Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [46]
My mistress sighs and plucks at the bedclothes. “Of course, my husband himself was of a delicate constitution,” she says with a wandering look. “His heart was fatally weakened in a riding accident when he was young, and after that he was forced to lead a retiring life.”
I look at her askance, for this version of him does not accord with the others I have heard.
“A large family would have proved too much for him, you see. Particularly after the shock of Edward’s birth. I would have liked another child, a daughter perhaps, but his physicians warned me that the stress of even . . . normal conjugal life would prove too great a risk.”
Her bluntness startles me, and I look away in embarrassment, but she appears not to notice. I rise and fill her cup.
“But he is dead now,” she continues. “And I am mistress. And a portrait can be rendered to suit one’s tastes, provided the painter is compliant.” She takes a sip of ale. “Though I fear this one is not,” she adds. “I have written to my cousin, the earl, to say that I find the painter’s attitude peculiar for someone of his station, though I took pains to conceal my displeasure, as I did not wish to give offense. He is an earl, after all, and may yet be of use to us. But I do find his painter most unpleasant. It is a wonder you can tolerate his presence all day long.”
She looks at me then, and I smile and keep my silence, for I cannot believe that she would approve of my involvement, and yet she appears to.
“I know Edward is uneasy at the idea of a portrait: it must be a great comfort to him to have you read while he sits,” she continues. “And I am certain I shall be well pleased with the result. The painter may be arrogant but he is not without talent, if I am to believe my cousin.”
I smile again, this time with relief, and wonder if Edward’s falsehoods to his mother come as easily as my own.
“At any rate, do not trouble yourself over my welfare,” she continues. “Cook has promised to attend me, and Lucius will look in on me later this morning, though if he tries to administer any more of that wretched antimony, I shall have him forcibly removed.” She squints at me then, scrutinizing my dress, a simple one of china blue muslin with a deep, square neckline. “Take pains to keep your throat covered,” she says, indicating my bare neckline. “Or you shall lose your voice.”
“Yes, mum,” I reply. And willingly I take my leave.
* * *
I hurry along to the library and when I arrive the painter is already there. He has a sheaf of paper before him and has been making sketches. The miniature lies open on a table to one side, within his view. When I enter he stops sketching and stands, greeting me with a polite nod. Once again his manner is formal, and I feel myself stiffen in response. His eyes flicker briefly across my dress—the plunging neckline, the gathered waist—and I realize in an instant that I have dressed on his behalf, a fact which embarrasses me now that I am here. He has drawn a chair up next to where he works and indicates that I should be seated.
“Today you shall watch,” he says. “And shape my lines with your memory.”
I stand frozen for a moment, my mind a blank, remember his caustic remarks about my master being unequal to the task.
He nods again at the chair, awaiting me. “May we begin?” he asks pointedly.
“Yes, of course,” I stammer, and take my seat next to him
“I’ve made some sketches based on what we saw last night,” he explains in an efficient tone. “I should like first of all to render the outline of her face. Once we have achieved this, we will find it easier to continue.” He spreads out three sheets in front of me, upon which he has made three sketches. I recognize at once the boy’s face on one of them and marvel at his memory. The other two are variations on the first.
“You said the cheekbones were wider, though I was not sure if you meant this,” he indicates the second, “or this. Or perhaps something different altogether.” I