Chapter Eight
Several days later, Cecilia was wondering much the same thing as Barbara Wyatt draped herself gracefully on a damask-covered bergère that Cecilia had positioned to catch the warming rays of the afternoon light streaming in through the windows at the back of the studio. Certainly the Earl of Charrington’s fiancée possessed both the wit and taste to select the gowns and the pose most likely to display her figure and her face to the best possible advantage, but did she possess anything more?
As Cecilia began to sketch out the first outline of the sitter’s beautifully sculpted features, she very much doubted that there was anything more to Barbara Wyatt than a sense for presenting herself to the world in a way designed to capture the most possible admiration and attention.
It was not that Barbara Wyatt was dull or stupid. It was quite the opposite, in fact. She was a fountain of information, all of it useless, and she kept up such an inexhaustible flow of inconsequential chatter that Cecilia longed to shout at her to be quiet, except for the fact that it gave her a wide range of facial expressions to choose from. And she was certainly clever enough to know how to arrange not only her surroundings but the people around her to her best advantage.
Finally, however, the flow appeared to be slowing and Cecilia, heaving an inward sigh of relief, stepped back to look at her handiwork. She frowned in concentration for a moment and then moved forward, her chalk poised to add farther definition where it was needed.
“Are you quite certain that you have caught my best angle?” Barbara lowered her chin a fraction of an inch. “There, this shows the becoming tilt to my nose which I vow is more charming than Lady Cowper’s. I must remind Charrington to tell her that when we next see her at Almack’s.” She paused as though struck by an interesting thought. “How is it that I have not seen you there, for I know you have painted several of its patronesses? In fact, it was Charrington’s forceful representation of their consistent patronage that convinced me to sit for you in the first place. Was it at Almack’s that you became acquainted with Lady Cowper and Countess Lieven? I vow I consider Almack’s to be the most charming place in the world. Do you not think it so?”
“Actually, I do not.” Cecilia was not at all sorry to admit it.
“What? Not adore Almack’s? How could one
not
like the most important gathering place of the ton?”
“I do not dislike it, precisely. I just find it difficult to carry on any sort of intelligent conversation there—and since conversation is the only possible reason for attending a social affair, there is really nothing to draw me to the place when I can use my time more profitably elsewhere.”
“You sound just like Charrington.” Barbara pouted prettily. he is forever telling me that the refreshments are dull and the company even duller, but now that we are engaged, I shall make sure that he escorts me there every week. It will be good for him, for
he
is the one who is in danger of becoming dull, not Almack’s. Why, he is as bad as Papa. All the two of them ever do is work. It is a wonder he even got the notion into his head to marry me, for all he ever thinks about is shares and annuities and the wretched consols. I suspect that Papa suggested the match, for he knows I intend to become an Incomparable, which one cannot really hope to do without a title. I am glad Papa suggested it, however, for I think it will be vastly amusing to be the Countess of Charrington, don’t you agree?”
“I expect it will.” Cecilia rubbed her forehead wearily, leaving a black smudge just over one eyebrow. The lady’s incessant chatter was beginning to wear on her nerves, but she had learned one thing, at least: the impending marriage between the Earl of Charrington and Miss Wyatt was definitely not a love match, nor even, it appeared, a longstanding arrangement. Why she found that reassuring, or why she should even care, Cecilia did not know. She only knew she was glad the earl—whose conversation revealed him to be a man of some intelligence—had not fallen under the spell of someone who was as empty-headed as she was beautiful.
Fortunately for Cecilia, the sound of her brother’s voice told her that she was saved from having to pretend further interest in her subject’s conversation.
“In the studio with Miss Wyatt?” Neville’s voice echoed up the stairs. ^’Very well, I shall have a glass of Madeira in there.” And with those words, Cecilia’s brother strode breezily into the studio. “Oh,”—he turned back towards the hall and shouted down the stairs—”and bring some refreshment for the ladies.”
