The Art of Love (3 page)

Hulme shook his head. ‘The portrait will be of a lady, a great friend of mine, Lady Tara Penge, are you acquainted with her?’

‘I have not had that pleasure,’ Leo said neutrally. ‘Is Lady Penge a relative of yours?’

‘She is a close friend,’ Hulme said. ‘She has done me the honour of agreeing to let me have her portrait, an honour which I hope will be the prelude to much more.’

So Hulme had his sights set on Lady Penge, whether as a mistress or a wife, Leo could not tell. ‘Is she beautiful?’ he asked.

Hulme frowned. ‘She is very… striking.’ Leo felt his heart sink; if even Lady Penge’s admirer did not describe her as beautiful she must be very plain indeed. It would be a difficult portrait to execute, painting a likeness which would not differ so much from the original as to ruin his reputation, yet producing a work which would make the customers happy. Leo felt inclined to refuse the commission.

‘My fees are very high,’ he said blandly. ‘I am much in demand at the moment.’

‘How much do you charge?’ Hulme asked.

Leo was about to name a figure which matched what he had asked of Lady Susannah’s father when he thought the better of it. ‘Sixty guineas,’ he said, doubling the charge. To his annoyance, both because he had hoped Hulme would turn him down and because of what it said about Hulme’s financial position relative to his own, Hulme didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘She is well worth it,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring her in later in the week.’

‘Tuesday,’ Leo said, struggling to regain some ascendancy. ‘I will be able to see her on Tuesday afternoon.’ Hulme must be planning to make the lady his wife, he decided. Grudgingly he had to admit that his client was at least a gentleman, no man would set so much store by the painting of a plain mistress.

‘Tuesday,’ Hulme said, shaking hands, then he left.

It was too dark to continue painting without risk of ruining his eyes. Methodically Leo cleaned his brushes with turpentine and a rag, brooding over the work to which he had just agreed. Sixty guineas was a lot of money, perhaps this would be his last portrait. The thought cheered him up, and if it was his last portrait perhaps he could afford to paint the lady as she really was, no matter how plain, although Hulme had not described her as plain, he had called her striking which was perhaps even more damning.

Chapter Two

The horses trotted happily over Waterloo Bridge while Tara looked across to the south bank a little nervously. ‘Vauxhall isn’t populated entirely by cut-throats and thieves, you know,’ Rodney said, apparently noticing her anxiousness.

‘Of course not,’ Tara said impatiently, ‘only…’ she stopped abruptly, suddenly realising that she would rather Rodney assumed her nervousness was brought about by their location rather than sudden qualms about having her portrait painted. The idea of having her face peered at intently by a perfect stranger for several hours was disquieting enough, but it had also belatedly occurred to her that gentlemen were not generally in the habit of commissioning paintings of mere friends; did Rodney intend this as a precursor to a proposal of marriage after all?

‘Really Fosse lives in a quite respectable neighbourhood, for this side of the river,’ Rodney said as he expertly steered the horses around the potholes and debris which marred the road. ‘Here we are.’

They drew up outside a house which was both shabby and elegant. It had once been white, but was in need of painting, Tara noted, which seemed ironic for a building which housed a painter, however it was gracefully proportioned and the first floor possessed unusually large, clear windows.

Rodney pushed open the front door and escorted her up the stairs inside. Then he rapped smartly on the door at the top. It swung open and a tall, powerfully built man with unruly dark hair and eyes to match looked out at them. For a moment Tara was mesmerised by those eyes. They were so dark as to be almost black and they seemed to take in every detail of her appearance at a glance. She was suddenly very aware of the coral-red dress she wore under her short coat which hugged her every curve and of the low necklace of garnets which drew the eye down towards rather than away from her décolletage. She felt a not unpleasant shiver run through her, when he looked at her it was almost as if this man was undressing her with his eyes. The man gave the briefest of bows and almost scowled at Rodney, but Rodney didn’t seem to notice.

