Loe raamatut: «Enticing Benedict Cole»

Many thanks to those who made Cameo’s acquaintance more than once in writing this story.

To the Wordwrights critique group, Janet Woods, Deb Bennetto, Karen Saayman and Anne Summers, who read early versions and made such valuable comments, and to Jenny Schwartz, an angel of a critique partner.

Thanks to my daughter, Jessica, who played Yann Tiersen’s Rue des Cascades on the piano as theme music while Cameo raced through the streets of London to find Benedict, and to my husband, James, who always makes London magical.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Historical Note

Extract

Prologue

‘Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

‘The Gardener’s Daughter’ (1842)

‘On that veil’d picture—veil’d, for what it holds

May not be dwelt on by the common day.

This prelude has prepared thee.’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

London 1852

Cameo pressed the letter to her lips.

Beneath her carefully crafted, polite phrases would he read her hopes and dreams in each line?

Through the open window she stared out past the silhouette of the ash tree into the starry night beyond, as if by will she summoned him to reply. Beyond, by the light of the moon, she made out in front of the house the darkened grassy garden of the square with its plane trees, the high black wrought-iron railings encircling the snowdrops and daffodils. She felt caged in the house, like a bird who longed to be free. She wanted to be out in the world, to be part of it all. To learn. To paint. To live.

With a sigh she closed the velvet curtains and retreated into her bedroom. On her dressing table the candle flickered. The flame leapt high, with its orange, red and yellow tongue, its vivid blue centre. If only she could learn to capture such passionate colours with her paints!

He did.

Benedict Cole.

That was his name. She’d stared at it, scrawled in black paint at the corner of the canvas.

She’d discovered his passion and power when she’d seen his painting at the Royal Academy of Art. It had stopped her in her tracks, her breath shuddering.

The work was marvellous. The subject was simple, a woman holding sheaves of wheat. But the subject of the painting wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the strokes of his brush.

As if his paintbrush stroked her skin.

As if it touched her heart.

There was a secret in that painting, as if it held a message, as if it spoke directly to her. She...recognised it. That was it. Somehow, she understood the soul of the artist who had painted that picture. The effect on her had been extraordinary. She wanted to stand in front of it for hours, soaking in the colours, the textures, his use of light. She returned again and again to view it.

Benedict Cole must teach her. She knew it. She needed to learn everything he knew. Only he could free her hands and the emotions locked inside her. Only he could show her how to put them on paper, on canvas, with charcoal, with paint, until the work came to life.

She must find a way.

Now at last she’d gathered up her courage to write to him.

She yearned to pour out all her hopes and dreams in the letter, her longings and desires. But her phrases remained stilted. Draft after draft, pen staining her fingers, she’d tried to find the right words to ask his consent to give her lessons and that she would pay him handsomely for his time.

And she hoped that he would understand. It meant so much more.

Her heart beating fast, she picked up the letter.

Sealing it with a drop of wax, she blew out the candle.

She could only pray for his answer.

Chapter One

‘This morning is the morning of the day.’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

‘The answer is no!’ Gerald St Clair, Earl of Buxton, threw his newspaper down on the breakfast table. ‘Don’t ask me again, Cameo!’

Cameo leaned forward. She clutched the carved stone of her necklace so hard it dug into her skin. ‘Please, Papa, please.’

The earl shook his head, his whiskers quivering. ‘I’ve had quite enough of this. You’re Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. You have a place in society to uphold. All this nonsense must stop immediately. No daughter of mine is going to be an artist.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Being an artist isn’t so unsuitable. I’m asking for some proper painting lessons, that’s all.’

The vein on the earl’s forehead popped out. ‘It’s quite ridiculous. I blame myself. I should never have allowed you take up art in the first place. It’s all you talk of, all you do.’

And all she thought of, Cameo reflected guiltily. At that very moment she wished she had her sketchbook and pencil with her, to make a study of her father’s irate expression.

‘Listen to me, Cameo. Painting may remain your hobby, but nothing more. I’ve been too lenient with you, I see that now. It’s time to think of your future.’ Her father’s gruff tone had softened. She knew how much he loved her and he always sounded particularly gruff when he was trying to protect her from the outside world. But she didn’t want to be protected. Not from the world. Not from art.

