The American Heiress (29 page)

‘Well, of course! You are the catch of the season. She, no doubt, is anxious to claim you as her own protégée. I am sure every hostess in London will feel the same. But you must be careful, my dear, to bestow your favours equally. You can’t afford to make any enemies so early in your career.’ Mrs Wyndham tapped the table for emphasis and continued.

‘Everyone will be watching you to see what kind of Duchess you will make. I’m sure most of them will be grateful for a new young, charming hostess, but you must remember that there are some who will be only too happy to see you fail. Your age, your wealth, your nationality make you conspicuous, not to mention your rank. Just take care you get yourself noticed for the right reasons. So by all means go to Charlotte Beauchamp’s, but make sure the next time you appear in public it is with someone who is unquestionably old school like Lady Bessborough or even your mother-in-law. Keep them all guessing until you have decided where you want to be.’

Cora grimaced at the thought of her mother-in-law, but she understood Mrs Wyndham’s point.

‘But surely Ivo has already been identified as one thing or another?’

‘When a man marries, my dear, it is for his wife to set the tone. If the Duke is thinking of going into politics – I heard he is taking his seat in the Lords – then the biggest asset he can have is a wife who knows everybody.’

Cora looked a little daunted by this, so Mrs Wyndham changed the subject. ‘Now you will think me very indelicate for asking but I claim my privilege as your fellow countrywoman. Are you expecting a happy event? You have a look that suggests that you might be.’

Cora admitted that she was right.

‘And when do you expect the little Marquess? I feel sure you will produce an heir. The Maltravers are so good at boys.’

‘Sir Julius thinks May.’

‘A spring baby. How delightful! Of course you will miss the season but there is plenty of time for that. I am so glad you are with Sercombe. Such a superior physician, and very liberal with the chloroform. Really, when I think of the agonies we women had to endure before. Why, Milly Hardcastle who had twin boys said that she hardly felt a thing. Luckily there are no twins in the Maltravers family, unless of course they run on your side.’

Cora shook her head. She felt her stomach churn and the bile rising up her gullet.

‘Will you excuse me, Mrs Wyndham.’ Cora rushed out of the room.

Mrs Wyndham tutted sympathetically. Poor child. Perhaps she should not have referred to the dolours of childbirth, it had clearly alarmed her. She wondered if she should wait for Cora’s return. No, she had a luncheon in Portland Place. She would leave a note. She picked up a piece of monogrammed paper and wrote,

‘I am very conscious that you are without a mother’s care and guidance at this delicate time. Please allow me to assist you in any way that an older compatriot can. Your friend, Madeleine Wyndham.’

Perhaps, thought Mrs Wyndham as her carriage turned into Pall Mall, she should have warned Cora to be on her guard with Charlotte Beauchamp. There had been rumours earlier this year of a liaison with Louvain the painter; given that Charlotte had not yet produced an heir, this was hardly prudent behaviour. But then Mrs Wyndham’s attention was distracted by an intriguing display of parasols in the window of Swan and Edgar and the moment passed.

Chapter 18

An Ideal Husband

T
HE CARPET OUTSIDE THE BEAUCHAMP HOUSE IN
Prince’s Gate, Cora noticed, was green instead of the usual red. It looked as if a roll of turf had been laid out between the door and the pavement. As she stepped on to the carpet in her silver slippers, Cora wished that Ivo was with her. When she had told him about Charlotte’s invitation, he had grimaced. ‘At home with the Beauchamps and all their artistic friends? Honestly, Cora, I can’t think of anything worse.’

Cora had pleaded, but Ivo had not been persuaded to change his mind. Every time she mentioned the party, he laughed and said he was too much a philistine to go to the Beauchamps. So she had come alone, although now she was at the house, she wondered why, a feeling that intensified as she walked up the stairs to the drawing room. She heard a swell of noise and laughter as the door opened. Inside she caught a glimpse of yellow walls and black paintwork as Charlotte greeted her.

‘Cora, I am so pleased you are here.’ She took Cora’s hand in hers and gazed into her eyes with such intentness that Cora flushed. ‘Don’t look so anxious, I promise you, it will be amusing, not like Conyers at all. Louvain is here, and Stebbings the poet, you know, and he’s brought some men who are publishing a new magazine.’

