Lord Harry's Daughter (15 page)

Chapter
25

Though Sophia felt certain the condesa had little need and even less inclination for the company of other women, she did make several attempts to seek out her company at a few of the gay evenings at headquarters. Each attempt served to convince Sophia more strongly that not only was the condesa doing her best to ignore her, but she appeared to spend a great deal of time discussing with various officers the strength and disposition of the troops stationed in the area.

That the officers’ replies were generally rather vague did little to reassure Sophia, who by now was beginning to suspect the beautiful condesa of more than casual flirtation. But before she spent too long wondering what to do, the major provided her with an opportunity.

The ardent episode after the condesa's soaking was repeated regularly whenever the Comte de Brissac rode out to his estate, and the rapport that had been established between Diane and the major deepened.

Ordinarily Mark, accustomed to being sought out by the female sex, would have been on his guard and careful not to give anyone the wrong impression, but unlike other women, the condesa did not seem to expect anything from him except ardent lovemaking and he dismissed any uneasiness he might have felt along those lines by reassuring himself that she was, after all, a Frenchwoman, and Frenchwomen had a much more pragmatic approach to such affairs than their English counterparts.

One afternoon, feeling agreeably tired after an especially passionate encounter, Mark allowed his eyes to drift around the salon. It was obvious from the quantity of furniture that all the de Brissacs had been able to retrieve from the ruined chateau had been brought to their hotel in Saint Jean.

Portraits of de Brissacs going back two centuries covered the walls and Mark, examining them for a likeness to one of the present members of the family, made a discovery. “I see that there is a fine portrait of your father and that"—he motioned to a lovely lady who appeared to possess Diane's coloring without her dark eyes—"must be your mother. Does one of the current condesa hang in some castle belonging to the Gonsalvo y Coruna?"

“No. There has been no time in my life to sit for portraits. Revolutions and wars are not conducive to such things."

“That is a great pity. We must see what we can do to remedy the situation."

Dismissing this as idle flattery, Diane forgot entirely about the discussion and was a good deal surprised when several days later Mark informed her that as a present to her and her father he had arranged for her portrait to be painted. All she needed to do was to agree to the sittings.

“But that is too kind of you. Major.” For her part, Diane preferred to receive more personal remembrances from her admirers—jewels, for example, that were so much more useful to a lady than a picture—but she did her best to muster up enough enthusiasm to thank the major very prettily for his thoughtfulness.

She was less enthusiastic, however, when she learned the identity of the artist. “Mademoiselle Featherstonaugh? But she is not a true artist, she is a woman."

“I have seen portraits done by Miss Featherstonaugh that compare favorably with those done by Lawrence, Hoppner, and Reynolds, and after all, Angelica Kauffmann is a woman.

Mark did not acknowledge to the condesa that when asked, Sophia herself had been less than enthusiastic over the project. “And does the condesa agree to this?"

Mark had been somewhat taken aback by the skeptical note in her voice. “Naturally she does."

“Very well. Then I shall be happy to do so. All that remains to be done is to arrange a time when I may call on her for the first sitting. You may inform her that it would only require one or two sittings at the most."

“Thank you. I shall tell her that.” It had been clear from Sophia's expression that the discussion was at an end.

As she went about her tasks that day, Sophia could not help wondering if the major's scheme had been concocted out of a desire to please the condesa or out of his misguided conviction that the condesa and Sophia ought to be friends.

The condesa welcomed her graciously enough when Sophia called on her at the Hotel de Brissac several days later, but the faint air of condescension left no question in Sophia's mind that the Frenchwoman considered her to be nothing more than the little English artist who had been commissioned to paint her portrait.

As Sophia selected a corner of the salon where the light was best, the condesa made it absolutely clear that this arrangement had been none of her doing “There was no need to have a portrait done of me, but the major is such a dear man and so devoted."

Sophia glanced at the condesa in some surprise. There were many words one could use to describe Major Lord Mark Adair, but in her estimation
dear
was certainly not one of them.

“Well"—the condesa sniffed, not a little put out by Sophia's obvious incredulity—"he is certainly quite dear to me. He simply will not take no for an answer where my happiness is concerned."

