Page 26 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

Speke Hall – Liverpool

“Will you help me dress for the portrait?” Frances asked her sister a few days later when Jemie had arranged for the sittings to begin.

Lizzie squealed. “Of course. Is it too daring to ask your maid?”

“Nothing like that at all. I…” It was true. She didn’t want her maid to dress her in that gown. It was the sort of gown she imagined one would wear to meet a lover. Just the thought of it made her prickle all over.

“Goose,” Lizzie squeezed her arm. “When are you sitting?”

“Well, now,” she mumbled awkwardly.

“Then let us go. Where is the gown?”

“It’s in the parlour where he’s set up a studio. I’ve arranged a screen so I can dress in there and not be trailing around in it. I really don’t want to bump into Frederick wearing it.”

“Jolly good idea. Come on.” Lizzie jostled her along.

The house was quiet as they made their way down to the parlour. Mercifully, Frederick had been in Liverpool for the last couple of days. When they arrived, Jemie was bent over his sketchbook, hands flying across the paper. He looked up as they came in and ran a hand through his hair.

“Aha! My next victim. Come in, come in.”

She laughed softly at him. “Lizzie will help me dress.”

“Fine,” he motioned for them to go ahead, and waited.

“What?” he shook his head with a puzzled look when both sisters stared at him.

“Perhaps you might like to wait outside?” Lizzie suggested.

“Of course! My apologies,” he scrambled to leave.

“Honestly,” Lizzie tutted. “He might be a genius, but I think he sometimes lives in another world.”

“Here it is,” Frances pulled back the frame to reveal the garment on the mannequin.

She watched Lizzie’s reaction. Her eyes widened as she walked around the dress, reaching out to touch it.

“What do you think? Is it too much?”

A broad smile broke out over Lizzie’s face. “Oh, my word, it’s… it’s… sensational.”

Frances blinked at the high praise, rare from her sister. “You think so?”

“My God, Jemie Whistler really is a genius. It’s beautiful. Not something you might wear every day, but nothing that anyone could really complain about. It’s just the right side of daring, and you are going to look utterly divine in it.”

France beamed with delight. “You really think so?”

“It will go perfectly with your hair. The train at the back is beautiful. Will it be visible in the painting?”

“He said that he’d like to paint me from behind. So, I’m looking back at him. Like this.” She showed her how Jemie had suggested.

“Demure or tempting?”

Frances’ excitement faltered. “What?”

“Are you going to look over your shoulder in a demure fashion, like this?” Lizzie turned and then gave a sweet look. “Or tempting.” She faced forward, then gazed over her shoulder again with a wicked gleam in her eye and winked.

“Heavens,” Frances put her hands to her cheeks. “Definitely not tempting. Frederick would have a seizure.”

They exchanged a knowing look and burst out laughing. “Come, Jemie will wonder what we are doing,” Frances said. “Help me out of this lot.”

Piece by piece, they unlaced and undid her.

“I think you should remove your corset,” Lizzie advised her.

“Really? I shan’t feel dressed.”

“Well, corsets are fine, but this is so loose and so flowing, it feels like you won’t be able to relax if you still have your corsets on.”

Frances hesitated, but then acquiesced. She stood in just her stockings and a chemise and shimmied into the dress as Lizzie held it up over her head.

The fabric settled around her, soft as a whisper, and she slid her arms into the sheer sleeves. Lizzie buttoned her up and then fastened the train in place at the back. It was almost like an over dress. A light frill at the neck tickled her skin.

Lizzie took her by the shoulders and turned her towards the full-length looking glass. Frances put her hands to her mouth, not recognising herself.

“You look wonderful, my love,” Lizzie kissed the side of her head affectionately. “What will you do with your hair? Will you let it down?”

“Of course not. I do want to hang the picture next to Frederick’s, you know.”

Lizzie giggled. “Well, how about something a little looser?” Lizzie removed a few pins and then quickly gathered up her hair into a looser creation that looked just about respectable. Frances liked it very much.

