Diary of a Painted Lady (4 page)

Chapter Five

As the hansom drove through the crowded streets, Blair unwrapped the canvas, and studied it in the daylight. Superbly crafted, it would prove to be a great investment. Russo deserved to be famous. He gazed at Giovanna’s painted face. Russo had called her Gina. He liked the name it suited her. In a way, Horace had been right. Russo had taken poetic license with his subject. Gina was taller than the paintings suggested, perhaps more than was fashionable, her head almost to his shoulder. Her hand in his was slender, the fingers long and tapered, but not tiny. Her coloring different to Aphrodite too, her magnificent hair more fair than red and her glowing skin seemed kissed by sunshine, not something one expected to find at the end of a long English winter. Her pointed chin was stronger than that of the painting. Nor was she a milk-and-water miss, she had challenged him with those almond-shaped eyes at one point, and would let a man get away with very little. In truth, when she’d opened the door, her exotic beauty had floored him.

He had the means to rescue her from that miserable hole in the wall, and he intended to do so when the time was right. He leaned back and indulged in the vision of passionate fire lighting up those tawny eyes. He knew instinctively that for someone, sometime, they would. It must be him. Her full lips opening for his kisses. Lord! He was going mad. Her image hanging on his wall would be a torment. He wanted her in his bed and, as his mother was so fond of reminding him, he always got what he wanted.

It would have to be soon. He would begin immediately to search London for a suitable apartment, one that would delight her and ease that line of worry that crept between her brows when she looked at Russo. He had the look of one who likes the drink.

Her glorious curves should not be so plainly dressed. The yellow rose she wore in her hair when she first opened the door was perfect. She would look superb in jewels, topaz, rubies, emeralds and diamonds. What pleasure to dress her…and undress her.

Blair left the cab with the painting and entered his townhouse. His butler and manservant, Jarvis, took the parcel along with his hat and cane. “Have this framed.”

“A letter’s come from Ireland, sir.”

“A whiskey, please, Jarvis.” Blair took the letter to his study and sat down to read it. He rose again. As Jarvis hovered with the crystal decanter, Blair said, “Don’t bother with that. Pack me a bag and hail a cab for the station. I’m leaving immediately for Ireland.”

* * *

Milo and Gina emerged from Earl’s Court tube station into fresh air and wide, graceful streets. They walked along Kensington High Street and turned into Melbury Road. Milo pointed out number eighteen where the painter, William Holman Hunt lived. Gina could hardly believe her eyes the houses were so big and grand.

“He
unt
was the founder of the Pre-Raphaelites,” Milo said. “But he brought scandal on himself, marrying his dead wife’s sister. His latest work,
May Morning on Magdalen Tower
is known to be a fine piece, but sadly I hear his eye sight is fading.”

They walked into Ilchester Place, admiring Sir Luke Fildes’ studio with its magnificent cupola attached to a house of several stories with many chimneys. “The garden is as big as a park,” she said breathlessly. She and Milo wandered down streets filled with other magnificent residences, they passed a group of street cleaners and entered the park.

They strolled for an hour through the gardens which surrounded Holland House, an enormous, ghostly Jacobean mansion. Gina was open-mouthed, this was an entirely different world from any she had ever known. Like them, families had come for a picnic and greeted them as they wandered along enjoying a rare, sunny winter’s day.

Young children romped with hoops and threw balls while dogs raced after them barking. The winter sun climbed overhead, as they sat on the grass to eat. Gina drew a checked cloth from her basket and spread it on the ground, arranging two plates and a knife to cut the sausage, cheese and bread.

“Frederic Leighton lives near here,” Milo said, slapping two pieces of bread around a wedge of cheese and sausage. “You know his work. He’s a touch above us.”

“Why?” Gina said, with a fierce frown. “You studied art in Florence, and your work is better than his.”

“Such a loyal girl you are, Gina,” Milo said with a smile. “You know Herbert Schmalz, a good friend of mine–he paints those New Testament scenes, married Leighton’s model, Dorothy. It was Leighton who formed the artist’s colony here, The Holland Park Circle.” Milo pronounced it carefully with great deference. He looked around and sighed. “I’d love to be part of it.”

Gina had said very little since they arrived. She had taken in every detail of the elegant houses, the large gardens with creepers spilling over stone walls, the finely-dressed people walking the clean, open streets. She looked up at the canopy of pale blue above. It even seemed to be a different sky, while the breeze rustled though the branches overhead, banishing any thought of city traffic. The birds and the wandering deer were restful to her eyes, made sore by looking at nothing but bricks and mortar and the small patch of grey sky between the tenements.

Her heart swelled at the prospect of her dream becoming a reality. “Could we live in this beautiful place, Milo?” she asked, the need causing her voice to catch in her throat. “Could we ever afford it?”

