- -
- 100%
- +
She leapt up so fast she almost hit her head on the carriage.
Out on the street, Bert, the coachman, had opened the door and put the box down for her. ‘Here we are.’ He rubbed his forehead and glanced about dubiously. ‘Are you sure this is the place you’re wanting?’
Briskly, she stepped down into the street and adjusted her skirt. No turning back now. ‘Yes, this is it. Will you mind waiting for me, Bert?’
‘I’ll be here.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘Anything for you, Lady Catherine Mary.’
Tying her bonnet with a firm bow, she set off against the wind. In spite of spending much of her life in London, there were parts of the city she barely knew. She certainly never stopped in Soho. The family carriage always drove through. She had expected the soot and dirt, certainly, but not the vibrant activity sweeping her along the cobbled road. Spread with straw and litter, the busy street echoed with the sounds of carriages and carts, horses’ hooves, and vendors shouting their wares. There were shops, too, with people going in and out, tinkling the doorbells. The smell from the fishmonger’s window, full of shoals of mussels and oysters, reached her before she saw it and a yeasty odour emanated from empty barrels outside a public house, a sign with a lamb painted on it swaying above the door.
Through the crowd she hurried, past two fighting boys, their mothers with baskets on their arms chatting to each other uncaring of the scuffle, and past a flower seller who offered with a toothless grin to sell her a bunch of daisies. A young woman in a low-cut bodice standing on a corner sent her a brazen glare. With a gulp Cameo hastened on.
In front of a tall red-brick building she checked the number. Yes, this was the address of the infuriating Benedict Cole, yet in front of her stood a bakery, the scent of hot bread and buns wafting out every time a customer opened the door. The artist must live upstairs, but there was no obvious way to get in.
A girl sat on the pavement nearby, shabby and meek, with bare feet and a shawl around her thin shoulders.
‘Matches,’ she called hoarsely, ‘matches.’
Cameo crouched down and smiled. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, miss.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘It’s Becky, miss. Do you want some matches?’
‘I don’t have any money with me.’ Why hadn’t she brought her reticule with her? She normally did, for she kept a tiny sketchbook and sharpened pencils inside, but she’d rushed out in such a hurry. ‘I’ll bring you some another day, I promise.’
The girl sighed. ‘That’s all right.’
‘I will, Becky. Perhaps now you can help me. Do you know how to get in to where the people live upstairs?’
‘You go round the back, miss, down that alleyway. There’s a red door.’
‘Thank you,’ Cameo called, already moving away.
A cat yowled as she entered the dingy alley. For a moment she hesitated before she picked her way through the sodden newspaper, broken glass bottles, cabbage stalks and something that looked like—no; it couldn’t be. Edging around the rubbish, she narrowly avoided a puddle of something that looked and smelled worse.
The red door, if the flakes of peeling paint identified it as such, was ajar. At her touch it swung open wider, creaking.
Inside the cramped entrance hall, she stared, half fascinated, half appalled. She’d never visited such a rundown establishment. The walls had been white once, perhaps, but now they were an indeterminate colour, yellow or cream, with water marks at the bottom, where the damp had crept in. A staircase with a worn green runner lay directly in front of her, the woodwork scuffed and dull.
Dust dirtied her white-kid gloves as she gripped the banister. She brushed them on her skirt. Up two narrow flights of steps she climbed, passing closed doors on each landing, checking numbers as she went and up a third flight, which was narrower still.
Out of breath, she reached the attic door at the top. It bore no number, just a name plate beside it, simple and beautiful. She hadn’t expected something so unique. Carved from a piece of oak, a pattern of leaves and berries had been etched on to its square edges, and at the centre scrolled the name: Benedict Cole.
Well, now, Benedict Cole. You’re about to receive a surprise visit from a society lady.
Her heart drummed as she rapped on the door. No reply.
Under her skirts she tapped her foot. She knocked again, harder.
The door flung open. Cameo gasped and fell backwards at the sheer force of the man who glowered in front of her, his fist gripping a paintbrush. Benedict Cole. She knew it with a certainty flaming inside her belly. Tall, with dark hair that swooped over his forehead, he wore a loose, unbuttoned painting shirt covered with blotches of dried oils in a frenzy of colours. Yet his eyes held her attention. Dark brown, under heavy black brows, they blazed with a fierce inner light that seared into her very soul.
