Page 3 of The Quiet Wife (Stately Scandals #2)

Speke Hall - Liverpool

James McNeill Whistler looked about him.

He’d heard much about Speke Hall, his newest patron’s Liverpool country home, and at last, here he was, finally part of the famed Leyland set.

He inhaled the fresh air and jumped down from the carriage, his boots crunching on the gravel.

He waited as his good friend Rossetti followed at a more sedate pace and then brushed at his jacket, ridding himself of the dust from the journey.

“Charmingly rustic, isn’t it?” Rossetti stifled a yawn.

“It’s charming all right,” Whistler observed the splendid building. “However, I’m not sure rustic is the word I would choose. Is it Tudor?”

He examined the house, resplendent with black and white timbers amid a warm reddish coloured stone that gave it warmth and appeal against the backdrop of unbroken, blue, February sky.

Ensconced as it was in glorious grounds, just waiting for the trees and flowers to burst forth, it was large enough to be impressive, but not so huge as to overwhelm the senses.

He wondered how close they were to the river, sensing the tang of fresh water in the air. He’d visited Liverpool as a boy and recalled his fascination with the magnificent Mersey. The cool, clear air with spring so close was such a welcome change from the sulphurous smog of London.

Rossetti stretched and then tugged at his waistcoat to make himself presentable.

“The original house is Tudor, as I understand it. It fell to ruin and was bought by some family or other who pulled it from the mire, but there was no heir. I believe the current owner is a young woman living in Scotland or somewhere equally far-flung.”

“I see, so Leyland is renting it. It’s not a family home?”

Rossetti grinned at him and shook his head. “To the best of my knowledge, Leyland grew up in the slums of Liverpool, though he doesn’t care to discuss that of course.”

Whistler’s eyes widened at that snippet of information. He knew Leyland was self-made, but he hadn’t realised he had originated from quite such humble beginnings.

Rossetti nodded. “It’s true. Even though it’s not his, he’s spent a small fortune bringing the whole place up to snuff.”

“He’s as rich as they say he is, then?” Whistler probed.

Rossetti nodded, and a smile hovered over his lips. “Fabulously so. Damned good patron if you can persuade him. Did you ever finish the painting he wanted you to do?”

Whistler winced. “The Three Girls? Uh…no.”

Rossetti gave him an admonishing look.

“I know, I know. I offered to return the fee, but he’s interested in me doing more work. I think it’s smoothed over,” Whistler said, hoping it was true.

“I’ve no idea why you didn’t just finish it and let him have it.”

“It wasn’t right.”

Rossetti rolled his eyes. “Those two phrases will be your undoing, my friend.”

“What phrases?” he said, stung.

“First, ‘it wasn’t right’ and second, ‘it’s not finished’.” Rossetti delivered this in a high-pitched American twang he presumed was supposed to mimic him. He smirked and punched his friend lightly on the arm. It was far too close to the truth.

“You worry about your failings, and I’ll worry about mine.”

Rossetti chuckled, and he laughed with him.

He was confident that he could bring Leyland around.

He’d done a substantial number of sketches for him, and a couple of smaller paintings to demonstrate his skill.

He’d also spent a fair amount of time pandering to the man’s vanity.

He’d discovered that the buttoned up, starchy Frederick Leyland, darling of the Bibby Shipping Empire, responded favourably to flattery and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, a little flirting.

However, it was a tactic Whistler used sparingly as, vanity aside, Leyland was no fool.

He didn’t think he’d have too much trouble securing patronage if he could show him more of his work and spend more time in his company, and this evening would be the perfect opportunity to do just that.

A couple of decent commissions from Leyland, alongside the other commissions that were growing in a satisfying way, would set him up nicely.

“How do you find Leyland?” Rossetti asked as they crunched their way across the gravel.

“Bit of an odd fish. Cold most of the time, but he warms up a bit when he talks about art and his houses.”

“He certainly has an eye for business,” Rossetti remarked.

Whistler grinned. “I heard he had an eye for the ladies, too?”

Rossetti smirked.

“Any other gossip I should know about? Don’t want to put my foot in it.”

Rossetti smiled. “Not really, he’s a self-made man and he and his wife have climbed the social ladder reasonably well, but…” Rossetti paused to consider. “They will always be trade, no matter how rich he is and no matter how he tries to insert himself into society.”

“And the wife?”

“Perfectly charming,” Rossetti murmured with an arched eyebrow.

“But trade?”

Rossetti shrugged. “Sad, but true.”

Before they could indulge in any further scurrilous gossip about their host, the door was opened by the butler who welcomed them into a grand hall.

Footmen arrived to take hats and gloves as Whistler took in the high-ceilinged grandeur of oak-panelled walls, carvings, extravagant wrought-iron chandeliers overhead, beautiful glass panels on the windows and a truly magnificent fireplace that would have seen animals roasting on a huge spit in the past, of that, he was certain.

He could see people through the window in what looked like a courtyard, and there was a gentle hum of voices about the place that mingled with the soft scent of old wood and lemon polish.

Leyland strode towards them, hand outstretched in greeting.

Rossetti shook, then Whistler followed suit.

“Good to see you. Glad you could make it. Would you like refreshment, or to go to your rooms to rest?”

“I can always be persuaded to a little… ah, refreshment,” Rossetti said, and Leyland quirked an eyebrow and almost smiled.

“Then come with me and it shall be done.” He waved them through a corridor and then into another formal-looking oak panelled room filled with people.

“Whistler, I don’t think you’ve met my wife?” he turned back.

He dipped his head briefly and smiled politely. “I’m afraid I’ve not yet had the honour.”

“Then I will introduce you.” He glanced around the room. “Or at least I will when I can find her,” he grunted, sounding none too pleased that his wife wasn’t waiting to greet them.

“I shall look forward to it,” Whistler accepted a glass of wine from a passing footman. He took a sip and sighed happily. Leyland clearly had exceedingly good taste in wine as well as in art.

***

“There you are,” her husband pounced on her the moment Frances came in the door. “I want you to meet my guests. Where were you?” he hissed.

“Sorry, I was just in the courtyard with the Robinsons,” she said calmly. “I hadn’t realised you were looking for me.”

“Well, I expected you to be in the drawing room. Come.”

She followed Frederick and immediately recognised Mr Rossetti, but he was with another gentleman. His back was turned to her, but he was talking an animated way, arms gesticulating this way and that.

Mr Rossetti lifted a hand with a broad smile when he saw them approaching. When Frances stood before him, he bowed low over her hand.

“My dearest Mrs Leyland. How wonderful to see you and may I say how radiant you are looking.”

She smiled at his flattery and turned to look at his companion, wondering if he was the fabled Mr Whistler. Her heart leaped in a most disconcerting fashion as he turned to greet them.

A smaller man, younger than Rossetti, and whom one might label as slight, observed her with interest. However, despite his lack of inches, made noticeable by her husband’s own length of leg, he was not the kind of man one ignored or overlooked.

With wildly curling dark hair, fiercely intense blue eyes that were disconcertingly intelligent and searching, and lips that were…

well… Frances blinked and waited for an introduction, noting a smile hovering about his eyes that suggested he didn’t take himself entirely too seriously. It was all she could do not to stare.

“Allow me to introduce Mr James McNeill Whistler, my dear,” Frederick said with a note of reverence in his voice. “You may recall I mentioned him?”

Frances nodded and curtseyed politely.

“Whistler, may I present my wife?”

Mr Whistler’s gaze caught hers for a second before he bowed low over her hand. “The pleasure is entirely mine,” he murmured in an interesting accent. Frances’ heart fluttered a little as she regarded her husband’s latest artistic obsession.