‘I am thinking of my future, Papa.’ She took another huge breath. ‘My future is as a painter.’

The earl choked on his bacon and kidneys. ‘Your future is marriage.’

From the other end of the long, polished table Lady Buxton spoke in her soft voice. ‘You’ll forget all about painting lessons when you’re married, Cameo dear. Take our Queen Victoria. She and Prince Albert are an example to all those who seek the happy estate. Even though she is queen, she believes the best place for women is home and family.’

Cameo turned to her mother, sat behind the silver coffee pot. ‘I’m not against a home and family, Mama. It’s just I’ve discovered there’s more to life. There’s art. Art is real life.’

‘Art! Real life!’ blustered Lord Buxton. ‘You’ll put off your suitors with all this nonsense.’

‘Lord Warley asked especially if you were to attend Lady Russell’s ball,’ the countess chimed in with a smile. ‘He’s such a lovely young man. So well mannered.’

Cameo shuddered, as if Lord Warley had taken her hand to bow. Even the slightest touch of Robert Ackland, Earl of Warley, always turned her stomach. He came from a similar background to hers. Their fathers held the same rank in society. But couldn’t her mama sense what lay beneath Lord Warley’s good manners? Perhaps because Cameo spent so much time sketching, always trying to capture character, she had become more attuned to what was hidden behind propriety. ‘Oh, no, Mama. Not Lord Warley. Never.’

‘Our family has been friends with their family for years,’ her papa reminded her. ‘I was very fond of my old friend Henry Ackland. I don’t know his son well and he doesn’t seem much like his father, but Henry was a good man, God rest his soul.’

Her father still missed his old friend. Cameo gentled her voice. ‘I don’t want to think about suitors yet, Papa, that’s all. Please. I long to learn to paint in the new style, like the Pre-Raphaelites.’

‘The Pre-Raphaelites,’ her mother repeated in a horrified whisper. ‘The way they carry on is shocking, I’ve heard.’

‘But the new style of painting is wonderful. Why, I saw an extraordinary work in the Royal Academy of Art.’ Cameo’s heart beat faster as she recalled it. ‘If I took lessons, perhaps I could learn to paint like that. I’ll never be that good, but one day, I might be able to exhibit.’

Her mama almost dropped her coffee cup. ‘You couldn’t possibly show your paintings in public. What would people say? Perhaps you could paint some flowers on the name cards for our dinner parties this Season instead,’ she added hopefully. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘I suppose George could have art lessons if he wanted them?’ The question burst out before Cameo could halt it. She gripped her hands together.

‘It’s different for your brother.’ Her mother put her fingertips to her temples. ‘And please don’t raise your voice.’

Her father glowered. ‘Stop upsetting your mama and stop these foolish ideas. I’ve let it go far enough. I ought not to have allowed it in the first place.’

‘Papa...’

‘Enough, I said. I won’t discuss this matter with you again. Why are you arguing in such a manner? It isn’t like you, Cameo. Now, behave like a young lady.’

I’d rather behave like an artist. Cameo choked back the words.

‘I’m sorry, Papa.’

With shaking fingers she picked up her cup.

She hated to deceive her parents, but she had no choice.

Alas. It was already too late.

* * *

‘Cameo?’ Maud poked her head around the drawing-room door. ‘Briggs told me you were in here. Am I interrupting?’

‘Not at all.’ Cameo laid down her paintbrush. No matter how hard she tried there was no discernible improvement in her work. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Maud. It isn’t going well this morning.’

Cameo stood at her easel, an old linen sheet spread beneath her. She was fortunate to be allowed to continue to paint in the drawing room, after an incident with some spilt paint. Of course, it had been ochre.

Her easel was placed where the light was best. Through the windows the March sun cast its spring promise. Cameo had asked her mama if she might fling wide the heavy curtains for more light, but at her mother’s shocked face the question had trailed away.

Now Maud peeped over her shoulder. ‘What are you working on today?’

