The American Heiress (36 page)

‘The Duchess was a pleasure to paint.’ Louvain nodded towards Cora. The room which had been so quiet began to hum with conversation again as the guests surged forward to see the picture properly. Cora relaxed a little. The picture was a success. She began to edge forward to have a proper look, but she felt Ivo’s hand on her arm, restraining her. He spoke very quietly.

‘We will talk about this later.’

Cora looked at him in surprise. ‘Talk about it? Why, is there something wrong?’ She felt salty bile rise into her mouth as she saw the tension in his face. He was about to reply when Charlotte Beauchamp appeared in front of them.

‘I’m really quite jealous, Cora, your portrait is causing a sensation. I think Louvain has excelled himself. It’s amazing what a painter sees.’ She smiled warmly at Cora and looked up at Ivo. ‘And what do you think of your surprise?’ She raised an eyebrow. Cora held her breath.

‘It is a remarkable picture. I believe you were responsible for the introduction, Lady Beauchamp?’ There was an unmistakable edge to Ivo’s question, but Charlotte did not flinch.

‘All I did was to put your wife and Louvain in the same room. What happened next was between them.’ She gestured to the portrait and smiled.

Cora said brightly, ‘Charlotte has been so helpful, Ivo. I don’t know what I would have done without her.’ She put her hand on Charlotte’s arm to emphasise the point. Ivo looked at them both, his face expressionless. Cora thought for a moment he was going to quarrel with Charlotte. But then he smiled, not warmly, but enough to make her anxiety subside. Now he was drawing her away. She wondered what he was so anxious to avoid and then she understood. Duchess Fanny was inspecting the picture.

But they were not quick enough. Duchess Fanny turned to Cora and said loudly, ‘And what character are you representing, dear? Rapunzel? Or Guinevere? Such abundant hair, and such a charming rustic costume. Really, we shall all have to be painted in character now.’ Her blue eyes were very round. Cora heard the malice in her words and felt Ivo stiffen beside her, but it was Louvain who spoke.

He made a little bow. ‘Well, I would be happy to paint you as Cleopatra, Your Grace.’

The Duchess inclined her head graciously as if the compliment was only her due, and gave Louvain one of her creamy smiles. Perhaps, Cora thought, it was not the picture that her mother-in-law was objecting to but the lack of focus on herself. She moved a bit closer to the canvas and looked at it properly. Really, it was most flattering; perhaps not very Duchess-like but surely Ivo would rather have this – she saw the warm tones of her painted skin and the attractive curve of her mouth – than some full-length stately thing. She couldn’t help smiling. But at the same time she was aware that she was being watched by the guests milling around her. There was something about the atmosphere that reminded her of the night her mother had burst into flames. There was a crackling to the conversations across the room that made her uneasy. But before she could decide whether there was triumph or disaster in the air, Charlotte was beside her, her voice soothing.

‘You look so natural. It is almost as if you weren’t being painted at all. I can’t imagine how you managed to look so relaxed. Louvain was always barking at me if I lost my pose for an instant. But I suppose you were lying down…’ Her voice trailed off.

Cora said without thinking, ‘Well, in my condition, it can be tiring to stand for too long.’ Then she blushed, realising what she had done, and put her hand to her mouth. She looked around, hoping that no one had noticed, she did not want to tell the world yet. Once her condition became known she would be expected to retire to Lulworth until the birth, and she very much wanted to stay in London.

She noticed that Charlotte did not look at her but at Ivo, who stood very still, staring intently at his champagne glass. Perhaps he had not heard. But she had forgotten her mother-in-law who said loudly and unmistakably, ‘Cora, does this mean there is to be a happy event?’ Cora’s blush was answer enough. Duchess Fanny looked reproachfully at her son. ‘You might have told me, Ivo.’

Ivo looked at her coldly. ‘I believe it is usual to wait until the sixth month before making an announcement. And besides, it was really for Cora to tell you.’