Milo smiled at her as he pulled a cork from a bottle and poured red wine into two glasses.

It stung her to realize that his hair had begun to thin and his chin sagged. He was growing old. Success had come to him almost too late. “Three more paintings and I promise you, we’ll come here to live.”

“I can’t believe it,” she gasped, and lay back to listen to the sound of water spilling from the nearby fountain into a pool. A vision of another fountain in a paved courtyard, sheltered by a rose arbor, swam into her mind’s eye. “Milo, who was my father?” she asked again. “Mamma would never tell me.”

Milo raised his shaggy, grey eyebrows. “She didn’t wish you to know.”

“Don’t I have a right to know?”

Milo studied her a moment. “Perhaps it’s time you did.” He took a sip of wine.

“Your father was a wealthy baron. He loved your mother very much.”

“Were they married?” She stumbled over the words, afraid of the truth.

He slowly shook his head. “He had a wife, Gina. He looked after you both very well until he was killed in a riding accident.”

Outraged, Gina bit back a reply. She would never utter a word against her mother, but how could she teach her to be virtuous, when she herself….

Milo put his hand on hers. “Serena didn’t want that kind of life for you. She wanted something better, Gina.”

Gina bit her lip. “What happened to us after my father died?”

“Your mother lost everything. His wife had you both thrown out onto the street.”

“And that’s when you and mother met?”

“Yes. A very lucky fellow I was. I knew she didn’t love me as she loved him, but I felt honored to marry her.”

“I remember the yellow roses,” Gina said, then fell into silent contemplation.

* * *

A footman admitted Lord Ogilvie to the house in Regent Street. A respectable house in a street of fashionable shops by day, which at night became a gaming establishment where dice and cards were played. Feeling that familiar kick of excitement in his gut, Ogilvie followed the servant into a long room lit by two huge glass chandeliers.

The stuffy room smelled of smoke, cologne, perfume and excited sweat. Leather armchairs faced the fire place at one end; a beguiling young woman attended a bar at the other. Ogilvie went straight to the baccarat table, joining the other twenty men and women in evening dress, standing around watching the play. The intermittent, rattle of dice came from the smaller tables set up around the room.

A pretty, dark-haired young woman came up to him. She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Champagne, milord?”

“Not now.” Ogilvie shook off her hand, his eyes riveted on the card game at one of the tables. A man could arrange for sex in one of the rooms above if he so wished, but he wasn’t interested in these available women. They weren’t needy enough to do what he wanted.

He approached the table, his veins pulsing with a rush of blood. Tonight would make or break him. This game might take all that he had with the flip of a card, but he cast the thought away as the blissful expectation and thrill of it pounded through him.

Chapter Six

At the Folly Theatre in William IV Street, Gina moved through the noisy rabble of acrobats, dancers and singers searching for her friend, Mabel Collins. Mabel had struggled when she first came to London. She modeled for an artist friend of Milo’s, but the work paid too little and to pay her rent she had to resort to dining with rich gentlemen. But now, she was on the up and up. She’d landed a place among the ballet dancers.

Gina found Mabel in a dusty corner adjusting the feathers on her costume. “I came to wish you luck,” she said.

“Then tell me to break a leg.”

Gina’s eye widened. “Oh, surely not.”

“It’s an expression we theatre people tell each other,” Mabel said, sounding as though she’d been in the theatre all her life. “It means good luck.”

Gina grinned. “Break a leg, then.”

Mabel grinned back, lifted her skirts, and twirled a shapely leg. “Thanks, ducks.”

The theatre manager appeared wiping sweat from his bald pate with a large, red handkerchief. “Go and join the rest of the dancers, Mabel. Who’s this?”

“Just a friend, Dave. Come to wish me luck.”

“You shouldn’t be back here.” His gaze roved over Gina’s body in her apple-green dress as if he could see through her clothes. She flushed. “Not looking for a job are you? Can you sing or dance?”

She shook her head.

“All Italians can sing,” Mabel said giving her an encouraging nod. Then she threw Gina a kiss and twirled away to join the dancers fiddling with their shoes as they waited to go on stage.

“Not this one,” Gina said, waving back.

“You wouldn’t have to,” he said. “We could use a new girl for the statue number. It’s easy money.”

“What would I have to do?”

He frowned. “Haven’t you seen the show?”

She shook her head. She’d never had the six pence admittance price until now. “I’m just about to buy a ticket.”

“Let me know later if you’re interested.” Dave turned away as another noisy group of ballet dancers descended the staircase.

Gina bought her ticket and found her seat, heart beating like a wild thing. She sat so far up the back she had to peer around heads to see the stage, but it didn’t matter.

The orchestra conductor tapped his baton and the musicians struck up a tune. When Gina saw Mabel dance onto the stage, she shouted along with the rest. She didn’t have a very big part.

