Page 24 of The Quiet Wife
“Perhaps we could start now?” Whistler offered, looking at her and Lizzie with a hopeful smile.
“Forgive me, but I must dash,” Lizzie excused herself, dropping a soft kiss on Frances’ cheek before hastily curtseying to Mr Whistler and disappearing.
“Would you mind?” he picked up the pad and fished some pencils and charcoal from his pocket.
Frances sat up a little straighter, trying to recover from her sister’s abandonment. “Not at all. What do you want me to do? I thought you were painting my husband first.”
He flipped through the book to find a clean page. “I am, but it’s never too soon to begin work on a portrait. The sketches are an important part of the process.”
“Of course.” She shifted awkwardly but he didn’t seem to notice. It was almost like he drifted to a different place when he sketched. She watched his fingers fly over the page. His gaze constantly flitted between her and the drawing, and she wished she could see what he was putting down although it was fascinating to watch him work.
“You have lovely children,” he told her. “You must be very proud of them.”
Frances relaxed a little and settled back at the thought of them. “I am. They are wonderful, but I’m their mother, I would think that.”
“Nonsense,” he flipped over the page and started again. “They are very like you. Warm and charming. Elinor is a little prickly, but no harm in that. She reminds me of your sister.”
Frances chuckled and shook her head. Whistler turned another page and started again. “She is. I worry she will have Lizzie’s temper. It’s an ill omen for the future. She clashes with her father now.I dread to think what she’ll be like when she’s older.”
“I think she will be fabulous, just like you.”
He caught her gaze, capturing her breath. They looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. He cleared his throat and switched over to a new page.
“You’ve been married to Leyland a long time. What is he really like?”
Frances gathered herself with some difficulty and pondered the question. “He is how he is.” She shrugged, not quite knowing what to share. “Driven by his passion for Bibby & Sons. It’s his whole world.”
Whistler’s fingers stilled a moment, but he didn’t look up. He started again. “And art?”
“He loves art. He used to wander the galleries in Liverpool when we were young and had no money.”
“I can’t imagine him poor.”
“It’s not something he likes to discuss so perhaps don’t raise it with him?” she advised, worrying she had shared too much.
“As you wish. Do you miss those days?” Whistler asked softly.
“Well, I’d be silly to do that, wouldn’t I? Who would miss being poor when they have all this?”
His fingers stilled, and he used a finger to smudge what he’d been drawing. He didn’t take his eyes from the paper. “Not at all. It sounds as though your husband was a nicer man then.”
“Of course not,” she protested, feeling the colour scorch her cheeks.
He returned his attention to the sketch and began drawing again. “Forgive me, that was rude. I’d like to sketch you outside. If the rain stops, perhaps we could take a walk?”
“Of course,” Frances agreed with a sense of trepidation.
He put the pad down and tilted his head to one side as he considered her. “I should like that.” His words were spoken in a low voice, and Frances’ heart hammered in her chest.
***
“Can we watch, papa?” Elinor asked, bouncing on her tiptoes, when Frederick told the children he intended to spend the next morning sitting for his portrait with Mr Whistler.
“No, you may not.”
“But why?” An all too regular note of belligerence coloured her youngest daughter’s tone. Frances held her breath, gaze darting to her husband. He raised an eyebrow and looked sternly upon his youngest child. “Elinor…”
She subsided, but not immediately in the way that the others did when he used that tone. Frances’ worry that she would clash with her father horribly as she grew seemed to be truer than she realised.
