Marguerite Kaye - The Beauty Within

He had obviously walked in on some sort of altercation, for the atmosphere in the study fairly crackled with tension as Giovanni entered the room in the portly wake of Lord Armstrong’s butler. The manservant, either oblivious to the strained mood or, more likely in the way of English servants, trained to give that impression, announced him and departed, leaving Giovanni alone with the two warring factions. One of them was obviously Lord Armstrong, his client. The other, a female, whose face was lost under a mass of unruly curls, stood with her arms crossed defiantly over her bosom. He could almost taste the pent-up frustration simmering away beneath the surface, could guess too, from the way she veiled her eyes, the vulnerability she was trying to hide. Such a mastery of her emotions was intriguing, for it required, as Giovanni could attest, a lifetime’s practice. Whoever she was, she was not your typical simpering English rose.

Giovanni made his perfunctory bow, just low enough and no more, for it was one of the advantages of his success that he no longer had to feign deference. As was his custom, his dress was austere, even severe. His frock coat with its high shawl collar and wide skirts would be the height of fashion were it any colour other than black. Similarly his high-buttoned waistcoat, his stirrupped trousers and highly polished square-toe shoes, all unrelieved black, making the neat ruffles of his pristine shirt and carefully tied cravat gleam an impossible white. It amused him to create an appearance in such stark contrast to the flamboyant and colourful persona his high-born sitters expected of a prestigious artist—and an Italian one at that. He looked as if he were in mourning. There were times, of late, when he felt that he was.

‘Signor de Matteo.’ Lord Armstrong sketched an even more shallow bow. ‘May I present my daughter, Lady Cressida.’

The glance she shot her father was a bitter dart. It was received with a small smile. Whatever had transpired between them was the latest in what Giovanni surmised had been a lifetime of such skirmishes. He made another bow, a little more sincerely this time. Looking into a pair of eyes the azure blue of the Mediterranean Sea in summer, he saw they were overly bright. ‘My lady.’

She did not curtsy, but offered her hand to shake, like a gentleman. ‘How do you do, signor .’ A firm clasp she had, though her nails were in an atrocious state, chewed to the quick, the skin bleeding around the edges. She had a pleasant voice, to his ear, the vowels clipped and precise. He had the impression of a fierce intelligence blazing from her eyes under that intense frown, though not beauty. Indeed, her dreadful gown, the way she rounded her posture, curling into herself as she sat down, made it clear that she cultivated plainness. But for all that—or perhaps because of that—he thought she had an interesting face.

Was she to be his subject? A pique of interest flared momentarily but no, the commission was for a portrait of children, and Lady Cressida was most definitely well past her girlhood. A pity, for he would have liked to try to capture the vitality behind the shimmering resentment. She was no empty-headed society beauty, nor appeared to have any aspirations to be depicted as such. He cursed the paradox which made the most interesting of subjects the least inclined to be painted, and the most beautiful subjects the ones he was least inclined to depict. Then he reminded himself that beauty was his business. A fact he was having to remind himself of rather too often.

‘Sit, sit.’ Lord Armstrong ushered him to a chair and resumed his own seat, surveying him shrewdly from behind the desk. ‘I wish you to paint a portrait of my boys. James is eight. Harry six. And the twins, George and Frederick, are five.’

‘Four, actually,’ the daughter intervened.

Her father waved away her comment. ‘Still in short coats, is the important thing. You’ll paint them together, as a group.’

It was, Giovanni noted, an instruction rather than a question. ‘And the mother too?’ he asked. ‘That is the usual …’

‘Lord, no. Bella’s not—no, no, I do not wish my wife depicted.’

‘What, then, of their sister?’ Giovanni asked, turning towards Lady Cressida.

‘Just the boys. I want you to capture their charms,’ his lordship said, looking pointedly at his daughter, whom he obviously considered to possess none.

Giovanni repressed a sigh. Another tedious depiction of cherubic children. Sons, but no daughter. The English aristocracy were no different from the Italian in their views in that regard. It was to be a pretty and idealistic portrait totally lacking in any truth, the licit products of Lord Armstrong’s loins displayed in the family gallery for posterity. His heart sank. ‘You wish me to show your sons as charming,’ he repeated fatalistically.

‘They are charming.’ Lord Armstrong frowned. ‘Proper manly boys, mind. I want you to show that too, nothing namby-pamby. Now, as to the composition …’

‘You may leave that decision with me.’ Forced to paint a vision far removed from reality he might be, but his fame had at least allowed him some element of control. As Giovanni had expected, his lordship looked put out. It was all so predictable. ‘You may have every confidence in my choice. I presume you have seen my work, my lord?’

‘Not seen as such, but I’ve heard excellent reports of it. I wouldn’t have summoned you here if I hadn’t.’

This was new. Across from him, he could see that it was news also to Lady Cressida, who looked appalled.

‘I fail to see how my being unfamiliar with your work is at all relevant.’ Lord Armstrong frowned heavily at his daughter. ‘As a diplomat, I have to trust the word of others constantly. If there’s a problem in Egypt, or Lisbon, or Madrid, I can’t be expected to hotfoot it over there in person. I ask myself, who is the best man for the job, and then I get him to deal with it. It’s the same with this portrait. I have taken soundings, sought expert advice. Signor di Matteo was consistently highly recommended—in point of fact,’ he said, turning to Giovanni, ‘I was told you were the best. Was I misinformed?’

‘Certainly, demand for my portraits far outstrips the rate at which I can produce them,’ Giovanni replied. Which was true, and ought to cause him a great deal more satisfaction than it did, even if it did not actually answer Lord Armstrong’s question. His success was such that he could command an extremely high premium for his portraits, even if that very success felt not like freedom but a prison of his own making. Another thing Giovanni was discovering recently, that success was a double-edged sword. Fame and fortune, while on the one hand securing his independence, had severely compromised his creativity. It was a price worth paying, he told himself every day. No matter that he felt his muse recede ever faster with every passing commission.

His newest patron, however, seemed quite satisfied with his response. To possess what others desired was sufficient for Lord Armstrong, as it was for most of his class.

His lordship got to his feet. ‘Then we are agreed.’ He held out his hand, and Giovanni stood too, taking it in a firm grip. ‘My secretary will handle the—er, commercial details. I look forward to seeing the finished product. I must make my excuses now, for I am expected at Apsley House. There is a chance I may have to accompany Wellington on his trip to St Petersburg. Inconvenient, but when one’s country calls, what can one do! I shall leave you in my daughter’s charge, signor . She will supervise her brothers during the sittings. Anything you need Cressida can provide, since Lady Armstrong, my wife, is currently indisposed.’

With only a curt nod in his daughter’s direction, Lord Armstrong hurried from the room, content that he had in one fell swoop neatly resolved all his domestic problems and could now concentrate his mind fully on the much more important and devilishly tricky matter of how best to address the issue of Greek independence without standing on either Turkish or Russian toes.