Tyringham Park (9 page)

“Caught my character, wouldn’t you say?” beamed Algernon, enjoying the effect the portrait was having on the two women. “And look how the eyes follow you around the room.
Go over there and check.”

“More than that,” said Prudence, his wife. “It has a glow to it.”

“How did he get that effect? Look at the shine on the medals and the gold braid. The paint is so thick in parts,” Edwina said, leaning forward.

“Don’t touch it,” her father yelped as her hand reached out. “It’s still wet.”

“I can see that.” But she had been about to touch it. She withdrew her hand and determined to sneak back later when there was no one else around.

“And look at Verity’s likeness. Who would have believed it? Well, my dear,” he took his wife’s hands in his, “you can begin your sitting tomorrow if you’re
not too exhausted after all your chaperoning responsibilities. It’s surprisingly hard work, sitting. And we have to stop Verity from distracting the young genius. I think she’s fallen
for him. Keeps following him around with her mouth open. Quite amusing, really.” He put his arms around the two women, something out of character, but indicative of his exultant mood.
“We’re frightfully fortunate to procure his services before he becomes too sought after,” he laughed, “or too expensive!” He gave the women a final squeeze.
“You’ll meet him tonight.”

“He’s not dining with us, is he?” Edwina asked. The thought of making conversation with one more male stranger after three seasons of wasted effort filled her with dismay.

“Of course. He’s almost one of the family by now. Don’t worry, you’ll like him. He’s well-travelled and well-educated with wide interests and lots of stories to
tell. Came highly recommended by the Earl of Hereford, no less.”

Edwina groaned inwardly at the prospect of having to suffer a tiresome know-all impressing her father during the interminable mealtimes.

“Artists don’t live in the same world as we do,” said her father when the clock showed five minutes past eight and the painter’s chair across from her
stood unoccupied.

How does he know? Edwina sourly asked herself. He’s only ever met one.

“The old Earl could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end. Not about our young man, I hasten to add. Other artists. Older ones. He collects them.”

Her back was to the door. She saw her father lift his head and look towards it, and saw his face take on the expression of a man leading his horse into the winner’s enclosure on Derby Day.
“Ah, there you are!”

Mistake Number One
, thought Edwina. Being late for dinner.

Verity looked as if her focus had shifted from the mortal to the celestial.

“Lord Byron,” said Prudence, following the gaze of her husband, who was by now standing up. She was never one to lower her voice.

“Dirk Armstrong,” Algernon announced, ready to introduce his wife and younger daughter.

“Is that his real name?” Edwina whispered to Verity, knowing he was close beside her and would hear what she was saying. She was weary with exasperation and didn’t care if she
appeared rude.

Dirk thanked the manservant for holding out his chair for him and directed a humorous remark in his direction.

Mistake Number Two
. Addressing a servant at the dinner table in another person’s house. Edwina looked meaningfully across at Verity, but her sister chose to ignore her glance.
Wrong-footing guests was a game they played, the main rule being the guest was to remain unaware of his gaffe while the girls exchanged sly smirks.

Dirk acknowledged the introductions and sat down.

“Yes, it is my real name,” he smiled across at Edwina. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you know . . . Dirk . . . a dagger . . . strong arm . . .”

“What’s this?” asked Algernon who hadn’t heard Edwina’s question.

“Nothing important, Father.”

Not to be detected playing it, especially by her father whose disapproval she feared, was another rule of the game.

During the meal, Prudence’s dread of choking and difficulty with her ill-fitting new false teeth prevented her from speaking while eating, Verity’s nearness to Dirk struck her dumb
and Edwina’s despondency sapped her spirit, so Algernon monopolised his guest with talk of dams, hydro-electric schemes, motor cars and the first heavier-than-air flight that had taken place
a few years earlier.

What had happened to the stories of hunting? All her life, until tonight, they had provided the sole topic of conversation at the table.

At one point, Dirk turned to Prudence and asked if she could see herself taking a spin in a motor car.