Cora broke in, ‘Why, I haven’t told anybody apart from Ivo. Back home we like to keep these things private. I only wrote Mother last week.’

‘But in your country, dear Cora, you are not giving birth to dukes!’ The Double Duchess looked at her in astonishment.

Charlotte had remained quite still during this exchange. Cora wondered if it was because she was still childless, and felt a pang of sympathy; Charlotte was clasping her hands together as if frightened they might do some damage. In the end it was Odo who spoke.

‘Allow me to congratulate you on behalf of Charlotte and myself. Such a relief to know that there will be a new generation of Maltravers. And such a treat to see your portrait, Duchess, especially as it is such an intimate work.’ Odo took Charlotte by the elbow and shepherded her away. But Charlotte stopped and looked back at the group beside the portrait.

‘How clever of you, Mr Louvain, to paint the Duchess as a Madonna in waiting. You miss nothing, do you?’

The Duke signalled to the butler to remove the painting. ‘Cora, I believe we are neglecting our guests. Mother, Mr Louvain, will you excuse us?’ Ivo did not look at Cora directly but put his hand on her elbow to urge her on. She stood for a moment trying to understand what had been said and what had been omitted.

‘Cora!’ Ivo’s voice was soft but urgent. She began to move but as she passed Louvain she stopped.

‘Thank you, Mr Louvain. The picture is everything you promised.’ She extended her hand to him, intending to shake his, but the painter forestalled her by bringing her hand to his lips.

‘No one could do you justice, Duchess, but I have done my best.’

Ivo was pinching her elbow now. Cora disengaged her hand from Louvain and walked on.

Ivo muttered in her ear, ‘Please try and remember who you are.’

Cora could not mistake the fury in his voice now. She looked at him but he had already turned away. To follow him now would be too public. She forced herself to smile, as if he had just been murmuring an endearment to her, and then drew her shoulders back and assumed her Duchess pose.

‘Did you tell him that I kissed you?’ It was Louvain standing behind her, whispering into her ear so closely that she could feel the bristles of his moustache.

‘Of course not! There would be no point. You yourself said that it was only to improve the painting.’ She kept her smile fixed.

‘And you believed me? Do they not have red-blooded men in your country then, that you believe the excuses of scoundrels like myself?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Mr Louvain. I wonder if sitting for you was a mistake.’

‘How can anything that results in a work of art be a mistake? It’s a great painting.’ Louvain grasped her arm. ‘Honestly, what did you think when you first saw it?’ He looked directly into her eyes. She lowered her gaze. ‘You liked it. You recognised yourself, didn’t you?’

She was moved by the urgency of his voice. She realised that he was right.

‘Yes, there was…something in the picture that I recognised. But perhaps it is something that should not have been painted.’

Louvain laughed. ‘There are no secrets in a painting, not a good one anyway. And there is nothing you should keep hidden, Cora.’

The use of her Christian name brought her up short. This conversation should not be happening, not now, not here. He was presuming upon an intimacy between them that should not exist. She tried to compose herself, and said in a bright social voice, ‘You know, Mr Louvain, this is my first big party. If I spend the evening talking to you, all of London society will go home saying that I am just another uncouth American. You must excuse me, Mr Louvain, you really must.’ And with that she walked away from him. She looked around for Mrs Wyndham. She caught her eye and Mrs Wyndham hurried across the room towards her.

‘Are you feeling quite well, Duchess? Do you need some air?’ Mrs Wyndham was all concern.

‘Yes, perhaps some air might be good.’

At a sign from Mrs Wyndham, a footman opened the long window on to the balcony and Cora leant out, feeling the cold November air on her face with relief. She longed for a cigarette. At last she asked the question.

‘Please, Mrs Wyndham, be honest with me. Is it a disaster?’

There was a pause as Mrs Wyndham composed her answer.