“Oh."

“Yes. The man is forever trying to think of things he can do for me. In fact, I am quite
bouleversee
with his attention.” Diane tossed her head, a defiant sparkle in her eyes. There, let the
petite Anglaise
reflect on that. No true man would waste his time trying to please as cold and reserved a young woman as Miss Featherstonaugh; there would simply be no point in it, especially when the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Corona was around to command attention. Men such as the major liked their women to be passionate as well as stunningly beautiful. Diane smiled smugly as Sophia, obviously abashed, indicated the chair where her subject was to sit.

For her part, Sophia was struggling to maintain her air of cool detachment, difficult though it was under such provocation, but the condesa's insistence on the major's devotion to her told Sophia a good deal more than the condesa intended.

Sophia quickly bent over her box of supplies to hide the tiny smile of triumph she could not entirely suppress. Until this moment she had not realized how concerned she had been over the major's relationship with the condesa. She could not say precisely what it was that had bothered her every time she had seen his tall form next to the condesa's as they took advantage of the rare mild day to walk on the promenade or when, seated next to her at one of the duke's dinners, he served her with the choicest morsels from every platter that was presented, but Sophia had been uncomfortably aware of all these intimacies between the two of them, and now one of the two was going out of her way to claim a relationship with the other. To Sophia, this meant that the condesa was not so sure herself how much power she had over the major.

There was no further discussion between the two ladies. Sophia sketched rapidly while the condesa did her best to look beautiful but bored as though men clamored every day for pictures of her. By the time the light had begun to fade, Sophia had captured enough of the subject that much to her relief she decided to dispense with future sittings.

Sophia glanced again at the sketch in front of her. “I believe, madame, that I shall have no further need to trouble you for future sittings so that you will be spared more hours of maintaining one position like a statue."

“What? Are you done? Good heavens I have been sitting like a block when I should have been asking you to tell me all of your adventures with this army of madmen."

“Madmen? I do not understand."

“Oh the English are definitely mad. To risk their lives to save Portugal and Spain, to beat the Corsican Monster when they might remain in comfort and safety on their own little island. Do you not find there is something definitely mad, but absurdly gallant about it all? The officers I talk to say it is nothing, all this marching and fighting and marching and fighting so far from home. But you are a woman, you see the conditions they live in. How ever do they find enough to eat? Surely one cannot count on ships to bring supplies in this weather? Soon they will have to move on or they will have eaten all the provisions from the surrounding countryside."

Such sudden loquacity, just when she was about to depart would have struck Sophia as odd under any circumstances, but Sophia had already formed certain suspicions where the condesa's interest in the troops was concerned. “Ah, the duke is forever saying that an army travels not on its feet, but on its stomach, and he would never allow himself to live off the countryside.” Sophia did her best to sound as noncommittal as possible. “Now as to the costume you wished..."

“I shall instruct my maid, Marie, to deliver to you the gown I wish to appear in so you may study it. Now if you will excuse me, Antoine will show you out. I find that I have developed such a
migraine
from all this posing.” The condesa rang the bell and rose to leave just as the ancient retainer who had admitted Sophia appeared in the doorway. “Antoine, Mademoiselle Featherstonaugh is leaving. You will inform any further visitors that I am indisposed."

The condesa swept from the room before Antoine could even respond,
"Tres bien, madame."

As the door of the Hotel de Brissac closed behind her, Sophia could not help congratulating herself on the brevity of her response to the condesa's questions concerning the army, and it was obvious that this brevity had been the cause for her speedy dismissal.

Sophia knew she ought to tell someone that the condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna was more than casually concerned with the welfare of the British forces, but what person in a position important enough to do something about it would listen?

Major Lord Mark Adair could have been a possible confidant were it not for his obvious partiality for the condesa. If he believed Sophia's suspicions at all, which was highly unlikely, he would simply ascribe them to the fact that Sophia had never been particularly enthusiastic about the condesa, or, worse yet, that she was jealous of her.

It was clear to Sophia that for the moment, at least, there was nothing she could do except keep an eye herself on the condesa, or perhaps ask Luis to while she tried, as she had so many times before, to forget her problems by throwing herself into her work.