Carefully Cameo wiped her hands with a rag. She’d promised her mama to try to keep her hands clean, too, after she’d appeared at luncheon with oil paint under her fingernails.

‘I’m doing what apprentices used to do when they worked in the studios of the Old Masters,’ she explained. ‘They copied the Masters’ work to learn their technique. It’s a good way to learn, though not as good as actually watching a master at work with his own hands. I’m not up to landscapes yet so I’m making a copy of that portrait.’

She pointed to the gold-framed portrait that hung above the fireplace. It depicted her grandmother as a young woman. She wore a white dress and a cameo necklace tied with a black-velvet ribbon, the same black-and-white stone that now hung around Cameo’s neck. Set in gold, with a loop as well as a pin, it could be worn as either a brooch or a necklace.

‘You’re so like your grandmama,’ her mother often said. Her grandmama’s hair had been dark, almost black, and her eyes, though difficult to discern in the portrait, were the same deep blue as Cameo’s, so deep they could appear purple. Violet eyes, her mama called them.

Maud glanced from one painting to the other. ‘Your painting will be just as good,’ she said loyally.

Cameo slipped off her paint-splattered artist’s smock. ‘You’re being much too kind, Maud, and you know it. I’ve got so much to learn, but how can I improve when there is always a luncheon or a dinner or a ball we must attend? And we have to keep changing our clothes. Imagine how wonderful it would be to get up in the morning and be able to paint all day.’

Cameo sighed. She tried to keep her spirits high, but it was difficult. More often now, at night, she despaired. Sometimes she lay awake in bed until she threw back the covers, lit a candle and seized her pencil. Then she drew and drew, sheet after sheet, until dawn came. It was the only way to soothe her sense of being trapped, her frustration. Yet she was forced to play at art, to keep it as a hobby, never learning, barely improving. Without lessons, without a guiding hand, she would never become the artist she longed to be.

Maud’s round blue eyes were sympathetic. ‘Do you really want art lessons so much?’

‘So much that I had the most terrible argument with Papa and Mama.’ She paced the room, her gown trailing across the carpet. Impatiently she hitched it up. ‘I must take matters into my own hands. I’ve got a few ideas.’

‘Oh, no, Cameo.’ Maud’s curls bobbed in alarm. ‘Your ideas are always so reckless. Surely you must obey your parents’ wishes.’

Maud would never do anything of which her parents disapproved.

‘Art is everything to me,’ Cameo said. ‘I will even pay for lessons myself.’

Maud appeared bewildered. ‘But how would you pay?’

In spite of the luxuries that surrounded her, Cameo had only a little money of her own. All her needs were provided for and she was made a small allowance, but that was all.

Her fingers touched her throat. ‘I could sell some of my jewellery.’

Maud’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Not your cameo necklace.’

Cameo smiled. ‘I’ve worn it ever since Mama gave it to me. Just as I’ve worn the name George gave me when I was born.’

‘Cam-mee, because he couldn’t say Catherine Mary.’ The dimple that displayed whenever George was mentioned appeared in Maud’s cheek. ‘And it became Cameo.’

Cameo’s fingers ran over the black-and-white jewel with the woman’s profile carved on to its face. She shook her head firmly. ‘No. I could never sell my cameo necklace.’

But she would do almost anything for painting lessons.

Benedict Cole would understand. She felt convinced of it. No one in her family or any one of her friends, not even Maud, understood her longing, her need to paint. To try to speak of it, to explain to those who didn’t share her passion, was like speaking a foreign language.

In Benedict Cole’s painting at the Academy she’d discerned a flame that burned inside the artist’s heart, which drove him on to create, no matter what the cost, no matter what the risk. She couldn’t describe it but she knew it was there, that flame.

It burned inside her, too.

* * *

After Maud left, Briggs, the butler, entered the drawing room, with a white paper square held aloft on a silver tray. ‘This has come for you, Lady Catherine Mary.’

‘At last!’ Cameo leapt up and reached for the envelope. Her name and address was written on it in strong black letters. ‘Thank you, Briggs. And—no one saw?’

