The Painted Lady (5 page)

What she had to calculate, she decided, was her husband’s reaction. If she told him that she had been offended by the artist’s behaviour, he would cancel the portrait at once and engage someone else to paint it, and Araminta did not believe that anyone in London could rival Villemot. If, on the other hand, she made only a minor complaint, Sir Martin would feel obliged to challenge the artist and that, too, could result in the abandonment of the project.

However she presented it to him, Sir Martin would be hurt and she wanted to spare him any pain. For that reason, she resolved to sort out the matter herself without involving him in any way. After all, Araminta consoled herself, there would be no more sittings to endure. Unless he called her back, she and Villemot might never be alone in the same room again.

Having reached her decision, she felt much better. Her only concern now was to change out of the dress she had worn at the studio, ideal for the painting but not entirely suitable for a warm day in May. It was something she was more likely to wear to a formal event than put on at home for the day. When the carriage delivered her to her front door, she rang the doorbell. It never occurred to her that she was being watched by someone who stood on the opposite side of the road, partly concealed behind a tree.

Let into the house, Araminta went straight upstairs to change with her maid on her heels. Eleanor Ryle was pleased to see her mistress return. A bright, open-faced, inquisitive young woman with a mop of brown hair, Eleanor helped her out of her dress.

‘Monsieur Villemot chose well,’ she said, stroking the material. ‘This has always been my favourite.’

‘Then you may get a chance to wear it, Eleanor.’

‘Me, m’lady?’

‘Monsieur Villemot does not need to keep me sitting there
for hours while he paints the dress,’ said Araminta. ‘Someone else can wear it in my stead and he suggested you.’

‘But he doesn’t even know that I exist.’

‘Yes, he does. He noticed you when he called here.’

Eleanor giggled. ‘Really?’

‘He thought that the dress would fit you perfectly.’

‘Oh, I could never wear it as you do, m’lady. It becomes you. On me, it would not look the same at all.’

‘I wonder,’ said Araminta, weighing her up. ‘Let me see. Hold it against you, Eleanor.’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

Taking a step back, the maid held the dress up against her, grinning happily as she did so, as if a private dream was just being fulfilled. Eleanor was short enough and slim enough to wear it even though the dress was not the ideal colour for her. Araminta studied her for a full minute.

‘I believe that it will do,’ she said.

Eleanor was overjoyed. ‘Then I am to
wear
it?’ she cried.

‘We’ll see. I need to discuss the matter with my husband.’

‘Of course.’

‘Where is he, by the way?’

‘Smoking a pipe in the garden,’ replied Eleanor. ‘He asked me to call him as soon as you returned.’

‘Well, let me dress quickly,’ said Araminta, crossing to the wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to keep him waiting.’

Sir Martin Culthorpe was a creature of habit. Twice a day, he always liked to smoke a pipe and the garden was the place in which he preferred to smoke it. Even on cold days, or when it was raining, he would venture outdoors and shelter in the arbour while he puffed away. Only heavy snow or a violent thunderstorm could confine his pipe to the house. It was not merely the pleasure of inhaling the tobacco that he savoured. Sir Martin was a contemplative man and a stroll in his garden was the perfect time to reflect on the issues that preoccupied him.

By comparison with the garden on his country estate, the one in Westminster was quite small but it was still large enough for him to promenade for five minutes or so without retracing his steps. Formal in design, it had endless trees and neat rows of bushes dividing it up and creating private corners where he could sit without being visible from the house. At the centre of the garden was a large pond with a fountain in the shape of Neptune, and there was a great deal of other statuary dotted here and there.

Pulling on his pipe, he strode along between an avenue of mulberry trees, wondering how his wife had fared at her latest sitting. Sir Martin still could not believe his good fortune in having married Araminta Jewell and he vowed to devote the rest of his life to her. What he did not realise, as he turned leisurely into a shaded grotto, was that his life was just about to come to an end.

