Edward Marston - The Painted Lady

‘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 facade 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.’