Angel in Scarlet (30 page)

“Like it?” Gainsborough inquired.

“It's—I can't believe it's me. She—she's beautiful.”

“Of course she is. I painted her from life.”

“But—”

“She's not a blue-eyed blonde with soft, pretty features, not beautiful in the vapid, traditional way, no. There's too much character in that lovely face, too much intelligence in those pensive eyes. She shall, I predict, set a whole new standard of beauty.”

“Do—do I really look like that?”

“I painted exactly what I saw, I assure you.”

“Her eyes are so—sad.”

“I imagine you were thinking sad thoughts while you sat for me. What
were
you thinking about?”

“I—I was thinking of a man. Someone I—someone I used to know before I came to London. I tried not to, but I—I kept remembering a night when I was seventeen years old.”

“And that night is there in the painting, in her eyes,” Gainsborough told me. “It's the best work I've ever done, lass. For once I'm actually satisfied with one of my paintings. For once I'm actually proud.”

“You have every right to be.”

Gainsborough smiled. “I think we should celebrate,” he said merrily.

He left the studio for a few minutes, and I went over to stand by the fire. I could see the painting from there, a large canvas, life size, and it was just as lovely, just as moving from a distance. Gainsborough returned with his wife, a slender, sweet-faced woman with fluffy silver-gray hair worn in a loose pompadour, a white cotton apron tied at the waist over her pale apricot linen gown. Mrs. Gainsborough smiled at me and went over to look at the painting. She said-it was lovely indeed, his best work, but I could see she was far more interested in getting back to the kitchen than in discussing the painting.

“She never
has
appreciated me,” Gainsborough complained, though his voice was full of affection. “Always said I should get some nice, dependable job and forget all this nonsense.”

“I haven't said that in years, Thomas, and you know it,” his wife protested. “I told you the painting was lovely. Why shouldn't it be with Angela sitting for it? I like it much better than those silly things you do of ladies in plumed hats. Did you enjoy those fruit tarts I made for your tea last time, Angela?”

“I'm afraid I didn't get one. Boswell ate them all up.”

“Such a delightful young man. Big appetite. Appreciates good food. I've made almond cakes and blackberry tarts for tea this afternoon, turnovers, too, and some more of my cheese and olive paste.”

“We shan't be having tea,” Gainsborough informed her. “Jenkins is bringing in some champagne. I put it on ice earlier, suspecting I'd be finishing up this afternoon. You'll have some with us, of course.”

“I must get back to the duck, Thomas. If you don't baste it just right it never comes out properly. As you'll not be having tea, I'll wrap up some goodies for you to take back with you, Angela,” she told me. “Good-bye, dear.”

She gave me a gentle hug, resting her cheek against mine, then left to attend to the duck. Gainsborough shook his head in mock exasperation, a smile on his lips.

“She
does
enjoy her cooking,” he declared. “We could afford half a dozen cooks, but she insists on doing it all herself, takes as much care in preparing her duck as I do in painting a portrait. Ah, here's Jenkins!”

The jaunty red-haired footman sauntered in with three slender crystal glasses and an iced bucket of champagne on a tray. He set the tray down on a table, glancing around the room as though looking for someone.

“Could 'uv sworn you said there'd be three 'uv you. I brought three glasses.”

“And we shall use all three,” his employer informed him. “Mrs. G.'s much too busy with her duck to join our little celebration. You'll have a glass, my lad. After all, you're the one who nabbed my model for me.”

“Oh, I ain't sure hit'd be proper,” Jenkins protested. “Me drinkin' wine with my him-ployer. Make me jittery, hit would.”

“You'll have a glass nevertheless,” Gainsborough said, opening the bottle of champagne. The cork popped, flying almost to the ceiling, the wine fizzling as he poured it into the glasses.

“Here you are, Angela. Here, Jenkins, take the glass. Don't look so suspicious. I propose a toast,” he said, lifting his glass. “To—” He hesitated, a slight frown creasing his brow. “To
Young Woman in Red
? Don't like that title at all.
Girl in a Red Dress
? No matter, we'll think of a title later on. To my Greatest Achievement!”