The merest glimmer of a smile showed on the butler’s impassive face. She only ever saw him grin widely at Christmas, when each year she gave him a picture she had painted especially for him, as she’d done since she was a small girl, the results improving somewhat over the years. One could not call the butler family, yet to Cameo he was. All the servants were old friends and allies, people she could trust with her secrets.

‘His lordship has gone to Westminster and her ladyship is resting upstairs.’ Briggs gave a slight bow and discreetly closed the door.

Cameo’s fingers trembled with such excitement she could barely open the seal. At last, to be able to work with a true artist, someone who would understand. Eagerly, she began to read.

Dear Lady Catherine Mary St Clair

In response to your letter regarding painting lessons, I regret to inform you I will not be able to fulfil your request. I have neither the time nor inclination to teach aristocratic society ladies to dabble at art.

Benedict Cole

‘Oh!’ She gasped as if a pail of cold water had been thrown over her.

Tears smarted in her eyes. If he knew how hard she’d tried to learn, to teach herself. How hard she’d fought for lessons, of her desperation, her despair. No, he dismissed her, just as everyone else did.

Her heart sank as she crumpled onto the sofa. She’d convinced herself Benedict Cole was the guiding hand she so desperately needed. She dropped her head in her hands, wiped away another tear. Her hands clenched. She might as well give up.

Just the thought of giving up sparked the flame.

Cameo’s temper burst into life. Fury burned within her as hot as the coals in the grate. How dared he. Dabble at art. The nerve of the man. How dare he presume that simply because of her title she wasn’t serious about art? It was insulting.

Jumping to her feet, she crossed to the oval gilt-framed mirror by the door and surveyed her reflection. How could she convince him?

Off came her pearl earrings and the diamond-studded watch pinned to her bodice. She must appear a serious student of art to make him understand, not the kind of society lady about whom he made such infuriating assumptions. She straightened the white-lace collar and cuffs of her grey morning dress and smoothed down her hair with a nod. Yes, that would do.

For a moment she hesitated. Could she, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair, go to a painter’s studio unannounced when they hadn’t been formally introduced? Her mama would be horrified.

The spark surged inside her.

It wouldn’t be a social call.

Benedict Cole must teach her to paint. Somehow, she would change the artist’s mind.

* * *

The carriage rattled to a stop.

Cameo’s fury and determination had built with every turn of the carriage wheel. As they rolled out of the quiet, leafy square in Mayfair, with its large cream houses, glossy black-painted doors, marble steps and iron railings, onto Oxford St and the roaring bustle of the shops and crowds, all she could think about was Benedict Cole. She longed to confront him. How could he make such assumptions about her, the kind she’d been fighting against all her life? If he knew...if she told him...

She leapt up so fast she almost hit her head on the carriage.

Out on the street, Bert, the coachman, had opened the door and put the box down for her. ‘Here we are.’ He rubbed his forehead and glanced about dubiously. ‘Are you sure this is the place you’re wanting?’

Briskly, she stepped down into the street and adjusted her skirt. No turning back now. ‘Yes, this is it. Will you mind waiting for me, Bert?’

‘I’ll be here.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘Anything for you, Lady Catherine Mary.’

Tying her bonnet with a firm bow, she set off against the wind. In spite of spending much of her life in London, there were parts of the city she barely knew. She certainly never stopped in Soho. The family carriage always drove through. She had expected the soot and dirt, certainly, but not the vibrant activity sweeping her along the cobbled road. Spread with straw and litter, the busy street echoed with the sounds of carriages and carts, horses’ hooves, and vendors shouting their wares. There were shops, too, with people going in and out, tinkling the doorbells. The smell from the fishmonger’s window, full of shoals of mussels and oysters, reached her before she saw it and a yeasty odour emanated from empty barrels outside a public house, a sign with a lamb painted on it swaying above the door.

Through the crowd she hurried, past two fighting boys, their mothers with baskets on their arms chatting to each other uncaring of the scuffle, and past a flower seller who offered with a toothless grin to sell her a bunch of daisies. A young woman in a low-cut bodice standing on a corner sent her a brazen glare. With a gulp Cameo hastened on.

