Chapter Nineteen
It turned out the sketch of Sam was the best advertising Mr. Fielding could have done.
Having seen it, a number of the customers either brought their dogs for him to draw on the spot, or left messages about wanting a picture.
When they found out he expected to be paid, some of them changed their mind, but most of them willingly parted with a shilling or sixpence, depending on what Andrew judged their financial situation to be.
This meant it was rare that he went home without silver in his pocket. Without saying anything, he deposited it in the drawer in the kitchen until Cynthia wondered out loud how it was that, after buying what was necessary for the household, there was more money there than before.
“It’s Mr. Andrew and ’is pitchers,” said Will. “Folks ’as bin payin’ ’im fer drawrin’ their animals. ’E gets a shilling a go, an’ ’e puts it in the drawer.”
“Mr. Fielding,” Cynthia reproached him. “You have paid handsomely for your board and lodging. You should not now be adding to the household kitty.”
“But I don’t remember paying for tailoring,” he said, with mock seriousness.
“You have given me a whole suit of clothes, together with a second nightgown and another shirt for daytime. You will be having a deputation from the tailors of Britain if you give away your services for free. It constitutes unfair trade practice.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Very well,” she said, “but no more! I insist that you keep what you earn. Once you start going further afield, you will need it.”
In fact, she took the extra money and put it aside for a Christmas goose. They hadn’t had one since her father had been alive, and she looked forward to the delicious smell on Christmas morning. In the meantime, she had never been happier in her life.
Mr. Fielding had decided Harriet’s sittings would begin in mid-afternoon because at that hour the golden light poured though the velvet curtains like honey.
The hour suited everyone very well. Harriet was not an early riser, and for Andrew, having the morning free meant he could help Cynthia with the hens and Will with the garden, and have his dinner at home.
Then he would spend an hour or so at the inn or at people’s cottages, completing animal commissions that included a couple of horses and even a cow, declared the best milker in the county.
Afterwards, he would make his way to Harriet’s and paint.
A couple of days it rained and Cynthia forbade him to go out in it.
He would catch a chill, she said. So those days he simply stayed at home.
The animal portraits could wait, Harriet could wait.
He chaffed Cynthia for being a tyrant, but, in truth, he was happy to stay with her in the parlor while she sewed.
He pretended to draw Teacup, but in reality he was trying to capture the loving calm of her face, with the contradictory gleam of fun in her eyes, even as she quietly mended worn-out socks.
Harriet was most disappointed at making no progress at all with Mr. Fielding on the personal front. He was always charming, but detached. He concentrated on his work and had no time or patience for anything else.
“You must be thirsty,” she said the first day of painting. “You have been working non-stop for two hours. Let me ring for some refreshment.”
She was astonished, and then a little hurt, at receiving no reply. She repeated her offer, a little louder.
“What? Sorry?” He lifted his head from the canvas. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Witherill. Did you speak?”
“Yes, I asked if you would like some refreshment. I can easily ring the bell.”
“No. Thank you. And I would prefer if you not move, or even speak. The light changes so fast and I want to capture it. I did say you would be sitting for three hours, did I not?”
“Yes, but…”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Witherill, but you must understand, I am working. This is not a social call.”
And with that, she had to be satisfied.
Determined to have him notice her as a woman, the next day, she arranged the bodice of her gown lower than on the previous occasions. Her plump breasts were even more exposed. And to complete the effect, between them she nestled a diamond and silver cross hung on the string of amber beads.
When she took her place on her throne, he frowned and looked down at his painting, then up at her.
“Why have you altered the arrangement of your bodice?” he asked without preamble.
“”Did I? I wasn’t aware of it.” She looked down at her décolleté with some satisfaction.
“Yes you did. And please remove that appalling cross. It’s glinting like a sixpence in a Christmas pudding.”
She gasped, and her hand went to the offending item. “I’ll have you know, my late husband gave me this. It was very expensive.”
“I don’t doubt it, and it is a lovely thing, but it is entirely out of place in this portrait,” said the artist. Then, as he saw a mulish look come into her face, he said, “Mrs. Witherill, I do not wish to hurt your feelings. Quite the reverse. I am determined to make the best portrait of you I am capable of, but you must allow me to decide what that will be. Please believe me and do as I say. I would like you to go upstairs and arrange yourself exactly as you were yesterday. You were perfect.”