We clicked our glasses and drank, Jenkins sipping his cautiously and grinning when the bubbles tickled his nose. He became quite merry after a few more sips and sauntered over to the painting with his glass and said “Blimey! Hit's bleedin' like 'er, hit is!” and gulped down the rest of his champagne and vowed 'e'd never seen anything like hit. He accepted a second glass without protest, grinning broadly and already a bit unsteady on his bandy legs.

“I'm going to miss coming to the studio,” I said wistfully.

“And I'm going to miss you, lass. Can't remember ever having a more pleasant working experience. The wife and I are taking a holiday, leaving for Bath this coming weekend to visit friends. Probably won't be back until early January, in time for me to oversee the hanging of your portrait at the Royal Academy. I'll write to you, lass, let you know when the exhibit opens.”

We finished our champagne, and Gainsborough walked me out to the carriage, a sheepishly grinning Jenkins lurching along behind us. Mrs. Gainsborough came out and gave me another hug and a large white box full of goodies wrapped carefully in thin paper. Gainsborough hugged me, too. As the carriage pulled away I turned for a last look at that elegant white house with its fanlight and marble portico. Gainsborough stood on the front steps in his old brown frock coat, wig slightly askew, his arm around his wife's aproned waist. They waved, and I lifted my hand, feeling quite sad as we drove on down the street.

I
did
miss going to the studio in the weeks that followed, but several new plays were opening and we were swamped with work at Dottie's, everything in constant upheaval with managers coming in with sketches of costumes to be made up, actors and actresses dropping in for fittings, dozens and dozens of costumes in various stages of completion. Mr. Foote's new production would be all in pinks and grays, performed against a sky-blue backdrop with a few white clouds. Dottie declared she was
sick
of pink, even sicker of gray. Mr. Colman was doing a drama set in Tudor times, all those fussy neck ruffs to make, all those cumbersome velvets, while Garrick, bless him, was reviving
Hamlet
and wanted Gertrude in cloth of gold and Ophelia in sea-green gauze.

James Lambert's new production was to open soon, too, and he came breezing into the shop one afternoon in mid-December, stomping snow off his brown leather knee boots and shaking snowflakes off his long brown cloak that almost swept the floor. Dottie was upstairs, supervising the girls, and I was sitting at my worktable, carefully pinning a tissue-thin pattern onto a length of pearl-gray velvet. Lambert stomped his boots a final time, shook his shoulders and looked around, not at all thunderous this afternoon, seeming, in fact, in a very expansive mood. He spied me and strode over to the table, his brown cloak billowing out like a pair of dark wings.

“Dottie around?” he asked.

“She's upstairs,” I said. “I'll go fetch her.”

“There's no hurry,” he told me. His voice was husky.

He was looking at me, really looking at me, examining me as he might examine a horse he was thinking of buying. His eyes were indeed green, dark green, flecked with golden-brown, interesting eyes, frank and quite … quite attractive. His nose wasn't really all that crooked, just enough to keep him from being quite absurdly handsome. Skin stretched tautly across his broad cheekbones, and his lower lip was full and curving, undeniably sensuous. I felt myself coloring under his frank scrutiny, and I stood up, spilling a box of pins.

“Damn!” I exclaimed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Guess I unsettled you.”

“You don't unsettle me in the least, Mr. Lambert.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you're a remarkably beautiful young woman?”

“Not recently,” I retorted.

“I
do
unsettle you. You're blushing.”

“I am
not
blushing.”

“Your cheeks are as pink as a rosebud.”

“Jesus! If that's the kind of dialogue you use in your plays it's no wonder they're so ghastly.”

“Ghastly? Ghastly!
My
plays ghastly?”

“Melodramatic rubbish, I've heard.”

“You listen to me, wench! I don't know who you've been
talk
ing to, but my plays are—they're marvelously entertaining,
huge
ly successful.”

“Your last one wasn't,” I reminded him.

James Lambert looked pained, and then he looked as though he longed to throttle me, his fingers actually clenching and unclenching. I gazed at him with a cool hauteur that belied my agitation. After a moment he reached up and ran his fingers through those rich dark brown waves, and then he smiled a devilishly engaging smile, murderous demeanor gone.

“Guess you put one over on me, wench. Got me good, you did. It was quite rude of me to stare at you like that, but I didn't mean any harm. I was studying your features, mentally casting you. Ever been on the stage?”

