Marchington Scandal (12 page)

Lord Stonenden arrived at the Daltry house on the stroke of eight the following morning. Katharine and Mary had already breakfasted and were prepared for his arrival, so they all went directly upstairs to Katharine's studio to begin the portrait. Katharine wore her customary old gown, and after a quarter hour of indecision she had determined that she would wear her apron, whatever Stonenden might think of it. Her studio was not a ballroom. But she had made the concession of dressing her hair more fashionably than she usually did to paint.

Upstairs, the women had provided an easy chair and worktable for Mary in the corner, and she sat down there. Katharine had draped one wall in blue cloth in an effort to provide a background for her painting, and now as Stonenden looked at her, she gestured toward it. She was extremely nervous, she found, in this new situation. Other concerns aside, she had never tried to paint anyone like Lord Stonenden, and she began to be afraid that his interested, knowledgeable gaze would prevent her from doing anything.

“How shall I stand?” he asked, moving in front of the draperies.

Katharine looked at him helplessly for a moment, then tightened her jaw and told herself to stop behaving like an idiot. “What sort of portrait do you want?” she asked, her voice sounding amazingly assured to her own ears.

Stonenden smiled, “The usual sort.”

This made the girl laugh. “In that case, you should put one hand on your hip and one foot forward and look straight ahead.”

Still smiling, he did so.

“That is it. Now we require only a worshipful spaniel to complete the composition.”

“Alas that I left mine at home.”

“Well, we shall simply have to get on without it. But I think we will use another pose.” Katharine lost all her self-consciousness as she studied the problem. “There is a stopped-up fireplace behind the drape. Do you feel the mantelshelf?”

He tried. “Yes, here it is.”

“Rest one elbow on it and lean back a little.” He did so. “Yes, that is it. I think that will do. What do you say, Mary?”

Her cousin looked up from her sewing, startled at being consulted. “Oh, yes, very nice, dear.”

“No, but, Mary, does it look right?”

Thus appealed to, Mary Daltry surveyed Lord Stonenden more carefully. “It does, you know. It seems…characteristic.”

“Labeled as a drawing-room lounger,” exclaimed the man. “Unfair.”

Mary looked taken aback, but Katharine laughed. “That is what happens when you request a portrait. Your innermost character is revealed. Now, are you comfortable? Can you remain so for a while?”

“Certainly.”

Katharine got out her sketching block and began to do some preliminary drawings from various angles. In each, she noted some particular detail, the line of Stonenden's neck and shoulders, the precise position of his bent knee, the way his hand rested negligently on the mantel, trying to catch the essence of her subject. She grew more and more pleased and excited as she worked. The sketches were good, and Stonenden an admirable model. For the first time, Katharine began to see him as a man, apart from any flaws of character he might possess. He really was extremely attractive, less because of the arrangement of his features, though this was pleasing, than the strength and confidence he automatically projected. She suddenly saw that these were not affectation, but an integral part of him. Even standing perfectly still, he compelled attention in some undeniable way. One might glance past other men idly, but never Stonenden.

“May I move a little now?” he asked finally.

“What? Oh, of course! I should have let you rest before now. Are you very stiff?”

“Not unbearably, but I admit I shall be glad to stretch.” He suited his actions to his words, moving his arms back and forth.

“I am nearly finished for today,” said Katharine. “You can walk about or go downstairs. Would you care for some refreshment? The servants will get it for you.”

“No, thank you. But I believe I will walk about the room.”

He proceeded to do so as Katharine filled in detail with the charcoal. To her relief, and gratitude, he did not come round behind her and watch her work, a thing she hated. After a while, during which she had been lost in her drawing, she turned to find him chatting quietly with Mary in the corner. “Can you do a bit more now?” she asked. “I want to make one more sketch, and then we will stop.”

