Lionel, Baron Bloxley tapped his forefinger on the map of Kent he’d been studying. He knew of several well-traveled routes that were in need of significant expansion or resurfacing after roadbed improvements and even re-grading for some. He was eager to hear what the Duke had to say about forming a turnpike committee. The vicar favored it, but he was not a man of a practical bent.
If the fellow had any sense at all, he would pay more attention to the needs of his parish than to Isaac Newton, a tenuous relation of his, upon whom he was writing a paper. The baron uttered a silent oath. While the vicar’s nose was in some musty book, he allowed a gaggle of old women to rule the village. Lionel could not help but to smile. The premier meddler was his own mother, the revered Dowager Baroness, who knew precisely how to make everyone dance to her tune.
In that regard, Lionel had to consider himself a fortunate man. His wife Elizabeth was apparently content to allow the Dowager to hold sway over the rest of the congregation, not to say village.
Lionel’s attention had wandered. He re-read the note from Ashton, his best tenant. The man ran the Home Farm with the skill of a one bred to the job, as indeed he had been.
He studied it for a moment and felt his concern lighten. This was more like it. The orchards, both cherry and apple, had been blooming better than they had in years and Ashton had set another hive of bees. There would be bumper crops.
Major Monty Twydall rode home from the Dower House with the satisfaction of the Duke’s assurance that he would stop by to see the pearls next week. Monty needed the sale. Several of his investments were not doing well. As idle as he professed to be, Monty kept a sharp eye upon the dismal financial news in London newspapers. As if the news weren’t dire in itself, Monty had made a few unfortunate wagers since the turn of the year. A most regrettable backing of a bare knuckle boxer. A few unwise bets at the cock fights he’d organized had soaked up his share of the profits. If Monty had taken the time to fill out a balance sheet, the last five months would have shown little on the income side and heavy expenses on the other. It could only be hoped that things would soon look up. In the meantime, he needed to make a large sale in order to tide him over this rough patch. Or convince Tournell to turn out more of his secret pictures, which always brought in a pretty penny.
n the false bottom of the carrying case the five little examples of his breast paintings, the ones that brought him so much business, but were becoming something of a nuisance. In certain circles, these little portraits had come to be known as le peche, or the peaches.
Several years ago, when Major Twydall had wanted a miniature of Adora, his then-mistress, he whispered that her face and bad teeth should be turned away, prompting Tournell to jokingly paint only her breasts, which even he thought were exceedingly lovely. The little picture of Adora’s breasts became a great attraction to all the members of the Naxians, Monty’s group of hedonistic friends. Before he knew it, Tournell had received a dozen commissions to paint more of the little ivory miniatures, small paintings easily tucked into a pocket, all of breasts. He’d worked feverishly, being greatly in need of the money and hoping to finish before more appropriate commissions came his way.
Gradually, the commissions for more conventional portraits began to arrive, several from men whose mistress’s mammary glands had been his subject matter. Like Lord Bloxley, a man who had seen and admired Tournell’s formal portrait of Mrs. Green, but who also owned a small leather case containing a tiny depiction of the breasts of Sarah, a lightskirt he no longer even visited and who had moved on to another patron. That had been a shock, Tournell thought, when he had painted Sarah for the second time; it had taken him until a half hour into the session before her laughter reminded him of her former pose.
In fact she had suggested to him the names of a few women who’d like to have themselves portrayed only between their shoulders and their waists, women who loved to display themselves but who did not care to draw attention to their flaws.
Sometimes Tournell felt he was a prisoner of his own, secretive success. He had plenty of money and a growing reputation, yet most of his best paintings could not be exhibited in public. There were members of the Royal Academy who did life size renditions of nearly nude nymphs in mythological scenes — but they’d be scandalized if they saw the breast miniatures. Or so they would pretend. And if ladies like the Baroness Bloxley or the Dowager saw them…well, his goose would be cooked. To a crisp.
Breasts or respectable portraiture? An empty belly or steady commissions? Respect for his craft or artistic obscurity? His le peche paintings had brought him this lucrative commission from Lord Bloxley. The painting of his daughters could make his name. But it was enevitable that should he come to the attention of the London art world through this and future portraits, it would not be long before he was exposed as the “painter of breasts.” Did he want fame and fortune to finally open their arms to him when it would also mean his exposure as the painter of peches? Alors, Tournell was tortured by these questions daily. Always these questions and never any satisfactory answers.
Tournell sighed. “I have no models. Bloxley Bottom is not a hot bed of courtesans willing to display their wares.”
“Surely there are some young women with pretty cherries ripe for the picking”
“Alors! You would have me accost them in the road?”
“How about the girls at the inn?”
“Mrs. Winston, ah, tres jolie – but she keeps a Bible at her desk. I think if her serving wench told her I wanted her to . . . “
“Come now, man, you can’t be as direct as all that. Gracious, where’s your French flair, your savoir faire?”
“Twydall, you do the seducing, I’ll paint the pictures.”
Monty chuckled. “We’ll take dinner at the Crowing Cock, Tournell, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Tournell agreed, giving a silent sniff at his host’s presumption. Show him, show Tournell who had convinced some of the Naxian’s highest flyers to bare their breasts to a roomful of strangers while he painted them? Ha! But of course Monty had no idea he’d charged admission to his painting sessions from time to time.
With a quick wave, Monty left. “See you at the inn at five.”
“Oui. Au revoir.” Tournell stared up a the slant of the sun and re-positioned his easel.
He wanted, on the one hand, to have his portraits admired, his work to be sought after. But portraits were not only difficult, they took a great deal of tact and subtlety. The sitter needed to be flattered yet the portrayal must be realistic…and he found painting clothing tricky. All the frothy lace women wore today, and poufs of silk and satin. Tournell studied Van Dyke and Gainsborough, had even been acquainted with Tom Lawrence. Now there was someone who gave life to fabrics. Though Lawrence had a studio full of assistants …while he, Tournell worked alone. It took money to set oneself up in an atelier. Maybe he could do paintings of historical subjects, or old myths and legends – these might sell. A gathering of nymphs at Diana’s bathing pool. Attendants at Aphrodite’s toilette…ah yes, he could do such huge canvases and this studio space at Monty’s was just the place.
So Monty was right. He needed models. And not just women. He’d require a few males as well, lithe and strong with well defined musculature. They might be easier to convince to pose. What man didn’t want to show off his body?
Lionel went to the bookcase and thumbed through a volume, removing a small picture, no more than two inches square. He gazed at it fondly. “It was Major Twydall who started it. Le pesche, the peaches in Italian, you know. They are pictures of breasts, sort of like those lover’s eyes that crop up from time to time.”