Mistake Number Three.
Directly addressing the lady of the house without first being addressed. Edwina exaggerated a horrified expression, but once again Verity refused to reciprocate.

Mistake Number Four.
Not speaking to her. Only once had he looked at her, giving her the kind of indulgent smile one would give an infant or a grandmother.

She left the table feeling strangely disturbed and lonely.

By the time her mother’s portrait was completed four weeks later, Edwina noticed that the apathy that had sucked the colour from her life until now was gone, and she
hadn’t been aware of its passing.

On the due morning when her turn had come she felt sick and asked her father if she could postpone the sittings.

“Under no circumstances,” stormed her father. “His reputation is spreading like wildfire, according to the Earl, and if we let him go now we might miss out altogether. Now, no
more of your nonsense. If necessary, I’ll get a bed brought down for you to lie on.”

She bowed as usual to the strong will of her father. “That won’t be necessary, Father. I’m feeling a little better already.”

With help from her maid, Edwina put on her debutante’s gown, fixed her hair in an intricate sculpture, and made her way to the schoolroom where she sank with relief into the gilt
high-backed chair that had been chosen by Dirk for its contours and comfort.

When she heard the door open, the air in the room appeared to lighten and brighten.

Dirk scrutinised her for a full ten minutes after their initial greeting, then in silence moved around to view her from different angles. He stood on a ladder, looking down at her, then sat on a
low stool, looking up. Closed one curtain, then two. Opened them again. Half closed one. Asked her to stand while he changed the angle of the chair, holding her upper arm. Three times, three
different angles. Moved the chair on to the rostrum. Held her hand to guide her. Stood back.

His scrutiny may have been routine to him, but to her it was alarmingly intimate. She had never been unchaperoned in the presence of a young man before.

He came in close – she could smell the honey on his breath – and, guiding her chin, moved her head a little to the left, then realigned her arms and, taking the fingers of her right
hand one by one, positioned them on her thigh with a gap between her index and middle fingers. After each adjustment he stepped back to gauge the effect.

When he was satisfied he began to sketch. His gaze remained impersonal.

After a week, at the beginning of each sitting, Edwina tilted her head or placed her right hand slightly off the angle Dirk had shown her on the first day so that he would have to correct them.
He didn’t hold her chin or her fingers for a second longer than was necessary. Once, while adjusting her gown, his fingers brushed along the top of her breasts but didn’t linger. She
didn’t know if what he had done was appropriate or not, and looked for clues when he returned to the easel. His expression as usual was abstracted and absorbed so she concluded it must be all
right. As her father had said, ‘Artists are different’.

So as not to bring attention to her ploy, she waited for three days before deliberately pulling down the left neckline so that it sat lower than the right. When he didn’t appear to notice
the change she felt a sting of disappointment.

“You can close your eyes if you wish until I’m ready to do them,” he often said, and she was sorry that the excuse to look at him looking at her was denied her for any period
of time.

After each session he would talk to her in a friendly manner. Sometimes, unaware of time passing, they were both late for dinner.

When she could tell from the angle of his gaze that he was painting her lips, and later the shape of her breasts through the silk, she became uneasy and confused and wondered what was happening
to her.

After the third week he made fewer brushstrokes, but the thinking and assessing took longer. He wasn’t in such a hurry to begin in the mornings. The offer of tea was at last accepted and
the two of them shared the ritual, where finally he encouraged her to talk about hunting, and for the first time she put her enthusiasm into words.

She had been sitting for five weeks, a week longer than the others, and was beginning to dread his departure, which must be imminent.

“I’m doing the finishing touches. No need to keep the pose. Relax, but stay in the chair. Could you ever imagine your life without hunting?”

The question surprised her. “I’ve never thought about it,” was her answer, though a more truthful one would have been ‘No’.

“Could you ever see yourself throwing in your lot with a poor itinerant artist?”

He was standing motionless, holding his breath, his brush poised in the air.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t in conscience spin out this portrait much longer just to make sure I see you ever day. I need to have some indication of your feelings.” Did he mean what she thought
he meant? “You must have some idea how I feel about you.”

