The American Heiress (32 page)

The studio was a double-height room with a north-facing window that ran from the ceiling almost to the floor. At the base of the window was a window seat covered in a paisley shawl and velvet cushions. To the right of the window was Louvain’s easel and a table covered in brushes, rags and paints. At the other end of the room was a Japanese screen, a chaise longue and a fern in a brass pot. The parquet floor was covered in Persian carpets. Stacked against the walls were canvases and portfolios. Skylights bathed the room in rippling grey light. Cora felt as if she was walking underwater. The impression was reinforced when she heard Louvain’s voice echoing through the room. He was wearing a velvet smoking jacket that was flecked with paint.

‘Good morning, Duchess, you are late but not unforgivably so. Please give Itaro your things. Good. You have dressed simply.’ Louvain stood about four feet away, looking at her through half-narrowed eyes. Cora felt his gaze sweep up and down her body.

‘I’m sorry for my unpunctuality, but the fog, you know, slows everything down. We nearly had to give up and go home. My coachman was quite worried about bringing me to Chelsea, he thinks that it is not a respectable neighbourhood.’ Cora was talking nervously, aware that Louvain’s eyes had not left her for a moment.

‘Don’t worry, you will be quite safe. There is no one here to molest you apart from a few impoverished artists looking for patronage.’ He took her arm. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down here.’ He led her to the chaise longue upholstered in green velvet. She sat down on the edge, her back as upright as if she was wearing the spine stiffener.

Louvain stood back from her. ‘No, no, you look as though you were at a missionary tea. Can’t you lie back a little? Here, let me give you some cushions.’ He went over to the window seat and picked up some cushions which he placed behind her. ‘Now lean back. That’s right.’ He paced up and down in front of her, looking at her so closely that Cora felt hot with the scrutiny. She sat rather stiffly against the cushions, trying to arrange her arms gracefully.

‘Would you like me to fold my hands? I’ve heard that hands are the hardest thing to paint.’

‘Who told you that?’ Louvain asked.

‘An American friend, who was studying art. He said that the hands always defeated him.’

‘Did he paint you? This friend?’

‘No, he said he wasn’t ready.’ Cora thought of Teddy and smiled.

‘Not ready for you! He must have been scared.’ Louvain shrugged.

‘Perhaps.’ Cora wished she had said nothing. Louvain had a way of turning every conversation into an intimacy.

He came closer to her and picked up one of her hands which he draped along the back of the chaise longue.

‘Yes, that looks better. But it’s not enough.’

Cora looked at him nervously. ‘I want you – no, I need you, to take down your hair,’ Louvain said.

‘My hair? I can’t possibly.’ Cora was firm.

‘But why not? You are so young, what could be more natural? I want to paint you as a goddess from the New World, beautiful and unbound. I don’t want you trussed up like a society goose. Please take down your hair, I don’t think I have ever seen hair quite your colour before.’ He reached out a hand to touch one of the tendrils that hung by her cheek.

Cora was alarmed at how close he was to her.

‘I think it would look…odd.’ She could feel his breath against her cheek.

‘Then, Duchess, I think you have had a wasted journey.’ He turned away from her and started to walk towards the door.

Cora twisted with indecision. She thought of what her mother would say about her taking down her hair and then she remembered Charlotte’s cool recklessness. She was not going to be dismissed as a provincial American.

‘Wait!’ she said. Slowly, Louvain turned round.

She stood up and started to take the pins out of her hair. There were so many of them that she could not hold them all.

‘Here, let me take them.’ Louvain stretched out his hand.

At last they were all out, Cora shook her head and felt her hair fall heavy and luxurious on to her shoulders. Louvain had been right, she did feel unbound. She looked at him shyly, meeting that ever-present gaze. Although her body was completely covered, she felt naked. She had to stop herself from putting her arms across her breasts.

Louvain said nothing but walked round her slowly. Cora stood still as if pinned to the spot but at last she forced herself to speak.

‘Is that what you wanted?’

Louvain still did not speak. Then he moved towards her and quickly and firmly kissed her on the mouth.

‘No, Duchess, that’s what I wanted. Now, perhaps you would like to resume your pose?’

