Читать книгу Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady - Diane Gaston, Diane Gaston - Страница 10

London—January 1815

This chilly January night, Jack escorted his mother and sister to the theatre. His latest commission, a wealthy banker, offered Jack the use of his box to see Edmund Kean in Romeo and Juliet.

Jack had acquired some good commissions because of the exhibition, until the oppressive heat of August drove most of the wealthy from London. The banker, Mr Slayton, was his final one. Jack’s mother and sister also returned to Bath, but they came back to London with the new year. Jack had placed an advertisement seeking some fresh commissions in the Morning Post, but, thus far, no one had answered it.

Jack tried to set his financial worries aside as he assisted his mother to her seat in the theatre box. Sir Cecil’s son, Michael, was also in their company attending Jack’s sister. Michael, as kind-faced as his father, but tall, dark-haired and slim, continued with his architectural studies and had again become a frequent addition to Jack’s mother’s dinner table now that she and Nancy were back in London.

As Nancy took her seat, it was clear she was already enjoying herself. ‘It is so beautiful from up here.’

They’d attended the theatre once the previous summer, but sat on the orchestra floor with the general admission. From the theatre box the rich reds and gleaming golds of the décor were displayed in all their splendour.

Nancy turned to Jack. ‘Thank you so much for bringing us.’

He was glad she was pleased. ‘You should thank Mr Slayton for giving me the tickets.’

‘Oh, I do.’ She turned to their mother. ‘Perhaps we should write him a note of gratitude.’

‘We shall do precisely that,’ her mother agreed.

‘Well, I am grateful, as well.’ Michael stood gazing out at the house. ‘This is a fine building.’

Nancy left her chair to stand beside him. ‘You will probably gaze all evening at the arches and ceiling and miss the play entirely.’

He grinned. ‘I confess they will distract me.’

She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘But the play is Romeo and Juliet. How can you think of a building when you shall see quite possibly the most romantic play ever written?’

He laughed. ‘Miss Vernon, I could try to convince you that beautiful arches and elegant columns are romantic, but I suspect you will never agree with me.’

‘I am certain I will not.’ She nodded.

‘I remember coming here in my first Season.’ Jack’s mother spoke in a wistful tone. ‘Of course, that was the old theatre. There were not so many boxes in that auditorium.’

That Drury Lane Theatre burned down in 1809.

Nancy surveyed the crowd. ‘There are many grand people here.’

The play was quite well attended, even though most of the beau monde would not come to London for another month or so. Perhaps Jack’s commissions would increase then. Of course, with the peace, many people had chosen to travel to Paris or Vienna and would not be in London at all. Still, the theatre had an impressive crowd. Edmund Kean had been drawing audiences all year in a series of Shakespearean plays.

Nancy leaned even further over the parapet. ‘Mama, I see Lord Tranville.’

‘Do you?’ Jack’s mother’s voice rose an octave.

‘There.’ Nancy stepped aside so her mother could see. ‘The third balcony. Near the stage.’

‘I believe you are correct.’ Her voice was breathless.

Tranville stood with another gentleman in a box close to the stage, the two men in conversation while surveying the theatre. If Tranville spied his former mistress in the crowd, he made no show of it.

The curtain rose and Nancy and Michael sat in their chairs. Nancy’s gaze was riveted to the stage, but their mother’s drifted to the nearby box where Tranville sat.

Jack’s jaw flexed.

Edmund Kean walked on.

‘He is old!’ Nancy whispered.

Shakespeare had written Romeo as a young man who falls in love as only a young man could. Kean’s youth was definitely behind him. Still, Kean made an impressive figure in the costume of old Verona, moving about the stage in a dramatic manner. It would be a challenge to capture that movement in oils, Jack thought.

Artists such as Hogarth and Reynolds painted the famous actors and actresses, Kemble and Garrick, Sarah Siddons and Daphne Blane. The portraits were engraved and printed in magazines and on posters in order to entice people to the theatre. Jack straightened. Perhaps the theatre could provide him with a clientele. He might not get commissions for the principal actors, but maybe the lesser known ones, or maybe he could depict whole scenes as they occurred on the stage. If he could paint the action of battle, he could easily paint the action of a London stage.