“I’ll tell Jemie he can come back in now, shall I?”

Frances nodded. She waited behind the screen and heard the door close. Moments later it opened again, and her heart raced.

“Are you going to come out?” Jemie asked softly.

It all felt most improper. She peeped around the corner of the screen. He was standing behind his easel. She emerged from behind the screen, chest squeezing tight, wishing she had the courage to be flirtatious.

He was quiet for a long time. He just watched her and the expression in his eyes made her tremble. “How do I look?” she asked when she could bear it no longer

He moved to stand before her, took hold of her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles, and watched the movement before meeting her gaze.

“Perfect.”

She thought of all the times Frederick had regarded her with disdain, or worse, disappointment. There was nothing like that in Jemie’s eyes.

He reached out and touched her cheek. The softest, fleeting touch, and for a second, she thought he was going to kiss her again.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and his breathing hitched.

She ached for him to do it, but he looked at her and she could see the same sadness in his eyes that was in her heart knowing they shouldn’t.

He pulled away with one last squeeze of her hand. “Let’s see if we can find the pose,” he whispered.

She squared her shoulders, clasped her hands together behind her back, and waited as he walked around her, studying her this way and that.

“Look over your shoulder at me,” he encouraged her. “Just like we practised.”

Frances’ heart thumped as she turned and shot him an anxious look.

“That’s it. That’s what you will do with your hands. That’s perfect.”

“I’m sorry?” Frances paused.

“You asked me how you should hold your hands. You should clasp them behind your back as you are doing now and look over your shoulder.”

“Do you want me to smile?”

Jemie shook his head. “No… yes… no… let’s see.”

Frances cleared her throat. “Very well. Do you want to start now?”

Jemie grabbed a sketch pad and a box of what looked like pastels.

“Would you stand in the middle of the rug?”

Frances did as he asked. “Where did this come from? I don’t recognise it.”

“I made it,” he mumbled, fishing through the box and fetching presumably the colour that he needed.

He picked up the pad and drew. She could just about make out what he was doing from her position, and she watched as he sketched dramatically long strokes that, after a moment, turned into the train of the dress.

Her head and arms emerged after that, and he drew marks like the roses on the gown.

He worked solidly until it was looking wonderful, then made a sound of exasperation, tore out the paper and screwed it into a ball.

“What are you doing ?” Frances gasped.

“It’s not right.” He picked up the pastels, apparently undeterred, and began again.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, not looking up.

“What about?”

He shrugged as his hand flew and once again, she emerged onto the paper. “Anything. The children?”

Frances blinked and thought for a moment.

“Well, as you know, Freddie was my first born…” She gushed about all the children, the words flowing easily.

What they were like, their personalities, how they squabbled horrendously and how much she loved them.

How they were growing. It wasn’t all one sided because Jemie asked questions, laughed with her, and she relaxed so much she even told him about the son she had lost which she never normally mentioned to anyone.

At this point, he stopped drawing and looked at her with such compassion it made her eyes water.

“I’m so, so sorry. I can’t imagine that kind of pain. You must think of him often.”

It took a moment for her to gather her composure enough to answer.

“I do,” she choked.

He stood and approached her. He examined his pastel covered hands followed by the gown, held them aloft, and rather awkwardly kissed her cheek.

“I’d offer a hug but…” he nodded to his hands. He sat back down and carried on sketching as though he hadn’t just stolen her heart.

***

For the next few weeks, Frances fell into a routine.

In the afternoon, or sometimes in the early evening, she would change and sit for Jemie.

Although it involved more standing than sitting.

She would talk to him, he would listen attentively and sketch, then they took tea.

She had never talked about herself so much in her life.

Sometimes Jemie stopped drawing and they just talked.

It was astonishing how easy he was to converse with and how quickly the sitting had become the high point of her day with her flourishing under the attention.

A few days later, as usual, she presented herself. He grinned at her and sorted his materials.

