Page 14 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

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.

“I think Mr Whistler will need to concentrate on papa to paint him. He won’t want us all watching,” she intervened in an attempt to avert a crisis.

“We watched him sketching, and he didn’t mind,” she grumbled.

Fannie nudged her little sister sharply and gave her a warning look not to speak out of turn.

“That’s enough,” Frederick snapped. “There will be no watching the painting. Wait until it’s finished, then you can see it.”

The disappointment on the children’s faces was evident. There had been so much excitement about the sketching they’d hoped that the fun would continue when the painting commenced.

Frederick, clearly feeling pressured, took his leave and left to meet with Mr Whistler.

“I don’t see why we can’t look,” grumbled Elinor as Frances led them away.

“Because papa said so.” She thought swiftly about some kind of compromise that hopefully wouldn’t enrage Frederick if he found out.

“But,” she pressed a finger against her lips, “If you are all terribly good, and don’t argue about it, we might have the occasional peep to see how it is progressing.

But we must wait when Mr Whistler isn’t actually painting, and papa is at work. ”

Conspiratorial grins broke out on all faces and Frances felt a pang of guilt at overriding her husband’s edict, but what harm could it do?

“Besides, Mr Whistler is doing some sketches of me. Perhaps you could be in those and watch?” she suggested, a part of her not exactly eager to be alone with him.

Mollified, they hurried off to the nursery, whispering to each other as they went, clearly plotting.

She smiled as she watched them go. Curiosity almost got the better of her as she stared at the closed door behind which her husband was being immortalised in oils.

She hesitated but thought better of it, not wanting to antagonise her husband unnecessarily.