Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction (4 page)

“Well, sir, I can lend ye a hand, for that.” She smiled at him.

He knew it was a mistake but he was in her control now. “A hand,” he repeated, as she removed his coat. She slipped the notes into a pocket carried on the front of her dress. She caressed his groin and he felt himself tighten immediately, despite the excess of flip. She began to maneuver him backward toward the bed and he allowed himself to be maneuvered, fairly tripping on the bedstead and into a reclining position while she stood over him. With professional efficiency she lowered his breeches below his knees, threw up his shirt, and ran a teasing finger around his equipment.

When he shuddered, she laughed. “Now, now,” she whispered. “Not so soon as to miss your money's worth.”

She was gripping him firmly now, with a practiced, relentless stroking and squeezing. A sickening ache flashed through his body and then the familiar innermost tugs and twinges. She began to laugh softly, devilishly, as if she knew he would be off, and then suddenly he roared like a silly beaten mule and disgorged all over her vigorously working fingers, which were now directing him away from her clothes.

“My my my, sir,” she said in a false sweet voice, and laughed again. “But it's been much too long for ye!” She continued to work him, gently now, as he moaned and diminished in her hand. Then she removed his neck cloth and wiped his abdomen.

When she was done she stood up straight over him and said only, “There, now!” She patted her pocket with his shilling notes and smiled at him—almost, he thought incongruously, like a mother over a child she had been nursing back to health. He was unable to move for some moments. She straightened herself up, opened the door an inch, and turned to him. “No need to hurry yourself,” she said. She went over to her dresser and began to wash her hands and wrists in a basin.

As he was returning to himself, he noticed a single board about four feet long and twelve inches deep running shelf-wise along the wall where she stood with her back to him. At opposite ends of the shelf were two candles, and between the candles stood a half-dozen books and a stack of used newspapers. He couldn't see what the books were, and felt unable to ask, but it increased his sense of unreality as he lay defeated on a harlot's bed.

Sanborn stood, pulled up his breeches, tossed his neck cloth aside, adjusted himself, and left without a word. In the doorway below, before entering the street, he looked to see that no one was nearby and then counted his money. A door opened in the hallway and a black navvy with a grin on his face came toward him in the doorway. Sanborn immediately stepped out into the late sunlight, a hint of evening in it, and continued walking up the hill toward his new room high above the city streets.

Chapter 5

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
he drew up a notice for the Boston papers, which everyone in Portsmouth seemed to read. While in Boston, he had learned the necessity of presenting oneself as having recently arrived after success in London. To be out of fashion in the home country would be the first sin among the New England gentry. The notice included a brief reference to “Mr. Sanborn's evening school for the instruction of Polite Youth in the branches of Drawing.” He also sent his card, with his new address inked in, to the Brownes. Yet when no work came his way for a week, he began to make inquiries of the next ship to Boston. He was optimistic by nature, however, and he still had the feeling of something fortuitous about his first commission in Portsmouth.

While he was on the street in the market district the first Saturday, he thought he spotted Rebecca's tutor. He followed the woman to be sure and then spoke to her casually. She recognized him immediately. He thanked her for the advice of a lodging and asked how her charge fared.

“Very well, sir,” she said. She smiled at him. As before, she was brightly but properly clothed and very tight-waisted. He felt himself towering above her. He did not want to appear too imposing, so he slouched and spoke quietly.

“And what of your master and mistress? Do you believe they are completely satisfied with the likeness?”

“Quite, sir. The portrait hangs now in the dining room.”

“Indeed! And are they well?”

“Very well.”

“Do you suppose they might consider a further commission still? Of Colonel and Madam Browne? I would be most honored.”

“I'm sure it is possible, sir, though they've not spoken of it in my presence.”

“I'll be returning for the varnish, of course, and I've sent them my card.”

“I'm sure they are pleased, sir.”

He didn't want to appear anxious or importunate. More commissions were lost than gained over how one appeared. “And Rebecca is well, you say. I'm delighted to hear it. She is a most unusual child, do you not agree, Miss Norris?”

“Who would not agree?”

“Yet she said something to me about removing, or rather being sent away. I assume you will be traveling with her?”

“I think not. Or I should say I have no plans to travel. On the contrary, my understanding is that I may well be looking for a position elsewhere. But I have no doubt that Squire Browne will provide me great aid in the matter.”

“The girl is leaving then?”

“I believe so.”

“To London?”

“I would not expect so, not anymore, but I am not informed as to the family's plans in any regard.”

“Even where you are the one to be so affected?”

“Even so.” Her light, curious eyes seemed to change before him, as if she was preparing to turn away and about her business. He wanted to delay her if he could, but gently.

“I admire her most unusual paintings.” It was all he could think to say at the moment.

She looked up, studying him before speaking. Had she seen the mocking portrait? Had she seen whatever pictures the girl had made over the years? Had she even offered instruction?

“Her childish pictures have caused some . . . discomfiture, sir.”

He waited for her to go on, but she was disinclined. Her face flushed as if she had embarrassed herself speaking out of turn.

“Whom have they disconcerted?” he asked.