How could she argue with that? She did as he had asked, and remained obediently silent for the rest of the sitting.
As she sat there, she reflected she was glad he’d said he only needed three sittings.
He was good looking, but he would be a dreadful husband, wanting everything his own way.
That was not her idea of a husband at all.
And though he was endlessly attentive when it came to the portrait, he was clearly not interested in her as a woman.
He didn’t even seem to admire her. This was so surprising.
If she’d known the term, like the men in the inn, she might have wondered if he was a Molly.
At last, the portrait was done. Without letting anyone see it, Mr. Fielding sent it to London to be framed.
He had persuaded Harriet to pay for this, saying only a sumptuous wide, carved gold frame would do the subject justice.
Even though she didn’t see the finished portrait, she was sure he was right.
As it grew under his brush, she could see the painting was very good, but did not know why.
She didn’t understand that the woman in it was herself, but more than her. It transcended her.
The unveiling was to be in her villa on a Friday evening in early October.
She had invited the Rector and all the members of the parish council and their wives.
These men, endowed with the authority of the Church and the State, oversaw all the activity in the village.
The most important of the tenant farmers were also invited.
The lord and lady from the Big House were to be the guests of honor.
This noble couple had been disinclined to accept the invitation, but then Lady Bushnell had remarked that if the portrait was any good, she might have the artist do their Genevieve.
She was coming out in the next season and looked the best she was probably ever going to look.
Besides, her brother and sister had been painted at the same age.
“Well, if he can do anything with that scowl she has permanently on her face, he’ll be a magician,” grumbled her husband.
As for the coming out, he doubted Genevieve would ever get an offer, with the phiz she had on her.
But he knew his wife was already planning it, and it was only fair.
They’d done the same for their elder daughter and it had been a marked success.
She’d received a number of advantageous offers and in the end had accepted Bronwell’s son.
He was worth damned near ￡12,000 a year.
The Lord only knew how much Genny’s coming-out would set him back, first and last. The white lace dress alone would cost a fortune.
Then they’d have to hold a ball with champagne, lobster patties and all the trimmings, for people he hardly knew.
Luckily, he had been able to go in with old Doncaster on what promised to be a good investment.
He stood to make a nice little sum, which would pay for it all.
So he agreed to go to the unveiling and see what the artist could do.
Harriet was delighted. She told Cynthia it would be a glittering soirée. She had ordered pink biscuits, which she had heard were de rigeur with champagne in Paris. It would be the affair of the season.
“Mr. Fielding says I should wear the same gown I have on in the portrait. What do you think of that?” she asked her friend.
“If Mr. Fielding says that, I’m sure he’s right,” answered Cynthia with conviction. “You will outshine us all. I only have my blue gown, I’m afraid.”
It was a glittering affair. The portrait stood on an easel covered with a filmy black cloth, placed at an angle to the tall windows, with the rust colored velvet drapes looped up behind it.
The late afternoon sun put on its best autumn coat of many colors, glowing into the room and around it.
At the appropriate moment, the Rector, who had been asked to perform this service, removed the black cover with a flourish and presented the portrait with the words, “My Lady, my Lord, ladies and gentlemen, I present Mrs. Harriet Witherill, in a portrait executed by Mr. Andrew Fielding.”
“I’m sure I’ve heard that name somewhere,” muttered Lord Bushnell to his wife, “but heaven knows where.”
But she wasn’t listening. Her eyes, along with those of everyone else in the room, were fixed on the portrait.
The lady in the painting was undoubtedly their neighbor.
They all recognized her. But it was so much more.
It forced you to admire her. Cynthia looked at it in amazement.
How had he done it, she wondered. It was Harriet, and it wasn’t.
Her friend was essentially a simple creature.
Under his brush, she became empowered womanhood. It was astounding.
There was a spontaneous burst of applause, then everyone was talking at once.
Both Harriet and the artist were besieged by flattering attention.
Cynthia stood in a corner watching them.
She felt shy, all of a sudden: shy of facing her friend, and even shyer of Mr. Fielding, whom she had teased about his endless sketches of Teacup, but who had revealed himself as a very fine artist indeed.