Keeping the Castle

12



ONE THING BECAME CLEAR to me at the private viewing attended only by Miss Vincy, Mr. Fredericks, and myself: the portrait was something out of the common way.

In truth, it is quite difficult to judge a portrait of which you are the subject. One expects to meet the face in the mirror, but instead one sees a stranger. Yet when others were eventually allowed to see it, they cried, “Oh, what a wonderful likeness!” so I suppose I must accept the fact that this is what I look like to the rest of the world.

But beyond the likeness and the great skill with which a young woman and a dog sitting under a pear tree were depicted, something about the painting caught the eye and pulled it back again and again. When it was later exhibited to a larger audience, I noticed that, long after one would have expected people to have gazed their fill and moved on to other subjects, they stood before it in reverent silence. Sometimes they sat down and resumed their conversations only to go back for another long look.

In the social circles in which I move, the purpose of a portrait is to capture the face and figure of a sitter; nothing more. It is a private and personal item, of interest primarily to one’s family and friends. However, I could tell that this painting was more important in the grand scheme of things than I was. My friend Miss Vincy had given me a sort of immortality. Long after we both were in our graves, this picture would be prized by people wholly unconnected to either of us, for the sake of the almost unearthly beauty it portrayed. One might expect that I would feel flattered by this, but on the contrary I was humbled.

Mr. Fredericks was actually rendered speechless by his first viewing. He looked at it for long minutes, then at the artist, shook his head in wonder and then looked back at it again.

She had been more anxious for his approbation than for mine. Her eyes were on him and not on me as she lifted the veiling cloth, which spoke volumes about the esteem in which she held him. I was beginning to suspect that all my guesses were wrong, that it was neither the dismissed tutor nor the Baron that she favored.

“It—it’s good, isn’t it?” she asked him, her voice pleading with him to tell her, yes, it was good.

He nodded. I could have shaken him for not finding voice to reassure her more fully, but she seemed satisfied. She sighed with relief, and her plain features glowed. “I know,” she said, “that few women could ever be considered great painters, and I do not mean to put myself on a level with Miss Mary Moser or Miss Angelica Kauffmann, but I hope that this painting, with this sitter—” she suddenly seemed to recollect that the sitter was in the room, and smiled at me—“will establish me at least as a competent—”

“Oh, don’t talk nonsense,” Mr. Fredericks said.

Apparently unoffended by this piece of blatant rudeness, Miss Vincy turned to me and said, “I hope you will allow me to submit the picture to the Royal Academy. Mr. Fredericks, you do think it worthy?”

“It’s worthy. Oh, they’ll sky it, of course, but they’ll have to show it. It’s a damned fine piece of work. I’ll submit it myself, if you like.”

“The Royal Academy!” I exclaimed. “But, what do you mean, ‘sky it’?”

Miss Vincy explained, “At the Academy exhibition hall the best-known painters’ works are hung in rows at eye level, then the lesser known above that, and then the newcomers, those whose names are entirely unknown, are hung up near the ceiling—the sky, you see. Do you think that your mother would object to it being exhibited? If you wished, I could call it Portrait of a Lady, without identifying you by name.”

“I do not think she would have any objection,” I said slowly. “But . . . what about your mother and father? Will they allow your work to be displayed in public?”

I was very sorry to see the glow of happiness snuffed out like a candle. Her whole being appeared to droop; her gaze fell. “I do not know. But I suspect . . . I fear—”

Even Mr. Fredericks appeared somewhat crestfallen. “Old Vincy’s a good sort,” he said, “but he’s ruled in these matters by that mutton-headed woman, your mother.”

“Mr. Fredericks!” I protested.

Miss Vincy endeavored to hide a smile. “Really, Mr. Fredericks, I’d not think of calling my mother a sheep, precisely.”

“Well, a rhinoceros, then, barging about and trampling people.”

“Mr.—!”

“Oh, do hush, Miss Crawley,” he said irritably, “and let me think what is to be done. It will have to be submitted anonymously: Portrait of a Lady, by a Lady, sort of thing. Your mother need never know.”