Christopher Redmayne liked to keep a close eye on any project in which he was involved. Even at the earliest stage, he visited a site regularly to watch work in progress. More illustrious architects would not have deigned to spend so much time amid the dirt and dust of construction, preferring to dispatch their assistants to take care of such matters, but Christopher worked alone and would not, in any case, have delegated such a task to another. He loved to see the foundations being laid and to watch a building rise slowly from the ground and take on the shape he had envisaged when bent over his preliminary drawings.

The important work of designing churches, livery halls and public buildings in the wake of the Great Fire went to more famous members of his profession, but Christopher had no objection to that. There was still plenty for him to do. The blaze had destroyed over thirteen thousand houses, wiping them from the face of the city and leaving only charred remains in their stead. Architects and builders were therefore in great demand so there was no shortage of work for able men. All over London, Christopher had made his small, personal contribution to the rebuilding of a great city that he loved.

‘No disrespect to you, Mr Redmayne,’ said Samuel Littlejohn as he washed down his food with a swig of beer, ‘but, when my father was a builder, he never worked with architects. The client
would tell him what he wanted, show him an example of it in a drawing then leave him to it. My father did the rest.’

‘That’s because he was a master builder, Sam,’ said Christopher with a smile, ‘part of a tradition that went back for centuries. It was a big mistake to let people like me take over some aspects of his work.’

Littlejohn chortled. ‘We’ve learned to respect you, sir.’

‘That’s all we ask.’

Having inspected the site that morning, Christopher was dining at a nearby tavern with Littlejohn, a man whose bulk belied his name. He was a brawny man of middle years with a capacity for hard work and a jovial manner. His weather-beaten face and rubicund complexion gave him the appearance of a farmer but he was essentially an urban creature, having begun with, then inherited, the building firm that his father had started. Christopher was very fond of him though the partnership between them had got off to a difficult start because the client whose house they were building was murdered when only the cellars had been constructed. Their contract with him was promptly declared null and void.

There had been an additional problem for Christopher in that the builder’s daughter, Margaret Littlejohn, had become infatuated with him and caused him considerable embarrassment by stalking him. He had deemed it sensible to work with other builders for a time. As soon as the girl had been safely married to someone else, however, Christopher resumed his work with Littlejohn and they proved to be an effective team. The builder was a rough and ready man whose table manners were less than refined, but who was nevertheless an amiable dinner companion. What Christopher liked about him was that he always spoke his mind. After chuckling over an incident that had occurred during the last house on which they had worked together, Littlejohn became solemn.

‘We could have one problem,’ he warned.

‘I know what you’re going to tell me,’ said Christopher, trying to anticipate him. ‘That façade is too elaborate. We’ll need the very best stonemasons to work on it, Sam.’

‘I’m not worried about the façade, sir.’

‘Then it must be that staircase Monsieur Villemot insists upon having. I’ve never seen anything so grand outside a French chateau.’

‘Let him have his staircase, Mr Redmayne. Let him have anything and everything he wants. If, that is,’ he said, darkly, ‘he’ll occupy the house when it’s built.’

‘Why else would he commission it?’

‘Because he needs more room.’

‘Then where is the problem?’

‘He’s an artist.’

‘So? Artists need somewhere to live just as much as anyone else. Architects, too, oddly enough. We all need a roof over our heads.’

‘Mr Villemot is a
French
artist.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Only this, sir – he could be unreliable.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘I built a house for a Frenchman once before,’ said Littlejohn, taking another sip of beer, ‘and, before it was finished, he sailed back to France without a word. We never saw him again. He owed us a lot of money. We were left with a half-built house and no client. I’d hate to be in that position again.’

‘Was the client an artist?’

‘In a manner of speaking – he was a dancing master.’

‘Well, I can assure you that Jean-Paul Villemot is not going to dance off to Paris. He prefers to work in London, where he’s the toast of his profession. He won’t let us down, Sam,’ said Christopher, airily. ‘He intends to stay and see the project through.’

‘What about his fits?’