Cora blinked. Had he really kissed her? Yes, she knew he had because she could still feel the scrape from the bristles of his moustache. And now he was behaving as if nothing had happened. She knew that she was losing control of the situation. She should have slapped him at least.

‘I must go. Your conduct is disgraceful.’ But Cora did not move.

Louvain, who had walked over to his easel and paints, laughed.

‘Oh, don’t be in a huff, it was only a kiss. You looked so promising with your hair down. I had to satisfy my curiosity. Anyway it serves you right for teasing me with your American friend and coming here unchaperoned. But I apologise for taking such a liberty and I promise not to do it again.’ He made a solemn sign of the cross in the air, and continued, ‘If it will help your conscience, I only did it for the sake of the painting. I could see that you were wondering if I was going to pounce and now that I have, you can relax. You know I find you attractive which means you can be sure that the portrait will flatter you.’

Cora was aware that she should leave immediately but she knew that she would stay. She sat down on the chaise longue and lay back against the cushions.

‘You see, that’s much better, stay just like that.’ Louvain had a sketch pad and was rapidly drawing with a pencil.

‘Is this the way you behave with all your sitters?’ Cora tried to sound nonchalant.

‘I don’t kiss the men!’

‘What about Lady Beauchamp? Did you kiss her?’

‘What do you think?’ Louvain’s tone was dismissive.

Cora fell into her pose. Louvain was right. She did feel more relaxed. She wondered if he would try again and what she would do if he did.

He stopped sketching and looked at her directly. ‘Do you want to undo your jacket? You’re expecting, aren’t you? You might feel more comfortable.’

‘How did you know? About the baby? I’m not showing yet, am I?’ Cora looked down at her still defined waist.

‘My job, Duchess, is to see you and I can see that you are full of expectation. Women in your condition have a certain milky quality. Medieval painters believed that you can see babies in the eyes of pregnant women.’

‘And what else do you see, Mr Louvain?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I’m not going to tell you that, it will all be there in the painting. Which, before you ask, I am not going to show you until it is quite finished. Now, I want you to stop talking so I can concentrate on your mouth.’

As soon as he said this, Cora felt her lips tingle. She looked up at the grey clouds through the skylight.

‘No, don’t look up there, keep your eyes on me.’

Cora nodded dumbly, there was evidently no escape. The rest of the session was virtually silent, apart from the scratching of Louvain’s pencil and the smacking noises he made with his mouth as he rubbed out a line that was less than satisfactory. Every so often there was the muffled sound of a foghorn from a boat on the river and the faint mewings of distant gulls. After a while, despite the kiss, Cora found herself subsiding into a kind of torpor. She found the effort of being looked at exhausting. After about an hour the silence was broken by the crash of a gong being struck. Cora started and Louvain put down his pencil.

‘Lunch! Will you stay, Duchess? Itaro is quite a talented cook.’

‘No, thank you. I must go home.’ Cora rose to her feet.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time. And don’t be late again, we have a lot of work to do.’

As Cora left, she ran her eyes over some of the other black and white Japanese prints that lined the hallway. She did not dare to linger as Louvain was following her to the door, but he noticed the turn of her head.

‘Do you like them? They are called
shunga
. These ones are by Utamaro – they are of the courtesans of the Yoshiwara district where he lived. They apparently thought it was a great honour to pose for him. His pictures are such an exotic mixture of the real and the imagined. Look at this one.’ He pointed to one of the prints. Cora came over to look at it. It was a woman embracing a squid. Cora stood back quickly, her face pink with embarrassment.

Louvain laughed. ‘That one is called the fisherman’s wife. Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Unexpected, certainly,’ said Cora faintly.

‘Till tomorrow then, Duchess.’ Itaro opened the door, bowing, She looked round to tell Louvain that in no circumstances would she be coming back tomorrow, but he had gone.

But the next day Cora found herself in the carriage heading towards Chelsea. This time she had brought Bertha with her.

She had decided to make the portrait a surprise gift for Ivo. Something to remind him of the way she looked now, before she was all swollen with the baby. She sensed that his attitude to her had changed since she had started to show; she wanted to remind him that she would not always look like this.

