Page 15 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

Speke Hall – Liverpool

The children wore Frances down in the space of a fortnight. Frederick was at the offices while Mr Whistler had gone for a walk with Lizzie, Alastair, and Mr Carlisle, who were visiting for luncheon, so they had the house to themselves.

“Absolutely no touching,” Frances admonished them as she ushered the children into the room and quickly pushed the door to. They all came to a halt in front of the large canvas upon which her husband appeared to be emerging out of nowhere.

“Oh my,” Freddie whispered. Frances was inclined to agree. The girls just stared, open-mouthed.

“It’s very big,” Fannie observed.

“He looks very gloomy,” Freddie said. “Like he’s just given us a royal ticking off. Just like he’d look if he knew we were looking at his portrait.”

Elinor sniggered as she moved closer. Frances placed a warning hand on her shoulder.

“Remember, it’s nowhere near finished,” she reminded them, not taking her eyes from the likeness of her husband. It really was remarkable.

“It looks like he’s stolen a bit of papa and put it into the painting,” Elinor said.

“I think that may be the best compliment I’ve ever been paid.” A familiar voice from the door made them all jump guiltily at being caught sneaking a look. Frances couldn’t help the shocked gasp that escaped her, and she gathered the children protectively about her.

“I am so sorry, we… the children… we…”

“Please,” Mr Whistler held his hand up. “There really is no need to apologise. I don’t mind you having a peep.” He smiled down at the children, then patted Freddie on the arm. “Well, what do you think of it so far?”

“I think you are very clever, Mr Whistler,” Elinor told him.

Mr Whistler bowed low. “I am honoured that you should think so.”

“When are you going to start mama’s painting?” Freddie asked.

“Why don’t you do us?” Fannie offered.

Mr Whistler shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I’ll start mama in a little while, and I’ll try to fit in some sketches of you soon. Remember, I must paint my mama too. Perhaps we should arrange another picnic before long and do some more painting practice together?”

The suggestion was met with a veritable barrage of excitement. She started shepherding them all out of the room. The girls scurried away, talking excitedly with Freddie.

Mr Whistler turned to her with his smile still in place.

“The reason I came in search of you was to let you know that I’ve had a letter from my mother.

Unfortunately, it was delayed in the post, and it looks very much like she will be with us tomorrow.

I hope that’s not too much of an inconvenience.

” She couldn’t help but notice how his eyes appeared particularly blue today.

“Not in the slightest. I’m looking forward to meeting her. I’ll ensure everything is prepared for her arrival.”

“Thank you. She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

With a small bow, he turned to leave. She found herself in the uncomfortable position of having to ask a favour.

“Mr Whistler?”

He turned back with a smile.

She tried not to wring her hands nervously.

“I… hate to ask you this, but I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t mention mine and the children’s visit to see how the portrait was progressing.

” It shamed her to have to make such a request, but she knew if she didn’t and it came up in conversation, Frederick would be furious.

“I won’t say a word. Many people don’t want anyone to look, so he wouldn’t be unusual in that.”

Frances was surprised to hear that. “Really?”

Mr Whistler nodded. “It’s very common. People can feel very conscious when having a portrait painted and don’t want anyone to see. Often, they don’t even want to see themselves.”

“Has my husband seen the progress?” she enquired.

“Not yet.”

“Then I feel dreadful looking at it and allowing the children to see. I thought he was simply being…” She clamped her mouth shut, aware she had already said too much.

“There is nothing to feel dreadful about at all. Of course, you are all curious. After all, we will start on your portrait soon. You might not want anyone to see yours.”

Frances managed a weak smile.

“Don’t worry so,” Mr Whistler assured her. He hesitated, then reached out and squeezed the top of her arm. He let go immediately, but she felt the warmth of his hand for a long time after.

***

The children’s excitement about the painting subsided, temporarily eclipsed by the arrival of Mr Whistler’s mother.

Partly because her American accent was even more pronounced than her son’s, and partly because she referred to Mr Whistler as Jemie.

