Chapter Twenty-Two
Genevieve was silent for a few minutes, then, with the first look of animation he had seen on her face, she said, “I like animals more than people. I like working with them, looking after them, being with them. If I could, I’d live in the stables with the dogs and cats and horses and never see anyone who lives here ever again. ”
“Wouldn’t you be lonely?”
“No. My friend Bobby — Roberta — would stay with me. She likes animals, too. We… we want to have a small farm together and raise all sorts of livestock. Probably not horses, because they’re expensive and so sensitive and get ill easily.
No, pigs and goats and hens and geese and…
” Her voice tailed off. “It would be heaven!” For a moment she smiled at a vision only she could see.
Then her face changed back to its habitual scowl.
“But they’ll never let me! They want me to go to London and be presented and find a husband. ”
“Your parents? But it’s normal for them to want their children to settle down in the usual way.”
“I hate them.” Her voice shook and her eyes filled with tears. “They want me to be like them, and I never shall!”
With a few deft strokes, Mr. Fielding sketched her expression of defiant misery. He had it now.
Not commenting on her outburst, he said cheerfully, “Well, that’s it for today.
I shall come back tomorrow afternoon around two.
I need you to be dressed in that green gown, and I would like your hair brushed back simply, not too tight, held in the nape of your neck, preferably by a matching green ribbon, if you can find one.
Otherwise, black will do. You will be sitting in that pose for at least three hours, moving as little as you can. I hope it won’t be too uncomfortable.”
“I can stand it,” she said, with a watery smile. “I’ve had to sit at the dinner table for hours without fidgeting, while boring people prose on for hours about politics and things I have no interest in. I’m used to it.”
Fielding laughed. “Yes, I remember that myself. When I complained, my father said it was good training. But he never said for what. But obviously it was for having your portrait painted.”
“Or for being a murderer lying in wait for his victim,” said Genevieve, displaying an unexpected burst of imagination.
Lord and Lady Bushnell were astonished to hear their daughter and the artist laughing out loud.
“Well,” said his lordship, at least he’s wiped that scowl off her face for a bit, that’s something.” He was quiet for a moment, then wrinkled his brow and said, “And I still think I’ve heard the name Andrew Fielding before, but for the life of me, I can’t think where.”
Lord Bushnell offered to have Andrew driven to and from the manor house daily to do the painting of Genevieve, and he gladly accepted.
The young woman’s parents were astonished to find that their usually sullen daughter actually looked forward to the sittings.
She would wait for the sound of the carriage on the gravel, and run to open the door for the artist. They would hear the murmur of conversation coming from the small parlor, and wonder at it.
Their daughter never spoke more than two words to them if she could help it.
They, or at least, Lady Bushnell, were dying to see how the portrait was coming along. But from the start, the artist refused entry to the parlor while he was working, and asked for the key to the door so that he could lock it up when he left.
“It’s much easier if I don’t have to carry my paraphernalia back and forth every day,” he explained with his charming smile, “but I am very particular about my paints and brushes, so I prefer not to give anyone the opportunity to meddle with them. I’d prefer the maids not clean the room, if you permit.
Where wet paint is concerned, accidents happen, you know. ”
Lady Bushnell went so far as to try to peer over the rhododendron bushes into the room after he had gone, but was frustrated to see the artist had turned the easel around. She was no luckier when she tried to interrogate her daughter.
“How is the portrait coming along?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea,” answered the girl. “He won’t let me see it.”
“But I hear you talking all the time. What do you talk about, if not the portrait?”
“Oh, things,” said Genevieve. “Nothing, really. He’s nice. He makes me laugh.”
“I hope you’re not falling in love with him,” said her ladyship. “A traveling artist is definitely not the sort we want in the family, as funny as he may be.”
“Falling in love with Mr. Fielding?” said Genevieve. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous, Mama. We talk, that’s all.”
Finally, the artist came into the drawing room to announce to Lord and Lady Bushnell that the portrait was finished. They followed him into the small parlor, where Genevieve was sitting, staring at herself in the painting.
“I… I…,” she said, but then fell silent.
Her parents gazed at it in wonder. “Good heavens,” said Lady Bushnell, at last. “It’s exactly like her, but somehow more… more, not exactly beautiful, but…”
“It’s a marvel,” broke in her husband. “That’s what it is.”
The composition was the one Mr. Fielding had sketched that first day.
The young woman was sitting on the low stool, with her body at an angle to the empty fireplace, twisted at the waist towards the viewer, her face tilted slightly upwards.
She was neither smiling nor scowling, but her eyes, their green enhanced by her gown and the paleness of her face, held an intense expression of longing.
The empty fireplace and undefined background, the complete lack of adornment of the figure, except for the green ribbon holding back her simple coiffure, and the fact that the viewer was looking down on her, all contributed to a sense of isolation.
On the surface, it was a nice painting of a not unattractive young woman, but the sensitive viewer could not help but feel her pent-up emotion.
Her parents, evidently, saw only the surface. “My dear Mr. Fielding,” said her ladyship. “We cannot thank you enough. You have made our daughter look, well, like herself, but better.”
“Quite, quite,” added his lordship.
“She is a remarkable young woman,” replied Andrew.
“Altogether different from the norm. It’s not my place to say it, and I hope you will forgive me, but I think it would be best to let her do what she wants, rather than force her into a mold that doesn’t suit her.
You will all be happier in the long run. ”
This conversation was interrupted by Lord Bushnell inviting him to step into his office, where, as he said, the financial aspects of the business could be concluded. The portrait was not cheap, but, as he said later to his wife, worth every penny.
Andrew Fielding then packed his equipment into his knapsack said his goodbyes.
He held Genevieve’s hand and looked into her eyes, sincerely wishing her good luck, and left for home, his pocketbook considerably fatter than it had been before.
He had been offered the carriage, but said he preferred to walk.
He needed time to think. He knew his portrait had revealed the truth about Genevieve, and only hoped her parents would recognize it, and let her live as she wished.