“I've never even been inside a theater.”

He arched one dark brow. “
Real
ly?” He was clearly amazed.

“I work for my living. I have no time for frivolity.”

“Frivolity? That what you think the theater is? It's bloody hard work, I assure you. Grueling, frustrating, backbreaking work that drains the very life blood out of you. You work, you slave, you hope, you pray, and when your nerves are in shreds and you're so worn you can't even think clearly you keep right on working until the production is finally mounted—and then it's in the hands of fate.”

“Do you always talk like that?” I inquired.

“Like how?”

“In such a ridiculous fashion, like you're reciting awful dialogue.”

James Lambert began clenching and unclenching his fingers again. “I may,” he said, “I just
may
murder you.”

“Shouldn't advise you to try it,” I told him.

“Do you always insult Dottie's customers like this?”

“Only when they're insufferable,” I said.

He grinned, delighted, those wonderful green-brown eyes full of wry amusement. He tossed the folds of his long cloak back over his shoulders, the brown silk lining gleaming darkly. His breeches and frock coat were brown broadcloth, superbly cut, and his dapper tan satin waistcoat had emerald and brown stripes. An emerald-green silk neckcloth was at his throat. Cut quite an impressive figure, he did, and he had much more presence than most of the actors who came for fittings. I wasn't nearly as put out with him as I pretended to be. Mr. James Lambert was rude and rather absurd, quite full of his own importance, but there was something undeniably engaging about him. He made one feel alert and alive, made one feel curiously stimulated.

“You think I'm insufferable?” he asked amiably.

“Quite,” I said.

“Actually, I'm a delightful chap once you get to know me. I
do
have a temper—I admit it frankly—but I've been most dreadfully maligned. You shouldn't believe all the talk you hear about me.”

“Oh?”

“Shouldn't bad-mouth my plays, either. Garrick and his kind produce plays the public ap
pre
ciate. I produce plays they enjoy. You'll have to come see my new one—opens the day after Christmas, the most ambitious, the most spectacular play I've ever mounted—”

He had used the identical words to Dottie about his
last
production, I recalled. Obviously didn't spare the superlatives when describing one of his own productions. He was relating the plot with considerable enthusiasm when Dottie came down the stairs. Seeing him, she stopped and lifted her eyes heavenwards, less than enchanted at the prospect of dealing with the volatile theatrical manager whose nappies she used to change. Lambert cut himself off in midsentence and turned and forgot all about me, rushing over to greet Dottie with exuberant gallantry.

“Dottie, my love! You look radiant this afternoon! Such beauty blinds my eyes! That fulsome figure, those plump pink cheeks, that enchanting smile—my heart beats faster! Really should do something about your hair, though. About to tumble over your brow.”

“I'm in no mood for your skylarking, Jamie Lambert. I've had a very difficult day, and—”

“And I've come to cheer you up! The costumes arrived and they're magnificent, love, each one a masterpiece. Willy Osborne is delighted with his second-act costume, says he'll really
feel
like a prince in that gold and white tunic, that white satin cape, and the temperamental Mrs. Tallent claims the purple and mauve gown is sheer magic. There's just one small problem—”

“I will not do it over in blue!”

“Would I ask you to do such a thing? Would I be so unreasonable?”

“You bloody well would, you rogue.”

“You do me a terrible injustice, Dottie mine. Make me feel quite downcast and disconsolate. Here I come to rave about your wonderful skill and you start casting aspersions on my character. Problem is, love, the delectable Mrs. Tallent has been stuffing herself like a sow these past few weeks and her costumes no longer fit.
Could
you let them out a mite, love? I know it's asking a lot, you being so frightfully busy and all, but—”

I picked up the pins and put them in the box and went back to work, trying to ignore the argument that ensued. Mrs. Tallent had hardly been a sylph to begin with, Dottie protested, and if she wanted to appear on stage looking like a heifer it served him right for signing such a slut in the first place. She was much, much too busy at the moment to work on costumes that had already been delivered, carefully made to measurements, and … of course he talked her into doing it, outrageously charming and persuasive. Dottie had no strength of character whatsoever, I thought, jamming a pin into the velvet.