The idea took firm root in Jack’s mind. His studio was quite near to Covent Garden, so it would be convenient for the actors. Or he could easily come to the theatre. He began to imagine the scene onstage as he might paint it. He was ready to assess every scene for its artistic potential.

Romeo spoke the lines about planning to attend the Capulets’ supper. He left the stage, and Lady Capulet and the nurse entered, looking for Juliet.

Jack’s fingers itched for a pencil, wishing to sketch Lady Capulet and the nurse with their heads together.

‘See,’ Nancy whispered to her mother. ‘Lady Capulet is Daphne Blane. Her natural daughter is playing Juliet.’

Jack had the notion he’d seen Daphne Blane before. Of course, she was a notorious beauty whose conquests were as legendary as her performances on stage so he might have seen her image somewhere. The birth of her natural daughter had been the scandal of its day with much speculation on who the father might be. Many artists had painted Daphne Blane’s portrait. Why not Jack?

Juliet made her entrance. ‘How now? Who calls?’

‘Your mother,’ the nurse replied.

Juliet faced the audience. ‘Madam, I am here…’

Jack nearly rose from his chair.

Ariana.

Juliet was Ariana. From this distance, her features were not clear, but she moved like Ariana, sounded like her. He’d found her. He’d despaired of ever doing so.

His eyes never left her while she was on stage. His fingers moved on the arm of the chair as if he were drawing the graceful arch of her neck, the sinuous curves of her body.

The intermission was almost torture, because he could not record her on paper and he had to act as if his world had not suddenly tumbled on its ear. As the curtain closed on the actors’ final bows, Jack remained in his seat, staring at the curtain.

Michael gave his hand to Jack’s mother to help her rise, and Jack noticed his mother glancing in the direction of Tranville’s box.

Nancy sprang to her feet, her hands pressed together. ‘Was it not splendid? I mean, it was so sad, but so lovely, did you not think?’

Jack smiled at her, still partially abstracted. ‘You enjoyed it, then?’

Her blue eyes shone with pleasure. ‘I adored it.’ Michael helped her on with her cloak. ‘Well, perhaps not Romeo. Mr Kean was not my idea of Romeo, I assure you.’

Michael grinned. ‘Was he not romantic enough?’

‘He was old.’ Nancy made a face.

Jack’s mother glanced over her shoulder once more as they all made their way to the door. Once they were out in the noisy, crowded hallway, Jack would lose his chance to talk to them.

He placed a hand on his mother’s arm. ‘I should like your permission to part from you here.’

His mother shook her head. ‘Forgive me, Jack. What did you say?’

‘I would bid you goodnight here.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Would you escort the ladies home?’

‘I would be honoured and delighted,’ Michael replied. ‘But this is a surprise. Why do you leave us?’

Jack’s primary reason was to go in search of Ariana, but he had no wish to tell them that. He’d give them a partial truth. ‘I had the notion that I might paint the actors performing their roles. I want to seek out the manager and give him my card.’

‘You would paint the actors?’ Nancy exclaimed. ‘Why, that would be splendid! The print shops are always full of prints of actors. How perfect since you are so close to the theatre.’

‘My thoughts precisely,’ he responded, knowing this was not true. It was far less complicated than explaining about Ariana, however. ‘I should be able to offer a reasonable price.’

Nancy nodded. ‘Very sensible, Jack.’

‘Proceed, my son,’ his mother said. ‘We will manage without you.’

His mother rarely complained, not even when Tranville failed to call upon her. It had been a year since he had bothered.

‘Then I bid you all goodnight.’ He leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek.

Nancy smiled. ‘Thank you for bringing us, Jack.’

Michael made as if fighting with a sword. ‘Do not fret. I shall scare off any foes who dare to cross our path.’

Nancy giggled. ‘What nonsense. We shall take a hackney coach.’

Michael put his arm around her. ‘Yes, we shall, and I shall pay for it.’