‘You’re too late.’ His educated accent held an unexpected warm burr.
With a huge gulp of air she tried to steady her ragged breathing. ‘Too late?’
‘I’m too busy to see you now.’ He started to close the door.
‘Wait! I must see you. You are Benedict Cole?’
He scowled. ‘Who else would be working in my studio?’
‘Please. Just give me a few minutes of your time.’
Eyebrows drawn together, he studied her. ‘You’ve seen the notice.’
‘The notice...?’
‘Will you please stop repeating every word I say? Are you dim-witted as well as unpunctual? Yes, my notice seeking a new model. I have a major new work in mind.’
‘You’re looking for a model. For your painting.’
‘How many times do we have to have this conversation? If you’re not here to be considered, then why exactly are you here wasting my time?’
In a flash, she realised what had happened. ‘Well, actually...’
‘Well, actually what?’ he mimicked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer.
How dare this man speak to her in such a manner? In person he was just as rude as in his letter, even ruder if that were possible. Cameo opened her mouth to tell him of his mistake in no uncertain terms and then snapped it shut again.
Her mind whirred. He’d made it clear he didn’t wish to provide painting lessons to Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. Now, upon seeing him, he appeared to be the kind of man who would never change his mind.
Cameo smiled. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr Cole. You’re quite right. I’ve come to be your model.’
Chapter Two
‘As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,
She stood.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Benedict Cole arched his eyebrow. ‘You’d better come in and let me look at you.’
Leaving the door ajar, he turned away. ‘Are you coming in or not?’
Cameo followed him into the studio. Was it necessary for him to be so abrupt? He turned his back on her, something that was never done in society. Yet her irritation vanished as she surveyed her surroundings. Why, the studio was exactly the kind of space she had always wished she might have one day. The light that flooded in from the windows was so much better than in the drawing room at home. It glinted on the tools of the painter’s trade scattered everywhere: papers, pots of oil paints, rags, bottles and brushes, and canvases propped against the walls. A huge easel, much stronger than her slender folding one, dominated the room. There were no fine carpets to worry about here, just wooden floorboards, scratched and worn.
Her eyes closed. She savoured the smell of oil paint and turpentine permeating the studio. No perfume had ever smelled so sweet. Upon opening her eyes, she encountered the artist’s stare.
‘Are you quite well?’
A flush heated her cheeks. ‘I like the smell of oil paints and turpentine, that’s all.’
‘That’s unusual. Many models complain about it. They say it makes them feel ill.’
‘How could anyone not like the smell of paints?’
‘It’s a point in your favour.’ He threw aside his paintbrush and beckoned. ‘Come over by the window.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think? I need to see you in a proper light.’
To her surprise her hands trembled beneath her gloves. She walked over to the window on legs that were also unsteady.
‘Take off your coat and your bonnet.’ His impatience was barely concealed. ‘I need to see your face.’
With effort she bit down the sprightly retort that sprang to her lips. Removing her pearl-tipped hat pin, she dropped her bonnet along with her grey woollen coat on to a faded brocade chaise longue pushed up under the window.
He gave a sharp intake of breath.
‘Is this what you...?’
‘Be quiet,’ he snapped. ‘I need to look at you, not listen to you.’
He must be the most insufferable man she had ever met. No one had ever spoken to her in such a way. Cameo fumed as he stared at her with increasing intensity.
‘Take down your hair.’
Her gloved hands flew protectively to her head.
He responded with an impatient shake of his own. ‘How can I see you as you should be when your hair is in that, how can I put it...’ He gave a dismissive wave. ‘Overdone style? I must see it loose. The painting will require it.’
An overdone style. Her mama’s French maid had done it in the latest fashion, with ringlets down both sides, that morning.
‘What’s the matter now? Did you come here as a model or not?’
His words renewed her purpose. One by one, she took the pins from her hair and dropped them on to the chaise longue, sensing Benedict Cole behind her watching each move. She slipped out the last hairpin. Curls whispered at her neck as strands of long, black curls loosened from their ringlets and loops, tumbling about her shoulders, foaming down her back.
