The Artist

The Artist

Bonnie Dee

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2018 by Bonnie Dee

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Chapter One

Teddy

October 1902

Miss Rose Abernathy tossed back her candy-floss auburn hair and gave me a coquettish smirk over one bare shoulder framed in white lace. My blood would have stirred—if I were interested in young women with too much money and too little common sense, or in women at all.

I dipped my paintbrush, swirling a bit of titanium white and carmine together to make the perfect blend for the highlights on her lips. This morning, I was practicing watercolor drafts for the oil portrait I had yet to begin. This was a good opportunity to experiment with colors.

How do I look, Mr. Dandridge? Should I tilt my head a bit, like so, to reveal more of the line of my throat?

I refrained from snorting at the girl’s obvious flirtation. You are perfect exactly as you are, Miss Rose. Don’t move a muscle. And you mustn’t speak as I am working on your mouth.

That should hush her for a while. I much preferred to work in silence except for the Liszt concerto playing on the gramophone. Soothing ripples of piano music carried me away from the drawing room and my annoying model.

I had been commissioned to paint a portrait of the Abernathys’ debutante daughter in time for the upcoming Season, which allowed me a number of months in which to finish my work. After struggling and starving in Paris for several years, I had to admit I was rather glad to be back in England, employed, housed, and fed. Good old Uncle Peter, the only champion of my artistic endeavors, had arranged the commission by showing Lord Abernathy samples of my work.

Apparently, Abernathy, who couldn’t afford the likes of John Singer Sargent, was happy to hire cheap talent, and I was able to mimic the master portraitist’s style as requested. This job certainly did not stretch my creative muscle. I would not dare to illustrate my vision of the spoiled, snobbish nature of my subject, instead suggesting only purity and sweetness.

Rose blew at a stray curl that had come loose from its pins to fall over her forehead. I’m afraid to move for fear you’ll scold me, Mr. Dandridge. Would you fix my hair for me, sir? she simpered.

Don’t roll your eyes. I clenched my paintbrush between my teeth and crossed the room to tuck away the errant lock. A movement in the hallway caught my attention—someone standing outside the open drawing room door. At first, I assumed it was one of the servants peeking in, but the man was not dressed like a footman. His gray suit blended with the shadows, and I no more than glimpsed his face before he shuffled farther back into darkness. Since he obviously didn’t wish to be noticed, I returned my attention to my model.

I’m sorry, Miss Rose. I know sitting still for so long can be very trying. Will you give me a half hour more before taking a break?

Anything for you, Mr. Dandridge. You’re the artist.

She actually batted her eyelashes. The girl reminded me of a kitten practicing mousing by leaping after a ball of yarn. Likely her mother had taught her these wiles in preparation for enticing a husband. I knew from my sister Polly’s experience that if one did not capture suitable prey during her first Season or two, it became more difficult with every passing year.

My inwardly beautiful but outwardly ungainly sister had gone five Seasons without finding a match before being placed upon the shelf, where she remained like a dusty canning jar. I had tried to convince Polly to escape with me to Paris.

"A romantic thought, dear brother, but how would we survive?"

"You could wait tables in a café while I sell my paintings. Or you might teach English to French children. I’m sure you could find some sort of employment. Wouldn’t it be better than spending your days doing nothing and living with our parents?"

"I wouldn’t say I do nothing. I am on several committees and have made a useful life promoting charity work and the arts. I am quite content living with Mother and Father. But I wish you all good fortune as you seek artistic freedom and fame."

Painting portraits of debutantes was not what I’d had in mind when I left home, but there was something to be said for stability and a full belly.

I returned to painting the curve of Rose’s bottom lip, but periodically glanced at the figure in the hallway. It must be one of the Abernathy sons. The eldest, I’d been told, was currently traveling on the continent, and the youngest was at university. Uncle Peter had mentioned the Abernathys had three sons, but nothing more had been said about it.

As I added a touch of indigo to the shadow under Rose’s lip, the watcher in the hallway shifted, making the floorboards creak.

Rose cranked her neck to look. Phineas! What are you doing, hiding there like some sort of goblin? Go away!

He immediately stepped back from the light that illuminated the toes of his shoes. The sound of footsteps receded down the corridor.

Rose flounced on the settee, rearranging her skirts so all the folds changed. Not that it mattered since I wasn’t currently working on her gown. She clicked her tongue. He should keep to his own rooms, the silly beast. He has no business spying.

I raised my eyebrows. Your brother?

Yes. Phineas is second oldest and—what is a delicate way to put it?—peculiar. She abandoned her pose and leaned toward me, dropping her voice to a confidential whisper. And he’s deformed. Mother would hate me telling you this, but I know you won’t talk about it to anyone.