Out in the hallway, they made for the theatre door and Jack for the stage. He did not know the location of the Green Room, where the actors and actresses gathered after the performance and where wealthy gentlemen went to arrange assignations with the loveliest of the women, but he suspected that would be where he would find Ariana.

Backstage he followed a group of wealthy-looking gentlemen, some carrying bouquets of flowers. Jack walked behind them, but suddenly stopped.

Tranville stood to the side of the door.

He still retained his military bearing, even though he was attired in the black coat, white breeches and stockings that made up the formal dress of a gentleman. His figure remained trim and only his shock of white hair gave a clue that he was a man who had passed his fiftieth year.

Tranville, unfortunately, also saw Jack.

‘Jack!’ He stepped in the younger man’s path. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you not in Bath?’

Jack bristled. He’d never been able to disguise his dislike of this man, although when a child he doubted Tranville had even noticed. A few adolescent altercations with Tranville’s son Edwin had made the animosity clear and mutual. Jack never initiated the fisticuffs, but he always won and that rankled Tranville greatly.

Jack straightened and looked down on the older man. ‘I have business with the theatre manager.’

‘You?’ Tranville eyed him with surprise. ‘What business could you have with Mr Arnold?’

Jack felt an inward triumph. He now knew the manager’s name. ‘Business to be discussed with Mr Arnold.’

Tranville’s jaw flexed. ‘If it is theatre business, you may tell me. I am a member of the committee.’

‘The committee.’ This meant nothing to Jack.

Tranville averted his gaze for a moment. ‘The subcommittee for developing the theatre as a centre for national culture.’

Jack remembered it. Control of the theatre had been wrested from the debt-ridden owner, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and given to a manager and a board of directors. A subcommittee of notables had been appointed, but Jack doubted they had access to the purse strings. Nevertheless, if Jack had encountered any other member of the subcommittee he would have spoken of how his art work could further the committee’s goals. This was Tranville blocking his way, however.

Jack maintained a steady gaze. ‘My business will not concern you.’

Jack would wager Tranville’s theatrical interests were in fostering liaisons with the actresses, not fostering national culture. Actresses and dancers encouraged the attentions of wealthy lords who wanted to indulge them with jewels and gowns and carriages.

He frowned. He had nothing to offer Ariana.

He told himself he merely wanted to renew their brief acquaintance. He wanted her to know he had been the artist whose work she so admired.

Two gentleman approached the door and Tranville was forced to step aside for them. Jack took the opportunity to follow them.

Tranville grabbed his arm. ‘You cannot go in there, Jack. You do not have entrée.’

Jack shot him a menacing look. ‘Entrée?

Tranville did not flinch. ‘Not everyone is welcome. Do not force me to have you removed from the building.’ He glanced towards two muscular stagehands standing nearby.

Had Tranville forgotten Jack had also been on the Peninsula? His was the regiment that captured the Imperial Eagle at Salamanca. Jack would like to see how many men it would take to eject him from the theatre.

More gentlemen approached, however, and Jack chose not to make a scene. It would not serve his purpose.

Tranville smiled, thinking his intimidation had succeeded. He dropped his hand. ‘Now, if you wish me to speak to Mr Arnold on your behalf, you will have to tell me what it is about.’

The other gentlemen were in earshot, the only reason Jack spoke. He made certain his voice carried. ‘A proposition for Mr Arnold. To paint his actors and actresses.’

‘Paint them?’ Tranville’s brow furrowed.

‘I am an artist, sir.’ Jack wanted the other gentlemen, now looking mildly interested, to hear him.

With luck one of them might mention to Mr Arnold that an artist wanted to see him. That might help gain him an interview with the manager when Jack called the next afternoon.

Convincing Mr Arnold to hire him to publicise his plays would serve both Jack’s ambitions: to earn new commissions and to see Ariana again.

Tranville made an impatient gesture. ‘Well, give me your card and I will speak to Arnold.’

Jack took a card from his pocket. ‘Tell him Jack Vernon has a business proposition for him. Tell him my work was included in last summer’s exhibition.’

The most curious of the onlookers appeared satisfied. They had heard Jack’s name, at any rate.

Jack nodded to the men. He was resigned. These men would see Ariana tonight. He would not.

