He took a seat, pretending consideration while he attempted to push away the nightmare.
But would it be catharsis to face his memories head on and, in painting them, exorcise them from his mind?
Then again, was there something deeper at play? Why red rose petals? Why a girl in a white dress floating in water?
He had to rid his mind of what could only be ridiculous, unfounded conspiracies. Each of the other two painters would be doing the same pain
ting, and they’d not be reacting as he was. Only if he could ground himself in common sense and allow his professionalism to dominate would he turn something good out of something bad.
“You’ve done well, Lady Vernon,” he said. “And since Miss Westaway is already in position, I shall have my paints brought in and begin while there is still light.”
A great weariness had cast its pall over the horror and fear. He was a survivor. At least, his reputation had survived, if not his soul.
“It’s a strange question, I know, Miss Montague, but are you comfortable?”
She opened her eyes. “Unconventional, to say the least, but this seems innocuous compared to the stories I’ve heard from other artist’s models.”
“Who?”
“I spoke to several at the unveiling.”
Of course, she would have. She was a young lady who didn’t make up things. She liked to have her facts straight. Well, if he were going to be closeted with her in close confines for the next seven days, it would help to have some diverting conversation. Lady Vernon promised little enough of that.
He set up his easel and mixed his paints in the poor light, augmented by a sconce of candles and a lamp. For now, he was glad Lady Vernon stood stiffly by, or rather, had seated herself on a wooden chair at right angles to him. She’d better stay the entire time too, he thought, if he were not to be distracted.
Distracted? He had his work to keep him focused.
Time passed in a blur but he was jolted into the present by the sound of a loud clapping, and looked up to see Lady Vernon in the act of rising, her command accompanied by, “Mr Westaway, my charge might be in no danger of drowning in a bath, but she certainly is in danger of getting pneumonia.”
“My apologies! Please, you must get dry.” Without thinking, he put out his hand to help Miss Montague to rise, and she stood up, dripping before him, her gown clinging to her curves, entirely transparent though she appeared not to realise this as she asked with just a trace of coyness, “Wasn’t I as still as the dead, Mr Westaway? That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Crispin wasn’t sure what he wanted. He didn’t want to paint her dead, and he certainly didn’t want her standing in front of him now leaving so little to the imagination. Because the bath was elevated a foot or so off the ground, he found himself almost eye level with her breasts. And, of course, the effect of the cold was to highlight her nipples through the thin fabric.
Crispin didn’t know where to look. Lady Vernon appeared to be occupied with arranging her bustle into the correct folds as she stood while Miss Montague was smiling happily at Crispin, taking the hand he offered her and leaning heavily on him to avoid slipping as she stepped over the side.
“You were perfect, Miss Montague,” he managed, desperately conscious of the brief contact when one soft breast was slightly indented by his hand in the final movement.
Still, she did not seem to notice, chattering happily, though with chattering teeth, as the maid draped her in a towel and began to squeeze out the water from her skirts over the bath.
“The perfect drowned damsel, and now I no doubt resemble a water rat.” She took a hank of her glorious hair and twisted it over her shoulder.
“You must sit in front of the fire and get yourself thoroughly dry.” Lady Vernon managed to make a no doubt well-intentioned suggestion sound like a threat.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” said the young girl heading towards the door before she was halted by her chaperone’s voice, “You’ll dry your hair in your bedchamber and not disturb Mr Westaway with your foolish talk when now is the time for him to relax after his hard work.”
Crispin hadn’t realised he’d even said the words that encouraged them to join him in his drawing room before Lady Vernon was accepting and Miss Montague was clapping her hands and saying, “I’ve been dying to ask Mr Westaway his thoughts on Alsace-Lorraine. You will indulge me, won’t you, Mr Westaway?”
What could he do except nod, even though Crispin knew that it was dangerous to exchange political views with anyone, and especially not a wide-eyed ingénue whom he’d now seen, firsthand, combined the most desirable curves with a mind like a whip and a face like an angel.
The crackling fire provided very welcome and much-needed warmth, for the cold had seeped through Faith’s bones. Lady Vernon’s command had come in the nick of time, and now, to Faith’s delight, Lady Vernon was rubbing her eyes and declaring she could not remain a moment longer in the heated drawing room without falling fast asleep.
“I should stay, of course, Faith, but your hair is not yet dry. Promise me you’ll be up in the next five minutes.”
Faith flashed a look at Mr Westaway and saw he looked uncertain in the wake of Lady Vernon’s departure. Quickly, she said as the door closed behind the old lady, “I wonder if you wouldn’t be so kind as to take over the brushing from Lady Vernon, otherwise my hair will be the most unmanageable tangle.” She handed him the brush to detain him when she was certain he was about to excuse himself. “I’m sure you must be used to such requests from female cousins.”
Mr Westaway shook his head but had no choice but to take the brush she thrust into his hand. Obediently, he followed her to the chair vacated by Lady Vernon while Faith dropped down upon the footstool. “Lady Vernon doesn’t like me,” she confided on a sigh. “I fear that I am a sore trial to bear, and that she enjoyed wielding the brush like a prison warder. I trust you’ll be gentler with me, Mr Westaway.”
Faith had to force herself not to smile when she felt, rather than saw, the effect her words had on him. So, she did wield some power, after all. She was just congratulating herself on making if only marginal success when, without pausing in his steady, thorough, yet decidedly gentle brushing, he said in a low, deliberate tone, “Lady Vernon should be more vigilant in keeping watch over you. It would not do for word to get out that she’d been lax.”