/> “Completely unnecessary. I have my own,” he muttered, but Lady Vernon was holding up one of the sable brushes and saying, “Perhaps this mystery person is signifying their knowledge of what is considered good quality in the art world. Or is that not true, Mr Westaway?”
Crispin had to concede that the materials were of the finest quality and now that the entire set was laid out, his earlier scepticism had been replaced by a definite itching of the fingers to get started. As he bent to pick up a brush, he intercepted Miss Montague’s smile. She looked as excited as he felt. Yes, as if she relished what lay ahead as much as he wished she would if it were to be good.
The painting. It was about the painting, of course, and she’d shown interest in art and culture, so they were on level ground in this instance.
“Roses?” He picked up a handful of crimson petals that must have been picked within the last twenty-four hours, then looked at Miss Montague. “You’re more a wildflower girl, with your delicate colouring, I’d have said, but perhaps I’m mistaken and the richness of these deep-hued petals will bring out something I’d overlooked.” He was considering her as the inanimate subject of his talent, not the vibrant flesh and blood creature who fed his inspiration, but Crispin needed some distance.
“And the title? What is the title of this painting?” Lady Vernon asked, picking up the paper with its instructions. The Lady of the Lake?” She looked from Faith to Mr Westaway. “I suppose you can interpret that any way you like, is that correct, Mr Westaway? Yet I am sure I’ve heard the title used before. However, you must use the props supplied, the instructions say. Water and red rose petals. It could be charming provided it doesn’t resemble a scene of carnage.”
“What do you mean?” Miss Montague frowned at her chaperone who gave a theatrical shiver, replying in a whisper, “Blood!”
Revulsion swept over Crispin, and he gripped the table edge to steady himself. These were not memories he could entertain if he were to do justice to the brief.
Miss Montague raised her brows before remarking, “I’m sure I’ve heard about a painting called The Lady and the Lake. Do you know it, Mr Westaway?”
The oil painting that featured a naked woman reclining on a rock had garnered a great deal of critical acclaim, and now Crispin found it was impossible not to look at Miss Montague and imagine what she looked like with no clothes on, reclining on a rock or, in this case, floating in a lake. He swallowed and stepped behind the table, saying, “Perhaps you’re mistaking it for John Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shalott.” Before she could contradict this with some incisive remark that she was sure she was not thinking about that painting, because Miss Montague’s mind was as sharp as a needle, he found himself taking her by the wrist and pulling her into the light by the window saying, in a contemplative, artist’s manner, “So many possibilities, but what would be best in this instance? A lake? I hadn’t thought there might be logistical difficulties.”
Lady Vernon’s nose crinkled as she stared through the window at the body of water in the distance. “Not especially appropriate with the reeds and ducks and mud and approaching storm clouds. I hope you don’t mean to drown poor Miss Montague for the sake of your art. Can she even swim?”
“I can’t swim.” Miss Montague shook her head. “But I can lie in a bath, and you could paint in a background afterwards.”
Faith had been told by Lady Vernon that this is what she must suggest. She supposed Lady Vernon thought that having Faith wearing diaphanous wet clothing might somehow entice Mr Westaway more thoroughly than otherwise. An outside body of water would have done just as well, but it was true that the weather was deteriorating while a bath would be heated. Not that Lady Vernon would have been thinking of Faith’s comfort.
Regardless of the motive, Faith was now experiencing her first pangs of self-doubt. Mr Westaway still didn’t look at her as if he couldn’t live without her. His scrutiny was decidedly painterly in an objective, distanced way. He had enough self-control that he’d buried his initial admiration beneath a veneer, possibly something much thicker than that even, of objectivity.
But he was a diplomat, after all. He needed to hide his emotions, so perhaps his real feelings were very different.
She continued to study him as he looked into her face, while she tried to read behind the mild interest in his expression. His interest seemed to be motivated by nothing more than where she should be posed and in what clothes.
“I daresay that would work,” he said as the first raindrops hit the windows. He smiled. “No, this weather is hardly conducive to outdoors painting, after all.”
“A bath,” announced Lady Vernon. “A heated bath for we don’t want Miss Montague to catch her death of cold.” Faith could read very clearly the gleam in Lady Vernon’s eye. No, her concern was far from Faith’s comfort. She wanted to control the situation as best she could. She had something planned; Faith was sure of it. Especially when the old woman said, “I have an idea, if you’ll permit me, Mr Westaway. May I be so bold as to prepare my young charge in what surely must be the only fashion that can be suggested by the props provided?”
What could Mr Westaway do? Faith smiled at the pained look that crossed his face. As she turned to follow in her chaperone’s wake, she quirked her mouth in a rueful smile, whispering as she passed him, “See what I have to put up with every day, Mr Westaway! If you let her have her way today, you can paint me however you choose later.”
When he winked at her, Faith felt a ridiculous jolt of pleasure. For a brief moment they were in collusion, and Lady Vernon was the common enemy.
Once inside the large bathroom, Lady Vernon closed the door and pointed to the clothing she’d laid out on the chair by the window. “Dress yourself in that while Kitty fetches the bathwater,” she said, directing the young undermaid who had followed them in.
In the city, the modern plumbing that Lady Vernon decried was a luxury unknown in this part of the world so, a dozen pails later, Faith lay submerged in a warm bath, her white gown floating about her, a simple posy of white flowers in her hands.
“Close your eyes, Faith, while I call Mr Westaway. But first…we’ll add the finishing touch.”
Chapter 15
Crispin trod the steps with mixed feelings, though he had to admit he was more than intrigued by Miss Westaway’s impish parting. She was not so pliable as she seemed. Previously, she’d been not as vacuous as she’d seemed. What would the next surprise be? The truth was, he knew he was going to enjoy the next few days more than he ought.
The next surprise, when he opened the bathroom door at Lady Vernon’s command, was not something for which he was prepared.
With the pleasure and anticipation of his parting from Miss Montague still fresh in his mind, the last thing he expected to find was the manner in which she’d been…prepared.
Good God, but the grey drizzle outside the small bathroom window was a good deal more comforting and easy on the eye than the horror that met him in the bath.
A girl dressed in white; her reddish-gold hair spread about her, holding a posy of flowers. And the bathwater. Red. Only, of course, these were red rose petals. He had to remember that.
He had to remember that he must never revisit this part of his past if he were to stay sane. Turning away to look through the window, he tried to regain control of his emotions.
“Striking, don’t you think, Mr Westaway?” Lady Vernon was smiling at him. “You can paint in the reeds and the river afterwards. Or had you thought to create an entirely different effect?”