Page 13 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

Speke Hall - Liverpool

Whistler sat in the sunny grounds of Speke Hall. He held his sketch book out at arm’s length and tilted his head, squinting in the afternoon light.

“What do you think?” he showed it to Rossetti.

“Not bad, not bad at all.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Rossetti snorted. “Have you started on Leyland’s portrait?”

Whistler was getting the distinct impression that Rossetti’s nose was out of joint over the dual commission.

After all, Rossetti had far more experience in portraiture and had painted Leyland and his wife before but had missed out as the recipient of this latest commission.

Whistler was pleased, but he didn’t want it to come between their friendship.

“Frances Leyland is a beautiful woman,” Rossetti remarked.

Whistler returned to his sketch and added a few more strokes. “Very beautiful, gracious too.” He hesitated but ventured, “Seems an odd match.”

Rossetti nodded. “He’s an odd fish, but a very generous patron if you can secure him.”

That was true. He added a few more lines to the drawing and considered it before picking up on the conversation. “His wife is so quiet around him. When he’s not there, she lights up and joins in everything with gusto. When her husband appears, it’s like she’s a candle that has been snuffed out.”

Rossetti nodded, eyes following Whistler’s charcoal as he worked.

“Does he have a lover? I recall you said that he… put himself about.”

“Why do you want to know that?” Rossetti looked directly at him.

“Just curious.”

“Of course he does.” Rossetti flashed a wry smile. “He thinks he’s discreet. Sadly, he’s really not.”

Whistler hesitated. “Does she know?”

“How in God’s name am I supposed to know that?” Rossetti sat up and sighed. “Do not even think it,” he warned, a resolute look in his eyes when he turned to his friend.

Whistler chuckled. “The only thing I’m thinking is the money he’ll pay me for the paintings.” He winked. “If I’m to capture them in oils, it helps to know all the little secrets between them. I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Hmmm,” Rossetti sank back, evidently not satisfied.

“As long as that’s all it is. You really don’t want to get on the wrong side of Leyland.

He’s ruthless, and he’s clever. He didn’t work his way from apprentice at Bibby’s to being on the cusp of taking over the whole enterprise over being nice.

He could ruin you as swiftly as he could make you. ”

“He was apprenticed there?”

Rossetti nodded. “The story is that his mother took him and secured him a position with them. Rumour has it, he started as a tea boy, but he doesn’t like that to be spread around. Prefers the apprentice story.”

“It explains a lot,” Whistler murmured, focusing on adding lines to the drawing, then smudging in just the right place until he was pleased with it.

“It does?” Rossetti raised his eyebrow.

“Men who are born to power and position take it for granted. They believe it’s their right and nothing can take it from them.

It makes them confident, arrogant even. Men who have dragged themselves up don’t have that sense of security.

They never stop fighting. They take on everyone and everything to make sure that they maintain their position.

Leyland’s probably battling everyone all the time. ”

“You may have a point,” Rossetti conceded.

Whistler nodded. “Look how impatient he seems. How quick to anger he is. Imagine living with that. No wonder his wife is quiet when he’s around. She never knows when he’s going to fly off the handle.”

“You’ve clearly given this a lot of thought.”

“I have. I’m painting them. I need to understand what goes on between them. What makes them tick.” Whistler mustered his best innocent smile.

“Of course you do, my friend. Of course you do.” Rossetti arched an eyebrow and Whistler had to laugh.

***

A few days later, Frances flicked through Mr Whistler’s sketches of Frederick. Most of them were just him, but some of them included her and the children, and then some with her and Lizzie too.

“He’s awfully good,” Lizzie peered over her shoulder.

“He is,” Frances murmured. He’d captured a remarkable likeness of her husband in several poses.

He’d caught the line of his mouth and the expression in his eyes.

In all of them, Frederick looked rather distant.

As though his attention was elsewhere, and he was thinking of other things.

They were pictures of a man who was barely present which she had to concede was true, especially when it came to family life.

It was perhaps testament to Mr Whistler’s talent that he’d encapsulated this.

