Виктория Холт - The Demon Lover

My father commented: “I think perhaps that although we like the effect of highly powered efficiency we feel ourselves unable to compete with it and a little slackness gives us a self-congratulatory glow of comfort.”

And I agreed with him.

Clare made friends quickly and seemed to get on particularly well with the Camborne twins. My father was quite amused. He said that Faith was beginning to look to Clare almost as much as she did to Hope.

“Two rocks to cling to now,” he commented.

Clare began to show a great respect for our work and asked my father if she might see his collection of miniatures, which delighted him. It was a considerable collection. It was mainly Collisons, but he did have a Hilliard and two Isaac Olivers, which I thought were even better than the Hilliard though possibly of not the same market value.

One of his greatest treasures was a small miniature by the French artist, Jean Pucelle, who had been a leading member of a group of miniaturists at the Court of Burgundy in Paris during the fourteenth century. My father used to say that this collection was our fortune.

Not that he would ever think of selling one piece. They had been in the family for generations and there they must stay.

Clare’s brown eyes shone with pleasure as she surveyed these treasures and my father explained to her the differences in tempera and gouache.

Even Evie had not understood about the paintings and secretly I believe had had a faint contempt for such work. But for the fact that my father earned a living by doing it I am sure she would have dismissed it as a rather frivolous occupation.

But Clare really did have a feeling for paint and admitted that she had tried her hand at a little oil painting.

It was clear that Clare was going to be a very successful addition to our household. The servants liked her; she was less definite than Evie but that could mean that she was not didactic and domineering.

There was about Clare a certain femininity which made people feel the need to be gentle with her. The servants sensed this and whereas they might have been resentful of a housekeeper-which I suppose in a way she was they all helped Clare to step into Evie’s shoes.

And that was what she did. She was different; she was gentler; and if she lacked that complete efficiency which we had found in Evie, we were prepared to accept something less from one who was so eager to please.

After a while she began to confide in me and when she talked about her mother she would be overcome with emotion.

“I loved her dearly,” she said.

“She was my life because I had looked after her through her illness. Oh, Kate, I hope you never have to see one you love suffer. It is heartrending. There were years of it…”

I knew she had an elder sister who had married and gone abroad and that her father had died when Clare was quite a child. It seemed that her mother had dominated her life, and that it had been a hard life I had no doubt. She had done a little painting herself, so she was excited to be in a household like ours.

“My mother thought my painting was a waste of time,” she said.

I guessed that her mother had not been easy to live with, although Clare never said so and always spoke of her with the utmost affection.

There was about her an air of one who has escaped to freedom; and my father and I were particularly pleased to have her in our home.

And then the commission came.

It threw my father into a state bordering on panic, exultation, apprehension, excitement and uncertainty.

It was the moment of decision for him. Here was one of the most important commissions of his life. Could he, in his present state, take it?

As soon as we were alone in the studio he explained to me. He was holding a heavily embossed piece of paper.

“This is from the steward of the Baron de Centeville. It’s in Normandy not so far from Paris. It’s a commission from the Baron although naturally it comes through his steward. Apparently he is to marry and he wants a miniature painted of himself for his fiancee, the Princesse de Crespigny. And when that is done, if the results are pleasing, I am to visit the lady and paint one of her, so that in accordance with the custom, miniatures can be exchanged between the happy pair. Kate, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. If he is pleased … if my miniatures are seen in such quarters … I could be painting the Empress Eugenic herself before long.” His eyes were glowing. For the moment he had forgotten his affliction. I watched him with a terrible pity and desolation in my heart as he remembered and the joy faded from his face. I had never seen him look so despairing.

Then suddenly his expression changed.

“We could do it, Kate,” he said.

“You could do it.”

I thought my heartbeats would suffocate me. It was what I had longed for: to be commissioned by some glittering personage . to travel beyond our little world . across a continent, to visit foreign Courts, to live among people who made history.

Of all the Courts of Europe, the most glittering was that of France.

The Court of our own Queen was sombre in comparison. She was still mourning the death of her Consort who had died of typhoid a few years previously. Since then the Queen had shut herself away and scarcely shown herself. The Prince of Wales seemed to live a very merry life but that was not the same thing. Charles Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, son of Louis Bonaparte who had been brother of the great Napoleon who had almost succeeded in conquering the world, had married the beautiful Eugenie Marie de Montijo, and between them they had made their Court the centre of Europe.

How I longed to see it! But of course these invitations did not come for me. They were for my father. And when he said:

“We could do it…” he had given me a glimmer of what was forming in his mind.

I said quietly: “You will have to refuse.”

“Yes,” he replied, but I could see that that was not the end of the matter.

I went on: “You will have to let it be known now. This must decide you.”

“You could do it, Kate.”

“They would never accept a woman.”

“No,” he agreed, ‘of course not. “

He was looking at me intently. Then he said slowly: “I could accept this commission …”

“Your eyes might fail you. That would be quite disastrous.”

“You would be my eyes, Kate.”

“Do you mean that I would go with you?”

He nodded slowly.

“I should be allowed to take you with me. I need a travelling companion. I am not as young as I was. You would be of use to me. They would think … perhaps to mix the paints … clean my brushes, my palettes … So they would think. And you would watch over me, Kate.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I could do that.”

“I wish I could say to them: ” My daughter is a great painter. She will do your miniatures. ” But they would never accept it.”

“The world is unfair to women,” I said angrily.

“The world is unfair to all at times. No, Kate, we cannot go unless we go together. I, because I need you to be my eyes; you, because you are a woman. When the miniatures are done, if they arc successful, I will say to this Baron: “This is the work of my daughter. You have admired it… accepted it… Now accept her for the painter she is.” Kate, this might be your chance.

It might be fate working in a mysterious way. “

My eyes were shining. I could scarcely bear to look at him.

“Yes,” I said.

“We are going.”

A mood of wild excitement and exultation took possession of me. I had never felt so jubilant before in all my life. I knew I could paint a miniature to compare with the greatest artists. My senses tingled and my whole being yearned to begin.