She hesitated again. It was becoming ever more obvious that she wished to be away.

“Her guardians,” she finally said. “And other relations.” He said nothing; he was struck suddenly as by a revelation of familial difficulties, of a family as uncertain of an enigmatic yet charming child as he himself, a stranger, had been.

Miss Norris turned. She glanced back to say only “Good-day to you, sir.” He was left standing stupidly in the street contemplating what he had been told. The look of discomfort on the governess's face made it clear that she regretted saying as much as she had, as if a family confidence had been breached. Yet they all knew he had spent considerable time with the child. He felt certain they must know that he had even seen several of Rebecca's paintings. Why this need for circumspection about the child herself in his presence?

Chapter 6

J
UST AS
S
ANBORN
had booked passage to return to Boston while he still had the price of his fare, another commission arrived.

It was to be a portrait of Mr. Alexander Hart, a business associate of Squire Browne's, who had seen the portrait of Rebecca on some occasion at the manse.

This portly gentleman had arranged to meet Sanborn at his very place of traffic upon the wharves. He had pointed to his ships laden with masts and planking, and to the coast of Maine across the bright wide river.

“There's the background I wish to see, sir,” he had said. “It can be done?”

“Of course, Mr. Hart,” Sanborn said. “Most impressive ships!” He began making some sketch notations.

“That they are, Mr. Sanborn. A long way to wealth, though, I can assure you.” He shook his head and looked wistful, as if recalling how he had risen in the world. “That I was educated only to trade, and in the very school of trade, has not kept me back. Over the years it has been my good fortune to supplant men of substance and accomplishment, more than a few of which have long since returned to the motherland, broken or discouraged.”

Sanborn looked up at him from his sketchpad. “There are many, no doubt, who made obeisance to the king's timber surveyors and tree markers, rather than to their own best interests.”

Hart winked at him. “Aha,” he said. “You've ferreted out something of the matter there, Mr. Sanborn.” He laughed. “Neither simpletons nor nincompoops”—he gave his stomach three hearty pats—“but somewhat unclear as to just where their true interests lay.” He had watched as Sanborn continued his quick sketches of ships and shoreline.

Within three days more, Mr. Hart sat before Sanborn at home, in his costly wig, his broadcloth coat lined in bright silk, his satin waistcoat half unbuttoned in calculated negligence. He seemed uncomfortable, however, sitting for his portrait, so Sanborn began to regale him with tales of his own success as a tradesman in portraiture. These anecdotes had the desired effect, and they began to enjoy many a gentleman's tale and laugh together.

The real significance of the Hart commission was manyfold: It initiated a series of commissions, and Mr. Hart sent his grand-daughter to Sanborn for drawing lessons. And thereby Sanborn entered into firmer relations with one of the premier commercial families of the province. In fact, within a month of entering Portsmouth, Sanborn was able to leave his small room and take two ample rooms with a private entrance nearer the market district.

He now recognized men about town and they him. He began to receive occasional invitations, if not to the residences of the more highly placed, at least to those whose names were recognized for respectability and substance. He no longer doubted his ability to stay on if he wished.

He also began to pay discreet weekly visits to Gingher, and at times he himself appointed. He ate and drank well. Eventually, several persons of means approached him about employment as drawing master to their daughters or sons. Those few he deemed of the higher caliber, he took on in his weekly lessons, which gave him entrée to several grand houses and presences. He even began to toy with the idea of investing in the shipping end of the timber trade. All his sunny hopes and aspirations that had brought him to Portsmouth seemed to be materializing before his eyes. Within three months of entering the town, he felt a buoyant complacency about his prospects.

It was in such circumstances that he ran into Miss Norris once again. She was in the very process of removing herself and her baggage to her new position. They tarried before her new residence one afternoon after having met within. She was returning to the Browne manse to close out a few remaining matters, she said, and hoped to be fully installed in her new position within the week. She seemed more deferential to him now, as if she were aware of his rise in the world. And how could she not be? His new clothes—still dark and plain but of very fine cloth—would have suggested as much. He had thought she regarded him with curiosity, as one might a foreigner. But now there was something more—perhaps a flash of admiration? He found his interest in her growing as well.

“And Miss Rebecca, has she by now gone on her journey?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Sanborn, indeed she has.”

“Not to London then?” He smiled charmingly.

“Not to my understanding.” She looked at him as if deciding whether she should entrust him with all she knew. “I was not privy to their plans for her, but I believe it is to be a town on the frontier where the colonel has family relations, a fellow proprietor, who looks after his interests there.”

“In the name of goodness, Miss Norris, what on earth could induce them to do so?” He was no longer smiling. “There must be some explanation.”

“As I say, Mr. Sanborn, I'm not privy to their decisions. I can tell you only this: The child refused to go to London, had even ceased eating to make her wishes keenly apparent, and had settled for some such alternative scheme as this ‘woodland retreat.' She said, ‘I am more a child of the forest in my heart. It is to the forest I shall go, then.'”