“I couldn’t go behind her back,” said Miss Vincy, shaking her head.

I smiled. I knew the perfect solution to Miss Vincy’s dilemma. It was not one I could propose to either at this exact moment, but it would meet all difficulties with perfect propriety.

Mr. Fredericks eyed me suspiciously. “Why do you smile, Miss Crawley? You’ve some idea in that head of yours, I can tell.”

“No, indeed, not I!” I said. “I cannot imagine why you would think so.” But I could not help smiling again.

“Oh, Mr. Fredericks,” said Miss Vincy, coaxed out of her despondency by our banter, “when Miss Crawley gets that look on her face, I tremble. She is planning something, that is certain!”

And after all, I found I must just drop a hint. As we moved to join the rest of the company I said, “I suggest you both ask yourselves, what circumstances would allow Miss Vincy to exhibit the painting without fearing opposition from her parents?”

For of course, the answer to that was quite simple. If Miss Vincy were to become Mrs. Fredericks, her parents would no longer be in a position to raise any objections.

My companions turned questioning looks on me, but I would not enlighten them. Let them find out the solution themselves. With a little assistance from me, of course.



My plan of action was this: now that the portrait was completed I would reclaim my rightful share of Lord Boring’s attention—poor man, I would rescue him from Charity’s private little tête-à-têtes—and, once Mrs. Vincy saw that the Baron would never be a match for her daughter, she would cast about for another man to wed Miss Vincy. And who better than Mr. Fredericks?

Well . . . that is to say, there might be many better choices, could one scour all of England, but they were not here, on the spot, and Mr. Fredericks was. And in truth, I had rather revised my opinion of Mr. Fredericks of late.

The fact that I had been unjust to him at the Screaming Stones helped to prepare my mind for the realization that everyone I loved, everyone whose opinion I valued, liked and even admired him. When I had pointed out his lack of courtesy towards the ladies of my family, he was large-minded enough to take my reproof to heart and change his ways. And when I had said that I was glad to see him again earlier, it was no more and no less than the truth. As exasperating as he was, in an odd way he stimulated and amused me. While he had been away I had felt a certain bland sameness, as though my life lacked a sprinkle of salt and a splash of lemon juice.

I was pleased to think that the friendship between the two men meant that Miss Vincy and I need not be parted, and that I would be able to assist her in keeping her wayward husband in order. Sweet natured as she was, I could not help but think she might lack the necessary decisiveness.

However, I must attend to the first item on my agenda. I searched the drawing room for Lord Boring, who was nowhere to be seen. Nor, of course, was Charity.

I said to the room as a whole, “Miss Vincy was kind enough to allow me to see my portrait first, but she begs me to let you know that now I have seen it, it is on display in the library, and anyone who will is welcome to view it.”

As the group exclaimed and rose to go and see the picture, I said to Mr. Fredericks, “Perhaps you will fetch Miss Charity Winthrop and Lord Boring. I am sure they would be sorry to miss this opportunity to see it with the rest.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” said Mr. Fredericks. “Boring wouldn’t give two sticks for all the paintings in Somerset House. And as for that sister of yours—”

“Stepsister,” I corrected. “Whether they are or are not potential patrons of the arts, I am sure they would wish to join in the entertainment of the entire party.”

“Oh, very well, if you will have it so,” said Mr. Fredericks in a sour tone. “I suppose you merely want Boring to come and moon over your likeness. I am going, I am going,” he said hastily as he saw the look on my face, and exited the room.

It was true enough that I wanted to see Lord Boring’s reaction to the portrait, and in fact it was all I could have hoped. He seemed unaware of the aesthetic and technical skills involved in its creation and appeared to regard it as a simple tribute to my beauty; as being praiseworthy only because it mirrored my face. His gaze darted between image and reality, exclaiming at their similarity.

“How grateful an artist must be,” he observed to Miss Vincy, “to be presented with a subject so lovely.”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Vincy. “It is truly a gift.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Vincy in a sharp tone, “the subject ought to be grateful to have such a skilled painter, who can make the most of such charms as she is lucky enough to possess.”

“I entirely agree,” said I, trying not to laugh.