Mr Whistler, nay, Jemie, gave them all leave to use his Christian name too, as did his mother, which sent the children into transports of glee.

At some level, Frances knew that his name was James, but Jemie seemed to suit him better.

“My papa always called me Jamie,” he explained to the children who gathered around him and his mother, utterly enthralled. “But everyone else calls me Jemie. Or sometimes, Jim, but I prefer Jemie.”

“Jemie!” Elinor bounced up and down. “I like Jemie too!”

“Then you shall use it.”

Frances found it hard to think of him as Jemie. Whilst it suited him, it felt far too intimate, and she was sure it wasn’t proper etiquette to be so familiar.

“It’s very kind of you to invite me to stay with you, my dear,” Mrs Whistler said. “It’s clear that you’ve taken extremely good care of my son.”

“We are honoured to have him stay with us, and we are delighted to welcome you too,” Frances sat beside Mrs Whistler, who was a very serene looking woman. Very composed with dark hair, but with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“It’s wonderful to meet your adorable children, too.”

Frances felt that Anna Whistler was someone she could get along well with.

“Your mother is a delight,” Frances turned to Mr Whistler… no, Jemie, as she watched his mother talk to each of the children and listen to them with care.

“She’s as sharp as a needle. Don’t let that old lady facade fool you,” he warned her with a chuckle.

“I suspected as much. You can see it in her eyes. I imagine she is an excellent subject for you to paint.”

Jemie hesitated, then tilted his head on one side as he searched her face.

“As I mentioned, it’s not just a painting of her, it’s more a study of shades of black and grey using her as the means to do it.

Originally, I wanted to paint a neighbour because she had stunningly beautiful hands, but it wasn’t to be, so mother stood in.

I had intended to paint her standing, but it was too much for her, so she’s sat down, and I’ve painted a profile view.

” He gestured with his hands as though outlining the figure he had painted.

“Is it finished?”

“Not quite. It’s back at the house where we live in Chelsea.”

“You should have brought it with you. You could work on it whilst my husband is busy at work.”

“Or I could carry on sketching you so I can begin your portrait?” he pushed. Frances wondered if he had noticed that she kept putting off beginning her painting. It was unnervingly observant of him if he did.

“You could? Will I be a study?”

“I don’t know. I see many versions of Frances.”

Something inside her shivered at his words. “You do?”

He nodded. “I’d like to find the one that is just you.”

Frances didn’t know what to say.

Jemie cleared his throat. “I also had a fancy to paint all the ladies in the billiard room. I thought that might be fun.”

“I’m sure they would be delighted.” Frances was relieved when he moved the conversation away from her. She turned to the children. “Come now, everyone. It’s time to get ready for supper and Mrs Whistler will need to rest and refresh herself.”

“That I would, but all of you, please call me Anna.”

Frances smiled. “Thank you, and in that case, you must call me Frances.”

Anna departed, guided by a maid, and the children hurtled off to the nursery, discussing the latest addition to the household, leaving Frances alone with Jemie.

“Your mama is wonderful,” she beamed. “I’m certain Aunt Agatha will love her.”

Jemie laughed. “Of that, I have no doubt.” His eyes met hers. “Does this mean I’m allowed to call you Frances?” he checked. “I don’t mind if you call me Jemie.”

“I’d be delighted.” She wasn’t at all certain that Frederick would like it, but she didn’t want to refuse.

“Frances?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe I’ll still call you Mrs Leyland when your husband is around? He strikes me as the formal type.”

She swallowed, shaken by his perception, but nodded.

***

Anna Whistler had the foresight to bring with her the half-finished portrait that Jemie insisted wasn’t a portrait of her , more a study of black and grey.

Given her husband was very lax in returning to the house to enable Jemie to continue painting him, it meant that he was able to work on both paintings, which seemed to please him enormously.

There was an energy about him that was fascinating, and something she loved to watch as he sketched endlessly.

When Frederick did return at the end of the week, he was evidently stunned to find the Leyland children and the Whistlers on first-name terms, but he didn’t fuss visibly in front of them.