‘Fosse, this is Lady Tara, she is the lady whose portrait I have commissioned.’ He smiled broadly, as if, Tara thought, commissioning a painting was tantamount to having the skill to paint it himself. Fosse closed the door behind them and Tara glanced around the room. She had always thought of artists as living in cramped, dark garrets where the walls and floor were splattered with paint but this room was large and light. An easel stood on a sheet of canvas which bore traces of paint in every colour of the rainbow, but the rest of the room was as clean and tidy as her drawing room at home, although on the shelves, in addition to books, stood various bottles and jars, and a basket which held a pile of neatly folded, clean rags. There was a washstand in the corner with a pitcher and ewer, but instead of it being ornamented with combs and cosmetics as her own washstand was, it supported a bottle of turpentine and a jar sprouting a collection of paintbrushes. Underneath the washstand was another basket, this one holding rags which were crumpled and covered in paint. The walls were hung with paintings, more paintings than one might ordinarily expect in a drawing room. The subjects seemed to be mostly a wide variety of landscapes and Tara found her attention particularly caught by a large canvass of St Paul’s, with the wide expanse of the Thames glinting silver in the foreground.

‘You recognise it of course.’ Tara jumped, Fosse was not standing particularly close, but she felt as if he had murmured intimately in her ear. With a start she realised that the diverse array of paintings on the wall were all his own work.

‘You paint very well…’ she said and then let the sentence linger as she realised that she did not know how to address him. It had been on the tip of her tongue to add
sir
as she might if speaking with one of her peers with whom she was not well acquainted, but that would not be appropriate. By rights she should call him by his surname as she would any other tradesman, but this man wasn’t simply any other tradesman and she couldn’t bring herself to speak down to him in that way.

‘Well,’ Rodney said, stepping between them and Tara felt quite disconcerted to find him still there, in only a few seconds her world seemed to have shrunk to contain only herself and this enigmatic artist. ‘Shall we get started?’

‘Of course,’ Fosse said blandly. ‘Lady Tara, may I?’ He held out his hands, making the universal gesture of intent to help her off with her coat suddenly very intimate. Tara turned and shrugged out of it, very aware of his nearness. He didn’t touch her skin, but she could feel the warmth of his fingers just a fraction of an inch away from the nape of her neck and her stomach fluttered in response. Fosse turned to Rodney. ‘What sort of pose did you have in mind? Head and shoulders? Something classical? Something modern?’

‘Oh, something very natural, I think,’ Rodney said, sounding very sure of himself. ‘I see her seated on a rock, by a pool, sort of like a wood nymph, with perhaps deer or some other woodland creatures clustered around her.’

Tara looked at him, rather stunned; she had never seen herself as nymph-like. Instinctively she glanced at Fosse and saw that he looked quite as taken aback as she felt herself. She burst out laughing. ‘Rodney, that sounds absolutely entirely unnatural. For one thing woodland creatures don’t cluster and secondly I am not in the least like a nymph.’

‘The lady has far too much gravitas to be treated in such a way,’ Fosse snapped. ‘You insult her with your girlish idea.’

‘I thought it was a very good idea,’ Rodney bristled. ‘My friend’s sister was painted in just such a manner. What is good enough for Gainsborough ought to be good enough for you.’

‘And was your friend’s sister a biddable little thing, barely out of the school room?’ Fosse enquired sweetly, but Tara thought she saw a glimpse of something else in his eyes.

‘Why, yes, she was,’ Rodney said, looking disconcerted.

‘There you have it,’ Fosse said as if he had just proved his point beyond the shadow of a doubt. He turned to Tara. ‘It will be an essential part of this portrait to show your form, it demands to be painted. Do you think you could manage a pose in which you are standing? Some people find it an effort to stand for a considerable period of time, but in your case it would be well worth it.

Tara looked at him laughingly. ‘I have been on my feet for hours at a time at society balls for several years now. I think I can manage.’

‘Very well,’ Fosse said.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Rodney said, obviously somewhat behind in the conversation. ‘There you have what?’

Fosse turned back to Rodney and fixed him firmly with his eye. ‘Lady Tara is not a biddable little thing. She is a lady of consequence and her portrait must reflect that, otherwise it will not be a portrait at all, merely a work of fiction which includes her face.’

