Page 51 of The Quiet Wife
It was good to be home at Speke. They arrived, weary and dusty, at precisely the moment that summer arrived, and blue skies broke free, bathing them all in warmth and sunlight. It was a glorious August day.
They all settled back in quickly. The girls were thrilled that Jemie and Anna accompanied them, and Aunt Agatha and Miss Woodgrove joining them made the place feel full of familial warmth. The only cloud on Frances’ horizon was Freddie. He had steadfastly refused to come home for the summer and her heart yearned for him. She had received a few letters, and he seemed in good spirits, so she had to be satisfied with that. Thankfully, Frederick now spent much of his time in Liverpool.
Mr Rossetti and Mr Prinsep paid regular visits and regaled them with hilarious tales, while Jemie joined them in holding impromptu painting sessions with the girls much to their delight.
Her relationship with Jemie, if she dared call it that, had settled back into one of friendship. He was always there brightening her day. She was eternally grateful they had been able to remain on good terms,even if it meant she spent a huge amount of her time simply desiring to be closer to him.
The man who occupied most of her thoughts ambled up to her as she sat on the terrace with the ladies whilst the girls played croquet on the lawn.
He pinched a small cake from the plate.
“I think I am ready to begin your portrait.” He sat down beside her.
Frances raised her eyebrows. “Really? Have you finished the gown?”
He grinned.
“Is it decent?”
His lips twitched. “Almost.”
“Jemie,” she said, a warning note in her voice.
He held up both hands as though in surrender. “It’s perfectly decent, but more… relaxed than a lot of fashionable garments these days. The people who design them seem hell bent on making it as difficult as possible for women to move.”
“Well, I’ll grant you bustles are rather hard to manage although things are not quite as exaggerated these days, thanks to Princess Alexandra,” Frances agreed.
“Ah, the fabled princess.”
“She is such a beauty with the most exquisite taste in dresses. And so devoted to her children.”
“So I’ve heard.” He cast her a sideways glance. “Doesn’t her husband have an awful lot of mistresses?”
Frances felt her cheeks warm. Jemie looked faintly guilty. “Sorry, that was ill mannered of me.”
She shook her head at him in reproach.
“But you blush so prettily. Perhaps I’ll make you blush whilst I’m painting you.”
“Perhaps you won’t,” she retorted.
He rolled his eyes. “Spoilsport.” He had been sketching her furiously for days. Intense, thoughtful drawings that captured her alarmingly well. Pictures just emerged from his pencils and charcoal like magic. He could capture a face, a mood with barely a handful of strokes. It was fascinating to watch. She was alternately excited and anxious about how Jemie would paint her. What would he see in her? How might he capture the essence of her? It made her wonder what her essence was, and she worried what he might see.
Later in the day, Frances checked on the small parlour where he was to paint her. It was a pleasant room that had the sun for most of the day, being on the corner of the house with two large windows. Most of the furniture had been pushed aside or removed, and now it housed a large easel and a table filled with paints, brushes, bottles, palettes… all manner of things. All of it well used. He’d even brought a mat with an interesting, chequered pattern for her to stand on. His planning was very precise.
“What do you think?” he asked, startling her.
She adjusted a curl by her ear. “You certainly have a… lot of equipment.”
“You should see my studio in London.”
Frances could only imagine. “Are you ready to paint me now?”
“I’d like to spend some more time sketching and doing some preliminary pastel drawings. Just to work out how I want you to look.”
“Will you paint me standing? Frederick wanted it to hang alongside his.”
Jemie nodded. “I’m going to paint you from the rear, though, not facing me like I painted your husband.”