And all because of Tranville’s interference. Jack’s hand curled into a fist.

Tranville snatched the card from Jack’s other hand and stuck it in his pocket without even looking at it. Jack turned to leave.

Tranville stopped him. ‘Tell me, Jack—how is your mother?’

The question surprised him. ‘In good health.’ He added, ‘She was at the performance. Did you not see her?’

Jack meant it as a jibe, to show his mother doing well without Tranville’s company, but instead the man cocked his head in interest. ‘Was she?’ He spoke more to himself than to Jack. ‘So Mary is in London.’

Another man walked past and opened the door to the Green Room. Tranville emerged from his brief reverie. ‘I must go.’

Jack was more than ready to be rid of him.

Still, he would have tolerated even Tranville’s presence if it meant seeing Ariana again. Instead Tranville had prevented him.

Another reason to despise the man.

The next day, Jack, wearing only an old shirt and trousers, both spattered with paint, put the finishing touches on Mr Slayton’s portrait. There was a rap on the door.

Before he could put down his palette and don a coat, the door opened and Tranville strode in.

‘Jack—’ Like many military men, Tranville apparently had not lost the military habit of rising early.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Jack stepped out from behind his easel. ‘You cannot just walk in here without a by your leave.’

Tranville, looking perfectly at ease, removed his hat and gloves and placed them on a table by the door. ‘You work in this place?’ He glanced around with disdain.

White sheets covered the furniture, wooden boxes and rolls of canvas littered the floor, but Jack had no intention of apologising to Tranville for the clutter. He tidied the place when he had sittings scheduled.

‘Tell me why you intrude or leave.’ Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

Tranville wandered over to the easel and examined Mr Slayton’s portrait. He shrugged and turned back to Jack. ‘You do seem to have some skill. More than one fellow told me so after I left you last night.’

He’d been discussed? Remembered from the exhibition, perhaps? Jack hid his pleasure. He hoped these admirers mentioned him to Mr Arnold as well. ‘You have not told me why you are here.’

Tranville’s lips curled. ‘I want to hire you for a commission.’

Jack did not miss a beat. ‘No.’

Tranville’s brows shot up. ‘You’ve heard nothing about it.’

‘I do not need to hear. I am not interested in painting you. The reasons should be obvious.’ He headed to the door.

Tranville, remaining where he stood, laughed. ‘If I were to commission a portrait of myself, I’d hire Lawrence or someone of his calibre. No, this portrait would be of someone else. A woman.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. He ought to have guessed. ‘Most emphatically no.’

It sickened Jack that Tranville would ask him to paint a woman. Who else could it be but Tranville’s latest conquest? Not if he were down to his last shilling, would Jack do such a thing.

He opened the door, but Tranville ignored the demand to leave. ‘I checked with my man of business this morning—’

Rousing the poor man from his bed, no doubt.

‘He gave me your mother’s direction. A few doors up from here, eh?’ Tranville’s tone was pleasant, but Jack did not miss the hint of menace beneath it.

He gripped the door knob. ‘Speak plain, sir.’

Tranville smiled, and Jack recoiled in disgust. ‘Why, I thought I would call upon her. That is all.’

Jack’s nostrils flared.

Tranville’s smile fled. ‘Surely you have no objection.’

Jack had a barrelful of objections, but none he could voice. As much as he despised the idea, his mother would desire the visit. ‘It is my mother’s decision.’

Tranville sauntered towards the door, retrieving his hat and gloves. As he passed Jack, he paused and leaned close. ‘I always get my way, Jack.’

The rumble of imaginary cannon fire sounded in Jack’s ear. A battle loomed, Jack would wager, this time in his London rooms and not on the battlefield.

It took Jack an hour before he could again focus on Mr Slayton’s portrait, attending to its finishing touches. Better to concentrate on the tiniest brush stroke than to dwell upon Tranville visiting his mother.

He peered at the painting before him. He’d posed Mr Slayton at a desk with a pen in his hand. It would have been faster to merely paint the banker’s head on a dark background, but Jack preferred some context to his painting, some sense of movement. Whether it had emotion, he could not tell. The emotion Ariana had seen in his two paintings at Somerset House had been unconsciously done.

