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The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 7: Misses and Near Misses

 
Prudence Newton glanced up from her prayer-book as Mrs. Aurelia Gammersgill bustled down the aisle to her usual place in the third pew.  Prudence stifled a grin. With those frills and trimmings on her bonnet, Mrs. Gammersgill looked more than usual like a placid sheep ready for shearing.  In contrast, Mrs. Millicent Oldstead-Parker, who followed close upon her heels, cast a foxy and appraising look upon the congregation as she went, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
The two ladies were no sooner settled than Mr. Neville Newton stood at the pulpit and began to speak. Prudence bowed her head in a show of piety, though the assembled congregation would have been surprised if they could have read her thoughts. She sat beside her mother in the rearmost pew of All Saints church as her father’s voice droned on. She was careful not to let her chin droop to her chest, as many parishoners were liable to do.  
At age seventeen, Prudence Newton was at present dissatisfied with her life and most especially dissatisfied with her parents expectations for her. As their only child, they expected a great deal of Prudence. Most annoyingly, they took for granted that she would marry a clergyman and post haste provide them with many grandchildren for the pair of them to dote upon.  
As much as she loved her parents, Prudence knew that she was bound to disappoint them in this regard, for Prudence had ambitions for herself beyond the boundaries of Bloxley Bottom. She did not want to be a clergyman’s wife like her mother, subject to the constant scrutiny of the parishioners. Was her sponge cake as good as Mrs. Noseywood’s? Did she sing off-key in the chorale? Did her share of the altar cloth embroidery seem a little crooked? Surely there was more to life than that.
 
For the time being, Prudence carried out her household duties without complaint. She tended her hens and gathered their eggs carefully. Making her delivery rounds through the village was at present her only escape from her mother’s phantom illnesses and the vague symptoms that necessitated Prudence’s attention throughout each day.   
 
Lady Louisa had played a large part in allowing Prudence to hope for more. For several years now, the dowager baroness insisted upon Prudence’s weekly visits to the dower house, where Lady Louisa and Miss Anne tutored Prudence in social niceties and graces. They groomed her for a life beyond the confines of a rectory and Prudence was an eager pupil.
Prudence glanced now at the Bloxley sisters, Lady Louisa’s own granddaughters, sitting up there in the very front pew, looking as pampered and petted as a pair of spoiled lap dogs.  Daphne and Valeria hadn’t a care in the world. Their family would make certain that they married well.
How it rankled when Daphne offered to give Prudence that little-worn rose-tinted silk dress with the delicate lace trim.  Prudence blushed to recall her eager acceptance of the gift and how she admired the gown.  But she had never worn it, for she had never received an invitation to the sort of engagement that would merit its elegance.   
How could life be so unfair?

 

            ››

Later that afternoon, the Bloxley sisters sat in Daphne’s bedchamber.
“What is one supposed to do while posing for a portrait? Must you sit very still?” The Honourable Daphne Bloxley wrinkled her nose and grimaced into the mirror above her dressing table. “I am not very pleased with Papa for arranging this caper.”
“Why ever not? I want to be painted. To be immortalized,” her younger sister Valeria declared dramatically. “Someday when I am old like Grandmama, I will be happy to remember how pretty I once was. Grandmama loves to stand in front of her portrait in the dining room.”
 “Perhaps she is thinking about the days when she was young,” said Daphne.
 “She also believes that she is still a great beauty. I think she is really quite vain.”
 
“Of course she is! She says even though Mama is also very pretty in her own way, we are fortunate to have inherited our looks from her side of the family.”
 “She didn’t say that! I do not believe it,” Valeria protested.
“She did. She told Mama directly. And Mama told me.” Daphne took up a brush and swept it through her long hair.
“Oh, what did she say?”
 “I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Yes, you must. I have to know. Please, Daff.
 
