Читать книгу The Beauty Within - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 10

Cressie stood at the window of the schoolroom at the top of the house, and looked on distractedly as James and Harry laboured at their sums. The twins, George and Frederick, sat at the next desk, busy with their coloured chalks. An unusual silence prevailed. For once, all four boys were behaving themselves, having been promised the treat of afternoon tea with their mama if they did. In the corner of the room, a large pad of paper balanced on his knee, Giovanni worked on the preliminary sketches for their portrait, unheeded by his subjects but not by their sister.

He seemed utterly engrossed in his work, Cressie thought. He would not let her look at the drawings, so she looked instead at him, which was no hardship—he really was quite beautiful, all the more so with the perfection of his profile marred by the frown which emphasised the satyr in his features. That, and the sharpness of his cheekbones, the firm line of his jaw, which contrasted so severely with the fullness of his lips, the thick silkiness of his lashes, made what could have been feminine most decidedly male.

His fingers were long and elegant, almost unmarked by the charcoal he held. Her own hands were dry with chalk dust, her dress rumpled and grubby where Harry had grabbed hold of it. No doubt her hair was in its usual state of disarray. Giovanni’s clothes, on the other hand, were immaculate. He had put off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt most precisely. She could not imagine him dishevelled. His forearms were tanned, covered in silky black hair. Sinewy rather than muscular. He was lithe rather than brawny. Feline? No, that was not the word. He had not the look of a predator, and though there was something innately sensual in his looks, there was also a glistening hardness, like a polished diamond. If it had not been such a cliché, she would have been tempted to call him devilish.

She watched him studying the boys. His gaze was cool, analytical, almost distant. He looked at them as if they were objects rather than people. Her brothers had, when first introduced to Giovanni, been obstreperous, showing off, vying for his attention. His utter indifference to their antics had quite thrown them, so used were they to being petted and spoilt, so sure were they of their place at the centre of the universe. Cressie had had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. To be ignored was beyond her brothers’ ken. She ought to remember how effective a tactic it was.

She turned her gaze to the view from the window. This afternoon, it had been agreed, Giovanni would begin her portrait. Thesis first, he said, an idealised Lady Cressida. How had he put it? A picture-perfect version of the person she presented to the world. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but it made her uncomfortable, the implication that he could see what others could or would not. Did he sense her frustration with her lot? Or, heaven forefend, her private shame regarding Giles? Did he think her unhappy? Was she unhappy? For goodness’ sake, it was just a picture, no need to tie herself in knots over it!

Giovanni had earmarked one of the attics for their studio, where the light flooded through the dormer windows until early evening and they could be alone, undisturbed by the household. In order to free her time, Cressie had volunteered to take all four boys every morning, leaving Janey, the nursery maid, in charge in the afternoons, which Bella usually slept through after taking tea. Later today, Giovanni would begin the process of turning Cressie into her own proof, painting her according to the mathematical rules she had studied, representing her theorem on canvas. Her image in oils would be a glossy version of her real self. And the second painting, depicting her alter ego, the private Cressie, would be the companion piece. How would Giovanni depict that version of her, the Cressie he believed she kept tightly buttoned-up inside herself? And were either versions of her image really anything to do with her? Would it be the paintings which were beautiful or the subject, in the eyes of their creator? So excited had she been by the idea of the portraits she had thought of them only in the abstract. But someone—who was it?—claimed that the artist could see into the soul. Giovanni would know the answer, but she would not ask him. She did not want anyone to see into her soul. Not that she believed it was true.

Turning from the window, she caught his unwavering stare. How long had he been looking at her? His hand flew across the paper, capturing what he saw, capturing her, not her brothers. His hand moved, but his gaze did not. The intensity of it made it seem as if they were alone in the schoolroom. Her own hand went self-consciously to her hair. She didn’t like being looked at like this. It made her feel—not naked, but stripped. No one looked at her like that, really looked at her. Intimately.

Cressie cleared her throat, making a show of checking the clock on the wall. ‘James, Harry, let me see how you have got on with your sums.’ Sliding a glance at Giovanni, she saw he had moved to a fresh sheet of paper and was once again sketching the boys. Had she imagined the connection between them? Only now that it was broken did she notice that her heart was hammering, her mouth was dry.

She was being silly. Giovanni was an artist, she was a subject, that was all. He was simply analysing her, dissecting her features, as a scientist would a specimen. Men as beautiful as Giovanni di Matteo were not interested in women as plain as Cressie Armstrong, and Cressie would do well to remember that.

It was warm in the attic, the afternoon sun having heated the airless room. Dust motes floated and eddied in the thermals. Giovanni removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. In front of him, a blank canvas was propped on his easel. Across the room, posed awkwardly on a red velvet chair, was Cressie. He had discovered the chair in another of the attic’s warren of rooms and had thought it an ideal symbolic device for his composition. It was formal, functional and yet sensual, a little like the woman perched uncomfortably on it. He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You look like the French queen on her way to the guillotine. I am going to take your likeness, not chop off your head.’