She flicked back to the pictures with the children, although she had to admit Mr Whistler had caught her likeness incredibly well too.

He’d reproduced the affection in her eyes as she regarded the children who were playing on the carpet with some spillikins.

Frederick was watching them too, but there was no such affection in his gaze.

Nothing. Just that… coolness and distance.

She studied the picture with Lizzie in it, and it was the same.

He’d caught a fleeting laugh between her and Lizzie.

Frederick was simply aloof. He’d captured his face, his beard, his eyes and, to an extent, his haughty manner, but there was so little of him on display, unlike the rest of the family.

She concluded that he was always aloof, his attention elsewhere.

It saddened her to see it displayed so plainly for anyone to see.

Was that how he looked when he made love to her? Did he have that vaguely distracted air?

She blushed at the thought, but it made her smile.

She cast her mind back to the early days of her relationship with Frederick.

He’d been passionate back when they were young.

She remembered how he’d kissed her in a forceful way.

How his arms had trembled. She remembered that he’d frightened her with his passion because she didn’t really understand it, and had struggled to return it.

Her mother had told her little of what to expect from the marital bed. Her friends knew nothing other than outlandish tales that were blatantly nonsense and of little help, doing more to frighten her. Although some things she’d deemed outlandish turned out to be true, much to her surprise.

She’d caught for Freddie almost immediately and her pregnancy had been difficult, so marital relations ceased for quite some time, and her husband had never been quite so enthused since those early days.

“Where have you gone?” Lizzie gestured at her. “You’ve disappeared on me.”

Frances startled. “I’m sorry!”

“What on earth were you thinking about? You’ve turned positively pink.”

Frances could feel her cheeks burning and shook herself.

“Nothing to worry about,” she squeezed Lizzie’s hand.

Before Lizzie could quiz her further, there was a tap on the door and Mr Whistler walked in.

“Ah, there they are.” He nodded to the pictures that she held.

Frances managed a smile. “I’m sorry. Were you looking for them? They are extremely good likenesses.”

He grinned. “I’m glad you think so.”

“My husband is terribly serious in all of them. Did you not persuade him to smile?”

Mr Whistler laughed. “No, I don’t do any persuading.

I want to see him as he is. That will help when I come to paint the portrait.

What he’s like when he’s thinking, when he’s relaxing with his family, playing with his children, talking to his wife…

” he flashed her a quick smile, “when he’s working.

Things like that. I’ve got lots more of him. ”

It seemed to Frances that Frederick appeared the same no matter what he was doing. “How do you think you will paint him?”

“I imagine the portrait will have… solemnity. He’s a serious man, a very successful man. I don’t imagine he has a lot of time for larking around.”

Frances was sure her husband had never ‘larked’ in his life. “Very true. Perhaps you should talk to him about shipping. He becomes quite animated about that.”

Mr Whistler looked as though he might comment but seemed to think better of it.

“Will it take long?”

“Probably. I’m a bit of a perfectionist. I’ll do it, and do it again, and again… until I’m happy with it. Until it’s right,” he said with a faintly apologetic shrug.

Frances was intrigued by the artist’s process.

“I’ll do my best not to cause too much upheaval, but I think it will take a while because I can’t imagine your husband wanting to stand still for long.”

“Perhaps you should sketch him in the office.”

Mr Whistler laughed. “I suggested sketching him at his place of work, but received a very firm, no.”

“I can imagine, but I suspect you would find a very different man were he to allow it,” she suggested.

“Well, if you are sure I’m not in the way?”

“Not in the slightest. The children adore having you here. You’ve quite won them over. They live for the moment that you might sketch and paint with them again.”

“Then I shall arrange it. May I start sketching you?”

Frances’ heart thumped uncomfortably, knocking against her ribs in a way that was almost painful.

“You have sketched me. I’m in most of these,” she countered.

“Ah, but those are sketches of your husband with you in the background. I want to sketch you .”

She cleared her throat and attempted to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. “Of course.”

“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.”