Angel in Scarlet (31 page)

I received a letter from Gainsborough a few days later. Bath was tiresome as could be, all those assemblies, all those teas. He was being horribly lionized by fluttery society women, all of whom wanted him to do portraits of their dreary young daughters, but he was on holiday and refusing all commissions, no matter how remunerative. Mrs. G. was baking like mad, you'd think she planned to feed everyone in the immediate vicinity. I wasn't surprised, therefore, when a box arrived for me the day before Christmas, containing wonderful rum cakes and small fruitcakes carefully wrapped in brandy-moistened cloths and several different kinds of cookies. Goodness, Megan declared, we'd look like Mrs. Tallent if we ate all those.

Timothy and four of his rowdy but charming chums raided the Market Christmas Eve, bringing vast quantities of holly and ivy to decorate our flat. Johnny brought a cooked goose as well, and Ian brought several bottles of wine. We had a splendid party, everything festive and bright, and all of Mrs. G.'s cakes were consumed, and all the cookies, too. It was after midnight when our guests departed, singing tipsily as they careened down the stairs, and Megan and I had a lovely time the next morning, opening our gifts. Dottie gave us both sumptuous bolts of cloth and several yards of lace. Megan gave me books and a lovely fan, and she was enchanted with the hooded deep blue velvet cloak I had secretly made for her. It was the loveliest Christmas I had had in quite a long time, yet I was still a bit sad, remembering other holidays, other years.

Blankets of glistening white snow covered the city in January, and we bundled up heavily going to and from work. Things were not so frantic at Dottie's, for we had completed most of the costumes. Garrick's
Hamlet
was a huge success and several of the papers commented on the beautiful and effective costuming of the revival. James Lambert's new play received its usual sneers from the critics, but it was doing good business, Dottie reported, despite the fact that its leading lady resembled a baby whale. Mrs. Tallent was a
very
unhappy woman and that was why she gorged herself with pastries, Dottie said, and I thought to myself that any woman who worked with a mercurial rogue like James Lambert probably had good reason to be unhappy. I hadn't heard from Gainsborough since before Christmas and, on the morning of the tenth, was idly wondering if he had returned to London when the front door opened and the short, red-haired footman came in waving an impressive-looking cream envelope. Jenkins grinned, as cocky as ever, as comical in the white and gold livery. 'Ad an hin-vitation for me, he did, a letter from Mr. G. too. He handed me the creamy envelope and another, smaller envelope and said hit was good to be back in London, that bleedin' Bath was dreary as a tomb. Dottie was fascinated by the jaunty footman and insisted he have a cup of tea, but Jenkins said 'e 'ad to be off, 'ad to pick up some bleedin' paints. Gainsborough's letter was brief. There was to be a private showing of the new exhibit at the Royal Academy on the afternoon of the twentieth, prior to its public opening. It would be primarily for journalists and artists and society people but I might find it rather amusing. The creamy envelope contained an engraved invitation for “Miss Angela Howard and Guest.”

“I can't go,” I told Megan that evening. “I couldn't possibly. I—what if someone recognized me as the girl in the painting?”

“We'll go in dis
guise
, luv,” Megan insisted, quite thrilled with the idea. “Well go disguised as society ladies—Dottie will loan us some costumes—and we'll wear masks! Lots of society ladies do.”

“Really, Megan, I don't think—”

“We simply must go, luv. It'll be a lark!”

It was indeed a lark to Megan, and she blithely made all the arrangements. Dottie loaned us costumes from a forthcoming society drama, and Brinkley loaned us two elegant powdered wigs in the French fashion. Timothy and his chums were brought in on the conspiracy, and somehow they managed to acquire a lovely gold and white carriage for the afternoon of the twentieth. It pulled up in front of the wig shop, six white horses in harness, Timothy, in white velvet livery, perched on the driver's seat, Johnny riding on back in identical uniform.

“Lord,” I said, peering out the window. “I hope they didn't
steal
it. I feel terribly nervous, Megan. I still don't think we—”

“We're going to have a grand time, luv!” she assured me. “You look absolutely gorgeous,” she added.

