The Painted Lady Page 3

  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 façade 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.’

  ‘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.’

  The glint returned to his eye and it troubled her once again.

  ‘What is Paris like?’ she said, trying to find a neutral subject.

  ‘Very beautiful?’

  ‘More beautiful than London?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, proudly. ‘It does not smell any sweeter and it is just as noisy with all those people, but Paris, it was not destroyed by a fire like London. When I first come here, the city was still in ruins. It looked so ugly. Slowly, it is getting better.’

  ‘Will it ever rival Paris?’

  He shrugged expressively. ‘I am French. To me, no city in the world will ever be as good as Paris.’ He beamed at her. ‘I’ll take you there one day. Would you like that, Lady Culthorpe?’

  The directness of his question shocked her and she was lost for words as she considered its implications. A faint blush came to her cheeks. Noticing it at once, he gave her an emollient smile.

  ‘With your husband, of course,’ he added.

  ‘I’m still not sure if I should have taken the money,’ said Bale, guiltily.

  ‘Then I’d have taken it for you,’ said his wife.

  ‘All I did was to help a friend, Sarah.’

  ‘There was more to it than that.’

  ‘No, there wasn’t.’

  ‘Mr Redmayne employed you, Jonathan. He told you at the very beginning that he’d pay you for your work.’

  ‘But that’s the strange thing,’ said Bale, scratching head. ‘It did not really feel like work.’

  ‘Well, it felt like work to me, I know that. You laboured for hours every evening. We hardly saw anything of you.’

  ‘Mr Redmayne wanted it finished as soon as possible.’

  ‘And you did exactly what he asked of you,’ she pointed out, ‘so you ought be rewarded for your pains.’

  ‘What pains?’

  Sarah was forthright. ‘You may not have felt any, but I did. So did the children. We missed you, Jonathan. It’s not enough for you to spend the whole day walking the streets in all weathers. When you get back home, you have to find something else to keep you away from us. I want to see my husband,’ she said, giving him an affectionate dig in the ribs. ‘The children want to see their father.’

  ‘I read to them every night.’

  ‘Yes – then you went straight back to that model.’

  They were in the kitchen of their house in Addle Hill and Sarah Bale was tiring of her husband’s inability to accept the wage that he had earned. She was a stout woman of medium height with an energy that never seemed to flag and a love of her husband that was never found wanting. However, it did not mean that she was blind to Bale’s faults or slow to remind him of them. Above all else, she was a supremely practical woman and she knew how crucial the extra money was to the family. She gave him an impulsive hug.

  ‘It’s good to have you back again, Jonathan,’ she said.

  ‘You were the one who told me to accept Mr Redmayne’s offer,’ he remembered, ‘so it’s unfair to blame me for what happened.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you.’

  ‘I was so pleased to be asked, Sarah.’

  ‘So you should be. It was an honour.’

  ‘Mr Redmayne has done us so many favours in the past.’

  ‘And you’ve done favours for him. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I could do it at first,’ he admitted, ‘but, as soon as I picked up my tools, I felt as if I was back in the shipyard again. There’s something about the smell and feel of wood.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It keeps you away from your family.’

  It was only mild criticism. Sarah was very fond of Christopher Redmayne and always delighted to see him. When he had last called at the house, she expected him to ask her husband to help him solve another crime. Instead, it was Bale’s skill as a carpenter that was in demand. She was thrilled by the thought that a rising young architect should entrust such an important task to her husband, and, during his moments of self-doubt, had urged him on.

  ‘Mr Redmayne obviously liked what you did for him,’ she said.

  ‘He seemed very happy with my work.

  ‘What were his exact words?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘You must do, Jonathan. Tell me what he said.’

  ‘He didn’t have time to say very much at all,’ recalled Bale. ‘His brother arrived and I felt that I was in the way.’

  Sarah scowled. ‘Is that the infamous H
enry Redmayne?’

  ‘Yes, my love – it is.’

  ‘How can such a fine gentleman as Mr Christopher Redmayne have such a disgraceful brother?’

  ‘It’s a mystery to me, Sarah. I’ve never met two siblings so unlike each other. Their father is the Dean of Gloucester Cathedral, as you know. A true Christian gentleman. He must be so proud of one son and so disappointed in the other.’

  ‘What exactly is Henry Redmayne like?’ she pressed.

  Bale took a deep breath. ‘I will tell you…’

  Henry Redmayne was the first member of the Society to arrive at Locket’s, the celebrated ordinary near Charing Cross, where excellent meals were served at fixed prices and regular hours. Frequented by the gentry, Locket’s was a babble of excited voices as Henry took his seat at the table. Sir Willard Grail soon joined him, sweeping off his hat before giving his friend a cordial greeting. Sitting beside Henry, he imparted his news.

  ‘Some devilish intelligence has come to my ears, Henry.’

  ‘Of what nature?’

  ‘It seems that we may have a competitor.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir Willard?’

  ‘Araminta – I simply refuse to call her Lady Culthorpe – our own, dear, matchless Araminta is having her portrait painted.’

  ‘Really?’ said Henry, concealing the fact that he already knew. ‘What artist has been given the privilege of gazing upon her until he swoons with her beauty?’

  ‘That confounded Frenchman – Jean-Paul Villemot.’

  ‘This news is worrying.’

  ‘So it should be,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He has the advantage over us. While we can only approach her by letter or by sending her gifts, he is left alone with her in his studio. It’s monstrously unfair. In such a situation, Villemot may achieve what the four of us seek.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Henry, confidently. ‘Culthorpe would not entrust his young wife to the man if he had the slightest doubt about him and Villemot has to beware of scandal. He would not dare to lay a finger upon Araminta.’