Twirling towards him she met his dark eyes. She couldn’t break his gaze even if she wanted to.
At last he spoke. His voice had become husky. ‘This is extraordinary. I’ve been thinking of a painting for many months now. I imagined a woman with hair and eyes in exactly your colour. I began to think I may never find her and that perhaps I imagined such shades. You’re precisely the model I’m looking for.’
Cameo clasped her fingers together as a thrill raced through her. ‘You want me in your painting? Me?’
As if she were no longer in the room, he turned away. She heard him mutter to himself, ‘Yes, I can do it.’
‘Do what?’
He spun around with a scowl. ‘You must keep silent if you model for me.’
‘I will keep silent when I’m modelling, but I’m not modelling now.’ She reached to pick up her bonnet. ‘Nor do I wish to do so if you’re going to be quite so rude.’
‘Wait.’ He made an apologetic gesture and sent her an unexpected smile. ‘You’ll have to forgive the moods of an artist. I’m not one for social niceties when I’m painting. You need to understand that.’
‘I do understand that,’ Cameo retorted. ‘But you have to understand. If I am to be your model, I will require them.’
‘You require social niceties?’ He studied her for a long moment with an expression impossible to fathom. He moved over to the fireplace and indicated a chair. ‘Come and sit down. There are a few questions I need to ask you.’
Cameo’s stomach lurched. She’d almost given herself away. Her temper mustn’t get the better of her.
This was her only chance.
Trying to appear subdued, she followed Benedict Cole to the fireplace. Papers and books lay on each available surface, even on the armchair.
‘Just move those,’ he said irritably.
She placed the pile of books on a gateleg table and sat. Horsehair poked out in tufts on the arms of the chair and, judging by the hard feel of it beneath her, there wasn’t much left in the seat either.
With one hand, he dragged a straight wooden chair opposite her after dropping more papers on the floor with an easy, casual gesture. No wonder his studio was so untidy. It was unimportant to him. His surroundings took second place to his work, while she spent most of her painting time spreading sheets and tidying away.
His face was half-shadowed and he didn’t speak for a long moment. Unnerving enough when he stood staring at her, now he was seated, his closeness became even more alarming.
Cameo’s heartbeat quickened.
‘So you want to be an artist’s model?’
‘Ah, yes.’
He gave her another of his long-considering examinations. ‘Forgive me. You’re different from the other girls I’ve seen who want to be models.’
He suspected her already, she realised with dismay. ‘Different? In what way?’
‘Your voice suggests you’ve been raised a lady,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does your request for social niceties. As do your clothes.’
‘I wore my best to see you.’ With trembling fingers she smoothed her foulard skirt, a mix of silk and cotton. Did she dare try to put on an accent? No. She’d never make it work and it seemed horrid, too. ‘This is my finest gown.’
His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, why is it you’re seeking employment?’
‘I have little choice in seeking employment.’ She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve fallen on hard times.’
‘Have you indeed?’
‘Yes. I’m alone in the world and I have few options for an income.’
Crossing one long trousered leg over the other, he leaned back. ‘Tell me more about yourself. First, what’s your name?’
There was no way she could supply her real name. She cast a quick look down at her dress. The colour? Too obvious. ‘My name is Ashe. Miss Ashe. With an e.’
‘With an e,’ he drawled. ‘And your first name, if I may enquire?’
Surely it was safe enough to use her nickname. ‘It’s Cameo.’
His head reared. ‘Cameo? I’ve never heard of a girl named Cameo before.’
‘I was a foundling.’ She pointed to her necklace. ‘I was found with this necklace, so I was called Cameo.’
His intent gaze fell to the neck of her dress, where the stone nestled. He seemed to take in more than her necklace. ‘It’s a fine piece.’
Her cheeks burned. ‘Yes. It is very fine.’
‘You say you were found with it. Your mother must have been a person of quality.’
‘My mother may have been of quality. She may have been a lady.’ Cameo found she was quite enjoying making up a new life story, her indignation driving her imagination. ‘Though perhaps my father was a gentleman, perhaps he gave her the necklace. It’s often a gentleman who takes advantage of a poor, innocent girl.’
