“You have been a wonderful subject.”
“Surely, you’ve not finished the painting, Mr Westaway? May I look?” Once she’d got over her surprise, her good nature seemed to have returned, and he was grateful. Relations between them must be utterly proper, verging on formal even—if he were to do what he had to do. Paint the picture that would satisfy his artistic urges, so he could do his father’s bidding and concentrate on more important matters in the world.
“Of course, though it is very raw in its current form.”
He was too conscious of her closeness when she came to stand beside him, pointing out various flourishes she liked, admiring the work that fed his desperate need to be recognised for what was most important to him in the world—his art.
He stepped away slightly and glanced from the beautiful, smiling girl whose head came up just above his shoulder, to the withered, sleeping woman in the wicker chair beneath the apple tree. The contrast between the two suddenly overwhelmed him with possibilities, and without thinking, he put his hands on her shoulders to move her into a position in the foreground where her youthful bloom would shine as the subject, and the old woman in the background, surrounded by fallen apples, would be the juxtaposition.
Fuelled by artistic excitement, he cupped her cheek. Smooth. The essence of eternal youth. Her halo of golden hair would complete the picture. It would be better than anything he’d done. His head throbbed with excitement, and unconsciously, he stroked the beautifully rendered contours of her brow, nose, and cheek. Her lips. Yes…this was the angle.
And then, as his fragmented vision for what could be coalesced into what was, he saw that she’d closed her eyes and raised her face to his.
She was anticipating a kiss? A plethora of emotions slammed through him. First and foremost was the desire to respond, but fast on its heels was the realisation that succumbing to such desire would doom them both. He swallowed, and she opened her eyes in time to catch his confusion.
Quickly, he said, “I want to paint you exactly as you are and in just that position…that alignment with your chaperone just behind, still sleeping, is perfect. Please indulge me a few minutes longer, Miss Montague?”
“Of course.” She pressed her lips together, and as the hot blush spread from her bosom upwards, he cursed himself for putting either of them in such a position.
Channelling his frustrated desire into artistic energy he worked quickly, teasing out the expressions with a few accurate strokes, throwing the entire mood he’d wanted to create right onto the canvas.
It was done in a flash of time, a blur of colour, and he was breathing quickly when he put down his paintbrush and was ready to…
Dismiss her?
Yes, that’s what he had to do if he was to get through this unscathed.
“You’ve been marvellous, Miss Montague,” he declared with false bonhomie. “I’ve never had a better model. So still, so...”
“So obedient?” She was smiling that artless smile of hers, and he wondered if she had any inkling of the trauma he’d just been through.
But of course she would have no idea. She was very young but, yes, very obedient. Well trained would perhaps be apt, for once she’d recovered from the moment of awkwardness over the nearly kiss, she was as perfectly composed and well behaved as any demure debutante needed to be in order to prosper in society.
“Very obedient!” he said on a laugh which broke the ice and woke Lady Vernon, who now called out peevishly for her charge to fetch her sticks and help her to her feet.
“Will you require another sitting, Mr Westaway?” Lady Vernon asked as they prepared to leave. “I trust she was everything for which you’d hoped. She’s not very experienced, but she was hoping very much to please, weren’t you, Faith?”
“With nine brothers and sisters, that’s my primary duty, Lady Vernon. To please.” She speared him with a look of amusement that insinuated itself more than it should. Was she sharing a secret joke with him? If she were older, more experienced in the ways of the world, he’d have known that’s what she was doing.
“A great trial you obviously bear very well, Miss Montague,” he managed as the safest response he could come up with. “And I’m delighted with today’s progress. Thank you for your consummate professionalism for I have managed to get down everything I need and can work on the rest at my leisure. No, I won’t require another sitting.”
She nodded and gave a half curtsey. “Glad to have obliged, Mr Westaway. In that case, I daresay we shall return to London in the morning.” She glanced at Lady Vernon for corroboration, but the old woman shook her head.
“We’ve booked the room for a few more days, and these weary old bones of mine aren’t up to a return trip to the hustle and bustle of the city just yet. Where would you suggest we go for a short sightseeing trip, Mr Westaway? You know the area.”
Faith had grown up a country girl. Until the age of twelve, the cramped cottage she shared with her nine siblings and parents in the Welsh Borderlands had epitomised all she wanted to escape. At thirteen, she’d gone into service and learned the ways of the gentry. She’d learned how they spoke and watched how they behaved.
Now, the rolling countryside of the West-Midland Vales with its elm-fringed water meadows of the Severn and Avon, and orchards laden with damson, cherry, apple, and pear, represented freedom.
Even if just for a day or two.
That morning, they’d traipsed through the town of Stratford-Upon-Avon, imbibing the history of the Great Bard, William Shakespeare and, later, learned of efforts expended by the actor David Garrick whose Shakespeare Jubilee the previous century had contributed to turning it into a tourist town.
This was the kind of safe, prescribed sightseeing Lady Vernon preferred. Faith would have preferred to delay their journey amidst the lush green fields and go for a meandering walk in the woods. This, of course, was out of the question due to Lady Vernon’s infirmity, though she’d proved nimble enough in town until clearly worn out in the Guild Chapel where she now sank into a pew to gaze at the medieval paintings in the nave.
“Five minutes, and no longer, and then we must have lunch at the teahouse at the end of the road,” she announced between wheezes. The sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows was not kind to her, highlighting the sagging bags of wrinkles under her eyes and the energetic spouting of hairs from the fleshy mole on her chin.
“We can rest longer if you like,” Faith said, determined to be amenable and charitable. She knew Lady Vernon would be reporting back to Mrs Gedge on Faith’s success which, to date, had been negligible. Staring at the old woman, she wondered if Lady Vernon had ever had a modicum of good looks before her mouth had caved in and age had stuck its claws into her.