“I am not sure I should.”
“Do tell. Please, Daff.  You cannot tell me part and not all of it.”
 Daphne turned away from the mirror to face her sister. “Mama says that Grandmama married Grandpapa against the wishes of her father, the Earl of Grassington. He thought she should marry at least a man of his own status, and not a mere baron.”
 “But wasn’t Grandpapa very rich?”
“I think so, but her father thought she should catch herself a duke.”
 “Oh, that would be very easy, I suppose. All those young unmarried dukes crowding up the streets…”
“Well, there were probably some. Even today, there’s Devonshire. He never has married, you know.”
“So set your cap at him next year, Daff.”
 “Ha! He’s far too old for me.”
 “I don’t think so. Not really. Is that all she said?”
“No. She told Mama that Papa could have married a wealthier heiress than Mama. But that she, Grandmama I mean, was happy that Papa had married for love, because that is what she had done. She loved Lord Bloxley and she married him despite her own father’s objections to the match.”
 
Valeria covered her open mouth with her hand. “Oh, Daphne, how long have you known about this? Why didn’t you tell me right away? It is so very romantic. “
 
“It was all well and good for Grandmama and Papa to each marry for love. It didn’t require their sacrificing anything in order to do so, after all.”
 
“I want to marry for love, Daff. Don’t you?”
 
Daphne turned back to the mirror and picked up her hair brush. “Well, I wouldn’t marry for love alone. Not if it meant that I had to change my present circumstances. Or reduce my dress allowance.”
 
“Daphne! You’re a fiend.”
 
“No. Simply practical, sister dear. Something you should learn to be, else you’ll find yourself married to the first handsome face you see and living on love and air alone.”
 
“I shan’t,” Valeria sighed as she lay across her sister’s bed. “I shall be deliriously happy with my handsome husband and our fifteen children. And you will be their spinster aunt living on crumbs in our attic, all because you scoffed at love and held out for a wealthy suitor who never materialized.”
 
“In your attic?” Daphne laid down her brush, rose from the stool and came across to the bed.
 
“Hhmmm. That’s where bitter people live. In attics. And your hair will have turned grey with unhappiness and you’ll be all bent over and you’ll spend your days counting your guineas like a miser.”
 
“If I have guineas to count then I shan’t be very poor, shall I?” Daphne sat beside her sister on the bed. “If I had guineas to count, I wouldn’t be living in your attic.”
 
“I’ll lock you in the attic. So that you can’t contaminate my children with your bitterness. My handsome husband will hide the key so that you can never escape.”
 
Daphne arched a brow at her sister. “Will he?”
 
Valeria nodded. “Oh, yes, he will. And he’ll . . . . . no, Daff, no!”
 
“Yes, Val, yes! Tickling is what we bitter old crones do best. Right in the armpits!”
 
 

 

 

 

Federal Furniture

Recently, I met writer pals Diane Gaston and Julie Halperson at the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C. We had a lot of catching up to do, but we also managed to view some outstanding art. We saw the exhibition “Pre-Raphaelites: Victorian Art and Design,” which was organized by the NGA and the Tate Britain. It is showing until May, 2013, so if you have a chance to get to Washington, don’t miss it — a blog piece is coming soon..

Picture

We also enjoyed browsing the collection of American furniture from the early nineteenth century. The exhibit “Masterpieces of American Furniture from the Kaufman Collection 1700-1830” has been on view since last autumn. Shown in my picture is a Grecian couch, attributed to John Finlay (1777-1851) and Hugh Finlay (1781-1831), created in Baltimore 1810-1830, of walnut and cherry paint and gold leaf. Above it hangs a set of botanical prints and a Girandole mirror, New York 1810-1825, white pine, wire, gesso and gold leaf, glass.
The Federal Period in American history corresponds roughly to the extended regency, from about 1789 when the Constitution was adopted to 1828 or so, when Andrew Jackson was elected as the seventh president — the first who was not associated with the Revolution and a founding father, though in John Quincy Adam’s case, he was the son of a founding father.

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The Gaming table is possibly by Thomas Seymour (1771-1848), Boston, 1815-1820, mahogany and mahogany veneers, various marbles, ormolu (gilded brass), leather and baize (woven cloth). Early America had some superb craftsman who turned out furniture that rivaled the best from England and the continent. 

Linda H. Kaufman and her late husband, George M., collected American furniture and paintings for  many years, promising the collection to the National Gallery as their first permanent display of federal period furniture.