‘I didn’t know he was subject to them.’

‘Not
those
kind of fits, sir,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I was talking about the other kind – the sort that all foreigners seem to have, but especially the French. They have these fits of temper, funny moods, silly ideas, sudden changes of mind. The dancing master was like that. He made our lives a misery with his fits. You never knew where you stood with him from day to day.’

‘What you’re saying is that he was capricious.’

The builder nodded. ‘
That’s
the word I was trying to think of.’

‘Well, you’ve no need to apply it to Monsieur Villemot.’

‘I wish I could believe that, sir.’

‘He seems to have a most equable temperament and he’s promised not to interfere in our work in any way. He’s far too busy, painting portraits of the rich and famous. Take heart, Sam,’ said Christopher, ‘nothing can possibly happen to stop this house being built and paid for in full. If it did,’ he added with a carefree laugh, ‘then
I’ll
be the one having a fit.’

When she had changed her dress and her shoes, and had her hair brushed by her maid, Araminta Culthorpe took a last critical look in the bedroom mirror before deciding that she was ready.

‘Shall I find Sir Martin?’ volunteered Eleanor Ryle.

‘No, thank you,’ said Araminta. ‘I’ll find him myself.’

‘Will you talk about the painting with him?’

‘In a while, Eleanor.’

‘I’d so like to wear that blue dress, Lady Culthorpe.’

‘I know.’

‘It would be wonderful to work as Mr Villemot’s model.’

‘We shall see.’

Leaving the maid with reason to hope, Araminta went out of the room and down the stairs. She walked across the hall and along a passageway that led to the garden. When she let herself out of the house, she could see no sign of her husband so she assumed that he was sitting on a bench in one of his favoured places. She went off to explore the garden, looking for the
telltale sign of tobacco smoke rising over a hedge or curling up into the sky behind some statuary.

Araminta was so glad that she had elected to say nothing about her occasional moments of disquiet at the studio. Now that she was back in her lovely house, wearing a different dress and taking on the role of a doting wife once more, she could forget all about Jean-Paul Villemot. Memories of their exchanges could not reach her there. She felt safe and secure in a marriage that had changed her life for the better in every way. To most people, Sir Martin Culthorpe would have seemed an unlikely choice for someone who could have had the pick of society but she knew that she had accepted the right husband. He gave her love, protection and social standing. His greater age did not deter her in the least because it brought with it wisdom and experience. Sharing his religious conviction and having the same charitable disposition, she looked forward to helping him in his work and developing a true partnership with him. Meanwhile, Araminta needed to find her husband and take him in to dinner.

‘Martin!’ she called. ‘Where are you?’

When there was no reply, she walked as far as the fountain at the very heart of the garden then raised her voice above the noise of the falling water.

‘Martin – I’m back!’

Still, there was no response. Araminta followed the main path between the avenue of maple trees, looking to left and right as she did so in case he had turned down one of the side paths. There was no trace of him. Quickening her step, she walked on until she reached the end of the little avenue. She went around the angle of the rhododendrons and into the secret grotto beyond. Araminta let out a sigh of relief. Her search was finally over.

Apparently asleep, Sir Martin Culthorpe was seated on a bench with the sun slanting across his face. He looked somehow older but that did not worry his wife. Feeling an
upsurge of love, she ran across to him, intending to wake him up by kissing him on the forehead, but she felt something hard beneath her foot. She looked down to see that it was his clay pipe, broken in two and lying on the path.

Araminta was suddenly apprehensive. Now that she looked at him more closely, she could see that her husband was sitting in a most unnatural position. She felt alarmed. Wanting to reach out to him, she was somehow held back from doing so. Instead, in trepidation, she took an involuntary step backwards. Mouth dry and heart pounding, she stared at him with growing anxiety.

‘Are you unwell, Martin?’ she whispered.

As if in response to her question, he suddenly pitched forward and landed headfirst on the path. It was only then that she saw the huge bloodstain from the wound in his back.