She looked gorgeous herself in a sumptuous sky blue velvet gown with a low bodice and two enormous velvet flounces on the skirt that parted to display the underskirt of alternating rows of ivory and sky blue lace ruffles. A white satin mask concealed her eyes and nose, and the powdered wig had a high pompadour and several long ringlets dangling in back, two sky blue and one ivory plume affixed to one side of the coiffure with a false diamond clasp. My wig was identical, three tall pink plumes bobbing. The skirt of my low cut pink satin gown was very full, spreading out and parting in front to reveal a white satin underskirt embroidered with tiny pink roses. The wig was very uncomfortable, and my pale pink satin mask felt peculiar. My face was powdered, a heart shaped black satin beauty patch stuck on my right cheekbone, and my lips were painted a deep carnelian pink.

“We look like a couple of French courtesans,” I said.

“
Au contraire
, luv. We've very
à la mode
. We'll fit right in. No one is going to recognize us, that's for sure.”

Our skirts were so wide we had some difficulty managing the stairs, had to turn sideways to get out the narrow green door. Timothy grinned at us from his high perch, looking quite outrageous in the livery.

“Have to have it back by six o'clock,” he called. “The Honorable Reggie Ashton will catch hell if his father finds out it's missing.”

Johnny jumped down, made a deep bow and opened the carriage door, delighted to be part of the jolly hoax. I toyed with my large white lace fan adorned with tiny silk rosebuds, wishing I could feel as jolly about it as the rest of them. What if something happened to one of the costumes? Mrs. Clive and Mrs. Calder were to wear them on stage at the Haymarket in just two weeks. What if I tripped and fell flat on my face? What if my wig fell off? I fretted nervously as we drove through the congested streets, and when the carriage finally came to a halt I felt numb. Johnny opened the door for us, giving Megan a conspiratorial wink.

“Take a deep breath, luv,” she told me. “Here we go.”

We moved up the steps and past the marble columns and I handed my invitation to the man at the door. The huge gallery was full of people, all of them talking at once, it seemed. They wandered about, sipping the champagne served by liveried footman, chattering, pausing to look at the paintings. You're not Angela Howard, I told myself. You're an aristocratic lady, every bit as grand as any of these people, and there's no reason for you to be nervous. I tilted my chin at a haughty angle and fluttered my fan and tried to look blase. Most of the women wore powdered wigs and plumes and gowns similar to ours, and some of them wore masks as well. We fit right in, I thought. Megan certainly knew what she was about.

“There's Garrick,” Megan whispered, “over there by the column, chatting with Sir Joshua Reynolds.”

“So that's Sir Joshua?” I said. “He
does
look a bit pompous.”

“My word!” Megan exclaimed. “That gent who just passed us—the one in the purple silk frock coat with diamond buttons—he must be sixty and he just patted my behind!”

“Really?”

“These bluebloods aren't a bit different from any other men. A girl isn't
safe
!”

I smiled and, looking around the room, suddenly saw a familiar face.

“That's the Duchess of Devonshire over there—the one in cream satin embroidered with pink and blue flowers and tiny green leaves. Isn't she beautiful? That woman with her must be Lady Elizabeth Foster, what a lovely taffeta gown, pale aquamarine. The lethargic, sleepy-looking gentleman with them must be the Duke. I wonder what they see in him?”

“Money and position,” Megan informed me.

A footman approached us with a tray of brimming champagne glasses. Megan took one casual as could be, as though she drank it every day. I didn't dare. We sauntered about, looking at the paintings—unusual still lifes, misty landscapes, dozens of portraits—and Megan sipped her champagne. A great mob was congregated at the end of the room, all of them gazing at a painting we couldn't see, all of them buzzing. A plump gentleman in back of the mob turned and spotted us in the throng and hurried over, a merry smile on his lips. He was wearing the white satin outfit he had worn the first time I ever saw him, and, of course, his freshly powdered wig was not quite straight.

“Here you are!” he exclaimed. “I was afraid you wouldn't come.”

“How on earth did you recognize me?”

“The bone structure, lass. I studied it for over three months, remember? Couldn't miss those glorious cheekbones.”

“This is my friend Megan Sloan, Mr. Gainsborough.”

“How do you do, my dear?”

“I'm thrilled to be here. Where's the painting of Angela?”

He pointed to the mob. “Over there.”

I was surprised. “You—you mean all those people are looking at the portrait of me?”

