Page 11 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

She leaned forward and watched as he captured exactly Fannie’s shy smile before moving on to Lizzie and catching her forthright, no-nonsense eyes perfectly, even though they continued moving around.

“I thought people had to sit perfectly still for a portrait.”

Mr Whistler shot her a glance. “For a portrait, yes. However, I’m just sketching and trying to capture the feeling of the people involved.

I do this a lot before starting a portrait.

I’ll be hounding your husband soon to do some informal sketches of him.

You too.” He put the pencil down and held up the paper.

“What do you think?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling.

She looked at the sketch and then at the excited faces of her girls.

“What is it like? Does it look like us? Are we pretty?” The girls were bouncing with excitement, jostling their aunt.

Frances tilted her head to one side. “Well, I have to say, sadly, he’s made you all look cross-eyed.”

Mouths fell open, shrieks were forming, and Mr Whistler looked momentarily stunned before he threw back his head and laughed heartily.

The sound made colour rise to Frances’ cheeks and her lips twitch.

She wasn’t normally one for witty quips in company, she was too worried they may fall flat, but Mr Whistler seemed like the sort of person with whom one could joke, and it came easily to her.

Seeing him respond so genuinely was, well, rather intoxicating and she couldn’t help but join in the hilarity as the girls realised she was teasing and fell about laughing too.

Lizzie and the girls swarmed towards him but when they saw the picture, they all cooed at how lovely it was and what an excellent likeness he’d found. Even Lizzie who was often difficult to impress.

Mr Whistler closed his sketchbook, and the girls disappeared, towing Lizzie with them in search of Freddie to tell them about having their likeness captured.

“You have made a startling impression on my family, Mr Whistler,” Frances said to him when they were alone. He pushed his pencil behind his ear to join the other that resided there. “The children have had a lovely day. Thank you for your kindness with them.”

“It’s my pleasure. They are charming children.” He tapped the sketchbook a couple of times and a silence fell between them.

“Your husband has asked me to do a full-length portrait of you.”

“I am aware.”

He nodded and, for a moment, looked unsure. “Are you happy with that?”

“Of course.”

Mr Whistler searched her features.

“Very well.” He nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw. “I shall continue sketching the house and the family as requested, paint Mr Leyland’s portrait, and then I can focus on you. Besides, I’ve started a portrait of my mother that I need to finish.”

That made Frances smile. “You have?”

“More a study in shades of grey and black than a portrait of her, but she’s a good subject. I think she will carry it well.” He looked at her for a moment. “I think you’d like her.”

“Your mother?” she asked, surprised it was the second time he’d mentioned them getting along.

He nodded.

“Then next time you come, bring her with you.”

“I think she’d like that enormously. She would dote on you and the children.” He grinned at the invitation being extended.

Frances swallowed, noticing how he gazed at her from the top of her head to her feet then back again. There was nothing lascivious or suggestive in the look. Rather, it just made her feel very… seen, just as she had suspected she would.

“I shall look forward to painting you.”

Frances wasn’t entirely sure she felt the same.

***

Dinner was, for once, an enjoyable affair. Everyone reflected on the picnic and the children in such glowing terms, even Frederick couldn’t object.

The company had been elevated significantly; it had to be said, by Frederick’s Aunt Agatha and Miss Woodgrove.

Both were approaching their seventieth year, but one might be forgiven for thinking both ladies were considerably younger from their good spirits and lively conversation.

Frederick eyed them warily, as they weren’t afraid of mentioning the fact that he wasn’t born to wealth and position while his aunt steadfastly refused to offer the deference he had grown to expect from people.

Aunt Agatha knew him when he was a boy with skinned knees and she treated him like a favoured nephew, not the shipping magnate he wanted to be seen as.

She knew how his mother had struggled to keep him fed and warm with no man in the house.

It was not something Frederick ever mentioned, and there were many things Frances had only discovered from talking to Aunt Agatha.

It had softened her a little towards her husband in the early years of their marriage.

Aunt Agatha, sitting to her left, turned to speak to her. “Tell me, my dear, how is Freddie? He must be readying for Oxford?”

“He is indeed. He’s become quite the young man.” Her chest puffed with pride.

“I thought he might have joined us for dinner. The girls too.” Aunt Agatha’s head tilted slightly, and her dark eyes held questions she evidently wanted to voice.

Frances cleared her throat and Aunt Agatha sniffed as she eyed her nephew, who was conversing with Mr Caldicott.

“They are more than old enough,” she said loudly.

“The girls will surely be expected to be out in society before long. How will they ever learn to behave if they don’t eat with the adults.

Besides, we would have liked to spend time with them over dinner, wouldn’t we, Mildred? ”

Miss Woodgrove offered Frances a sympathetic look. “Perhaps we can dine with them tomorrow?”

Aunt Agatha rolled her eyes at her friend’s attempt at diplomacy.

Frances glanced at Frederick, not wanting to upset him, but her husband remained steadfast in his conversation with Mr Caldicott and remained either oblivious to his aunt’s disapprobation or pretended to be. She suspected it was likely the latter.

As they retired to the drawing room, Frances walked with Edith, who was utterly resplendent in a deep forest green gown, her fair hair shining in the gaslight.

“I’ve not met the Caldicotts before. How long have you known them?”

“Not awfully long. Mr Caldicott recently came to work at Bibby with Frederick. They seem very nice. Mrs Caldicott is very charming.” Frances smiled.

“She’s striking. I’ll say that much for her,” Edith eyed the woman in question. “Very poised.”

Frances had to agree. With glossy dark hair and wide dark eyes, she was certainly beautiful and awfully stylish too.

Frederick had been delighted to hear that her family could trace their ancestry back a long way.

He had also been very vocal about how lucky Caldicott was to have a wife from such good lineage.

“Mr Whistler was very kind to the children at the picnic,” Frances said, changing the subject.

“He was extremely kind. The children were delighted to have his help.”

“I wonder who he was trying to impress?” Edith flashed her a quick, but wicked, smile.

Frances raised her eyebrows. “My husband, of course. Frederick is a significant patron of the arts. Mr Whistler is seeking his patronage. He no doubt thinks that by impressing me and the children, he will win Frederick over.”

Edith produced an unladylike snort at the sheer unlikeliness of that happening. “What is he going to paint whilst he’s here?”

“Some sketches and drawings of the house and the family, a full-length portrait of Frederick, and…” Frances cleared her throat and studied her hands. “And probably one of me.”

“Ah, I see. And whose idea was it to paint you, too?” Edith’s tone feigned innocence.

“I imagine my husband’s,” she reasoned, pushing aside the memory of Mr Whistler declaring that he wanted to paint her.

“Of course.” Edith’s lips twitched. Frances ignored her.