Page 4

Lady Deborah positively grinned at her, not in the least offended by the challenge. ‘The Season is most dreadfully dull, is it not? I am sure you must have found it so.’

Bianca hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on here, but the afternoon was becoming entertaining, at least. ‘Appallingly. I had a full Season, years ago, which I greatly disliked, and I was delighted to be relieved by my aunt’s bequest of the necessity of enduring another.’

‘You’ve been travelling?’

‘I accompanied my mother and my old governess to Italy, taking in the sights along the way. Extensive foreign travel has been difficult for most of my life, of course, so it was a wonderful opportunity – to see art, and learn from it, as much as anything else. And my mother chose to stay in the land of her birth, once there.’

‘But you have come home to try to establish yourself as an artist?’ If Lady Deborah thought this a peculiar ambition for a woman, she gave no sign of it.

‘Yes, but I don’t yet know if this will be possible.’

‘Why not?’ The Dowager was brisk. ‘Others have done so; women, in any case, if not quite ladies. You will observe that the portrait of my late mother over the mantel is by Madame Le Brun, and a very good likeness, too. My nephew has a pretty allegory by Madame Kauffman hanging in one of the rooms downstairs. Why should you not do as well, if you have talent and determination? I understand two of your works have been accepted for the summer exhibition at the Royal Academy. Indeed, I know they have, for I have seen them. I thought them very fine.’

Bianca found herself blushing at the unexpected compliment. ‘Thank you! I don’t know how you know all these things.’

Lady Deborah shrugged magnificently. ‘I pay attention to what I see and hear; you must have observed that most people do not, and so it seems surprising when one encounters it. I was interested to meet you. One is obliged to tolerate so many empty-headed people in society, and my own children, I am sorry to say, are most of them quite witless – taking after their poor father, naturally, who did not have as many brains as a sheep. Not a very bright sheep, at that. So I am rather starved of engaging conversation, apart from my nephew, now that he is back, and young Dawbney, who shows promise, I think, despite his extreme youth. I don’t suppose you encountered Lord Fairmount on your travels? He too has been abroad until quite recently, for his health.’

How odd; somehow Bianca had not pictured Adrian’s father as infirm. Or perhaps he was rather older than she had imagined. But then, she really knew nothing of him, and she could not enquire, or even express the hope that he was better, since he easily might not be. Consumptive persons often travelled to the Continent for their health, with indifferent success; poor Adrian, if it should indeed be the case that his papa was one of them. She smiled politely and shook her head. ‘I did not move in such exalted circles, ma’am, when overseas. I have been painting and studying, not going about in grand society.’

‘Quite right; a complete waste of time. Imagine journeying all that way and merely doing the pretty to the same sort of people one would meet in London, only the titles are different. I envy you the experience. Women of rank did not commonly travel when I was a young girl, and certainly my father would never have countenanced such a thing. My older brother went, of course, with no expense spared. He made a cake of himself in every capital of Europe, doing nothing but evading his tutor, drinking to excess, and consorting with women of low character, as though we did not have a sufficiency of such creatures here, as he of all men must already have known. What a wasted opportunity!’

Bianca laughed, liking her new acquaintance more with every word. ‘I don’t suppose things have changed so very much. But I was able to avoid such people, in the main.’

Lady Deborah said wistfully, ‘Now that I am widowed and independent of masculine control at last, so that I could go if wished, I find myself caught up in the affairs of my foolish family, and needed more than ever. It is most fatiguing and lowering to the spirit, I find. But never mind that. Would you paint Dawbney’s likeness? I will pay, of course, whatever your normal fee is. That is of no consequence. I think his father might be glad to have it.’

Bianca was becoming used to the lady’s abrupt manner by now, and so was not as taken aback as she might have been by the sudden change of subject. ‘I should be happy to,’ she replied with tolerable composure. ‘When would you like me to begin? I am quite at your disposal, ma’am.’

5

Bianca started her portrait of the young gentleman the very next day. Lady Deborah was keen for her to begin, suggesting a convenient morning hour that could be her regular time, and there seemed no reason to delay. She’d not been told if the child’s father was aware of the commission, or if the work was to be created in secret and revealed to him only when it was done; this sort of thing, she thought, was none of her business as a mere hired artist. Lady Deborah might enquire closely into her family circumstances, but she was not in a position to do the same in return, and really, it could not matter less.

