Angel in Scarlet (29 page)

Wonder what she saw in him, I thought now, still longing to reach up and scratch the side of my nose. Would Gainsborough ever finish? The sky was beginning to turn a darker gray, the sunlight slanting down through the skylight pale and silvery, growing dimmer. Looked like it might snow soon. I held the pose, numb all over, it seemed, and my tormentor continued to work, humming to himself. Lambert's play had closed six weeks ago after a disappointing run to half-empty houses. Not in the least discouraged, he was busily writing another, according to Dottie, and we would soon be making the costumes. Why should I be thinking about him so often? I'd only seen him the one time and had been absolutely appalled by his loud, loutish manner. He
was
an interesting man, I admitted, but I certainly didn't look forward to seeing him again. He was altogether too disrupting.

“Well,” Gainsborough sighed, stepping back from the canvas. “Guess I'll have to stop now. Light's gone.”

“So am I,” I said, arching my back. Tiny bones cracked. “Won't you let me have just a peek?”

“You'll have your peek when the painting's finished, not before, so don't keep pestering me.”

“You're horrid.”

“I'm a charming chap, and you bloody well know it.” He thrust his brushes into a jar of turpentine and carefully lowered the cloth over the painting. “I'll summon Jenkins. He'll bring us a nice tea. You go ahead and change into your clothes.”

I stretched. More bones cracked. My legs felt leaden.

“When will it be done?” I asked.

“The portrait? Shouldn't be long, now that I've finished with the delectable Duchess. Georgiana was most trying, chattering all the while, eating bonbons, having her friends come visit while she sat. Thought I was going to murder the woman. You, on the other hand, have been an angel.”

“Your painting of her was lovely,” I remarked, stretching again. Gainsborough had let me see the portrait before it was sent off to Devonshire House in Piccadilly. “She looked ethereal, like a goddess.”

“A routine commission, a routine job. Plumes, pastels, luminous lighting and lace. She's quite happy, the Duke's delighted and I've put a whopping big sum in the bank. My portrait of you is entirely different, art, not artifice. Georgiana's portrait will hang in some musty, stately hall someday, while your portrait will be hailed as a masterpiece.”

“Like
Blue Boy
?”

“It's going to be better than
Blue Boy
. Go ahead and change, Angela. We need food.”

I moved behind the screen and took off the heavy red velvet gown and carefully hung it up, then changed into the new violet-blue silk I had made for myself. Dottie had let me have the silk at cost and had given me the black lace I had used to make ruffles for the skirt. I adjusted the modestly low bodice, fluffed up the short puffed sleeves and took my hair down, chestnut waves spilling to my shoulders. I heard Jenkins coming in with the tea trolley and then heard footsteps coming down the hall and a hearty, jovial voice calling out in glee.

“Tom! Hark! It's me. Just in time for tea, I vow!”

Boswell! Damn, I thought, smoothing my hair. Why couldn't he have waited until after I was gone? I didn't really dislike him—one couldn't, he was much too jolly and, yes, engaging, too, in a vulgar sort of way—but if he attempted to pinch my bottom again I vowed I'd crack a plate over his head. Reluctantly I moved from behind the screen just as Mr. James Boswell came bursting into the room, radiating vitality and robust good nature.

“There she is! I haven't missed her after all. I stopped by the Burneys to return a book I'd borrowed and got caught up in one of those dreadful musical afternoons. Bach. Bah! Couldn't make heads or tails of it. Little Fanny was enchanting, of course. Sat quietly in a corner, scribbling in her diary. I had the feeling she was scribbling libelous things about
me
. A sly one, Miss Fanny. Claims she's going to become a lady novelist, like Miranda James. Minx probably
will
!”

“Hello, Boswell,” Gainsborough said glumly.

“Perk up, Tom! I vow, Miss Angela grows lovelier each time I see her. I have a present for you, wench.”

“I'm not a wench, you sod! What kind of present?”

“A very special book. A masterpiece, in fact. Several critics said so—I have the clippings, look at them often.
An Account of Corsica
, by Yours Truly. Lovingly inscribed by the author.”

“Dreadful book,” Gainsborough said.

“I resent that, Tom!”

“Too much about Boswell. Not enough about Corsica.”