After a series of high kicks that showed her frilly knickers, spins and the splits, she disappeared into the wings. Then a comedian came on stage. He took a fair amount of heckling from the audience and seemed glad to run off. A group of acrobats appeared, dark-haired men like peas in a pod with their muscled chests and striped jerseys. A juggler dropped one of his flaming torches and the fear of fire sent a louder gasp through the crowd than when he’d juggled eight balls in the air.

After a brief interval, three men with handlebar moustaches sang
My love is like the red, red rose
, in perfect harmony. Mabel appeared again, this time dancing in clogs. Gina clapped hard.

After the sword swallower stunned the audience, the musicians struck up with a flourish for the finale. The curtains closed and minutes later swept open to reveal women dressed as Ancient Greek goddesses. Looking mysterious and beautiful, they stood among columns of an ancient temple like statues, their figures boldly displayed in flimsy drapery. Moments later, the curtains closed to tumultuous applause.

Gina made her way out of the theatre into William IV Street and the fading light of dusk, as the lamplighters did their rounds with their ladders, turning on the stopcocks at each lamppost.

Patrons wrapped their thick cloaks around themselves and rushed home, as the savage night air bit at any exposed skin. Carriages, their wooden wheels rattling over the cobbles removed the last of the crowd.

Gina began to walk home. A prostitute crossed the road, swaying coquettishly, her kiss-me-quick ringlets peeping from under her hat. A tall man passed her without a glance. He came up to Gina and swept off his hat. “The young lady in the painting,” he said with a strong Scotch accent, “Aphrodite, wasn’t it?”

When Gina hesitated, he reached into his pocket and drew out a calling card, handing it to her. “Charles Ogilvie, Earl of Douglass.”

Gina gazed at the elaborate, gold lettering. 

“I missed out on buying that painting; it went for an extravagant sum,” he said. “I’d very much like to view the rest of the artist’s work. May I escort you home?”

He was a thin, sallow-faced man with curly, fair hair, his eyes a cool, cloudy green. When he drew a gold watch from his pocket, a diamond ring sparkled on his hand.

Gina looked at the card again. “You may come now, if you wish,” she said, hoping that Milo might sell another painting. “It’s not far.”

“Excellent.” He took her arm and led her across the street. She didn’t like him touching her, but before she could draw away, he raised his hand. A black carriage with a crest on the door drawn by four matching black horses pulled up. “Shall we travel in comfort?” he asked as he urged her toward it.

Once in the carriage, the earl’s demeanor changed. He moved closer to Gina on the crimson velvet squabs and studied her as if she were a horse he intended to buy. “Do you agree to unusual requests?”

Gina swallowed, suddenly afraid. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “No need to pretend with me. I tell my girls straight up what I want. And I pay well.”

Her heart banging against her ribs, she moved away into the corner as the carriage sped through the darkening streets. “You mistake me. I’m an artist’s model, sir.”

He laughed humorlessly. “Don’t play the actress with me. It bores me.”

She clasped her hands in her lap and swallowed as her throat dried. “Do you mean you wish me to pose for a specific painting?” She hoped he would seize on this as a way out of an embarrassing mistake.

“Pose? Not exactly.” He paused making her feel like a butterfly he’d just caught in his net. “You really don’t know what I refer to? How interesting.”

“Please stop this carriage. I wish to walk.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not a prostitute?”

“I am not. Not that it’s any of your business.” Gina reached for the door. “Stop this carriage immediately. I want to get out.”

He grabbed her, like a cobra striking, his fingers biting into the tender skin of her wrist. “I’d pay extremely well for a virgin.”

As she struggled, he pulled her toward him and whispered in her ear. “I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to do ....”

The filth that came from his lips made her want to vomit. Her skin crawled and her heart sickened. Gasping, she put her hand on his chest and pushed away from him. “Never speak to me again. You probably have a horrible disease.”

When the traffic slowed to a crawl, Gina reefed the carriage door open and jumped. She fell straight into the gutter’s putrid, gushing waters, the smell of hot horse dung stinging her nostrils.

When she struggled to her feet, the earl called down, “Perhaps you have to sink to the gutter, before you can appreciate what I offer you. Think about it, as I said, I pay well. You have my card.”

“Not if I was a penniless orphan,” she yelled and hurried away down the street.

Behind her, he slammed the door shut and tapped the roof of the carriage with his cane. The horses jumped and looking like the devil’s own vehicle, the carriage disappeared around a corner, leaving her breathless with revulsion, fear, and rage.

She sought her bearings. He had taken her out of her way and it was a good mile’s walk back to Shoreditch. A sob rose in her throat as she lifted her reeking skirt away from her skin, aware that in her soiled gown she looked like a streetwalker. As it was, an unaccompanied woman always drew glances.