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The Center Table has a frame made by Anthony Querville (1789-1856) a former Frenchman, in Philadelphia 1827-1830. The frame is made of mahogany and mahogany veneers, brass and gold leaf with a top imported from Italy made of various marbles and semi-precious stones.
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The sideboard was made and labeled by William Mills and Simeon Deming (active 1793-1798), New York; mahogany with mahogany, satinwood, and curly maple veneers and light wood inlays; brass. This sideboard was once owned by Oliver Woolcott jr. (1760-1835), Comptroller and Secretary of the Treasury under George Washington. The looking glass was made in New York 1790-1815 of white pine, iron wire, gesso and gold leaf, glass and paint. The platter is from China, 1800-1820, of hard paste porcelain. A pair of decanters was made in Bristol, England, 1800-1810, of blue glass with gilt. The pair of wine coolers is Chinese, 1720-1740, of hard paste porcelain. The two knife boxes are American, 1785-1895, of mahogany and mahogany veneers with wood inlay and silver. The side chairs are from New York, 1775-1899, of mahogany.

America furniture styles in this period corresponded with British and continental publications such as Thomas Chippendale’s Gentleman and Cabinet-Makers Director (London, 1754)  and/or traveling experts, artists, and craftsmen.

The dining table below is attributed to John Townsend, of Newport, RI; It is a three-part table, 1795-1899, mahogany and light wood inlay, 71×436 inches.

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For more information and more details, click here

Many thanks to the generosity of the Kaufmans!!

 

A Couple In England – Day Four – Part One

No doubt you’ll be shocked to learn that the Hubby and I began Day Four as we had every other day – at Caffe Nero. By this time, we’d gotten a frequent purchase card and were well on our way to getting our tenth cup free. Once again, we took our coffees to a table outside, where we drank up, lit up, woke up and discussed our day.
“Apsley House.”
“Mmmhhhmmm.”

“Oh, God. Here we go.”
“You can’t listen to everything Brooke says about Apsley House,” I advised him. “I promise you it won’t be that bad.” Before we’d left for England, my daughter, Brooke, had warned Hubby against Apsley House, using words like boring, torture and never again.. In her defence, I do tend to drag her along to Apsley House whenever we’re in London. “All I ask is that you go once. Just once. And then I promise I’ll never take you there again.” I smiled at him over the rim of my cardboard cup. “Look, I only ask for fourteen days in England out of every two years, on average. That’s not much to ask, huh? You can put up with England for my sake, surely? And today is Apsley House, or as Victoria and I refer to it, the Holy of Holies.”
“Okay, okay. What’s at Apsley House, anyway?”
“Oh, well, where to start? There’s great stuff to see at Apsley House, even before you get inside.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for a start, if there’s a Rolls Royce out front when we get there, then that will mean that the Duke of Wellington is in residence.”

“Yeah, right. Har har.”
“The present Duke. Not Artie.”
“There’s still a Duke of Wellington?”
Sigh. “The king is dead, long live the king. God willing, there will always be a Duke of Wellington. It’s an hereditary title. It gets passed down through the generations. I mean, it’s one of the family titles that’s passed down. Artie was also the Marquess of Douro and Viscount Wellington. Then there’s an Irish peerage, Mornington, which passed down from his brother to the Dukes of Wellington in 1863, so obviously Artie never held that title himself.”
“Oh, obviously. My good man.”
Sigh. I suppose I won’t go into the Duke’s foreign titles with Hubby. “The present Duke is the 8th Duke of Wellington. His son is the Marquess of Douro and his grandson is the Earl of Mornington. He’s married to Jemma Kidd, the make up artist.”
“The Duke is married to a make up artist?”
“Lord Mornington is married to her. The Duke is a widower. It must be awful being any Duke of Wellington other than the first,” I mused.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, there’s no way you can live up to the first Duke, is there? In fact, when Artie was old and frail, someone mentioned to his son, also named Arthur, that he should prepare himself for becoming the next Duke of Wellington. And he said something along the lines of `imagine what a disappointment it will be when they announce the Duke of Wellington and only I appear.'”

“Huh.”
“So, remember when we went to Buckingham Palace and I recognized that portrait of Richard Wellesley?”
“Yeah, that was great.”
“Well, after Waterloo, the nation wanted to honour Wellington by building him a grand estate, along the lines of Blenheim Palace, which was built for the Duke of Marlborough after his military victory. Artie saw no harm in this plan and even went out to Blenheim to see it for himself. Well! He took one look at it and put his foot down. He didn’t want anything remotely that size. Artie was nothing if not practical and he could visualize the enormous financial burden something that size would place on future generations.”