She was ushered by the butler into a large, light room at the rear corner of the house, which was uncarpeted and gave the appearance of once having been a sculptor’s or an artist’s studio. Perhaps some previous inhabitant had dabbled in the arts, as aristocrats sometimes did. At any rate, it was sensibly furnished with what looked like cast-off chairs and tables from elsewhere, and would be ideal for the purpose.

Lord Dawbney was already waiting for her when she arrived. She was glad to see that his aunt had not ordered him done up in his best velvet clothes for posterity, like the Blue Boy; he was dressed in the same simple shirt and nankeen trousers that she’d seen him wearing before, as seemed more natural, and certainly better suited to her own style of work. ‘Good morning, Miss Bianca,’ he said, bowing to her again like a miniature courtier. ‘I hope you are well.’

‘I am, sir,’ she replied gravely. ‘And I hope you are too. Would you like to help me set out my materials in preparation?’

‘I would like nothing better,’ he replied, and she could not doubt that this was true. Many of her nephews and nieces were not to be trusted near her costly pre-mixed bladders of paint, being likely to get up to some messy, wasteful mischief with the colours if not strictly watched, but Adrian, she thought, was different. He confirmed this by saying seriously, ‘I was wondering if you would draw first, or go straight to painting. I have never had a portrait done of me before, so I do not know. Oh – that’s not true. I do not mean to mislead you, ma’am. Sir Thomas Lawrence, as he now is, painted me with my mama when I was a baby, before she became ill. But I don’t remember it, or him, so it doesn’t count, I don’t suppose.’

‘I’d like to see that,’ she replied. ‘I am a great admirer of Lawrence, especially his rendition of children.’ She wanted to ask him if his mama had died when he was small – she thought this must be the case, from what he’d just said – but she did not think it right to interrogate the child on such private matters, and perhaps distress him. That would be a bad beginning.

‘It’s not here, so you can’t,’ he said, as if truly sorry to disappoint her. He was a very painstaking, literal-minded child, reminding her a little of her sister Allegra when young. ‘It’s in the country at Fairmount, in the gallery. But we do have a great number of other good pictures here that you might like to see. I could show you the one with the shadows that I like, when you have done working one day.’

‘I would enjoy that. But shall we begin? I feel as though your aunt might appear at any moment and say that I have done nothing of what she is paying me for. I need to get something down as a starting point. I generally sketch a little first with one neutral colour of paint – my canvas has already been prepared. How would you be most comfortable? I am afraid you will have to be still for a good while, so it is important we choose a pose you can hold without discomfort.’

‘I can stand up,’ he said, apparently having already given some thought to the matter. ‘I don’t mind. I thinking sitting down would look a little odd, as if I were ill.’

And so she began, and they quickly developed an easy way of going on together, sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes chatting in a desultory fashion. The big house was quiet, and nobody disturbed them for a good long while, so she made excellent progress, and she was conscious of feeling exhilarated as she walked back across the square a couple of hours later. Everything was going so well.

6

It didn’t begin like a day that would quickly spiral into utter disaster.

Bianca and Adrian had established a convenient routine; she would cross the square to his father’s house at ten, work solidly on the portrait for an hour or more, and then give the little boy his own short painting lesson afterwards, which would be followed by a light shared nuncheon, which was invariably brought on a tray to the studio by the butler. Lady Deborah had appeared briefly one day and graciously approved the scheme, insisting on increasing the payment accordingly, despite Bianca’s protests that there was not the least need. But Bianca had still not set eyes on Lord Fairmount, Adrian’s only living parent, and had reached the point where she no longer expected to; she didn’t even know if he was in London at present, and it could be no concern of hers.

Miss Constantine was beginning to suspect, from the advanced nature of Lord Dawbney’s conversation, his ability to focus with fierce intensity, and the surprising skill he showed with pencil and brushes, that he was not just a boy whose speech was more developed than that of his contemporaries because he had spent most of his time with adults. She thought instead that he must be some sort of prodigy, and of quite exceptional intelligence, talent and application. He had Latin lessons before she arrived, early in the morning, and continued afterwards with other subjects, approaching his studies with eagerness rather than with ordinary childish reluctance; as far as she could see, he was soaking up knowledge like a sponge, as fast as it was presented to him.

She had not entirely abandoned the plan of introducing him to some younger members of her own family – even geniuses could be lonely, and she thought he was even if he didn’t know it – but at the moment, she could see he was enjoying having her to himself. Perhaps – and this was a thought to make one’s heart ache for him – this was because she was a young woman, unlike his aunt and nurse, and he had no mama.