He came back to stand as before, and she sat down in front of him to draw his face. This was the most difficult preliminary, and Katharine had left it for last; her other studies held only a blur. Now she gazed at him intently and began to outline his features on her pad—the firm jaw, straight nose, and broad forehead, marked by two dark curls from his fashionable Brutus. Once again she was struck by the power of the man—not in the sense of physical strength, but strength of character. His face clearly reflected the magnetic personality behind it. The effect was so marked that she paused for a moment, charcoal suspended, and simply gazed. He pulled at some deeply buried part of her, making her wish to speak, to move, to somehow shake that massive confidence.

Taking a breath, Katharine looked down and resumed her drawing. She had come to the hardest area, the eyes.

She looked into his; there was none of the harshness she had thought part of his personality. Stonenden appeared serious, interested, and something more; she could not define the last. But the expression in his eyes made her falter again, until she shook herself and shut out everything but the idea of the portrait.

After another half hour she leaned back and looked over the sketch critically. “Yes, that will do for a beginning,” she said. “We will block in the canvas tomorrow. You may go if you like. I daresay you are very tired of standing.”

“Not particularly.” Katharine was afraid then that he would ask to see her drawings, but he did not, merely adding, “I shall come tomorrow…at eight again?”

“If you please.” She was so grateful for his restraint that she punctuated this with a brilliant smile. There was nothing worse than an observer who hung about and insisted on seeing each stage of a painting. Katharine hated showing anything that was not complete.

He smiled back at her. “Very well.”

“I will go downstairs with you,” said Mary, rising.

“Tomorrow, then.” And he followed her out of the room.

Katharine, feeling suddenly very tired, went to sit in the armchair. Her sketches were good; they captured a real sense of the subject. Now, if she could just do the painting as well, it would be a fine portrait. She smiled a little, stretched her arms, and got up, feeling extraordinarily happy about her new project.

***

Stonenden was prompt again the following morning, and Katharine was prepared for him. She had spent the afternoon setting up her canvas, and beside it, another easel holding the preliminary sketches she had made. By a little after eight she was hard at work, blocking out the figure in charcoal on the clean canvas and adding suggestions of the background she had decided to use, an actual fireplace.

She worked in silent concentration for half an hour, allowed Stonenden a short rest, and then continued. By nine thirty she was generally satisfied with the initial design. “There,” she said, putting down the charcoal. “I must put in a few more details before we stop, but that is a fine beginning. You may rest. Tomorrow, I can begin to paint.” She stood back and gazed critically at what she had done so far.

“Splendid,” replied Stonenden, moving his limbs to relieve the stiffness. “It goes faster than I expected. Do you think I might see…”

Katharine stiffened as he spoke. Why could no one resist looking at things before they were ready?

But he finished, “…some of your other paintings? Remember, you promised to show me your work from India.”

She laughed from relief and said, much more cordially than she would normally have done, “Of course. They are here.” She walked to the far corner of the studio, wiping her hands on a rag. “All of these.”

Stonenden looked impressed. “You did a great deal of work there.”

“I had a great deal of time.” She turned to one row of canvases that were a little separated from the rest. “These are the only ones worth showing, however. Most of the others were disappointing.” She turned the first in this row and held it out to him. It was a portrait of a man in loose white clothes and a white turban against a background of green leaves.

He took it and studied it carefully. “One of your servants?”

“Yes.” Katharine's heart beat faster, and her breath was uneven. It really was difficult to show her work. She dreaded others' opinions, yet longed for reactions, preferably favorable ones.

“It's good,” said Stonenden finally. “The line is sharp. The composition is well done, particularly the way this branch curves downward behind the figure here. And you have captured the light; that is very hard. It seems to have been an odd light, too.”

“It was,” replied Katharine eagerly. “It came through a thin awning and was very diffuse. I worked on it for days.” She bent and took up another painting. “Here, look at this one.” And she almost snatched the first to thrust it into his hands.

Smiling a little, he looked down. “Ah, a garden.”

“Yes, it was part of a temple compound. You can see the beginning of the pillars there.”

“Yes. The color is splendid.”