“It went through several editions. Sold out in all the shops. An enormous success! You'll adore it, Miss Angela, although it's—uh—a bit ribald. Like its author!”

I smiled at that. Bloke always made me smile, despite myself. He pulled the book from behind his back and handed it to me, and I thanked him politely. Boswell beamed. Robustly built, rather stocky, he had dark red hair and lively brown eyes and a full, decidedly sensuous mouth. He wore black pumps with silver buckles, gray silk stockings and knee breeches and frock coat of rich plum satin. His gray satin waistcoat was embroidered with plum silk flowers, and a row of silver buttons adorned his frock coat. Fancied himself a dandy, he did, yet somehow he always managed to look like a rowdy, overgrown boy playing dress-up.

“What luscious-looking tarts!” he declared. “Your wife's famous apricot tarts, I vow! Hot, buttered scones! Small slices of bread spread with cheese and olive paste! A veritable feast! Will your enchanting wife be joining us, Tom?”

“Not today, alas. She's busy putting up preserves.”

“Such a marvelous cook. If you're not careful I'll snatch her right away from you. Will you pour, Miss Angela?”

“Why don't you make yourself at home?” I said dryly.

Boswell laughed and reached toward my backside and I deftly sidestepped, avoiding the intended goose. Gainsborough shook his head at his visitor's incorrigible behavior and sat down in one of the two old chairs covered in brown velvet. Boswell promptly took the other, crossing his legs and eyeing the heavily laden tea trolley with greedy anticipation. I poured the tea, served it, then took a chair safely out of reach.

“Painting almost finished?” Boswell inquired, reaching for a tart.

“Almost. I expect to exhibit it at the R. A. in January.”

“Bound to create a sensation, Tom, if it's anything like the model. Move your chair closer, Miss Angela. You look lonely over there.”

“I bruise easily,” I told him.

“Can't resist a fetching wench. Never could, and marriage hasn't changed me at all. Poor Margaret, pining away in Scotland. Misses me dreadfully, she does, but it's quite restful for her.”

Boswell's amorous exploits were the talk of London. Parlor maids, aristocratic dames, serving wenches, actresses—he pursued them all with equal gusto and quite phenomenal success. Perhaps the gusto explained it, or his exuberant and unabashed delight in female flesh. Roistering rake though he was, his honest appreciation and boyish glee lent him a curiously innocent air, and I could never really be angry with him, no matter how outrageous his conduct.

“And how is the mighty Sir Joshua Reynolds?” Gainsborough asked.

“Terribly hurt that you wouldn't see him two weeks ago, Tom. Couldn't understand how you could be so rude to a fellow artist.”

“I suppose he's painting another simpering grande dame.”

“He's painting Hester Thrale, as a matter of fact.”

“That woman! A chattering nitwit with a husband in
trade.
”

Boswell had a vast circle of friends, was welcomed in the grandest parlors and the lowest dives with like enthusiasm, but of all his friends the mighty Dr. Samuel Johnson of dictionary fame was the greatest. After studying for the law and taking an extended Grand Tour of Europe, the ebullient Boswell had penned a number of books and articles and began to court the thorny, irascible Dr. Johnson. Gainsborough claimed Boswell spent most of his time trotting about after Johnson with notebook in hand, scribbling down every word the Great Man uttered in order to preserve them for posterity. Seemed downright peculiar to me.

“More tea?” I inquired when Boswell had finished his anecdote.

“Please, and I'll just have another of those tarts, too. When are you going to let me take you out to dinner and the theater, Miss Angela.”

“Never,” I replied.

“I say! That's bloody unfair. Thousands of women in London, and the only one I'm interested in spurns my attentions. Tell me the truth, wench, is it my wicked reputation?”

“It's your groping hands.”

“I could give you a grand time, wench.”

“You could also give me a bad case of pox.”

Gainsborough laughed, delighted by my retort. Boswell was taken aback for a moment, and then he laughed, too, and whipped out his notebook.

“Must tell Johnson!” he declared, scribbling down my words. “He'll get a grand chuckle out of it! Not only are you beautiful and mysterious, Miss Angela—you're witty as well.”

“Not witty. Merely frank.”

Boswell stuck notebook and pencil back into his pocket and grinned, reaching for yet another apricot tart. I finished my tea and stood up.

“I'd better be getting back now, Mr. G.”