Chapter
26

Devoting herself to her painting brought positive results in two ways: Sophia was able to set aside upsetting thoughts about the relationship between the condesa and the major; and she was able to finish the portrait in record time.

Sophia's work space had been set up at the far end of the salon where the large windows faced north, affording her the best light and, when the rains let up enough to allow visitors, gave them easy access to the work in progress.

“Damn fine likeness of the condesa, damn fine,” General Sir Thomas Picton declared one morning when he dropped in to discuss supplies with General Curtis. Sophia thanked the bluff general, but it was the praise of the others, Fitzroy Somerset and Andrew Leith Hay, that told her she had succeeded in capturing the condesa's likeness to perfection.

There was one person, however, who did not share in the general enthusiasm for Sophia's creation. One morning before going to exercise Caesar, the major called at General Curtis's quarters expressly to see the portrait which now, lacking only a frame, was completed.

“I heard from Fitzroy Somerset that the portrait is nearly finished,” Mark greeted Sophia as he handed his cloak to Jeanne, who had opened the door, “and Andrew said it was superbly executed so I have come to see for myself."

Sophia led him up the stairs and, opening the drapes further for better light, indicated the portrait sitting on the easel near the windows.

“Ah.” The major stood in front of it for some time, not saying a thing. Nor did his expression afford the least indication of his reaction to the work he had commissioned.

Sophia waited as patiently as she could, but when no remark was forthcoming, she at last ventured to point out that Andrew Leith Hay, who was an artist himself and familiar with much of her work, had labeled it her best picture yet.

“Did he. Hmmmm."

“It does not meet with your approval, Major?” Try as she would, Sophie could not hide the anxiety in her voice.

“Yes. Er, well. It is very like.” The major fell silent again. “But do you really think the condesa is as sly as you portray her?"

“Sly, my lord? She is gay and flirtatious, but..."

“Yes. Sly. Now, Miss Featherstonaugh, I am familiar enough with you and your talent to know that you can produce whatever effect you care to. Certainly there is a coquettish smile there, but the eyes are full of secrets. Do not tell me you did not intend it for I know you better than that."

“You are the only one who has interpreted it that way, Major. No one else has even hinted at such a thing."

“Which does not mean that I am not correct. I am more than seven, you know."

There was no avoiding it. The dark eyes fixed so intently on her seemed to see right through her. “I am aware of that. Major. But I did not
make
her anything. I merely painted what I saw."

“What you saw this time was wrong. The condesa may be flirtatious, perhaps, but she is not deceitful. I cannot understand why you would paint her that way."

Sophia twisted her hands together uncomfortably. She had hoped against hope that the major would come to suspect the Frenchwoman of duplicity, but all on his own and not this way, not in a way that would make him doubt Sophia rather than the condesa. “As I said. Major, no one else who has seen the portrait has interpreted it that way. Even the lady herself was pleased by it when she called the other day."

While this was not entirely true, it was close enough. The condesa, invited by Sophia to pass judgment on the portrait before the finishing touches were completed, would rather have died than offer a comment that implied that the
petite artiste Anglaise
possessed anything akin to talent. She had stood for quite some time gazing at the picture, a self-satisfied smile on her face. It was only when she was leaving that she acknowledged Sophia's skill. “Yes, it will do—very pretty,” she pronounced before sweeping out the door.

Sophia, well aware what even that small concession had cost the condesa, had been pleased. If the condesa, who was looking for faults, had not voiced the objections that the major now voiced, then surely it was his own doubts about the lady that were affecting his reaction to her portrait. Naturally, Sophia was not about to point this out to him, but it did give her some small sense of satisfaction.

“I am sure the condesa is too well mannered to say anything that was not highly complimentary. Besides, she does not know you as well as I do. It would also never occur to her that someone might be jealous of her."