“Miss Wyatt.” Neville flashed a devastating smile, and executed a bow in the sitter’s direction. “How delightful to find you here. What could be more refreshing after an exhausting session with my tailor than to find myself in the company of such a charming visitor as you? It quite makes me forget the rigors of the morning. Consulting with Weston is less arduous than working with anyone else, mind you, but even he requires a good deal of direction. One cannot be top careful with these things, you know.”
“I quite agree.” Barbara was all smiles and sympathy. “The hours I spend with Madame Celeste are beyond anything, but if one is not careful with these people, one can find oneself clad in last year’s fabric or—worse yet—last year’s color. One simply cannot spend too much time over these things, for one’s clothes are the face one presents to the world.”
“Now if we could only convince my dear Cecy of the importance of such things ...” Neville shot a teasing glance at his sister, whipped an exquisitely white handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the smudge from her brow. “But she will tell you that our exteriors should be the merest reflection of our souls, and therefore we should expend all our efforts on our own characters rather than on our accoutrements. Have you ever heard anything so absurd?”
Neville stepped back to observe the nearly completed sketch and nodded approvingly. “Very like. You have outdone yourself this time, Cecy. But then, you have a subject who is inspiring, instead of some dull old brewer or bran-faced bluestocking. Still, there is nothing like the original, which I find I infinitely prefer to the copy. Tell me, Miss Wyatt, will we see you at Almack’s this week?”
“But of course! Where else would anyone be on a Wednesday evening? Anyone who is anyone, of course.”
Neville shot a sly glance at his sister. “Cecy would not be there if she could help it, would you, Cecy? There, see how she frowns like a thundercloud at me? When a gentleman cannot count on his own sister to keep him company at Almack’s, what is he to do? I trust, Miss Wyatt, that I may at least count on you to stand up with me? For now that you have sat for your portrait in our humble abode, I consider you to be as close as any of our acquaintances.”
“Oh, my lord, you do flatter me.” The faintest of blushes crept into Barbara’s cheeks as she fluttered her lashes in a way that managed to be both modest and seductive. “You are so kind. It is always delightful to be reassured of having one partner at least.”
“What? Surely your fiancé has already claimed the first and the last dances?”
Barbara’s lips drooped as she shook her head.
“This is dreadful! Why, if I were Charrington, I should claim
all
your dances, scandalous though it would be. How could he lead anyone else to the floor when his wife-to-be is the most exquisite creature in the world?”
“Oh, he does not lead anyone to the floor—not me, not anyone.” Though Barbara might complain about the social failings of her fiancé, her pride drew the line at appearing pathetic. “He thinks dancing is merely an excuse for people to avoid intelligent conversation.”
“In this case. Miss Wyatt”—Neville smiled at her sympathetically—”I think I must agree with your fiancé. To a certain degree, dancing is often a replacement for conversation, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. When one finds oneself with a partner as lovely as you, one prefers to admire rather than converse. Then, of course, there are those partners with whom one stands up simply because one must, and then one is most grateful for relief from conversation. However, you and I shall enjoy ourselves on the floor and leave my sister and your fiancé to converse to their hearts’ content. There now, Cecy, you see? You must come to Almack’s with me this time so you can converse with Charrington while Miss Wyatt and I indulge ourselves in something less serious.”
A derisive look from his sister was the only response Neville received to this last sally. He grinned broadly. “You see what a hopeless case she is. Miss Wyatt? Your fiancé, at least, goes to Almack’s even if he does not dance. My sister, on the other hand, does her level best to avoid it altogether. She considers it to be a deplorable waste of her time.”
“But what could be a better use of one’s time?” It was Barbara’s turn to smile sympathetically at Neville. “Everyone who is anyone is to be found at Almack’s. It is where all the best marriages are made.”
“And my sister will be happy to inform you that she is not interested in marriage. Miss Wyatt.” Neville shook his head sadly.
“Not interested in marriage? But
everyone
is interested in marriage!” Eyes wide with astonishment, Barbara turned to Cecilia. “But what will become of you? How will you go on?”
Cecilia chuckled. “Nothing will become of me. I mean that I shall carry on the way I do now, I expect. I shall continue to paint and have my studio. Naturally I hope to become more skilled at what I do, and advance myself as an artist, but as to the rest...” She waved airily at her surroundings. “I have what I need, so I shall continue on as I have begun.”