Cora followed her hostess into the room. She could see at once that Charlotte was right, this was a very different kind of party. There were no diamonds here, even dirty ones. The lighting was quite dim, there was no chandelier, only wall lights with coloured glass shades that bathed the interior in a curious yellow light, as if the whole room were set in aspic. The men seemed paler than normal and several of them, Cora noticed, had hair that touched their shoulders. Charlotte was as smartly dressed as ever in mauve chiffon with black lace but Cora noticed that some of the other women were wearing oddly limp garments that bore no relation to any fashion that she was familiar with. She was amazed to see that some of the women were smoking in public.

Charlotte led her over to two men who were looking at a periodical with a yellow and black cover. She heard one of the men say, ‘They wouldn’t have him, you know. He wanted to contribute but Aubrey said no.’

‘Not serious enough, I suppose. Poor Oscar.’

Charlotte clapped her hands. ‘Gentlemen, may I present you to my new Duchess. Mr Louvain and Mr Stebbings.

Cora held out her hand and smiled brightly. ‘Why, I am delighted to meet you both. I never saw your picture of Mamie Rhinebacker, Mr Louvain, but I heard of nothing else in New York last year. And Mr Stebbings, you mustn’t be cross that I haven’t read your work yet, but I’m new to this country.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘Goodness, no one here has read Stebbings’ book, although we all fully intend to.’ She gave the poet a proprietorial glance.

Cora saw the poet flinch and she tried to shake his hand in such a way as to show her sympathy. He had sandy hair and his skin was so covered in freckles that she could hardly see the blush creeping over his face.

‘I shall certainly read it, Mr Stebbings. I am very fond of poetry.’ The poet blinked his colourless lashes and murmured something inaudible. Cora felt she had embarrassed him, so she turned to Louvain who met her eyes and gave a faint smile. As she stepped back to speak to Charlotte, she was aware of the painter’s eyes still upon her.

‘I have been looking forward to seeing your portrait, Charlotte,’ she said.

‘Well then,’ Charlotte replied, ‘you have only to turn your head.’

Cora turned and saw the painting on the wall behind her. Louvain had painted Charlotte wearing her riding clothes, her hat in one hand and her whip in the other. Cora realised at once why Louvain had insisted on painting Charlotte as a contemporary Diana. The dark costume was a foil to the pale intensity of Charlotte’s face, whose expression was alert, defiant and, despite her gentle colouring, predatory. The hand that grasped the whip looked ready to strike, the curve of her mouth was about to declare the
coup de grâce
. She looked slightly dishevelled as if she had just dismounted. She was beautiful, but, Cora thought, alarming as well. But then she looked at Charlotte, who tonight was all smiles and softness, and wondered if she was right in sensing an edge to the portrait.

‘You have done Lady Beauchamp justice, Mr Louvain. I have seen her in the field and she is fearless.’

‘Thank you. A portrait is all about the exchange between the sitter and the artist. In Lady Beauchamp’s case, I saw at once that I could only be her prey.’ He made Charlotte an ironic bow.

Charlotte laughed and moved away.

‘And did she catch you, Mr Louvain?’ Cora risked asking.

‘I’m not sure she wanted to, Duchess,’ Louvain replied.

Cora felt again the heat of the painter’s gaze. She looked up at him and saw that his eyes were a pale blue, so pale as to be almost colourless. Cora was well used to being looked at but usually, she felt, people were looking at her clothes or her money; Louvain was looking at
her
. His eyes were slightly narrowed; she saw in them neither admiration nor envy. No, he was taking her measure. She crossed her arms protectively, and forced herself to speak.

‘You had a lucky escape then. The subject of your painting looks as if she would show no pity. I am surprised you did not give her a bow and arrow,’ Cora said. She hardly knew what she was saying, her only thought was to keep going – she found the pale gaze unsettling.

‘Do you think she needs one?’ Louvain smiled.

He had, Cora noticed, quite a beautiful mouth, the upper lip finely drawn into a masculine version of a cupid’s bow. He was soberly dressed in a dark suit, the only indicator that he was an artist was the yellow carnation he wore in his lapel.

‘Well, perhaps not, her intention is quite clear.’ Cora was about to continue when a voice spoke behind her.

‘And what intention would that be, Duchess?’ Sir Odo was standing next to her, his skin as shiny as ever with a red spot on either cheek. He had let his hair grow to aesthetic lengths and it lay like two spaniel ears on either side of his face.