He picked up a small brush and stared at the painting, but saw Ariana instead. Thoughts of her were the best antidote to the encounter with Tranville. He might see her today. He planned to visit the theatre this afternoon.

Another knock sounded at the door. Jack braced himself for a further intrusion by Tranville, but the person knocking apparently did not feel entitled to burst in as Tranville had done. The knock came again. Jack put down his palette, wiped his brush and crossed the room to open the door.

‘Jack!’ Nancy entered. ‘Mama wishes to see you.’

‘What has happened?’ What has Tranville done? he meant.

She pinched his arm. ‘Nothing terrible.’ She smiled. ‘Lord Tranville called upon her.’

He frowned. ‘Did he upset her?’

Nancy looked puzzled. ‘Of course not. She was in raptures. You know how Mama feels about him.’

Yes, but he could not fathom it. ‘Then why does she wish to see me?’

‘I am not certain.’ Nancy removed her cloak and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. ‘I did not remain with them above a few minutes. Lord Tranville said very pretty things to me. And to Mama. It was quite a pleasure to see him.’

‘Is he still there?’ If so, Jack preferred to avoid him.

She shook her head. ‘He left, and then Mama asked me to fetch you.’

Jack walked over to his easel to clean his brushes. He covered his palette with a cloth so that the paint would not dry and wiped his hands. ‘Give me a moment to change my clothes.’

A few minutes later he and Nancy walked the short distance to his mother’s set of rooms on Adam Street. Jack liked having his family near after the long separation of war, and Tranville’s money could well pay for rooms in both London and Bath, but his mother would have been far wiser to save that money for Nancy’s future.

Nancy paused mid-step. ‘Do you think Lord Tranville has asked Mama to marry him? Perhaps that is why she wants to see you?’

He gave a dry laugh. ‘That is a ridiculous notion, Nancy.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Why is it ridiculous? He is an eligible man now.’

He shook his head. ‘He has not seen fit to call upon her for over a year. That is hardly prelude to a proposal.’

Nancy gaped at him as if he’d lost his wits. ‘Surely Lord Tranville was concerned as to how it would appear to see Mama so soon after his wife died. He was being protective of her reputation.’

Jack resumed walking. ‘He was never so protective of her reputation before his wife died.’

She hurried to catch up. ‘You do not understand it at all. Now that he is an eligible man of rank, it becomes more important to protect her from talk.’

Jack bit his tongue. He’d always tried to shield Nancy from the sordid reality of Tranville’s relationship with their mother. He wasn’t about to change now.

‘I do not understand why you dislike Tranville so.’ Nancy looked wounded.

Jack never intended for Nancy to think well of Tranville, merely to prevent her from thinking ill of their mother. ‘I suppose I dislike him because he is not our father.’ And because he so quickly replaced their father in their mother’s bed.

She squeezed his arm. ‘I cannot remember our father like you do. I only remember that Tranville helped our mother when we were so poor.’

They had never been so poor that their mother would not have had a chance for a respectable second marriage. Tranville ruined that for her.

They arrived at his mother’s door, but Nancy held him back. ‘Can you not perceive the situation between Mama and Lord Tranville as romantic?’

‘Romantic?’ He could not lie. ‘No, I cannot.’

‘Well, I can.’ Her tone was definite. ‘They have loved each other for so many years, but because Lord Tranville was married, they could not be together. Even so, he loved her with such a passion he could never stay away completely.’

He gave her a disapproving look. ‘A passion?’

She lifted her chin. ‘I am not a child any more. I know what happens between a man and a woman.’

Jack put his hand on the doorknob. ‘What happens between a man and a woman is not necessarily romantic, my dear sister.’

Nancy stood her ground. ‘He must love her. He pays for everything for her. Our food. Our house. Everything.’

‘He has done so.’ It was the only thing to Tranville’s credit and it had always puzzled Jack. A man of Tranville’s character would cut funds the minute he tired of a woman.

‘Why would he spend that money on her if he did not love her?’ Nancy asked.

