Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [40]
“Gone away?” Major Rodney sputtered in his drink and sneezed. “For how long? When is he due back?”
Vespasia looked a trifle surprised. “I have no idea. You might try sending to his house if it is important to you, although from what my own servants say, they have no idea either. Being unreliable seems also to be part of the professional character.”
“Oh, no!” Major Rodney said hastily, grabbing a game pastry and dropping it. “No, not at all! I was merely trying to be helpful!” He picked up the pasty again, and it fell apart on the tablecloth. Virgil Smith handed him a napkin and a plate, then helped him scoop it up with a knife.
The old lady made a noise of disgust and turned to look the other way. “I suppose he is a competent artist?” she said loudly.
“He fetches a very high price,” Miss Priscilla replied. “Very high, indeed. I saw the portrait of Gwendoline Cantlay, and she told me what she had paid for it. I must say, I thought it a great deal, even for a good likeness.”
“And that is about all it is.” Carlisle’s mouth turned down. “A good likeness. It catches something of her character; it would be hard for a likeness not to, but it is not art. One would not wish for it unless one was fond of Gwendoline herself.”
“Is that not the purpose of a portrait?” Miss Mary Ann inquired innocently.
“A portrait, perhaps,” Carlisle agreed. “But not of a painting. A good painting should be a pleasure to anyone, whether they know the subject or not.”
“Overrated,” the old lady nodded. “And overpaid. I shall not pay him that much. If Gwendoline Cantlay did, then she is a fool.”
“Hester St. Jermyn paid something similar,” Miss Priscilla said with her mouth full. “And I do know dear Hubert paid a good deal for the picture Mr. Jones painted of us, didn’t you, dear?”
Major Rodney colored painfully and treated her to a look of something close to loathing.
“I’ve seen the one of Lady Cantlay.” Virgil Smith screwed up his face. “I wouldn’t buy it if it were on sale. It seems kind of—heavy—to me. Not like a lady should look.”
“What do you know about such things?” the old lady snapped derisively. “Do you have ladies wherever it is you come from?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t reckon you would call them ladies,” he said slowly. “But I’ve seen a few over here. I think Miss Verity is surely a lady and deserves a portrait that says so.”
Verity blushed with pleasure and treated him to one of her rare smiles. Alicia found herself suddenly liking him very much, in spite of his manners and his plain face.
“Thank you,” Verity said quietly. “I think I shall like to have a portrait done, in the summer, if Alicia does not mind?”
“Of course not,” Alicia agreed. “I shall make inquiries to find someone.” She was aware of Virgil Smith looking at her. She was a handsome woman and she was used to admiration, but there was something more personal in his gaze, and she found it uncomfortable. She wanted to break the silence, and she rushed to find something to say. She turned to Vespasia. “Lady Cumming-Gould, can you recommend anyone who might paint Verity pleasingly? You must have been painted many times yourself.”
Vespasia looked a trifle pleased. “Not lately, my dear. But I will ask among my acquaintances, if you wish. I am sure you can do better than Godolphin Jones. I believe he is very highly regarded by some, or so the price he fetches would indicate, but I agree with Mr. Smith; he is somewhat heavy-handed, a little fleshy.”
The old lady glared at her, opened her mouth, met Vespasia’s unflinching stare, and closed it again. Her eyes swept over Virgil Smith as if he had been an unpleasant stain on the carpet.
“Precisely,” Carlisle said with satisfaction. “There is an abundance of portrait painters about. Just because Godolphin lives in the Park, that is not a reason to patronize him, if you prefer someone else.”
“Gwendoline Cantlay had two pictures done,” Miss Priscilla offered. “I cannot