Christopher Redmayne had promised to call at the studio that afternoon to discuss with Jean-Paul Villemot the schedule of payments during the building of the new house, and to retrieve the model made by Jonathan Bale. As his horse trotted along the road, he smiled at the memory of his encounter with Samuel Littlejohn. The builder clearly had a jaundiced view of foreigners, suspecting them of being universally difficult, volatile and unpredictable. That had not been Christopher’s experience. He had designed houses for a Frenchman, a Dutchman, two Germans and a Swede. None of them had given him the slightest trouble. The only clients of his who had been obstinate and argumentative were native-born Englishmen. Chief among them, he was forced to admit, was Sir Julius Cheever, Member of Parliament and father of the woman he loved. It was a sobering thought.

Jean-Paul Villemot had so far been the perfect employer, recognising, in Christopher, a fellow-artist and trusting his instincts. Whatever advice the architect gave had been readily accepted. Once the general principles of the design had been agreed upon, Christopher had been allowed a free hand.
Littlejohn might fear the tantrums of an excitable foreigner but Christopher did not share his unease. He firmly believed that there would be no problems of that nature ahead.

Arriving at the house, he dismounted, tethered his horse and rang the bell. The door was soon opened by a maid who showed him upstairs to the suite of rooms rented by Villemot. In response to his knock, it was Emile who invited him into the studio, explaining that his master was out but that he would soon return.

‘Voulez-vous l’attendre?’
he asked.

‘Oui,’
replied Christopher.

‘
Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plait.’

‘Merci, Emile.’

When Christopher sat down, the Frenchman excused himself and left the room. Evidently, he was much more than a valet. Emile was also Villemot’s cook, butler, book keeper, companion and general assistant, performing all his functions with quiet efficiency. His English was not yet as fluent as that of his master but Christopher guessed that it would be in due course. Emile struck him as the kind of man who could do anything to which he addressed his mind.

Glancing around, Christopher decided to take a closer look at the studio. When he got to his feet, however, he realised that he was not alone. Clemence was regarding him with a degree of suspicion through one open eye. Like the valet, the black cat exuded a deep sense of loyalty to her master. When Villemot left the studio, Clemence remained on guard. Christopher did not know what test he was being subjected to but he seemed to pass it because the cat eventually closed her eye, curled up and went back to sleep.

Christopher felt at home. The studio had the same amiable clutter as his study in Fetter Lane and the same accumulation of recent projects, either abandoned or awaiting completion. What drew his attention was the easel on which the portrait of Lady Araminta Culthorpe was resting. It was covered by a piece of
cloth and he could not resist lifting it up so that he could take a peep at the painting. What he saw astounded him.

Aware of Villemot’s reputation for speed, Christopher could not believe the artist had done so much in such a short period of time. The background still needed to be sketched in, and the dress required a lot more work on it, but the head and shoulders of his subject were almost finished. The verisimilitude was amazing. Villemot had not merely caught her beauty and her serenity, he had brought out Araminta’s character in the portrait. She looked exactly like the quiet, serious, thoughtful, intelligent young woman that Christopher had met in that very studio. On the canvas before him was an image of pure contentment and he was duly moved.

It pained him to recall that his brother posed a threat to her, and he knew that Henry was not discouraged by the fact that she was now married. Some of his other conquests had had husbands. Henry regarded holy matrimony as nothing more than a further hurdle to be cleared before he seized his prize. Looking at Araminta’s face and reminded of her rare qualities, Christopher promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep his brother away from her. Nothing would be permitted to spoil her radiant happiness.

Unable to take his eyes off her, he stood there for several minutes in admiration of her unequivocal loveliness and of the artist’s skill in capturing it. It was only when he heard the front door open below that he came to his senses. Pulling the cloth back over the portrait, Christopher resumed his seat. Feet pounded audibly up the stairs then the door was flung open and Jean-Paul Villemot burst in. When he saw the visitor, he came to a halt and pointed an accusatory finger at him.