‘I confess, I do not know,’ Jack responded honestly, turning the knob and ending the discussion.

When they entered the rented rooms, their mother’s manservant, Wilson, appeared in the hall to take Nancy’s cloak and Jack’s hat and gloves. ‘Your mother awaits you in the parlour.’

Jack opened the parlour door for Nancy and followed her in.

His mother stood by the fireplace and turned at their entrance. ‘Jack, I am pleased you could come right away.’

He crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Mother.’

Slanting him a somewhat determined look, she gestured for them to sit. Jack waited for her to lower herself in a chair.

Her hands nervously smoothed the fabric of her skirt. ‘I am certain Nancy has told you Lionel—Lord Tranville—called upon me.’ Her eyes flickered with a momentary pleasure.

‘He informed me of his intention to call.’ Jack tried to keep his voice even.

‘We had a lovely time,’ his mother went on.

‘Indeed.’ Jack fought sarcasm.

His mother took a breath. ‘Well, I suppose I should just say that Lionel told me he offered you a commission.’

‘He did.’

‘He did?’ Nancy sat forward in surprise. ‘You never said. How exciting.’

Jack turned to her. ‘I did not accept it, Nancy.’

His mother broke in. ‘The thing is, Jack, I want you to accept it.’

‘I will not.’ She must be mad.

‘Ja-ack.’ Nancy drew out his name, sounding disappointed.

Jack stared at his mother. ‘A woman, Mother.’

She shot a glance to Nancy and back to Jack with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Very well. He would not delve into why he presumed Tranville wished him to paint a woman, even though his mother was not deluded about it.

His mother answered calmly, ‘He is financing a production of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra and wishes the portrait to be used in advertisements. It is precisely what you said you wanted last night.’

‘I did not say I would work for Tranville.’

‘But, Jack—’ Nancy inserted.

‘Do not be foolish, my son,’ his mother went on. ‘He offers you a good price—better, I dare say, than you have earned on your other paintings.’ She named the price Tranville had offered. It was a staggering amount.

Jack gritted his teeth. ‘I do not want his charity.’

Lines formed between her brows. ‘This animosity does you no credit.’

He shrugged.

He’d tried to explain before, telling her of Tranville’s harsh treatment of his men during the war while toadying to his superiors, of how Tranville turned a blind eye to his son avoiding combat, but sent better men to their deaths.

‘You know what sort of man he is.’

‘Say no more.’ She lifted both hands to halt further discussion. ‘I accepted the commission for you.’

He stood. ‘You did not!’

She regarded him with a steely glance. ‘You will paint this portrait for me, Jack, because I wish it. I ask little of you, but I ask this.’

He remained standing, looking down at her. She’d aged since he’d left for war. Her brown hair was streaked with grey and tiny lines had formed at the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Still, he thought her as beautiful as when he’d been a boy and she’d been young and carefree. He wished he could paint that memory.

She continued, ‘And I insist you do not cross him. Treat Lord Tranville with civility for my sake, because it is important to me.’ Her eyes pleaded. ‘It is important to me that you have this work, the money it will pay, and it is important to me that Lionel succeed in gaining his desires. He wishes to make this play a success and, therefore, I wish it for him.’

Tranville wished to make a conquest of this actress, if he was not bedding her already. Who was it? An actress as sought after by men as Daphne Blane? Jack would not put it past Tranville to try to buy his way into her bed by financing a play. He’d bought his way into his mother’s bed, after all, and now his mother wanted her son to paint this woman? It was absurd.

Jack narrowed his eyes. ‘Did he threaten you? Threaten to withhold your funds or some such thing?’

She looked surprised. ‘Threaten? Of course he did not. Lionel has always paid my quarterly allowance. I ask merely out of my gratitude for all he has done for us.’

Jack averted his gaze and stared into the carpet whose pile had worn thin in places.

‘Say you will do this for me, my son,’ his mother murmured.

He wanted to refuse, but his mother so rarely asked for anything, certainly nothing from him. Jack slowly nodded. ‘For you, Mother, I will do as you ask.’ He raised his chin. ‘But only for you.’

Only for his mother would he would paint her lover’s new conquest.