Edward Marston: The Painted Lady

‘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.

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.’