He arched a winged eyebrow. ‘Is it?’
‘I believe so.’
As he leaned over, a strong masculine scent mixed with turpentine and paint reached her. ‘Some people invite trouble, don’t you think?’
The horsehair prickled through her dress as she shifted away from him. Suddenly she became aware of the danger of being alone in a room with a man to whom she hadn’t been introduced. Her mama would have fainted away. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Cameo.’ He lingered on the word. ‘The word is Greek. Tell me more about your necklace.’
‘There’s little else I know about it. Though I’m sure it was a tragedy. I have a strong feeling my mother never left me willingly. I think she was forced to give me up. Perhaps my wicked father gave her this necklace and she left it with me as a keepsake or perhaps, as you say, she was of quality and owned it herself. In any case, it was found with me.’
‘Where?’
‘In my swaddling clothes.’
‘No, where were you found?’
The question floored her, but only for a moment. ‘There’s a place near Coram Fields in Bloomsbury. Foundlings have long been left there.’ Luckily her mama had given money to help the unfortunate foundlings only a few months before.
Still he seemed suspicious. ‘And who found you?’
‘Nuns,’ Cameo replied wildly. ‘Nuns found me. Then a kind genteel lady took me in and raised me as her own.’
‘And her name was?’
‘A Mrs...’ From her sleeve she edged out her lace handkerchief to play for time. ‘Cotton. That was her name. Poor Mrs Cotton. She had no family of her own, so she took me in. As I grew up I became her companion.’ With a corner of the handkerchief she dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s sad. She died close to a year ago. After that I was all alone. It is thus you find me, seeking employment.’
He crossed his arms. ‘It’s a strange story.’
‘Not so strange. There are many others who have found themselves in my sorry position. I cast myself upon your mercy, sir,’ she added, with a dramatic flourish.
A smile seemed to play at the corner of his lips and then vanished. ‘So you’re at my mercy, is that right?’
The sense of danger came back as she swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’
He stood and dropped a log on to the fire. With a blackened poker he made sparks fly. Turning back, he leaned casually against the chimney piece and crossed his long legs, the poker still in his grip. ‘There’s other, more suitable employment than being a model. You might work in a shop or be a governess or be a companion to another lady.’
The thought of Lady Catherine Mary St Clair working in a shop made her duck her head to hide a smile. ‘That’s true. And it may come to that now Mrs Cotton is gone.’ She dabbed at her eyes again with her handkerchief for effect.
Deftly he dropped the poker into a brass pot on the hearth. ‘Being an artist’s model is not the most respectable occupation, Miss Ashe. Not all the girls are from such a genteel background as yours, raised as you were by the good Mrs Cotton.’
‘What’s the usual background of models?’
‘They’re generally girls who work in shops and factories. Have you heard of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood?’
Had she heard of them? ‘Yes, I’ve heard of them... I mean, I think so.’
‘One of the Brotherhood, John Everett Millais, has recently been painting Shakespeare’s Ophelia. The model for his painting is called Lizzie Siddal and she was discovered working in a hat shop. She’s going to be married to another member of the Brotherhood, Dante Gabriel Rossetti.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Not many do. But the artist-and-model relationship is one that often becomes...intimate.’
Cameo’s cheeks tinted yet again. How she wished she might stop blushing in this man’s presence.
‘Lizzie had to lie in water for hours on end in the painting to show Ophelia drowning and she nearly died. Modelling can be dangerous.’
‘I’m not afraid of danger.’ If only he knew. Just by being here she risked everything.
His brow lifted. ‘Is that right?’
‘Where else do artists’ models come from?’ she asked quickly to change the subject.
‘In the past it’s not been unknown for models to have come from the streets.’ An alarming glint sparked in his eyes. ‘As I said, modelling is not the most reputable occupation. Fallen women, kept women, mistresses, whatever you wish to call them—many have modelled for paintings.’
Cameo gripped her gloves together. She refused to reveal to Benedict Cole that his mention of mistresses and kept women shocked her, even if she never openly discussed such scandalous topics. ‘I’m merely an admirer of art. That’s why I seek employment as a model. Many a wet afternoon have I spent looking at paintings in a gallery.’ No need to mention that the gallery where she’d spent most time recently was the Royal Academy, where she’d been spellbound by his work.