“Do you think so?” Wholly engrossed, she leaned farther forward. Her shoulder brushed Stonenden's, and she put a hand on his arm. “They were lovely.”

He looked down. Katharine was so close that her deep brown curls nearly brushed his cheek. “Lovely,” he echoed, in such a changed tone that she raised her eyes to his. For a moment, they remained so; then Katharine drew back abruptly.

“Here is a portrait of my maid, Mali,” she went on in a breathless voice. “She is lovely also.”

Stonenden exchanged pictures silently, but it was a moment before he could focus attention on the new work and offer an opinion.

They looked over the whole row together, one after the other. Stonenden's comments revealed both knowledge and discrimination, and Katharine was very glad to have such expert criticism. She did not always agree with his evaluations, and they argued heatedly over two of them, but this too she enjoyed, seeing her pictures through new eyes. Indeed, she was astonished to find that nearly an hour had passed when they put down the last canvas in the row.

“Oh, my! We must get back to work. You will be wishing to leave for your other appointments. How did it get so late? Mary, you should have told us.”

“You were enjoying your discussion so,” answered Mary.

“And I am completely at your service this morning, Miss Daltry,” added Stonenden. “I have no other appointments.”

Katharine went back to her canvas. “Have you not? That is fortunate. Will you take your pose again, then?”

He did so, and she finished outlining in another half hour, putting in as much detail as was necessary at this stage.

“There,” she said again. “I will start to paint tomorrow morning.” She took a deep breath and suddenly felt exhausted.

Lord Stonenden seemed to see it. “You are getting on very well,” he replied. “It is fascinating to see. Shall I come at the same time?”

“If you will.”

He bowed his head, straightened, then, to Katharine's intense gratitude, took his leave. She felt more in charity with Stonenden than she ever had in her life, but she was tired. She rubbed her face with both hands, transferring a smear of charcoal to her forehead.

“Are you all right, dear?” asked Mary.

“Oh, yes. But I think I will rest a bit before luncheon.”

“Why don't you. And I shall move about a little. I have done nothing but sit.”

Katharine smiled at her, only to find her cousin's pale eyes intent on her face.

“It is going well, isn't it?” said Mary then. “You are happy?”

A bit puzzled at the seriousness of her tone, Katharine nodded.

“Good,” responded the other with a sharp nod. She turned to leave. “I shall see you at luncheon.”

Katharine stood alone in the studio for a moment, frowning; then she followed her cousin down the stairs and went to her bedchamber for a half hour of quiet reflection.

***

That evening, Katharine and Mary were engaged to accompany Elinor to Almack's. Katharine, in unusually good spirits, dressed happily after dinner in a silk gown of deep, soft red trimmed with Mechlin lace. It was a lovely dress, and she whirled before the mirror to see the skirt bell out, laughing at her own enjoyment of the sight.

Their party arrived at the assembly rooms at nine thirty, and Elinor immediately joined a group of lively young people. Tony Tillston had drawn her into this circle, and Elinor was very pleased to be a part of it.

Though most of its members were unmarried, she was still so young and inexperienced that she fit in perfectly. A set was just beginning, and Tony asked Elinor to dance. Seeing it, Katharine smiled.

She herself was soon surrounded by people eager to gossip about her painting. The scene at the theater remained very fresh, and it seemed that everyone was discussing it. Repeatedly she was asked if she would
really
paint Lord Stonenden, and though she had resigned herself to this onslaught before coming in, facing it turned out to be more annoying than she had expected. She had planned to say merely that she
would
, and no more, but the twentieth time the question was put, she found herself snapping, “Yes, I am. I have already begun, and you may tell everyone that I mean to say nothing more about the painting until it is finished.”

This, not unnaturally, caused a sensation, and Katharine soon found that instead of silencing the gossips, she had encouraged them. The story went around the room in a flash. The girl looked for rescue and, providentially, saw Eliza Burnham just coming into the ballroom. Hastily excusing herself, she made her way across and joined the newcomer before she was pulled into any of the chattering groups.