Keeping the Castle (14 page)

I smiled. How often had I pleaded in vain for a brief rest for that reason?

“When shall it be finished?” I asked, meaning the painting.

“Oh,” she said, shamefaced, scanning the assembled guests to ensure no one heard this admission but me, “in truth it is done now. It is only that I prefer not to display it to so many people at once. Please, would you be so kind as to wait for a private moment before I show it to you?”

I agreed, though in truth I was burning with curiosity.

She paused in the act of lowering a cloth over the painting. “I wonder . . . I wonder what Mr. Fredericks will think of it?”

What, indeed? Ha!

I decided that I was not sorry Mr. Fredericks was returning; I had plans for his future. I would marry him off to Miss Vincy. Her gentle nature would suffer his bumptiousness without complaint, and, as unlikely as it might seem, she appeared to be at least as self-conscious when his name was mentioned as when the Baron entered the room—perhaps she could be persuaded into a
tendresse
for him. According to her, he was a man with a fine appreciation for the arts. He would understand and support her need for time away from family duties to draw and paint.

Her father admired him for some odd reason, and even her mother, the more formidable obstacle in matters pertaining to her daughter’s marriage, regarded him as “a sensible young man.” Knowing the lady in question, I assumed this referred to his financial expertise. And given that expertise, he most likely had managed to save up a tidy sum, which would endear him to her even more. (How I wished that my mother were a little more like other mothers of marriageable daughters; most would make it their business to know the net worth of every single man for twenty miles round, but not my innocent mama!) And tho’ the son of a man in a very humble way of life, he
was
the grandson of a baron, so with even a modest competence he would do very well for her.

He, of course, would be exceedingly lucky to get her—it would be a brilliant marriage for him as well as a suitable one. But really, his point of view was hardly worth considering.

With Miss Vincy happily married, I could wed Lord Boring without regret. When I thought of the lock of hair she carried with her and kissed in secrecy, I sighed for her disappointment. But however much she might love him, he did not return the sentiment.

No, everyone would be much better off if I arranged matters to suit myself.

“Goodness, Miss Crawley! How thankful I am that you had not that expression on your face earlier!” cried Miss Vincy as she packed up her paints. “You quite frighten me. What
are
you planning?”

I smiled, but would not say.

Mr. Fredericks returned, and all augured well for my scheme. I had not yet had the opportunity of viewing my portrait, as the rains, so common in our climate, returned in force, making visiting impossible. On the first possible day, which happened to be just after Mr. Fredericks’s return, Prudence, Charity, and I walked over to Gudgeon Park.

“Miss Winthrop, how pleasant to see you again,” bellowed Mr. Fredericks in a voice generally only used by herders summoning their cattle home from a distant field. “And Miss Charity Winthrop, of course! How good of you to call. And Miss Crawley. Miss
Althea
Crawley, I believe, tho’ I know it is more correct to call you
Miss Crawley,
as Miss Prudence ought to be called
Miss Winthrop
.” He bowed deeply and fixed me with a satirical eye, saying in a lower voice, “As you can see, I have committed all your names and the proper manner of addressing you to memory, and shall not forget again. I have not been much in company with ladies, I will confess.”

He enquired after Alexander as well, and said, “Having had some leisure to consider your complaints since last we spoke, I have concluded that you were in the right. I ought to have minded Alexander more carefully, and I apologize for attempting to shift the blame onto your shoulders.”

At this handsome act of contrition I blushed, remembering how I had berated him at the Screaming Stones after he had imperiled his life saving Fido’s and my brother’s. I realized, too, that his
appearance
as well as his
behavior
was more handsome than I had thought. He had been suffering from ill health when I first met him; now he was recovered I began to think him a very good-looking man. I resolved to exert myself to be cordial and charming.

“Thank you, sir. How
very
good to see you again,” I said, dropping a curtsey. “We were quite desolated to lose your company last June. Still, I suppose the financial gentlemen in the City were the gainers for it.”

He eyed me suspiciously, as tho’ he had approached expecting me to fly at him like an enraged cat at a dog and now did not know what to make of my attitude. He turned to the Marquis and muttered in an audible tone, “What the devil is the woman playing at? Is that sarcasm?”

“Hush, Fredericks. The
lady
is being courteous. Answer her politely.”

“I assure you, madam, the financial gentlemen in the City were
not
the gainers for being in my company in these past weeks. Quite the contrary,” was Mr. Fredericks’s rejoinder.

Mr. Vincy had apparently only overheard this exchange in part, for approaching us, he chuckled and said, “No, indeed, Miss Crawley! Anybody who tries to fleece Hugh Fredericks will find himself much the
loser
for it. I shouldn’t like to try to bamboozle the brass out of
his
pockets, I can tell you! It would have been a joy to watch you put that pack of jackanapes in the basket, Fredericks,” he continued. “Nay, miss, our Mr. Fredericks is bang up to the mark in these matters, have no fear.”

From this speech I gathered that I had misjudged the nature of Mr. Fredericks’s meetings with his colleagues in the City. Apparently the object of the assemblage of these merchants and men of business was to see which could best cheat the other, rather than to converse and exchange pleasantries in the civilized fashion of the landowning class.

“My apologies for underestimating him,” I replied, with another curtsey.

This appeared to appease Mr. Vincy, but the look I received from Mr. Fredericks was unexpectedly discerning.

“You think us all a vulgar lot, I perceive,” he said, smiling a little. “Well, I don’t say some of those fellows are not on the sharpish side.” He shifted his gaze to Mr. Vincy. “How about Gentleman Jim, Vincy? Would you introduce him to your wife and daughter?”