“You can sit down today,” he brought her a chair when Frances emerged from behind the screen that afternoon.

“How kind.”

He chuckled and sat opposite her. He scrutinised her face. “Think of something that makes you sad.”

That surprised her but immediately she thought of Frederick and all the arguments.

“That’s perfect.” Jemie sketched furiously for a few minutes then paused. “Try to think of something that makes you worried.”

“Why do you want me looking sad and worried?” she said, taking umbrage. “I want to look serene and beautiful, not miserable and hagged.”

“You are serene and beautiful, but you have a… pensive, thoughtful look sometimes and that is particularly beautiful,” he told her.

“I do?” Frances cleared her throat. It was a lovely compliment, but then it wasn’t really a compliment.

This was an observation from Jemie the artist who was studying her.

It was simply what he thought aesthetically and somehow that was much more precious.

She gathered those comments to her heart because when he said she was lovely, she felt it.

When he said she was beautiful, she felt radiant.

“You do,” he murmured as he resumed drawing.

She relaxed and let her thoughts wander.

“What were you like as a child?” he asked her.

She hesitated. Her childhood was something that she never talked about.

Frederick wouldn’t hear anything from the past, and no-one else was interested.

She avoided discussing her childhood with the children simply because she didn’t want them to say something to upset Frederick, who could be irritable at best.

Jemie noticed her hesitation. “If you’d rather not…”

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t often have chance to.”

He gave her a wide smile. “Then regale me with all your best tales.”

Thinking about those early years with her mother and father, with Lizzie, in Northumberland made her smile.

So, she talked freely and Jemie painted while he listened to her tales of growing up poor but happy, and he nodded as though he understood.

As though it explained things to him. And as he drew, he talked of his own childhood and then he wasn’t drawing, they were just talking.

They spoke for a long time and Frances never wanted it to end.

***

Dinner that evening was to be another grand affair. Frederick had invited the great and the good from Bibby & Co to impress them, no doubt, and get them onside with his plans.

Grace, her maid, was putting the finishing touches to Frances’ toilette when Frederick gave a peremptory knock and then walked in.

He’d told her in no uncertain terms exactly how he expected her to dress for the gathering.

After his performance over the green gown, she had been more than careful in her choices and so far, had managed to satisfy him.

This time, it was a highly fashionable garment with swathes of lace on elbow-length sleeves, layers of lace in the skirt draped with a dark blue satin.

It was beautiful, and most importantly, the cuirass bodice with its square neckline, again adorned with lace, could not be construed by anyone as daring.

“Are you ready?” he demanded. “Let me see.” He motioned for her to twirl around so he could see the dress from all angles.

His face was unimpressed. “Is that fashionable?”

Frances didn’t quite stifle her sigh and he flashed her a sharp look at her insolence. “Yes. It is, my dear. Extremely.” Considering how tenaciously he held on to the lace on his shirt fronts, despite it being a disappearing fashion, she’d hoped that he might at least like the lace.

“Do you like it?”

“Not really, but it will do,” he hesitated. “We have had some people cancel tonight.”

“Really? Who?” That was most unusual.

“Some of the people from Bibby. We will be short by six.”

Frances stared at him. Six was… worrying. “I see. I’ll notify the staff. I’m… sorry to hear that. Is anything wrong?”

Frederick scowled. “Of course not.” He stalked off leaving her trailing in his wake.

They arrived in the drawing room with the rest of the family and waited for their guests to arrive.

Frances surveyed the ladies. There were all in beautiful jewel tones.

Lizzie resplendent in emerald-green, Aunt Agatha in purple with flashes of lilac, and Anna in rose.

She felt a little sad for the men in their unrelieved black.

Jemie would have suited the velvet and lace of years ago.

He must have felt her gaze as he looked over and dropped a discrete smile.

Guests arrived, but as the room filled, it was clear that there was more than a little coolness in relations from the guests to their hosts. Frederick seemed oblivious, but then he would be.