In front of a tall red-brick building she checked the number. Yes, this was the address of the infuriating Benedict Cole, yet in front of her stood a bakery, the scent of hot bread and buns wafting out every time a customer opened the door. The artist must live upstairs, but there was no obvious way to get in.

A girl sat on the pavement nearby, shabby and meek, with bare feet and a shawl around her thin shoulders.

‘Matches,’ she called hoarsely, ‘matches.’

Cameo crouched down and smiled. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello, miss.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘It’s Becky, miss. Do you want some matches?’

‘I don’t have any money with me.’ Why hadn’t she brought her reticule with her? She normally did, for she kept a tiny sketchbook and sharpened pencils inside, but she’d rushed out in such a hurry. ‘I’ll bring you some another day, I promise.’

The girl sighed. ‘That’s all right.’

‘I will, Becky. Perhaps now you can help me. Do you know how to get in to where the people live upstairs?’

‘You go round the back, miss, down that alleyway. There’s a red door.’

‘Thank you,’ Cameo called, already moving away.

A cat yowled as she entered the dingy alley. For a moment she hesitated before she picked her way through the sodden newspaper, broken glass bottles, cabbage stalks and something that looked like—no; it couldn’t be. Edging around the rubbish, she narrowly avoided a puddle of something that looked and smelled worse.

The red door, if the flakes of peeling paint identified it as such, was ajar. At her touch it swung open wider, creaking.

Inside the cramped entrance hall, she stared, half fascinated, half appalled. She’d never visited such a rundown establishment. The walls had been white once, perhaps, but now they were an indeterminate colour, yellow or cream, with water marks at the bottom, where the damp had crept in. A staircase with a worn green runner lay directly in front of her, the woodwork scuffed and dull.

Dust dirtied her white-kid gloves as she gripped the banister. She brushed them on her skirt. Up two narrow flights of steps she climbed, passing closed doors on each landing, checking numbers as she went and up a third flight, which was narrower still.

Out of breath, she reached the attic door at the top. It bore no number, just a name plate beside it, simple and beautiful. She hadn’t expected something so unique. Carved from a piece of oak, a pattern of leaves and berries had been etched on to its square edges, and at the centre scrolled the name: Benedict Cole.

Well, now, Benedict Cole. You’re about to receive a surprise visit from a society lady.

Her heart drummed as she rapped on the door. No reply.

Under her skirts she tapped her foot. She knocked again, harder.

The door flung open. Cameo gasped and fell backwards at the sheer force of the man who glowered in front of her, his fist gripping a paintbrush. Benedict Cole. She knew it with a certainty flaming inside her belly. Tall, with dark hair that swooped over his forehead, he wore a loose, unbuttoned painting shirt covered with blotches of dried oils in a frenzy of colours. Yet his eyes held her attention. Dark brown, under heavy black brows, they blazed with a fierce inner light that seared into her very soul.

‘You’re too late.’ His educated accent held an unexpected warm burr.

With a huge gulp of air she tried to steady her ragged breathing. ‘Too late?’

‘I’m too busy to see you now.’ He started to close the door.

‘Wait! I must see you. You are Benedict Cole?’

He scowled. ‘Who else would be working in my studio?’

‘Please. Just give me a few minutes of your time.’

Eyebrows drawn together, he studied her. ‘You’ve seen the notice.’

‘The notice...?’

‘Will you please stop repeating every word I say? Are you dim-witted as well as unpunctual? Yes, my notice seeking a new model. I have a major new work in mind.’

‘You’re looking for a model. For your painting.’

‘How many times do we have to have this conversation? If you’re not here to be considered, then why exactly are you here wasting my time?’

In a flash, she realised what had happened. ‘Well, actually...’

‘Well, actually what?’ he mimicked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer.

How dare this man speak to her in such a manner? In person he was just as rude as in his letter, even ruder if that were possible. Cameo opened her mouth to tell him of his mistake in no uncertain terms and then snapped it shut again.

Her mind whirred. He’d made it clear he didn’t wish to provide painting lessons to Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. Now, upon seeing him, he appeared to be the kind of man who would never change his mind.