Her mind wandered. Perhaps there would be a party for Ivo’s birthday. It was not the season, of course, but there would be enough people in town to have a reception. She would ask Mrs Wyndham.

She tried not to look at the
shunga
as she walked down the corridor towards the studio. Louvain started towards her as she came in but stopped and smiled when he saw Bertha.

‘So you have come prepared,’ he said.

‘Well, I felt awkward yesterday going home with my hair down. If Bertha is here she can make me look respectable first.’ Cora smiled.

‘Respectability must be preserved at all costs, Duchess. Perhaps your maid would like to sit here.’

He pulled out a chair from behind a screen and placed it so that Bertha would have no view of the painting. Cora went over to the chaise longue and turned her back to him as she began to take the pins out of her hair; she found she did not want to look at him as she did so, it was too intimate somehow. But she spoke to him over her shoulder.

‘How long do you think the portrait will take, Mr Louvain? I want to surprise my husband with it for his birthday.’

‘It will take as long as it takes. If you sit still and don’t fidget, it might be faster,’ Louvian said tetchily.

‘I will be as still as a graven image, I promise, but would a month be unreasonable?’ Cora put a pleading edge to her voice.

‘I never give guarantees. But if you are an obedient model, there is a chance the picture might be finished in a month. But you will have to do exactly as I say, mind. Now, unbutton your jacket like you did yesterday. And try to remember how you felt yesterday, the expression on your face was just as it should be.’ He winked at Cora who blushed.

‘I’m not sure if I can remember how I felt yesterday. I think I was trying not to fall asleep. It is hard keeping still for so long,’ she said.

‘Would you like me to remind you, Duchess?’ Louvain made a step towards her. Cora moved back alarmed.

‘Oh no, that won’t be necessary. I am sure I can remember enough. Bertha, come here and help me with my hair.’

Bertha started the long process of unpinning hair that she had put up only an hour or two ago. Now she understood why Miss Cora had rushed off yesterday wearing the simplest navy-blue tailor-made and had come back with her hair knotted under her hat. She had scurried into her room and insisted on Bertha fixing her hair properly before going downstairs, but she had not offered a word of explanation. Bertha had been surprised, to say the least. Miss Cora never made morning calls, and as for the hair, that was completely unprecedented. The speculation in the servants’ hall had been rife. The coachman, who had seen an oriental servant opening the door, had hinted that Her Grace had been visiting an opium den. He knew all about them as his last employer Lord Mandeville had been that way. Bertha had laughed this off but she had been curious and a little apprehensive.

So she was relieved to find out that Miss Cora was sitting for a portrait, although there was something going on between the painter and her mistress that made her uncomfortable. Miss Cora had always been a flirt, but now she was married she should be more careful. Bertha wondered what had happened yesterday. She looked at her mistress who lay on the chaise longue with her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders to her waist and her jacket unbuttoned to reveal her chemise, her mouth parted in a half smile. She looked as she had on her honeymoon in Venice, her sharp edges blurred. Bertha sat awkwardly between Cora and the painter; every so often she would look up from the mending she had brought with her and feel the heat of their mutual gaze.

On the way home, Cora told Bertha to get in beside her instead of sitting on the box with the coachman.

‘What did you think of the studio and Mr Louvain, Bertha?’

‘Does he make money from his painting, Miss Cora?’ Bertha asked.

‘I’m sure.’ Cora spoke with the unconcern of a girl for whom money had never been anything but abundant. ‘I would imagine he can charge what he likes. We haven’t discussed a fee for this painting but I’ve no doubt it will be exorbitant. Father says that being American adds fifty per cent to everything.’ She leaned over to Bertha’s side of the carriage conspiratorially. ‘This must be kept a secret from the Duke. I want to hold a reception before I get too big and give it to him then. I’d like to do something while I am still respectable.’

Bertha could see some pitfalls to this scheme.

‘But suppose you don’t like the picture, Miss Cora? Won’t it be awkward asking folks to see a picture you ain’t fond of?’

‘Well, that’s not going to happen! Louvain is a genius. This is going to be his last portrait,’ Cora said.