“Jealous! Is that what you think?” For a moment Sophia was too furious even to speak. That the major could think such a thing of her was infuriating enough as it was, but that he believed she would allow such a petty emotion to compromise her art was beyond bearing. White with anger, she clenched her hands at her sides in an effort to contain her fury. To respond in anger would only make him think that his absurd accusation was true, and Sophia would rather have died than allow anyone to be of the opinion that she had wasted a moment's thought on someone who was as obviously shallow and self-centered as the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, Sophia at last gained enough control over herself to speak. However she was not able to control the blood that rushed to her cheeks or the painful throbbing in her temples. “Jealous? Why would I be jealous?” She felt quite proud of herself for getting the words out without the slightest quaver. Even to her own critical ears, her voice sounded coolly conversational.

“Well, because I have ... I mean the condesa and I...” Mark felt his own face growing hot as he recognized the pit he was digging for himself. It didn't help that Sophia with her damn-your-eyes expression and her eyes flashing scornfully looked more beautiful than he ever recalled seeing her. She was magnificent in her indignation and he felt like the veriest fool, and a cad to boot. “It is just that, well, the condesa has attracted, er, so much attention, and the men are always flocking around her that I thought you, I mean it is only natural, well, any woman might find that difficult to take."

“What I find difficult to take is that she is asking all those men such pointed questions about troop strengths and troop movements. And what I find even more difficult to take is that many of them may be giving her answers without the least thought as to why she might be asking them."

“She is interested. The Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna is a lovely woman who knows that the quickest way to charm a man is to ask him about himself.” Even as he uttered these words. Mark could not help thinking how different the condesa was from Sophia who could actually speak knowledgeably about such things, actually carry on a conversation while the condesa bombarded one with questions, fluttered her eyelashes, and smiled seductively.

“Perhaps you are right.” Sophia had suddenly grown very tired of the entire discussion. She turned to gaze out the window—a clear indication of her desire to let the entire conversation drop.

Tilting his head to one side. Mark scrutinized her averted profile. He was not sure what to think. One moment she had been blazingly angry and now, the carefully neutral tone and wandering eyes suggested that she had lost all interest in the conversation. With any other woman, he would have been extremely suspicious, but Sophia was not any other woman. She was not coy or flirtatious. She did not leave a man guessing what she meant or what she wanted, but was as forthright as any man in her actions and her speech. Clearly he had offended her, and just as clearly she had no intention of being drawn further into any explanation. There was nothing to do in the face of such a position but retreat, even though he was far from satisfied as to why she had painted the condesa the way she had or her refusal to discuss it.

“Well, er, thank you. If the condesa and her father are pleased with the portrait, that is all that matters. I shall send my batman to collect it and deliver it to the condesa. And now you must tell me what I owe you."

“Owe me? You owe me nothing."

“On the contrary, I owe you a great deal. I commissioned you to do a portrait which you have done extremely expeditiously, and the subject is well pleased."

“I cannot take anything from you for this."

“I do not see why you cannot. I am like any other patron. If you are hoping to become another Angelica Kauffmann then you must learn to accept commissions which are an indication that your talent is recognized and appreciated by the world at large."

“Oh.” This time Sophia truly was at a loss for words. She had been striving over the years to perfect her skills, dreaming of being sought out for them, but now, when someone was doing just that, she felt extremely uncomfortable with the entire notion.

A tiny smile tugged at one corner of the major's mouth. She had no difficulty defending the rightness of her vision or her skill, but when it came to accepting reward for it, the part that most women accepted as their due, she was obviously uneasy with it. Mark laid a hand on Sophia's shoulder. “You must accept payment, Miss Featherstonaugh. Not accepting it is tantamount to saying that you do not believe in yourself or your talent.” He looked deep into her eyes and smiled. “I will send your commission with my batman, and that is that."

He turned and was gone before Sophia could respond in any way. She stood staring blankly at the door for a few minutes before sinking into a chair by the window and gazing out over the red tile rooftops toward the sea as she tried to collect her thoughts, which were in a perfect jumble.

How could Major Lord Mark Adair understand so completely what she was thinking and feeling and yet be so blind to the possibility of the Condesa de Gonsalvo y Coruna's schemes? How could he be sensitive enough to mistrust the portrait, but not mistrust the woman? It was an absolute enigma. On the one hand Sophia was furious with him for daring to think, much less suggest, that she was jealous of such a woman, but on the other, she was touched by his interest and concern for her dream of becoming a professional artist, and she was grateful to him for trying to help her make something of it.