Chapter Three #3
Sibyl glanced at her younger sister. “I’ll do it. What’s the harm? It might make for a diverting afternoon.”
“EEEEeeeeee!” Lucy shrieked. She jumped up from her chair and crossed the table to hug Sibyl. “Oh my Lord, you don’t understand. This is so wonderful!”
“Ooof,” Sibyl said, feeling Lucy squeeze the breath out of her from her crushing hug. She laughed. “All right, all right. Enough, you.”
Lucy giggled and returned to her chair, eating quickly.
Mrs. Clifton glanced at her two daughters. “I’m going to write to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. This isn’t what I had in mind when I engaged her services.”
Sibyl raised an eyebrow. So her mother had paid Mrs. Dove-Lyon to help find her a match. But what if this offer to paint her was no more than a ploy to bring them together, brought about by the matchmaker? Or what if he had a more nefarious reason in mind?
Mrs. Clifton echoed Sibyl’s thoughts. “What if this man isn’t an artist at all, but a rake? What if it’s all a ploy to lure you to his bed?”
“He’s so handsome,” Lucy said. “I bet there are women who would want that. But I’ve heard of him, Mama. He is a real artist. And popular too.”
“Well, let us see.” And with that, Mrs. Clifton left the dining table to adjourn to her writing desk in their father’s study.
Sibyl penned a note to Miss Watson to see if she’d like to come along too but received no reply.
Come the afternoon, Sibyl and Lucy took the family carriage to the man’s studio in south London, not far from Tower Bridge. Wearing their bonnets and walking coats, they went to the artist’s studio and were received by the artist himself.
“Ah, good afternoon.” He bowed. “Welcome, welcome. I am so glad you have come. You do me such an honor. You agree to be my muse, yes?”
“I’m curious. What does it entail?” Sibyl asked.
“Why, I sketch you. Then I paint, and your face appears in my works. You might be an angel, a fair maiden, a heroine like out of a storybook…”
Sibyl’s heart rose. “Really?”
“Yes. You like storybooks?”
“Oh, ever so much. Would I have to sit for very long?”
“Not too long. A few hours. If that is acceptable to you? I promise you, Miss Clifton, my work and your face will be seen by thousands. They will know you as a rare beauty. An emerald.”
Sibyl laughed at such flattery. “That’s very kind.”
“Do make yourself comfortable, Miss Clifton and… Ah. Who is this?” He eyed Lucy. “Tell me your name. You are related, no?”
Lucy beamed.
“Phillippe, may I introduce my sister? Miss Lucy Clifton.”
“Lucy. Enchantée.” The artist kissed her hand. “You will no doubt be a beauty someday, just like your sister.”
Lucy’s mouth dropped open.
“I think she is very beautiful now, sir. Do you not agree?” Sibyl’s voice held a firm tone.
“Yes, of course. But she is like a rosebud. You are in full bloom. You comprehend, I make no insult, only awaiting more loveliness, my dear.” He said to Lucy, “My God, if you thought I make offense, I would be mortified.”
“No, not at all, sir.”
“Please, do call me ‘Phillippe.’ Everyone does.” He kissed Lucy’s hand again and beckoned them to follow him.
They entered a small building that was more of a series of small rooms that smelled of paint.
Sibyl didn’t really know what to expect.
There was a ladder and a shelf to a small loft where she imagined the man slept and kept spare clothes, but the main space was dedicated to chairs, divans, and many canvases and easels, with small tables where brushes and paints were placed.
Spare glasses and wine bottles lay scattered nearby.
The air smelled faintly of paint and turpentine.
Phillippe wore a smock that was stained with paint, and he said, “Today, I will do sketches. Please, sit.” He pulled up a chair and threw open a pair of shutters, bathing them in light.
It also let in the fresh air, which, as his studio was located down by the docklands, meant the moisture and smells from the Thames sailed in.
The air echoed with the sounds of seagulls, bells, and men calling to each other.
The open window made the room slightly noisy, but it did instantly remove the scents of paint, which was a relief.
“You sit here. Miss Lucy, you sit toward the back. You may watch. Or if you wish to have a drink, there is wine, or books to read. You may talk, but I may not answer. Once I have my muse in place, I will focus on nothing else, you see.”
“Oh, yes. I understand. Thank you, Phillippe,” Lucy said, her eyes wide.
Once he was satisfied with Sibyl’s sitting position, he arranged her how he liked and began to sketch, but then he paused. “There is something missing. Ah.”