‘To carry all before her.’ Cora smiled painfully. She felt on edge.

‘Yes, she likes to be at the head of the pack.’ Sir Odo laughed and a little spray of spittle fell in the space between them. ‘Shame that Louvain here won’t do any more portraits. Ivo must need some new pictures to replace all the ones that Duchess Fanny sold, eh?’ To Cora’s relief the baronet went off to speak to a footman.

Louvain was still looking at her. Cora felt the hairs on her arms prickle. The painter nodded. ‘Actually, I do want to paint you.’

‘Already? You flatter me.’ Cora tried to look away from him but found she could not. ‘And how would you fill the space between us, Mr Louvain? I worry that you might reveal me in all my shallowness.’ She laughed nervously.

‘Do you really think so? I think I might see other things that you would prefer to keep hidden, but I don’t think you have anything to be afraid of. And it is not my intention to flatter you, I assure you. I am sure you are quite adequately flattered elsewhere. No, when I say I want to paint you, I say that not to appeal to your vanity, but to your interest in truth. I think you would like to be seen instead of always being looked at. Am I right?’ His eyes never left hers as he spoke. She felt her heart flutter in her chest.

‘It sounds very,’ Cora paused, trying to find the right word, ‘intimate. I hope I can withstand your scrutiny.’

‘If you want absolute fidelity you can go to a photographer and get it. I won’t paint you just as you are, but as I see you.’ Louvain narrowed his eyes again as if trying to distil her image in his mind.

‘And what do you see?’ she said faintly

‘I can only tell you with my brush, Duchess. I don’t want to put my thoughts into words. I try to keep my impressions as colour, light and shade for as long as possible.’

‘I see,’ said Cora. She would have liked a more definite answer.

‘When you come to the studio, wear something simple. I want to paint you, not all the fuss that surrounds you. Shall we say next Monday morning?’ Louvain spoke as if there could be no doubt that she would make herself available.

Cora knew she should not let this continue unchecked. ‘I’m not sure that will be convenient, Mr Louvain. I may be returning to Lulworth next week.’

‘Bury yourself in the country at this time of year? Surely not. No, you must come to my studio on Monday,’ Louvain said firmly.

Cora bridled. ‘Really, Mr Louvain, I can’t rearrange my whole life at your whim,’ she said as haughtily as she could.

Louvain opened his arms in a supplicatory gesture. ‘Please, Duchess. A week is all I need to start with.’

Cora raised an eyebrow. ‘You work very fast, Mr Louvain.’

Louvain pulled out his watch from his waistcoat pocket and, consulting it, he said, ‘Thirty-four Old Church Street at eleven o’clock. Don’t be late or I will lose the light. And remember, wear something simple. Goodbye, Duchess.’ And he walked away.

Cora wanted to think about this encounter, and wondered if she could leave, but before she could move she saw Sir Odo approaching accompanied by a woman who was wearing a clinging gown of purple and green, unsupported, as far as Cora could see, by stays.

‘Duchess, you must meet Beatrice Stanley, the actress. She was in
A Woman of No Importance
last year, you know. She has promised to recite for us later. Too thrilling.’

Cora held out her hand, she still had not acquired the English habit of bowing. The actress took it with a languid clasp. She had a very long white neck, on which her small head with its cloud of black hair balanced precariously. She had huge dark eyes which gazed mournfully at Cora.

‘How do you do, Mrs Stanley,’ Cora said. ‘I came to London just too late for the play, but I hope I will see you on the stage soon.’

‘Mr Wilde has two plays coming in the New Year, so you won’t have to wait too long,’ Mrs Stanley replied coolly.

Cora paused, at a loss. ‘You know, I’ve never met an actress before.’

‘Really? I have the advantage then, as I have met a number of duchesses, although never an American one.’ Having established the upper hand, Mrs Stanley smiled at Cora. ‘Do you like England, or am I asking you to betray a confidence?’

‘I like very much what I know of it, but there is still so much I haven’t seen,’ Cora said.

‘Have you been to the
Second Mrs Tanquerary
yet? Mrs Pat gives the performance of the season.’ The actress waved her arm languidly.

‘No, I haven’t, but now you have recommended it I shall force the Duke to take me.’ Cora smiled at the thought of forcing Ivo to do anything.