“It's creating an absolute sensation, lass. They're positively agog! No one's been able to talk about anything else. The chaps from Fleet Street have been driving me mad with their questions—everyone wants to know who you
are
. Refused to tell them anything, of course. Everyone vows it's the finest thing I've ever painted. Knew they would,” he added.

Gainsborough beamed, delighted with his success. He guided us toward the mob, and we stood there, listening to the comments.

“Most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Makes all those pale-faced blondes with blue eyes and rosebud lips look drab. That hair—look at that hair, and those violet-blue eyes.”

“Better than
Blue Boy
. Better by far.”

“Where did he
find
her? I've never seen her before.”

“It's a masterpiece. Unquestionably. A masterpiece.”

“Gainsborough's going to clean up with this one. He'll get a fortune for the painting itself, and the reproduction rights will net him another fortune. Chap will be able to retire for life.”

“Joshua Reynolds never did anything half as fine!” Mr. G. exclaimed in a loud, heavily disguised voice. “Neither did Romney!”

Megan giggled, and then she let out a gasp when some people moved and she had her first real glimpse of the painting. It hung in an ornate golden frame, and a shaft of sunlight touched it. The canvas seemed to glow with beauty and life. She
was
beautiful, I thought, for I couldn't associate myself with that dreamy young woman in red. She was solely Thomas Gainsborough's creation, his conception of me. I couldn't possibly look like that. Megan took my hand and squeezed it tightly, quite awed by the painting.

“It—it's amazing, luv,” she whispered. “I always knew you were beautiful, but until now I never realized just how beautiful you
are.
”

“It isn't me,” I told her.

“It is, luv. How many times have I seen you with that sad, faraway look in your eyes? It's you, to the life.”

There was a stir at the entrance, and I turned to see James Boswell entering with a great lumbering creature in a threadbare navy blue frock coat. The man had a jowly, pasty face pitted with pockmarks. His nose was enormous, his huge eyes myopic. His gray wig looked dirty. His black pumps were quite old, and his gray stockings sagged. His navy blue breeches were wrinkled and shiny with age, as was the frock coat. The man looked like a huge, disgruntled bear who had just come out of hibernation, but he was obviously someone very important. Talk grew hushed and people nodded respectfully as he shambled by them, scowling unhappily. A beaming Boswell strutted at his side, holding the man's arm in a proprietary manner and leading him forward.

“Ah, the Great Man has arrived,” Gainsborough observed. “Now we'll know if we're to sink or soar.”

“Who
is
that bizarre chap?” Megan asked.

“Boswell's intimate chum, Doctor Samuel Johnson. Johnson is the voice of London in matters of art and letters. His opinions are parroted by every hack on Fleet Street, his judgment the last word. Boswell, dear chap!” he cried, moving forward to greet them. “So pleased to see you, and I see you've brought Doctor Johnson.”

“Much rather be home having my tea,” Johnson grumbled. “Boswell dragged me here against my will, said I had to see your blasted painting. Seen enough paintings to last me a lifetime. I warn you, Gainsborough, if it's another of your pale, pretty dames in silk and plumes I'm going to be even unhappier than I am already. Tedious, these affairs, hate coming to 'em.”

The mob of people around my portrait moved aside, and the whole room fell silent, waiting for the great Samuel Johnson to pass judgment on the painting that was causing such a sensation. Johnson scowled and Boswell led him toward the canvas like a little boy with a surly pet lion. Johnson clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward, jutting his chin out and peering at the portrait with his myopic eyes. Several long moments passed, and the suspense was almost tangible as Johnson continued to stare, still scowling.

“Didn't I tell you?” Boswell exclaimed. “Isn't she glorious? Isn't she an angel?”

“Hummph!” Johnson snorted. “An angel in scarlet.”

“An angel in scarlet,” Gainsborough said thoughtfully. “I like the ring of that. That's what I'll call it.
An Angel in Scarlet
. Perfect! Thank you for giving the work a title, Johnson.”

Doctor Johnson turned around and looked the artist in the eye. “I should thank
you
, Gainsborough, for painting this picture,” he said gruffly. “Every connoisseur of great art should thank you. I rarely use the word masterpiece, but in this instance I must. You are indeed a master of your craft, sir, and this piece is your greatest achievement.”