He saw her eyeing one of the books on a side table and passed one to her. “Read this if you like.”
“You do not mind?” It was a much-loved and battered copy of Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.
“Not at all. Indeed, the angle of your face and neck reminds me of a swan.” He bid her to read and retook his place with his sketchbook. Time passed. There was not a lot to do but sit and enjoy reading about the tales of Elinor and Marianne Dashwood, until there came a sharp rap at the door.
Phillippe jumped. “Honestly, who could be calling? I am not expecting anyone.” He rose to answer the door.
“Do you mind if I move slightly?” Sibyl asked him.
“No, not at all. You have been very good, very good, indeed. Like a marble statue.”
She smiled briefly and the moment he moved, Sibyl turned her neck from side to side and stretched.
Her limbs felt stiff from sitting so long in one position.
Sibyl smiled at Lucy and they began to chat, when voices echoed out from the entrance of the artist’s studio.
Sibyl decided that Phillippe was handsome, but he rather reminded her of a plump robin in winter, and she felt no real feelings for him, aside from those for a potential friend and ally.
Certainly no romantic feelings. She gave a little sigh.
If this had been Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s plan to bring her together with an artist, the good lady had failed.
But the voices grew louder, so Sibyl kept quiet to listen.
“Phillippe, I hope you don’t mind my calling, I just had a business proposition I wished to speak with you about.”
Sibyl sat up in the chair. That voice sounded uncommonly like…
There was a low murmur, and then a raised voice. “Mademoiselle, this is not a good time. I have callers already, and—”
Kate Harvey walked into the room. “So this is where you paint. How delightful. I can see just—Oh.” She stared at Sibyl. “What are you doing here?”
“He’s sketching me. To paint,” Sibyl said. “Good afternoon, Miss Harvey.”
“Miss Clifton.” Kate stuck her nose in the air.
“Well.” Her polite smile disappeared. “Phillippe, perhaps we might talk somewhere more private.” She turned, her blonde waves flying around her shoulders.
Her pretty straw bonnet with pink ribbon looked very fetching against her yellow walking coat and pink dress.
“My father is a very important man, you know. You would do well to hear me out.”
“Yes, yes, another time. As I said before, I already have guests. Now is not a good time. Do excuse me.” Phillippe ushered her toward the door.
“But her? Of all the people in London, you’re sketching her? Whatever for? How much did she pay you?” Kate demanded.
Sibyl’s mouth dropped open and she shook her head. Honestly.
Lucy rose out of her seat, when Sibyl motioned for her to stay.
“She pays me nothing. She asks nothing. Miss Clifton is my guest.” Phillippe’s voice took on a dreamy quality.
“Like I believe that. Artists don’t entertain. More like she pays you in other ways.” Kate’s voice sounded sour.
Phillippe’s voice hardened. “Mademoiselle. I hope you are not making false assumptions. It does not become you.”
“Ha. I’ll be the judge of that. From where I’m standing, you are no judge of character. Or beauty.” Kate’s voice carried, and the front door slammed.
A loud noise of exasperation could be heard.
“Mon dieu. La femme est…” He uttered some hasty words in French that sounded rather rude, making Lucy and Sibyl eye each other in surprise when Philippe turned to the studio.
“I am sorry for the interruption, my dear Miss Clifton, Miss Lucy. But… Ah. Oh, no. The light is gone. That dratted woman.” He frowned, looking at Sibyl this way and that.
“No, that will have to be enough for today. Forgive me, but the natural light has shifted. I no longer have a good light. You understand. You must be tired. Do call again. I will write. Thank you for coming, Miss Clifton, Miss Lucy.” He took Sibyl’s hand and helped her to the front door, closely followed by Lucy. “Do come again. Goodbye.”
Sibyl and Lucy were swept out of the artist’s studio in a blink, and as they climbed into their family carriage, Sibyl said, “Well. What a funny way to spend an afternoon.”
Lucy huffed and fiddled with her bonnet’s ribbon that was currently knotted at her chin. “I’ll say. I think if he does want you to come again, bring Mama. This was dull.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“I liked the idea of him. And he’s handsome. But he compared me to a rosebud. Who wants that? Besides, he’s old. He reminds me of a bird hopping around. Let’s go home,” Lucy said, hailing a carriage.
Sibyl couldn’t agree more. But one thing nagged at her slightly. What had Miss Harvey been doing there? What was the business proposition she’d wanted to speak with Phillippe about, and why had she threatened him with her father? What sort of powerful man was he?