“Besides, Artie was very down to earth. He didn’t want to live in a palace, he wouldn’t have been comfortable. You know, in a way, you could say that Wellington was the first British rock star.”
“Played the electric guitar, did he?”
“After his victory at Waterloo, he was swarmed by crowds wherever he went,” I said, ignoring Hubby’s remark. “Wellington had to be surrounded by a contingent of guards who tried to keep the public at bay. Women would weep when they saw him and try to grab at him and kiss him, or tear off pieces off his clothing as souveniers.”
“What?”
“No joke. Even years later, he was revered. One day he went to some public function and there was an old soldier on the door. The old guy went on and on to the Duke, saying as how he’d never imagined he’d ever get to lay eyes upon the great Duke of Wellington, much less have the honour of opening the door for him. Wellington looked him square in the eye and told him not to be such an idiot. He could never understand the idolatry he received.”
“Back to Apsley House. The guy in the portrait at Buckingham Palace was Artie’s elder brother, Richard. Unlike Wellington himself, Richard was a bit of a spend thrift, always finding himself in debt. He had bought Apsley House for himself, but then found himself in straightened times. He needed to sell it, it was far too expensive for him to run, and Wellington needed a London base. To
his mind, Apsley House was as good a place as any, so he gave Richard a very fair price for the house and thus helped his brother out of debt and got himself a London residence. Two birds with one stone. That was Wellington to a T.”
“Huh.”
“What’s ironic is that Stratfield Saye, the house that the Country did eventually build for Wellington, is still pretty much self-sustaining and it’s Apsley House that became cost prohibitive in the end. The Duke of Wellington gave it over to English Heritage, with the provision that the family still has quarters there and uses it as a residence. You ready to see it?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Hubby with a sigh.
Part Two Coming Soon!
 

The Smithsonian Institution: The Gift of a British Subject

Victoria here, writing about my annual trip to Washington, D. C. Whenever I can, I visit one or more of the great museums of the Smithsonian Institution, and I always think about the way it got started by a posthumous gift from James Smithson (1765-1829) “to found, at Washington, under the name of the Smithsonian Institution, an Establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge.”  In typical American political fashion, there was considerable debate about how the gift would be used, but by 1846, President James Polk signed the bill that created the SI.

The Red Castle on the Mall, Independence Avenue facade
 
Quoting from the SI’s brochures: James Smithson “was born James Lewis Macie in Paris, France, in 1765.  His mother was the widow Elizabeth Hungerford Keate Macie of Bath, England, a descendant of Henry VII. His father, Hugh Smithson, the Duke of Northumberland, was actually married to his mother’s cousin. After his mother’s death in 1800, he officially changed his name to Smithson …graduated from Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1786, the same year he became a naturalized British citizen…he was the youngest to be admitted as a Fellow of the Royal Society…in 1802, he identified a specific zinc ore that was posthumously renamed smithsonite in his honor…”
 
 
Painting of James Smithson in the Red Castle
 

It is tempting to speculate on Why Smithson left his fortune to the US, a place he never visited.  Perhaps he was offended by the way in which the English aristocracy treated him as the illegitimate son of a Duke.  Perhaps he admired the experiement in government across the Atlantic. However he made the decision, the result cannot be disputed: a great institution which honors his name.

a youthful Smithson, by James Roberts, 1786

A chemist and geologist, Smithson died in Genoa, Italy, in 1829 and was buried there.  In 1903, Alexander Graham Bell (a Regent of the SI) and his wife bought Smithson’s remains to Washington where he is now at rest.

Memorial to James Smithson in the Red Castle
 
 
The Red Castle, designed by architect James Renwick Jr. in the Medieval Revival style, was the first of the SI Buildings and housed the complete collection and operations for many years.  It was remodeled and enlarged after a fire in 1865.  Today, the building houses the information center, a few of the original displays, and the ubiquitous gift shop.  Below are a few views I took of the Red Castle.
 
 
from the Mall
 
 
reflection of the Washington Monument in the window
 
The Great Hall
 
Peacock in the Commons (stuffed)
 
gift shop
 
The Smithsonian has grown to a gigantic size today, with parts of the SI located in many places besides Washington.  But it remains in the popular mind, a collection of large and fascinating museums along the Mall between the Washington Monument and the Capitol.  Here are a few you might have visited.
 