The very thought of it was too much for Barbara, who looked at her in dumbfounded silence.
Neville chuckled. “So now. Miss Wyatt, you understand why all my efforts to introduce her to good society have had so little effect on her. The only way I can possibly convince her to come to Almack’s with me is to assure her that it is good for her reputation to be seen where there are so many lovely women worthy of having their beauty captured for posterity in a portrait. But if she deigns to join me there, she will certainly not waste her time on such frippery as dancing.” He executed a slight bow and tossed an appealing look in Barbara’s direction. “I hope I can convince you to stand up with me for at least one dance, and even possibly two.” His gaze dwelt on her admiringly. “I am certain that someone who carries herself as gracefully as you do also dances exquisitely, and I look forward to it. But now, if you will excuse me, Sefton is counting on me to be his partner at whist.”
Another quick bow to both of them, and Neville was gone, leaving his sister to stare after him, a decidedly speculative expression in her eyes.
It was not her brother’s sudden departure that aroused Cecilia’s suspicions, it was his appearance in the studio in the first place. Usually Neville did his utmost to avoid spending any time at all in surroundings he considered to be beneath his station in life. So why had he bothered to stop in between his appointment with Weston and his afternoon at the gaming tables at White’s? There was only one answer that presented itself: Miss Barbara Wyatt.
That morning at breakfast, when Neville had mentioned his appointment with the
ton’s
premier tailor, he had taken instant exception to the disapproval he had read in his sister’s eyes. “But Cecy, a gentleman must have a few rags to his name; otherwise he is simply not a gentleman.”
“Certainly. But I just paid Weston’s bill, and I am quite certain that it included a blue jacket of Bath superfine.”
“Of course it did, but one cannot show up in the same attire day after day. Speaking of which, I ought to accompany you to Bond Street and see to it that you find some toggery for yourself.” He cast a disparaging eye over her morning dress of lavender sarsenet, which was plain to the point of severity. “Look at you! Not an ounce of lace or ruching, and a color that went out of fashion quite three years ago. If you are not to look a complete dowd, you must have something in lemon or primrose muslin. I insist on taking you to Madame Celeste’s myself, for that is the only way we are going to get you rigged out in proper attire.”
“And pay for it how?” Totally unimpressed by this generous offer, his sister had turned her attention back to
The Times,
which she had been perusing before he had appeared at the breakfast table. “Besides, Miss Wyatt is coming for her first sitting today and I must make sure that everything is all in order.”
“Ah, the beauteous Miss Wyatt” had been her brother’s only comment, but there had been a gleam in his eye that, coupled with his unexpected appearance in her studio later that afternoon, now seemed decidedly suspicious.
But Cecilia, busy putting the finishing touches on her preliminary sketch of the lady in question, had no time to dwell on the question of her brother’s erratic behavior. “There.” A few more strokes to add definition to the chin and Cecilia stepped back, well satisfied with the day’s work.
She turned to Barbara. “I believe that I now have enough to begin painting. I shall send a note around to you when I am ready for your next sitting, but I believe I should not have to do that for at least a week.”
Barbara rose and, drawing on her gloves, smiled slyly. “But surely I shall see you and your brother a good deal before that.”
Cecilia stared at her blankly.
“At Almack’s. After all, your brother has claimed at least one dance with me.” Barbara smiled, serenely confident in her belief that the combination of Neville’s persuasiveness and the allure of Almack’s would overcome any nonsensical objections that Lady Cecilia might raise to what she would undoubtedly consider an evening wasted in London’s most celebrated assembly rooms.
Chapter Nine
Left in peace to begin serious work on her latest commission, Cecilia found herself unable to plunge into the project. Her thoughts kept returning to her earlier conversation with the portrait’s subject. How was she to capture the essence of Miss Wyatt for posterity if, in fact, there
was
any essence, much less the character and spirit that Miss Wyatt’s fiancé considered to be the hallmarks of a portrait painted by C. A. Manners?