The pavement in front of her became impassable, with a crowd outside the gin shop. Gina pulled her cloak tight and gritted her teeth, pushing her way through the rogues and thieves, trying not to inhale the rancid smell of unwashed bodies. A pregnant woman was shoved to the pavement as she tried to sell her apples. Gina stooped to help her to her feet.

Fighting off the groping hands of a man leering at her with a mouth of blackened teeth, she hurried along and gave a street singer a wide berth. Her knees felt bruised and a graze on her shin stung almost as much as her wounded pride as she hurried home. She had grown so tired of this life. She didn’t belong here, any more than her mother had.

Milo said he couldn’t consider moving now. He had too much work to do. She still hoped that he would change his mind, but knew it would do no good to daydream. She no longer hoped for a knight on a white horse to whisk her off and marry her. To survive she must become smarter, tougher. She should not have trusted the earl. Just because he had been born into the nobility, didn’t mean he was a gentleman at heart. She would never make the same mistake again.

* * *

Dublin, Ireland

Blair entered his mother’s shadowy bedroom filled with the sound of her rasping, labored breathing. He took her hand and leaned over her. “I’m here, Mamma.” She didn’t stir.

Hours later, as he sat by Maeve’s bedside stroking her feverish brow with a cold cloth, Blair forced himself to face the fact that he might lose her. Of course, he would sometime, but please God, not now. Such thoughts made him draw breath. Maeve had always been there, irritatingly so at times, but affectionate and demanding, and full of life.

Blair yawned and went to pull open the curtains. The dawn had broken, the sky turning from black to violet. He stood motionless, and when the sky turned a pale, watery blue, he admitted he was afraid as he returned to the bed. He picked up the cloth again wringing it out.

A hand fluttered up to touch his. “Blair.”

With a sharp intake of breath, he looked up. Her eyes had opened, warming at the sight of him. “Have I been very ill?”

“A touch of the influenza, Mamma,” he said. “But you’re on the mend.”

“Have you have been here all night?”

He nodded.

She kissed his hand. “Go and get some rest, now. Promise me?”

“I will. When the doctor has been.”

“Talk to me, then.”

An hour passed. The maid bought tea and Maeve was able to drink a little. When the doctor came, he declared his patient to be improving. “It was touch and go,” he said taking Blair aside. “She will be weakened by it.”

His mother weakened by anything was unthinkable. “When she is strong enough, I’ll take mother back to Dunleavy House. The fresh air will be beneficial.”

“An excellent idea.”

Several days later, while Blair stalked the rooms like a caged animal guiltily wishing to be gone, Cathleen came to visit. She entered the sitting room with her arms full of pale pink and white roses. They matched the gown she wore, and filled the room with a sweet fragrance.

“Pink is undeniably your color, Cathleen,” Blair said. “It’s good of you to come.”

“It’s good to see you back in Ireland. We don’t see nearly as much of you as we’d like.”

She held her gift out to the maid. “How is the patient, Blair?”

“Anything but patient.” Blair signaled the girl to put the flowers in water. “If she continues to improve, I’m removing her to Dunleavy House in a day or so.”

Cathleen arranged the dainty, Chantilly lace shawl over her pink gown. Had she planned for the roses to match her gown? Artifice of any kind didn’t fit with the Cathleen he knew. Did she wish him to declare himself? Beyond affection, she showed no sign of loving him. As they sat and talked, Blair’s mind returned to the lady he couldn’t remove from his thoughts. He started. What was he doing thinking of Gina while this undeniably, lovely young woman sat opposite? He felt mystified, that the words he wished to utter that would set his plans in motion, refused to come to his lips.

“I look forward to visiting her there.” Cathleen put down her cup, “I shall relate all the town gossip. It will entertain her.”

He smiled. “You are a true friend, Cathleen.”

Cathleen’s grey eyes met his with a frank expression. “I have been seeing a bit of Charles O’Reilly, Blair. Do you remember him?”

He waited for a pull of jealousy that would catapult him into action. It didn’t come. Annoyed with himself, he said, “Have you now? We rubbed shoulders at Trinity College. A decent fellow.”

Cathleen fiddled with a pearl button on her glove. “He’s joined his father’s law firm here in Dublin. He has a very bright future it’s said.”

“I can believe it. You’ll stay for lunch?”

Cathleen’s gaze remained on him as something unspoken passed between them. After a pause, she rose. “I won’t, thank you. I’d best return home before the weather changes. I came in the brougham and it looks like rain. Tell your mother I wish her a swift recovery and look forward to one of our chats very soon.”

He rose and took her hand. “I will, Cathleen. Allow me to see you to your carriage.”

Blair walked back to the house aware that his plans for the future were falling apart. He should have been dismayed, he’d just let a wonderful woman slip through his fingers. How would he feel when he heard the bans had been read for her nuptials to Charles O’Reilly?