‘Oh no, my dear, not a disaster. I think there may be a few people who are surprised by the portrait – it’s a very unusual pose for a duchess to adopt. If you had told me that you were sitting for Louvain,’ her voice took on a reproachful tinge, ‘I would have warned you that he is not a man of unblemished reputation. There have been rumours…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘But I hardly think that anyone could possibly attach any scandal to you.’ She looked keenly at Cora for any sign of guilt. But the girl looked too bewildered. If there had been something between her and Louvain she would hardly have engineered such a very public denouement.

She went on briskly, ‘If you behave as if nothing has happened, then nothing will have happened. This is your party, it is for you to set the tone. And if there is a little gossip, that is nothing to be afraid of – at least no one can say you are insipid. But now you must take charge. The real crime is to show weakness.’

Cora whispered, ‘My husband is angry. I don’t understand.’

Mrs Wyndham looked at her, surprised; could Cora really be so naive?

‘Well, Louvain has an unsavoury reputation, and your picture, though charming in every way, has a certain intimate quality that might be open to misinterpretation. But only if you let it, my dear.’ She saw with alarm that Cora’s shoulders were sagging. It was imperative that the girl kept her head. She must take charge of the situation now or take years to recover her position. Mrs Wyndham shuddered. If Cora failed now then Miss Schiller and her compatriots would find their matrimonial prospects in England much reduced. So she said with a certain sharpness in her tone, ‘Come, Duchess, your guests are waiting.’

And to her great relief she saw the young woman pull herself upright, and with her head tilted at an angle calculated to charm, she rejoined the party.

From her post by the door Bertha watched her mistress advance towards her guests. She could see all was not well. Bertha had seen the looks that had been exchanged when the picture had been unveiled and knew her misgivings about the picture had been well-founded. If only Miss Cora had listened to her – but Bertha felt no comfort in being right, she only felt pity for her mistress. She did not want to go back to the servants’ hall, she knew they would all be revelling in the scandal. She wanted to be on hand in case Cora needed her. Her mistress had moved out of sight now. Bertha moved along the wall and found a niche where there had once been a statue now covered by a velvet drape. She slipped behind the curtain, pleased that she had found a spot where she could observe her mistress without being overlooked herself.

A couple stood in front of her, Bertha could not see their faces but she recognised the Duke’s back.

‘…Such an intimate pose, what a pleasant change from the grand manner. I suppose that was your idea, Duke – you wanted a boudoir portrait of your new wife.’ The woman’s voice was probing.

‘You make it sound as if I had a whole cupboard of wives stashed away in the west wing.’ The Duke’s voice was doggedly light.

‘And how did you find Mr Louvain to deal with? You hear such stories. But I suppose if you had any doubts you would not have allowed the Duchess to sit for him.’

Bertha stood very still waiting for his reply

‘Like most artists he seems more interested in money than anything else.’

Bertha heard the woman laugh. The Duke was hiding his feelings about the portrait in public at least but she doubted whether he had relinquished his anger. Jim had told her that when the Duke was furious he liked to tear a sheet of paper into as many pieces as he could. It was hard to shave his master in the morning, he had told her, because the Duke’s jaw muscles were so tight from grinding his teeth all night. No, Bertha did not think that her mistress’s husband was a forgiving man.

And then she heard his voice again.

‘You did this.’ This time his voice was low and private.

‘All I did was open the door. She chose to walk through.’ A different woman’s voice, almost whispering, one Bertha knew but could not place.

‘But why?’

‘You know why.’ There was a silence. Bertha wanted to look through the curtains but she knew that if the Duke was looking that way, he would see her at once.

She heard a sigh and the sound of rustling silk.

‘I…can’t…bear…this.’ The Duke spoke as if the words were being carved out of him.

‘There is no choice.’ The woman’s voice was flat.

Bertha could hear murmuring but was unable to make out the words. And then the music started again and she could hear nothing. After a minute she dared to look through the curtain, but the Duke and his companion were gone.