“I too,” said Charity, nodding her head vigorously. “I agree with Mrs. Vincy.” Charity was clearly annoyed at having her stroll with the Baron interrupted in order to view my portrait.

“In fact,” said Mrs. Fredericks, attempting to make peace, “it is a perfect match: an artist whose talent is crying out for a worthy subject and a subject whose beauty is crying out to be captured on canvas. And we have reason to be grateful the two have met.”

“Hmmph,” said Mrs. Vincy.

“Hmmph,” said Charity.

“Hmmph,” said Prudence, at a rare loss for the appropriate quotation which would link my image to Eternal Night and the Great Beyond.

Everyone else, however, seemed quite pleased. “It must be framed,” said Lord Boring at last. “I will ride over and have it done in York.”

“No,” said Mr. Fredericks. “I have arranged with Miss Vincy to take it to London.”

I turned and glared at Mr. Fredericks. Why should he so officiously insist on taking it to London, when the Baron and York would do quite as well, if not better? And when had he had the time to make this arrangement with Miss Vincy? No, he had merely determined that he wished to do so for some reason.

“London!” cried Mr. Vincy. “You’ve only just come from London. That’s a three-day ride.”

“I’ll allow a few weeks for the painting to dry and then I’ll be off,” said Mr. Fredericks.

“Look here, Fredericks,” protested Lord Boring. “I’d be pleased to have it done in York. Why the long journey for a small job? And I see no reason to wait—it appears to be dry already.”

“You are exhibiting your ignorance, Boring. You’d push this small miracle of a painting anyhow into your saddlebag and expect it to survive unharmed, wouldn’t you? No, sorry, but the matter is settled.” And Mr. Fredericks turned his back upon his employer and the head of his family and walked away.

I released a small hiss of annoyance. Mr. Fredericks, who had settled in a chair to my right, looked at me. “Yes, Miss Crawley?” he enquired.

I did not wish to explain that I had rather Lord Boring undertook the commission so that I would have occasion to consult with him about it. I therefore addressed another cause for irritation. “You were not half so solicitous about the paintings of Crooked Castle,” I murmured.

His eyebrows lifted. “Ah. I see. I thought you knew. I suppose it was your father who sold the originals. They are all copies, all but the little Stubbs. I thought so when I handled them, and the man I had up to clean them concurred.”

I sat back in my chair, absorbing this blow. I had counted on being able to sell the portraits some day if the wolves began to howl too loudly at the door.

Mr. Fredericks studied me with an expression in his eyes that I was afraid might be compassion. “There is always the Stubbs,” he said.

“Oh, no! I could not bear to part with that,” I replied, looking down at Fido in my lap. He nodded, understanding my reason.

I thought of him saying, “I hate to see things poorly made, cheap copies of good pieces and so on,” and I began to wonder. “The tapestries . . . ?”

“The one you are working on is the only one worth the effort of repairing,” he said promptly. “Have you ever heard of a Jacquard loom? Ingenious invention—uses punch cards to speed up the process. Yes, they’re copies, all the rest of them. Must have been done when you were a child.”

I bit my lip, remembering the long-ago days when Papa was still alive. I had been too young to understand how strange it was that, though so careful about money as a general rule, he would send first the portraits and then the tapestries away to be “cleaned.” And I remembered now how, when they had come back, they had looked so bright and new. They looked that way because they were new.

The tapestries could not be relied upon as a source of income in a pinch either. Very well.

I reverted to the original subject. “But why London?” I asked. “Could not a craftsman fit it with a frame in York as Lord Boring suggested?”

He smiled. “I have been giving some thought to your remark about the conditions under which Miss Vincy could exhibit the painting without opposition.”

“Oh,” I said. “And you . . . do you understand my meaning?”

“I believe I do,” he replied. “Since Miss Vincy cannot bear to deceive her mother, I propose to do so. I will submit it to the committee as soon as it is framed.”

“I see,” I said, exasperated. But I could not explain, as the matter was delicate. At that moment Lord Boring called me to duplicate the pose in the painting, so that he could compare the two, and I had no opportunity to make myself clearer.