‘Oh,’ Rodney said. ‘I see.’ Tara suspected he did not see at all, but that the force of Fosse’s personality had dissuaded him from offering any more of his own ideas. This was probably for the best. She had a feeling that Fosse would paint her just as he saw her, no matter what. Again she felt a shiver run through her, but it was not anxiety, it was anticipation at the thought of Fosse running his eyes over her again and again for hours. He had a look like a touch. ‘Are you going to begin?’ Rodney asked and Tara realised that she had locked eyes with Fosse and once more forgotten Rodney’s existence.

‘Yes,’ Fosse said distantly, ‘you may return to collect the lady at half past four.’

‘Now wait one moment,’ Rodney drew himself up to his full height. ‘I can hardly leave her here unchaperoned. What do you take me for?’

Fosse took a deliberate step towards Rodney and Tara saw that he was easily half a head taller and Rodney was not a short man. ‘What do you take
me
for?’ he demanded. ‘I am an artist of impeccable reputation and I assure you that Lady Tara is quite safe from the gossips in my studio. Now it is time for you to leave. This work is going to be a masterpiece and it will not be created with you looking over my shoulder.’

‘But…’ Rodney began, throwing glance of appeal at Tara.

‘My dear Rodney,’ she said at once, suddenly sure that he was more concerned about losing face than about her reputation. ‘I am touched by your solicitude, but I assure you I have no qualms about being left here with Mr Fosse and if his work is to be a masterpiece perhaps we should take care to let him proceed unhindered. I myself can never embroider if someone is looking over my shoulder,’ she added. She suspected that Fosse would not take kindly to having his painting compared with ladies’ embroidery, but she was equally sure that if she put it on that footing Rodney would be willing to let the subject drop. His sense of superiority should no longer be threatened.

‘Very well,’ Rodney said. ‘Half of four it is.’ Ostentatiously he took Tara’s hand and kissed it. Normally such a gesture would have captured her attention, but this time Tara found that all she felt was impatience. She wanted Rodney to leave so they could begin the serious business of painting, and as the door closed behind him she felt a sense of rising anticipation about the afternoon to come.

Fosse went to a cupboard and tugged out what appeared to Tara to be a hollow, wooden post, similar to how she imagined a stage prop would be constructed. He positioned it carefully on the rug in the centre of the room and beckoned her over. ‘I want you to stand, resting your elbow on this. I won’t paint it to look like this of course; I will probably do it as a short pillar or perhaps a gatepost.’ Obediently Tara stood where he had told her and placed her elbow on the plinth. Fosse looked at her critically. ‘It’s too short for you,’ he said. ‘Here…’ he fetched a pile of books from one of the shelves and raised the plinth three inches. ‘That should be better.’ Tara replaced her elbow and found that it was. In fact Fosse seemed to have guessed her height perfectly, standing there felt exactly right. ‘Now I shall draw you,’ he said.

He went over to his easel and quickly replaced the small canvas there with a much larger one, a vertical oblong about the same size as Tara herself. She found herself thinking it might make quite a comfortable bed if laid flat, and then felt her face heat with a blush, but she could not dispel the rather intriguing idea of Fosse enticing her to lie down on the canvas.

His chalk marks made a quick, rasping sound, like short, sharp intakes of breath and Tara stayed as still as she could while his eyes repeatedly ran over her. ‘Lift your head a little and look directly at me,’ Fosse murmured. Tara did as she was told and found that she could not look away. There was something about Fosse’s face that she found almost unbearably attractive. He had strong, chiselled features and looked at her so intently she could almost feel him through the thin silk of her dress and her cotton underclothes below. She quelled a sudden impulse to step forward and give herself to him. Then he spoke.

‘Come here.’ For one wondrous moment she thought that he had read her mind and that they were in perfect synchronicity with each other, but as she came towards him he took a step back and with a gesture directed her attention to the canvas.

The work was remarkable, in just a few short minutes he had captured her essence. It was like looking in a mirror, or would be if mirrors reflected back in white chalk. He seemed to know her every curve and it was obvious that he had looked at her more closely than any man ever had before. Tara was suddenly aware of her heart beating faster. ‘What do you think?’ Fosse asked softly.

‘It’s…it’s very good,’ Tara answered, hoping he would not notice her breathlessness.

‘I’m glad you think so,’ Fosse answered. Swiftly he got a tall stool and placed it on the rug. ‘I am going to sketch your face now, so perhaps you would like to be seated.’