Later there was a good deal of muttering about American want of civility, and complete lack of any kind of sensibility, but apart from that, he seemed to let things stand.

It was a small victory, but Frances embraced it, nonetheless.

True to his word, Jemie hadn’t called her Frances once in Frederick’s company.

As the days wore on, they settled into a gentle rhythm.

Anna and Jemie simply fitted in to their lives at Speke Hall.

He sketched daily and painted furiously.

What Frances found fascinating was, just as it appeared he was nearing the end of a painting, he’d scrape all the paint away.

She’d been horrified the first time he’d done such a thing and quite upset to see all that hard work go to waste.

He’d seemed on the cusp of finishing Frederick’s portrait, so to find him one morning scraping the paint away shocked Frances badly.

“But why? Why would you do that?” She reached out momentarily, as though to stop him.

“It wasn’t right.” Jemie shrugged, seeming a little dejected.

“But… it looked remarkably like him.”

Jemie opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again.

“Is it going to be another study of black and grey? Like the picture of your mother? Is that it? The study wasn’t right?” she ventured, trying to understand.

He blinked. Several times, then cleared his throat before nodding.

“That’s exactly it. Thank you.”

“There’s no need for thanks,” she told him although Frances felt inordinately pleased.

“There is,” he smiled. “Most people don’t understand.”

She looked away, feeling suddenly shy. “Well, I try. It helps that you explain things to me to allow me to… well, to make up my own mind. I rather like that,” she added softly.

They regarded each other intensely for a moment. Jemie was the first to break the spell.

“We should think about your portrait,” Jemie said, his voice husky.

“We should?”

Jemie nodded.

“Frederick thought if I was to wear black, the two portraits would look well side by side. I thought perhaps black velvet?” She rarely agreed with her husband, but on this occasion, she rather liked the idea of being painted in a severe black gown.

It would give her a sense of gravity befitting a portrait.

Jemie’s eyes widened. “Black? Lord no!”

“No?”

He moved to stand before her, and for a moment, she thought he might reach for her.

He hesitated, licked his lips, and when he spoke, his voice was husky once more.

“You shall be pinks, creams, light, and shade.” His gaze roamed over her from head to foot.

“I want you in a fabulous gown but not one of those pinched in affairs with bustles and all that nonsense, I want something flowing, more like you, something with grace, and elegance, but with a shade of daring, a smidgeon of suggestion…” He stopped, and Frances felt heat prickling the nape of her neck with his eyes still settled upon her.

“Daring?” she hesitated.

“I don’t mean daring as in… daring.” He gestured awkwardly.

“So, you’re not going to paint me naked?” She shocked herself at the bluntness, but it seemed to shock Jemie even more. His pink cheeks reddened, and she wondered for an uncomfortable moment if he was imagining this scenario.

Jemie was open mouthed for a second, and then laughed clumsily. “Much as I might like to do that, alas your portrait will contain clothes.”

They looked at each other a little longer before bursting into laughter and at once, the mood lifted.

“You’re a wretch, do you know that?” Jemie said after a while.

“As are you,” Frances returned, and they both sat down on chairs either side of the fireplace. Frances marvelled at how he never made her feel stupid. He never laughed at her. He made her feel light and as though her opinion mattered.

“Do you want to look at my wardrobe to see if I have a suitable garment, or do I need to purchase something?” Frances leaned towards him.

“I’d be delighted to look at your garments,” he raised his eyebrows in a way that made Frances smile. “But I think I might want to design something.”

“Your talents extend to dressmaking as well as painting?”

“I’ll need some help with the actual stitching, but I enjoy designing garments. I’m developing a very clear idea of how you should look,” he conceded.

“I see.”

“Perhaps when we go to London, we can explore some possibilities. Examine fabrics.”

“We are going to London?” She paused, this being the first she’d heard of it.

Jemie appeared surprised and a little uncomfortable before scratching his head. “Well, we are according to your husband.”