‘I’m not sure you’re being entirely honest with me, Miss Ashe. But...’
Her breath caught in her throat.
‘But you’re ideal for my next painting. You’re hired.’
She exhaled. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll thank me when we’re working,’ he warned. ‘Being a model is not the easy job many young women think it will be. I shall require you to sit without moving for hours at a time, every day. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Wasn’t half her life spent sitting bored at dining tables and in drawing rooms? ‘I’ll have no trouble with that.’
‘I’ve already completed a lot of the background work so I don’t need you for that. The work is partly complete.’ The wooden chair scraped across the floor as Benedict sat by the fire again and pushed his dark hair from his brow. ‘Do you have any questions for me?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then you’re unusual. You haven’t asked the question most models ask the minute they walk in the door.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Payment, Miss Ashe,’ he drawled. ‘Most models are interested in how much they will be paid. Since you’re experiencing such—how did you put it?—hard times, I expected payment to be of the utmost importance to you.’
Beneath her layers of petticoats she gave herself a kick. ‘Oh.’
‘Perhaps it is your preference for social niceties preventing you making mention of the sordid topic of coin? Will a shilling each session be satisfactory?’
‘Is that the customary rate?’ she asked boldly.
His mouth curved. ‘I’m not trying to cheat you.’
‘Then that will be perfectly satisfactory.’
‘You’re most trusting, Miss Ashe.’
She dragged her attention away from him and his sardonic expression. ‘I do have a question. The painting’s subject—what is it?’
‘That’s a question I can’t fully answer now. I can only tell you it’s based on a poem by Alfred Tennyson. You know the poet’s work, perhaps.’
‘Mrs Cotton was fond of his work, as our dear Queen Victoria is,’ she replied, as her mind went immediately to the fine leather-bound volume of the poet’s work she kept on her bedside table. She had read the poems over and over again, revelling in the romance and passion, wishing she could make her paintings speak in such a way.
‘Many painters today are drawing on Tennyson’s work for inspiration. I must warn you, the painting may not be what you expect.’ He allowed a silence to fall between them for a moment. ‘How can I put this in a way to suit your delicate sensibilities...?’
Her skin rippled as his all-encompassing artist’s stare lingered over her. ‘Let me just say the painting will be somewhat—revealing.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, Mr Cole.’
‘The painting will not be like your cameo. That is a profile of a woman’s face. But my painting will not merely be of your face. What I have in mind will require I make a study of...your form.’ Once again his gaze wandered over her.
‘I see.’ Her stomach gave another of those mysterious lurches. ‘To what extent will my...form...be displayed?’
‘You need have no fear.’ A smile flickered at the corners of his strong mouth. ‘I will produce a work acceptable to common standards of decency and at this stage it’s a private project. In the painting, you will appear in a simple white gown. But in order to paint you as I wish, you may need to show parts of yourself which ordinarily you do not. But even among artists, I can assure you, there are proprieties we observe.’
‘I’m no prude, Mr Cole.’ She gulped. ‘I will model to your requirements, assuming all the necessary proprieties are observed.’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t consider proceeding otherwise. Then we are agreed. Can you come tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Somehow, she’d find a way.
‘Come in the morning at nine o’clock. The sun will be at the right angle.’ He stood, ending the interview.
‘Thank you for calling,’ he added, with a somewhat teasing politeness.
Cameo got to her feet and replied coldly, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Cole. I will see you tomorrow.’
‘Miss Ashe. I think you’ve forgotten something.’ His voice halted her as she picked up her coat and bonnet. ‘Your hair.’
Why, she’d been sitting there the whole time in the company of a strange man with her hair down! Frantically she found the hairpins she’d dropped on to the chaise longue and began to pin up her heavy mass of hair. How could she restore it to her previous style, without the help of her mama’s maid? After a few attempts, she gave up. With a few hairpins, she coiled it into a spiral at the back of her head and pinned it in place. He made no comment, but she knew Benedict Cole missed nothing of her clumsy work.