Chapter Seventeen
The next day, the spinster’s lodger was seen walking towards the village. Of course, word had spread about him being an artist, and the men with their elbows on the scratched wooden surfaces of the old pine tables in the local tavern scoffed at the idea of making a living that way.
“Drawrin’ fer a livin’!” they said. “What kind o’ man does that? Must be a molly!”
They sniggered at the idea until Peter Uxbridge, the gamekeeper, cut in with, “Now then, I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t like a picture o’ my Duke. Lovely animal ’e is. Mouth like velvet and a better nose than any dog I’ve ever ’ad. ’E can smell a pheasant ’alf a mile off.”
That set them off talking about good animals they’d had in the past or still had.
They spoke with more fondness about an old dog or a long-dead pony than they ever had, or ever would, about their wives.
By the time they staggered off home, most of them were quite keen on having a picture of a favorite animal to adorn their cottage, provided it weren’t too dear, o’ course.
Harriet really enjoyed her first sitting because the artist’s attention was entirely on her.
He spent some time deciding on the location of the portrait, and had her perch decoratively in various spots around her drawing room.
Then, having chosen the best place, he asked her to sit in a throne-like chair, and begged permission to arrange her skirts.
He bent over her in the revealing amber silk evening dress she had chosen to be painted in, his warm breath on her plump, bare shoulders.
She was thrilled, and did not realize the artist was interested only in the play of light on skin and silk, and the harmony of the composition.
“Please wear the same gown for all the sittings,” he said, “The color is perfect.”
She preened, but was disappointed by his next remark.
“I shall need about three sittings, I think. After that, I need not bother you. I can finish it at home.”
“Oh, feel free to come here as often as you like,” she cried. “My drawing room is more spacious than dear Cynthia’s, and the light is much better. Those old homes are very dark.”
At her insistence, Harriet’s husband had built a villa for her along vaguely Italian lines.
It was long and white, with porticos running along the front.
The drawing room had tall windows overlooking the gardens at the back.
The one genuinely Italian item in the home was the throne-chair in which Mr. Fielding had chosen to paint her.
Her husband had bought it for her in London on the single occasion he had taken her there.
The light-filled room was perfect in the mellow, early autumn. It was often uncomfortably hot in midsummer, and in spite of heavy rust-colored velvet drapes, uncomfortably cold in the winter.
“Thank you, Mrs. Witherill,” the artist replied distractedly.
His attention was now entirely on his work.
He took out his pad and swiftly sketched the whole composition: the windows with their heavy, looped-back drapes, the opulent woman in the ornately carved, high-backed throne, clad in a sumptuous silk gown, a long row of beads looped around her neck, her glorious hair piled on her head, with ringlets hanging down over her ears.
He saw the light playing on the rusts, the amber and the gold, and imagined a Quattrocento wife to a wealthy Venetian, her head filled with nothing but her own comfort, serenely surveying the richness of her household.
The only discordant note was the black and white cat who kept struggling to get off her lap. Contrary to Harriet’s assertion, the animal would not sit still.
“I think,” said Mr. Fielding, frowning a little, “the portrait would be better with you alone. Your cat will make you fidget too much. Anyway, a black and white cat will spoil the effect. Only a tiger would do it justice.”
“Oh!” said Harriet, batting her eyelashes at him. “Do I look so fierce, then?”
“No,” said the artist, “You look magnificent.”
He, of course, was thinking of the composition, which in his mind had now taken on a life of its own.
In fact, it was her empty-headed self-satisfaction that made her a perfect model.
But she thought she had never heard such wonderful words.
She preened contentedly, and, had she but known it, looked at that moment to Mr. Fielding rather like a contented cat herself.
She was most disappointed to see him packing his sketchbook into his knapsack not long after this exchange, and standing up.
“You are not leaving?” she exclaimed, “I hoped you would stay for luncheon.”
She was careful not to say dinner, as the countryfolk did. She had never succeeded in weaning her husband off the habit, and it had irked her no end.
“That is exceedingly kind of you,” he replied, “but I have an errand I must run, then I need to go home to prepare my canvas and paints for tomorrow. With your permission, I shall wait on you at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
The light will be perfect. Please wear the same gown, coiffure and jewelry, and be ready to sit for three hours.
I hope you won’t find it too fatiguing.”
“I’m sure I shall not! I shall enjoy it no end. I am fascinated by the whole procedure.”
“You will not find me good company, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Fielding. “My whole attention will be on my work.”
“Of course, I understand.” The lady smiled, thinking that she would surely be able to distract him, just a little.
“Until tomorrow, then.” Mr. Fielding bowed, gave her his charming smile, picked up his knapsack and left her.