She laughed at that, but it was perfunctory. ‘If you take my likeness, then you will have lost, signor. I am—’

‘If you remind me once more of your lack of beauty, signorina, I will be tempted to cut off your head after all.’ Giovanni sighed in exasperation. Though he knew exactly how he wished to portray her, she was far too tense for him to begin. ‘Come over here, let me explain a little of the process.’

He replaced the canvas with his drawing board, tacking a large sheet of paper to it. Cressie approached cautiously, as if the blank page might attack her. All morning, she had been subdued, almost defensive. ‘There is nothing to be afraid of,’ he said, drawing her closer.

‘I’m not afraid.’

She pouted and crossed her arms. Her buttoned-up look. Or was it buttoned-down? ‘I have never come across such a reluctant subject,’ Giovanni said. ‘You are surely not afraid I will steal your soul?’

‘What made you say that?’

She was glaring at him now, which did not at all augur well. ‘It is said that a painting reflects the soul in the same way a mirror does. To have your image taken, some say, is to surrender your soul. I meant it as a jest, Cressie. A mathematician such as yourself could not possibly believe such nonsense.’

She stared at the blank sheet of paper, her brow furrowed. ‘Was it Holbein? The artist who painted the soul in the eyes, I mean. Was that Holbein? I couldn’t remember earlier, in the schoolroom.’

‘Hans Holbein the Younger. Is that what you are afraid of, that I will not steal your soul but see into it?’

‘Of course not. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.’ She gave herself a little shake and forced a smile. ‘The process. You said you would explain.’

Most of his subjects, especially the women, were only too ready to bare their soul to him, usually as a prelude to the offer to bare their bodies. Cressie, on the other hand, seemed determined to reveal nothing of herself. Her guard was well and truly up, but he knew her well enough now to know how to evade it. Giovanni picked up a piece of charcoal and turned towards the drawing board.

‘First, I divide the canvas up into equal segments like this.’ He sketched out a grid. ‘I want you to be exactly at the centre of the painting, so your face will be dissected by this line, which will run straight down the middle of your body, aligning your profile and your hands which define the thirds into which the portrait will be divided, like this—you see how the proportions are already forming on the vertical?’

He turned from the shapes he had sketched in charcoal to find that Cressie looked confused. ‘There is a symmetry in the body, in the way the body can be posed, that is naturally pleasing. If you clasp your hands so, can you not see it, this line?’

Giovanni ran his finger from the top of her head, down the line of her nose, to her mouth. He carried on, ignoring the softness of her lips, tracing the line of her chin, her throat, to where her skin disappeared beneath the neck of her gown. The fabric which formed a barrier made it perfectly acceptable for him to complete his demonstration, he told himself, just tracing the valley between her breasts, the soft swell of her stomach, finally resting his finger on her hands. ‘This line …’ He cleared his throat, trying to distance himself. ‘This line …’ he turned towards the paper on the easel once more and picked up the charcoal ‘… it is the axis for the portrait. And your elbows, they will form the widest point, creating a triangle thus.’

To his relief, Cressie was frowning in concentration, focused on the drawing board, seemingly oblivious to the way his body was reacting to hers. It was because he so habitually avoided human contact, that was all. An instinctive reaction he would not repeat because he would not touch her again. Not more than was strictly necessary.

‘Are you always so precise when you are structuring a portrait?’ she asked. ‘This grid, will you draw it out on the canvas?’

‘Si. And I will also block out the main shapes, just as I have shown you.’ Giovanni guided her back towards the chair, encouraging her to question him, relieved to discover that by distracting her with the technical details of his craft, the various pigments he preferred, the precise recipe of oils and binding agents he used to create his paints, he could distract himself too, from his awareness of her as a woman, of himself as a man, which had no place here in his studio.

Cressie’s face, which was quite plain in repose, when animated was transformed. He fed her facts, drew her out with questions as to the detail of her theory and sketched quickly, trying to capture her in charcoal and when he had, he replaced the paper with his canvas and repositioned his sitter. This he did quickly lest she remember the purpose of this session and become self-conscious once again.

‘Tell me more of this book you are using to teach your brothers,’ he said as he began to paint in the grid.

‘It is a children’s introduction to geometry. I am hoping that if I have evidence of its practical application I will be able to persuade my publisher to print it. At present, he is unwilling to do so at his own expense, and I have not the wherewithal to fund it myself. Unfortunately, to date my brothers have not exactly proved to be the most interested of pupils.’

‘It seems to me that your brothers have been raised to find only themselves of interest.’

Cressie grinned. ‘That is a dreadful thing to contemplate, but I am afraid it is quite true. Save for my father, they have been raised to care for no one’s opinion but their own.’

‘And your father cares for none but them, you say?’

‘Blood and beauty,’ Cressie said with a twisted smile. ‘Your words, signor, and most apt. Your own father—is he still alive? He must be immensely proud of you and your success.’

‘Proud! My father thinks …’ Giovanni took a deep breath and unclenched his fists, surprised by the strength of his reaction. He never thought of his father. Not consciously. He had no father worthy of the name. ‘What I know from bitter experience is that you might succeed in mollifying your father by doing as he bids, but he will only see it as his right, his due. You cannot make a man such as that proud of you, Cressie. And in the process of trying, you are making yourself thoroughly miserable.’