my departure from Rosings or the reasons for it, I assure you of that.”

“However, had you not gone to Bath, then…”

“Life is full of perhapses, I find. I got into a scrape, more than a scrape, which has led to my no longer being welcome at Rosings, and forced me to make a living for myself. That is all.”

“Forgive me if I seem intrusive, but you are a member of a great family, your relatives are people of consequence and influence. I would have thought…”

“They can’t help me, even if they wanted to.” That was hardly being fair to Camilla. “Although Mrs. Wytton has decided to stay friends with me, I am not sure why.” This with a wry look.

“Mrs. Wytton appears to me to be a woman who has a mind and a will of her own, which I very much admire.” He paused, then
smiled again. “Miss Belle, too, has some strength of character, but in her case, she has yet to find a proper channel for her energies.”

Cassandra could see all too clearly that Henry Lisser was still smitten with Belle. It would never do. Kisses in the shrubbery were bad enough, but to have beguiled this admirable man and fine artist, knowing, as she must do, that the social inequality between them made it an impossible liaison, was more than mere flirtatious naughtiness.

Had Belle cared at all for Henry Lisser? At the time, yes, impressed by his handsome looks and pleasing manners. By now, she had doubtless forgotten all about him, and had moved on to some other flirt—it was to be hoped one as heartless as she was.

Henry Lisser was looking at the picture of Belle again. “If you can capture in oils the same qualities as you have here, it will be a most excellent portrait.”

Cassandra’s mind was running ahead. “If it is to be a calling card, as you say, then potential clients would have to see it, and I do not think that the family would care to have her portrait exhibited in a public place.”

“An artist’s studio is not precisely a public place. A word or two in the right place, and a visitor or two, and word of your skill will get around to fond papas and mamas, who are careful how much they want to spend. I think you can make enough to keep yourself even though you are at a disadvantage, being a woman.”

Cassandra sighed. “Perhaps I should cut my hair, and pretend to be a man.”

Henry Lisser frowned; Cassandra liked him very much, but he was essentially a serious man, and did not always respond to her jokes.

“Take Mrs. Page,” he went on. “She is a successful portraitist, and there are several others who paint miniatures and work in different fields. There is also a family of silversmiths, with an extremely talented daughter following in her father’s footsteps, I shall arrange for you to meet her. Meanwhile, my advice to you is simple: work and more work. You are not too late to attend those lectures that are open
to all; in particular, let me advise you to go to Mr. Turner’s lectures on perspective. They are held in Somerset Place, on Monday evenings. You will need an Academician to give a ticket; I will arrange that for you, if you will permit me to do so.”

They drank the coffee which Petifer brought, and talked for a while about painting and painters and their opinions of the works on display at this year’s exhibition at the Royal Academy, and how Mr. Turner frightened his fellow artists by his enthusiasm for scientific progress.

“I agree with him on this,” Henry Lisser said. “Science gives us new revelations about colour and light, which are at the heart of all painting, and indeed, technology yearly adds new colours to our palettes.”

“Mr. Rudge’s assistant was telling me about a new yellow,” said Cassandra.

“Is that Mr. Fingal? He is a very able colourist, he will surpass his master in due course, and no doubt set up his own business.”