Page 17 of The Quiet Wife
“Not in the slightest,” Mr Rossetti added.
“I’ve never taught children before,” Mr Whistler puffed up his chest. “I think I may have a talent for it.”
The adults laughed, and the children all concurred, heaping vociferous praise on the artists, and begging for another outing sometime. At this, Mr Whistler laughed loudly and threw up his hands. Frederick silenced the children and summoned Nanny Jenks, his tolerance for their high spirits clearly reaching its limit. The adults headed to the parlour to enjoy some refreshments, while the children reluctantly departed. Frances held her tongue. There was absolutely no reason why the children could not have joined them, but that was typical of her husband. She tried not to let him spoil what had been a lovely afternoon.
Frances made sure her guests were all settled before pouring a cup of tea.
“You seem pleased with yourself,” Frederick said, moving to stand beside her.
She glanced at him, but his face was impassive. She decided to take the comment as it stood and offered a polite smile. “It was a most enjoyable day. Mr Rossetti and Mr Whistler were extremely kind with their attention to the children’s art. It was a wonderful experience for them.”
“Please remember, Whistler is here to sketch the house and to discuss my portrait, not to entertain the children.”
Frances swallowed. “Of course.”
“Your sister seems quite taken with Whistler.”
Frances followed his line of sight and saw Lizzie laughing with Mr Whistler, heads together in a conspiratorial fashion.
“Indeed,” Frances suppressed a smile. She could almost hear the wheels turning in Frederick’s mind. She’d wager the entire house that he would love to have an artist as a member of the family, particularly as it would mean Lizzie no longer living with them. The thought produced a twinge of discomfort. She wasn’t sure what she would do without Lizzie for support.She watched as Mr Whistler ran a hand through his unruly hair and smiled at something Lizzie had said.
“Have you formed an opinion of him?”
Frances was so surprised to be asked she was momentarily flummoxed. She gathered herself swiftly so as not to displease her husband.
“He’s rather unusual. One moment he seems terribly high in the instep, and the other, he’s really quite informal. From the sketches that I saw him do I can see he’s an extremely talented artist.”
Frederick nodded, thumb hooked in his waistcoat. “He is.”
“It would be nice to have him do a portrait of the children and capture them before they are all grown up,” she suggested, ever hopeful.
Frederick immediately shook his head and his familiar frown appeared. “They are too young. He can do some sketches of them.”
Frances wanted to beg to differ, but she said nothing, not wishing to bring the moment of cordiality to an end.
“He is going to do a full-length portrait of me. I’m thinking that I might discuss commissioning him to do yours.” Frederick regarded her.
Frances felt her eyebrows lift in surprise and opened her mouth to protest. She was not sure how she felt about being cooped up with Mr Whistler for long periods of time, particularly as that scrutinising gaze seemed to see straight through her.
“In fact,” Frederick continued, not providing her the opportunity to object, “I think it’s a capital idea. You are still a reasonably attractive woman and I think two portraits will look well together side by side. I shall speak to him today.”
She blinked at her husband and nodded, speech eluding her. Talk about damming with faint praise…
Frances sighed as he disappeared. It hadn’t been too bad sitting for Mr Rossetti. The portrait had been wildly stylised, and, in her humble opinion, looked nothing like her which presumably made it all the more interesting. That had been very easy and undemanding. Mr Whistler seemed the kind of artist who looked closely and saw beneath the surface of his subject. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that kind of portrait. Or about being seen.
***
Whistler examined himself in the looking glass. He turned this way and that and decided that he would do as he was. He tucked a handkerchief into his pocket and smoothed a hand over his hair.
His most recent conversation with Leyland danced about his head. He’d said he wanted Whistler to paint him, but now he wanted him to paint his wife too. Two full-length portraits. It was a substantial commission and one that would guarantee him well paid work for some time, let alone the boost it would give his reputation.
He reluctantly admitted to himself as he rubbed a hand over his mouth that it wasn’t the money that was exciting him.
He’d have to finish the painting of his mother, and the painting of Leyland first, both would be studies in black and grey, but Frances… He knew he shouldn’t think of her as Frances but… He sighed. Frances would not be black. Could not be black. He was already envisaging her in his head, surrounded by soft creams and pinks. He’d never be allowed to paint her as he saw her – laid on the bed with her hair fanned about, preferably naked,looking over one shoulder coquettishly with her hair cascading down the soft skin of her back – he’d have to content himself with a reasonably conventional composition, but the thought of painting her made his body prickle with anticipation from head to foot.
***
Frances left the kitchen, having spoken at some length with Cook about the arrangements for dinner that evening, and was deep in thought about the wisdom of serving turbot as she made her way to the drawing room. She opened the door to find Mr Whistler in there, sketch pad balanced upon one crossed knee, pencil in hand, another tucked behind his ear, sketching her three daughters and Lizzie. They were lounging on the settee, chatting to each other, not sitting still and formal as one would imagine would be an artist’s preference. Mr Whistler’s hand flew over the page, making deft lines here and there. He glanced up when she came in.