She didn’t.

“Sorry, I should have given you warning. While you recover, do you want to see yourself in your finished state?”

He put his hand over her eyes and guided her to the front of the easel. He watched her, knowing she wouldn’t be able to disguise her reaction on first view. She burst into tears. He
laughed, took her in his arms and held her reassuringly.

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

He smelt of linseed oil, turpentine, soap and himself, and she wanted to climb inside his shirt.

“Come on, you have me worried now.”

She was loath to lift her face. His chin was resting on top of her head, his arms increasing their pressure and she thought she might faint with desire.

“It’s beautiful,” she said at last. “You flattered me.”

“What you see is what I saw. Don’t tell me you don’t know you’re beautiful?”

Later, Dirk turned the easel around to face the window and swore when he noticed the left hand was slightly out of proportion, looking smaller than the one on the right. Cursing loudly, he took
up a palette knife and scraped off the hand in one stroke, exposing the canvas with its burnt sienna underpainting. “Too busy looking at your face,” he said to Edwina, and didn’t
apologise for his outburst.

That means he has to stay on longer, Edwina thought with relief, and she could postpone the frightening prospect of speaking to her father who expected her to marry an earl.

The following day a telegram addressed to him was delivered. His mother was ill and his presence was needed at home.

“Leave your things here and come back to collect them when your mother recovers,” she pleaded, inwardly raging at the bad timing.

He thought it more sensible to take everything.

“Can’t you wait to speak to my father first?”

He looked at her oddly, told her to say goodbye to the family for him, kissed her long and deep, manoeuvred one heavy bag onto his back and another over his shoulder and, refusing any offer of a
lift, walked to the train station in the village two miles away. When he was gone she wished she had at least accompanied him to the end of the avenue. Everything had happened too quickly.

That odd look Dirk gave her on his day of departure haunted her for years. Had he spoken to her father the previous night and had the difference between a favoured artist and
an aspiring son-in-law been pointed out to him? Her father could cut and wound more deeply than anyone else she knew and she was horrified to think Dirk might have been on the receiving end of an
unrestrained mauling. Or had he taken her lack of an immediate enthusiastic response as a ‘No’, not appreciating the complexity of marriage traditions among the gentry?

Eleven telegrams had come for Dirk during his stay and they were all to do with commissioning work – she knew because she’d read them. Those he dropped carelessly on the table beside
the easel, but the last one he had folded and put in his jacket pocket. Was his mother really ill, or had he invented the story to give credibility to his reason for leaving?

At the end of a fortnight she didn’t think she would appear too forward if she wrote to him at his home address – after all, if she had said a straight ‘Yes’ to his
proposal, they would be engaged by now. It was a friendly letter – she had her pride and didn’t mention love or the future, making sure to ask at length after his mother’s
health.

She haunted the front hall waiting for an answer, but none came.

Her father didn’t mention the scraped-off hand. Did that mean Dirk had arranged with him to return at some time to repaint it? She didn’t ask. Her portrait remained propped against
the wall after the other three were hung.

She spent long stretches of time in her room crying, or riding her horse too fast and too hard.

Dirk had either lost interest in her, she concluded, or been sensitive to her father’s disapproval and for her sake had withdrawn. Or had he taken justifiable offence and decided it
wasn’t worth the trouble? It’s not as if he’d be short of admirers, and why go where he wasn’t wanted? Worse than all that, though she couldn’t believe it, was the
possibility that she was nothing more than a diversion he had made use of while he was in the house. Did he make advances to all his young female sitters? He seemed too genuine for that, but how
could she be sure when she knew so little about men of her own class, let alone those of another?

Nothing that happened in the year that followed could raise her spirits. She went over and over in her mind what had been said during the sittings, trying to understand things
from Dirk’s point of view and castigating herself for her own behaviour. Should she have said or done this or that, or not said or done this or that? Should she do something now?