Boswell scrambled to his feet. “Let
me
take you home,” he insisted.

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I prefer to get there with everything still intact.”

Couldn't resist that, even though it was stretching a point. Gainsborough laughed again and stood up, leading me into the hall. The cocky Jenkins handed me my cloak and scowled fiercely at Boswell, who had trotted along after us. I smiled at Jenkins as I slipped on the cloak. He came to fetch me on the afternoons I sat for Mr. G., always accompanied me back, too. We were great friends now and Jenkins had appointed himself my protector. I pulled my hood up, turning to Gainsborough. He handed me the copy of
An Account of Corsica
.

“Don't forget this. The author would be crushed.”

“Be sure you
read
it,” Boswell ordered.

“I shall. Next Tuesday, Mr. G.?”

“Next Tuesday it is, lass.”

He gave me an affectionate hug, and Jenkins and I started down the hall.

“Who is she, Tom?” I heard Boswell ask. “An orange girl from Drury Lane? A noblewoman in disguise? A parson's daughter in hiding? I'm longing to know, and so are all the other chaps who've seen her. You
must
fill me in, Tom!”

I smiled, amused by his interest and knowing full well the artist wouldn't tell him anything. Jenkins took me back to Dottie's in the carriage, walked me to the door and asked if I'd like for him to give that bleedin' Boswell a taste 'uv 'is fists. I laughed and told him Boswell was perfectly harmless, and Jenkins scowled and said he was keepin' 'is eye on 'im all the same. I went on into the shop and back to work on the mauve and lime striped satin the modish and lively Mrs. Abington would wear in a revival of
The Way of The World
.

Snow covered the ground in the back gardens and James Boswell was not present when I sat for Gainsborough the following Tuesday. The studio was chilly, even though a fire roared in the fireplace, but Mr. G. didn't seem to notice it at all, working very intently, gravely, not even humming. No genial remarks today. No warm chuckles. I sat like a statue, aching all over, loathing the fan I held and certain my arm would drop off any minute now if he didn't give me at least a short break. How long had I been sitting here? An hour? Two? Gainsborough seemed to have lost track of time. He finally sighed heavily and moved back from the canvas and nodded, and then he put his brushes into a jar of turpentine and sighed again.

“All right, Angela, you can relax now. We're finished.”

“Thank goodness!” I exclaimed. “I was about to keel over.”

“Sorry about that, lass. I was concentrating, forgot to give you a break. Why don't you go ahead and change now.”

“We're through for the day?”

He nodded, gazing intently at the canvas, frowning. I stood up and arched my back and stretched and heard the tiny bones popping, and then I moved behind the screen and removed the scarlet velvet and put on my violet-blue silk, rather puzzled. It couldn't be much after four. We usually worked for a much longer time, unless the light started fading. There was plenty of light today, despite the snow. Was Mr. G. feeling bad? Was he worried about something? Wasn't himself at all, I thought, taking down my hair. I was startled to discover him still in front of the canvas when I stepped from behind the screen.

“Well,” he said listlessly, “care to have a look?”

I was startled. “You—you mean it's finished?”

“Said so earlier. You must not have understood me.”

I approached the canvas cautiously, a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Had no idea why I should be so nervous, but I was, nervous as I could be. Rays of pale silvery-yellow sunlight streamed down through the skylight, one of them illuminating the painting. Gainsborough moved aside, and I stood in front of the easel, gazing at the portrait he had done, and I caught my breath, for I could not believe it was me, not that lovely, pensive creature. It was someone else, it had to be.

The young woman sat in the open, the sky behind her pale, pearly gray with just a few wisps of cloud floating about. She was turned slightly to the right on the stool completely hidden by the lush scarlet folds of skirt, and she held a scarlet lace fan, peering from the canvas with pensive violet-gray eyes that were full of secrets and sad wisdom. Her luxuriant chestnut-brown hair gleamed with rich highlights, one full ringlet resting on her bare, creamy shoulder, and her high cheekbones looked sculpted, her mouth beautifully shaped, not too large at all. The deep scarlet gown emphasized her creamy complexion and, strangely, made her seem somehow ethereal, the contrast bold, striking. I gazed at the painting in awe, for it was every bit as lovely, every bit as moving as his painting of the boy in blue.