From the horrified look Mr. Vincy gave him, I gathered that the answer was No.

“But a good many are decent folk. No less honest than the gentry, at any rate, and a great deal more so than the nobility.” Here both men laughed heartily at the thought of all the deceit and double-dealing they had encountered amongst the titled classes. I was relieved that the Marquis had strolled away and was no longer a part of our little group.

Mr. Vincy was by now so at ease in the conversation that he pulled up a delicate gilt chair and sat astride it backwards, ignoring the frowns of his lady wife.

“Take Boring’s mother, f’rinstance,” he said in a lowered voice. “D’you know what I heard of her? She may be my hostess, but by gad, I—”

To my astonishment, Mr. Fredericks was frowning and shaking his head, either out of loyalty to his friend or—could it be?—delicacy of feeling.

Vincy flushed a dull, brick red and stood up. He bowed uneasily in my direction. “My apologies, miss. I spoke out of turn. I came up in a hard school and never have learnt to hold my tongue in polite society. I beg you’ll forget I spoke.” And he moved quickly away to sit at his wife’s side. Evidently he assumed her proximity would have the effect of rendering him incapable of speech.

I assumed Mr. Vincy referred to Mrs. Westing’s playing at cards, a practice frowned upon in some circles of the lower middle class from which he had sprung. A complete change of subject seemed to be in order.

“Miss Vincy tells me you have a keen appreciation for drawing and painting,” I said to Mr. Fredericks.

He nodded, relieved to have been diverted into another theme. “I have. I started out by looking at them from a commercial aspect, you know, and after studying the subject so as to be able to put a money value on a piece, I found that they had a value for me above pounds and pence. I liked looking at them,” he clarified, as though I might find this an eccentric reaction to a piece of art. “So I studied them a bit more—got to talking to artists and dealers and so on—and now I feel I understand something of the field. Not that there’s not a good deal more to learn,” he said, in a humbler tone than I would have expected.

He had been standing and I sitting. Now he took the little golden chair abandoned by Mr. Vincy and prepared to sit astride it as the latter had done.

“In fact, Vincy’s daughter is a damned fine artist. She—”

“Mr. Fredericks!” Pleased though I was at his introducing Miss Vincy into the conversation, I could ignore neither his language nor his treatment of a fine piece of furniture. “Pray speak civilly and sit in the chair properly or not at all. You will break it.”

“If it’s well made I won’t,” he argued.

“I trust it is not part of your duties to test the workmanship of Lord Boring’s carpenters by stressing the furniture to the breaking point?”

“My duties? No! But I hate to see things poorly made, cheap copies of good pieces and so on.” He stood up and, upending the chair, examined its underside. “Have no fear. I recall now—I chose this set myself. Look,” he thrust the chair at me so that the tips of the slender legs menaced my eyes, “see those joins? And it’s solid mahogany under that gilt.”

I waved the chair away and he replaced it on the floor and sat. I was pleased to see that he sat on it the right way ’round this time.

“But you were speaking of Miss Vincy,” I said. “Did you know she has painted my portrait?”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No, really?” he exclaimed. “I should like to see that.”

I smiled on him; he was playing into my hands. “I think I can ensure that you will. I have never yet seen it myself, but I know Miss Vincy is anxious for your opinion. She does not wish to exhibit it to a large crowd for the first time. However, if I ask her nicely, she may allow you to join me in our inspection.”

“Oh, pooh on asking nicely! Go and fetch her. I am quite ready.”

“Mr. Fredericks—” I began, when he interrupted me.

“Do you know,” he said, “you chide me without compunction when you think me thoughtless or rude. Yet you did not do so when Vincy spoke out of turn, or when he sat (as you thought) improperly on that chair. Why is that?”

I felt myself flush, but spoke casually, endeavoring to hide my confusion, “Why—why because I know you better than I know Mr. Vincy, of course!” But I did not meet his eyes and walked away quickly.

After all, I argued to myself, if I did not keep Mr. Fredericks in order, who would?

12

ONE THING BECAME CLEAR to me at the private viewing attended only by Miss Vincy, Mr. Fredericks, and myself: the portrait was something out of the common way.

In truth, it is quite difficult to judge a portrait of which you are the subject. One expects to meet the face in the mirror, but instead one sees a stranger. Yet when others were eventually allowed to see it, they cried, “Oh, what a wonderful likeness!” so I suppose I must accept the fact that this is what I look like to the rest of the world.

But beyond the likeness and the great skill with which a young woman and a dog sitting under a pear tree were depicted, something about the painting caught the eye and pulled it back again and again. When it was later exhibited to a larger audience, I noticed that, long after one would have expected people to have gazed their fill and moved on to other subjects, they stood before it in reverent silence. Sometimes they sat down and resumed their conversations only to go back for another long look.

In the social circles in which I move, the purpose of a portrait is to capture the face and figure of a sitter; nothing more. It is a private and personal item, of interest primarily to one’s family and friends. However, I could tell that this painting was more important in the grand scheme of things than
I
was. My friend Miss Vincy had given me a sort of immortality. Long after we both were in our graves, this picture would be prized by people wholly unconnected to either of us, for the sake of the almost unearthly beauty it portrayed. One might expect that I would feel flattered by this, but on the contrary I was humbled.

Mr. Fredericks was actually rendered speechless by his first viewing. He looked at it for long minutes, then at the artist, shook his head in wonder and then looked back at it again.

She had been more anxious for his approbation than for mine. Her eyes were on him and not on me as she lifted the veiling cloth, which spoke volumes about the esteem in which she held him. I was beginning to suspect that all my guesses were wrong, that it was neither the dismissed tutor
nor
the Baron that she favored.