“What a strange child,” he said. How could she say such a thing, born and bred, so far as he knew, in this bustling port on the golden rim of the Atlantic trade? Did the child aspire to the renunciations of some popish saint lost in the dim centuries? Or had she truly some imagined taste or fascination for woodlands and for the coarse manners and employments of the people who dwelt on the margins of the wilderness?

He sensed that Miss Norris had much to tell him but was holding back.

“And what of her pictures, which you mentioned they found so unsettling? It is painting and drawing that she most loves.”

She looked down. “They are to be destroyed, sir. Or, most of them.” She hesitated and looked up at him a moment. “I think she will be much employed otherwise.” Her voice indicated regret.

“Destroyed?” He couldn't speak further. He realized his face must have looked foolishly startled. He tried to compose himself, regain his dignity. “Who is to destroy them?”

“The gardeners are to burn them, I believe. The Brownes have chosen the ones.” She made to turn aside, as if she were deeply troubled, or perhaps about to weep. “I myself had to go through many, and gather together all the possibly offensive ones. The colonel . . .” She could go no further.

“Many hours of her work and delight.”

She nodded in agreement, her eyes closed.

“It seems monstrous to me, Miss Norris.”

“It's a parent's prerogative, sir.”

“Still . . .,” he said.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Yet, they have not been delivered into the gardeners' hands, you say?”

“No. Soon, I expect.”

“Ah.” He thought a moment. She seemed sympathetic to him now. He believed she agreed with his assessment of the actions of the parents, or nearly so, whatever she could openly admit. He had no doubt that she, too, found the paintings disturbing, some of them anyway, but nonetheless valued them as the product of her little prodigy's labors and gifts. She had displayed affection for the child when he had seen them together. Still, he knew she was withholding information now, information that might help to explain the parents' excessive response.

“Would it not be possible to salvage some of them?” he asked.

“Against my master's wishes? Certainly not, Mr. Sanborn.”

“Don't misunderstand me. Of course not, Miss Norris. I mean only to do so with his consent. I have a professional interest in the extraordinary execution of one or two I had seen, and there are perhaps others.”

“I see, but, no, please believe me, sir, he would not hear of it. I can assure you.”

“May I at least view them, Miss Norris. Surely that can hurt no one, before they are, in fact, destroyed forever.”

“You ask me to jeopardize my good relations and understanding with the Brownes, sir.”

“Not at all, Miss Norris. I ask only to view a few specimens out of painterly interest and respect for Miss Rebecca and her gifts. I think she is misunderstood, but I would not interfere with anyone's wishes or good relations. Nor with her parents' considered decision.”

“Misunderstood, sir?”

“One gentleman, whom I'd prefer not to name, referred in my hearing once to Miss Rebecca Browne as ‘that little witch.'” Sanborn looked into her startled eyes. He was sure she herself had heard of this attitude, but was merely surprised to hear him voice it. “He was speaking light-heartedly, perhaps as a figure of speech, but I've asked one or two others about word of her, and there seems to be some uneasiness abroad over her unnatural gifts and precocious demeanor. I know it's all nonsense, but there it is nevertheless. It is a narrow prejudice against the child, I fear, for her mere eccentricity and learning.”

“There is enough of that abroad, sir, as you say.” She looked him in the eye, almost defiantly. “Remember that you are in New England, not England, Mr. Sanborn.”

He thought a moment. “You have the advantage of me, Miss Norris.” He smiled.

“And of course there is also this new contagion of enthusiasm that feeds the flames of intolerance,” she added and returned his smile. She was not, he now believed, immune to his charm. “Squire and Madam Browne, as many other families of Queen's Chapel, count it a great misfortune to New England that Mr. Whitefield and others have initiated this prodigy of New Light. This excess of superstition.”

“I quite agree, Miss Norris.” He smiled again. “Perhaps the child is somewhat nervous, vaporish. She would not be extraordinary in that. I found the child a bit taunting in one instance, but she was delightful and remarkable in everything else. I value her gift as much as you do, who know her so well. But I also have a professional curiosity concerning her paintings and drawings. Do you not suppose I might see these briefly in some open and agreeable fashion, before they're destroyed? I assure you I'll make every effort to be of service to you in return.”

She did not speak. He felt certain she wished to comply, out of their mutual sympathy as much as for anything else. And she must, by now, have found tempting his blandishments as a potential benefactor. How could she not recognize him as a man of growing reputation who might some day turn a matter, here or there, to her advantage?

“Come tomorrow after three o'clock,” she said. “But please go to the back entrance.”

“I shall, Miss Norris.” He took her hand and made a bow. “I'm at your service, and in your debt.”

She said good-bye and turned away. A light chaise, the Brownes', no doubt, awaited her but ten steps farther along the street.

He walked toward his lodgings after her chair drove away, pleased with himself for having persuaded Miss Norris. But he was troubled nonetheless: his fear for the girl's well-being, her separation from the family circle she had known, the impending loss of so much of her labor on paper, board, and canvas. And then there was her presumptuous mockery of him beneath it all. Still, he would see the renderings of her mind and soul and that was enough for the present. He would try not to torment himself.

But the child—in her tribulation, as he imagined it—that night haunted his dreams.