Museum of American H
istory
 
Freer Gallery of Art
 
Museum of Natural History
 
Museum of African Art
 
Air and Space Museum
 
Museum of the American Indian
 
Tipis on the lawn of the American Indian Museum, with the Capitol nearby
 
 
This is just the beginning of the Smithsonian journey — in which you can participate by internet, tours, special aps, the magazine and video productions.  Just start by clicking here. 
 
 
What would James Smithson think of the results of his gift of about half a million dollars?  Since we can only guess why he gave the money in the first place, he could have no way of expecting that his gift would start one of the world’s greatest educational and research institutions.  Thank you, Mr. Smithson!
 
Soon I will write more about my visit to the National Gallery, a neighbor to the Smithsonian Museums but a separate entity. 
 
 
 
 

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 6: A Shocking Display


 

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.

“Arp!”

Lionel glanced out the window in time to see Spot dashing across the lawn in hot pursuit of the Lord knew what. Deuced odd looking animal.
Lionel pulled his mind back to the matters at hand. The Duke was due any minute.


››


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.

››



In the well-lit conservatory at Monty’s Saxon Lodge, the artist Tournell unpacked his box of carefully protected canvasses, already primed. Tournell replaced i
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.




When he arrived home, Monty was pleased to find Tournell setting up his studio in the former conservatory of Saxon Lodge, a room Monty found superfluous. Having the artist working at the Lodge could be lucrative for both of them. The whole thing had been Monty’s idea at first. Pierre Tournell had embraced the idea eagerly enough. Of course he had; the paintings had kept him in money. What Monty needed at present was a set of good sales to the Naxians of those breast miniatures.
Monty approached Tournell. “I see you’re hard at it. Good man. Listen, Tournell, can you paint a few more le pesche for me?”

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?

››

››
An hour after his arrival in the library at Bloxley Hall, the Duke looked at the clock on Lionel’s bookshelf. It was time he headed back to Walmer. As he recalled, there would be guests at dinner tonight. “I think we have the essential agreement here,” he said.
Lionel nodded. “Starting with the committee to widen the main road, I am sure we will build support for more improvements. Much as I would like to start all of them at once, your advice about moving at a judicious pace is right on point, Duke.”
The Duke raised one eyebrow. “You’ll bring along the doubters soon enough.”
“I hope so.” Lionel leaned back in his chair, the business of the day concluded. “I have decided to have my daughters’ portraits painted.”
“So I have been told.”
Lionel gave a bark of laughter. “My mother, I suppose, was full of the news.”
“Ah, yes. Lady Louisa is one of my oldest friends, you know. She is a one-woman fount of intelligence. She has a better network of informants than I devised at any time during the wars. Indeed a formidable woman.”
“And I suppose she told you she does not particularly approve of this painter, a Frenchman?”
It was the Duke’s turn to nod in agreement.
Lionel went on. “He is a truly talented fellow, and he needs a bit of help getting his work into the right hands.”
“Hoping to have your daughters’ portraits in the Academy’s summer exhibition next year?”
“It has crossed my mind. No names, however. Having the girls identified, I am sure, would offend my mother’s sense of propriety.”
“No doubt.”
“Have you seen Tournell’s work, Duke?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“No one has shown you one of their le pesches?” A smile was beginning to build on the baron’s lips.
“Their what?”
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.”
He handed the picture to the Duke whose jaw actually dropped in surprise.
Lionel continued to explain. “It’s that group of men Monty has assembled, the Naxians they call themselves. Rather juvenile, I think, but all in good fun. It’s become quite the fashion among them to have their mistresses painted.”
“Like this?” The Duke’s voice was rather strained as he gazed at the view of two perfect breasts and nothing else.
“Sometimes on ivory. The painter has a deft touch.”
“And this is the man you want to paint your daughters?”
“Oh, le pesche are just a sideline. He is skilled at portraiture.”
“Apparently so,” said the Duke as he eyed the miniature.