The mystery of the forgotten Abernathy did not remain mysterious for long as Rose prattled on. You see, he was born with a misshapen arm, and also, his face is… She paused and shuddered melodramatically as if describing a monster rather than her own flesh and blood. Ugly would be putting it kindly. I believe there may be something wrong with his brain as well. Phineas has never been around the rest of us, you see. He lives in rooms in the west wing of the house and is looked after by one of the servants. I have no idea what prompted him to come here today when he knows he’s not welcome in the main rooms of the house.

Maybe he learned I would be working on your portrait and is interested in painting, I suggested. I was intrigued by the idea of this mysterious creature who had ventured from his lair.

Rose leaped up from the settee and swung back and forth so her skirt swished around her legs. Her childish movement reminded me she was still a child, not quite sixteen, but by spring, she would be considered a young lady prime for engagement.

It’s simply awful having a sideshow attraction for a brother. My parents can’t deny his existence, but they never mention Phineas in society. Having a strange one in the family might ruin my chances at a duke or an earl or even a baronet. She pressed a hand to her chest just under her pearl necklace as if her heart were fluttering. I worry all the time I’ll be found lacking because of having an anomaly in the family.

You shouldn’t worry. Anyone with sense will know you are a catch. False compliments were easy, and I needed my model to be smiling, not dour. Why don’t you stretch for a bit? I must take a break myself as my hand is beginning to cramp.

Before the little miss could suggest we walk in the garden together or other nonsense her mama would disapprove of, I bid her goodbye and hurried away.

I searched the quiet corridor for any servants, then made my way west toward the ancient monks’ quarters which had given Everdale Abbey its name. In this sprawling house, only the newer living area had been modernized. The west wing remained much as it might have been in centuries past.

I crossed through a narrow galley with gothic windows, where I could easily imagine chanting monks walking single file. Without gaslights, the hallway was gloomy, as was a staircase leading to the second floor. I was desperately curious to meet the family recluse, but even my inquisitive nature wasn’t enough to prompt me to climb the steps uninvited. I couldn’t risk being sacked and losing this much-needed commission.

I headed back from whence I came, but in the monks’ passage, I came face-to-face with a manservant bearing a basket of folded clothing with a napkin-covered plate balanced on top. His sharply hooked nose and fierce glare reminded me of a bird of prey. What are you doing here? This area of the house is off-limits.

I’m sorry. I got turned around. I gestured behind him. Is the drawing room this way? Point me in the right direction, and I shan’t wander this way again.

He gave me a look that clearly understood I was lying about my confusion. Be certain that you don’t. Master Phineas does not wish to be disturbed.

He’s the middle son? I asked, but the valet or footman, whatever he was, continued on his way in sour silence.

I returned to the bright, spacious drawing room, but thought about the man in the tower the entire time I sketched Rose in various poses. This mystery man in the tower was the most interesting thing that had happened in the few days I’d been at the Abernathys’ home. Before my time here was finished, I’d find a way to meet Phineas Abernathy and learn more about him. I’m a natural badger. If there’s a nest of grubs, I’m bound to dig it up and poke my snout into it.

In this case, if the nest turned out to be ground bees, I was quite likely to be stung.

Chapter Two

Phineas

The artist coming to our house was the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long time, even though I knew I’d never speak to him. Simply knowing he was there making beautiful paintings was thrilling. I could almost feel his creative spark from a distance. Although I loved to draw in my sketchbook, I wouldn’t be brave enough to attempt any sort of painting. Whatever I churned out would surely be a muddy, ugly mess.

I dared to peek into the drawing room to glimpse the man. But I grew too engrossed in watching his confident brushstrokes and intent frown, so I drew too close. Rose reminded me sharply where I belonged and I hurried back to my wing of the house.

What would it be like to confidently face a blank canvas, view one’s subject, and know exactly how to depict their image? I admired the handsome artist without ever having met him. In the privacy of my mind, I spun fantasies about the stranger sharing his knowledge of art and the wide world outside Everdale Abbey with me. I imagined him talking to me without disgust in his eyes and, it embarrassed me to admit, reaching out to touch and kiss me. Such impossible daydreams might feed me for years after this splash of color had come and gone from my dreary landscape. But my fertile imagination would not stop spinning tales.

I was in my sitting room, musing on Mr. Theodore Dandridge, when Ledbetter entered carrying a plate. Cook sent your favorites, raspberry tarts. They’re for tea, but you must have one fresh from the oven.

I wouldn’t mind some tea now if you don’t mind? Ledbetter insisted on me taking my meals by the clock, even though it hardly mattered when—or even if—I ate.

He did not argue for once and set down the fragrant tarts near me before going to the teakettle which always simmered on the coal stove. Ledbetter and I were an island of two in this ocean of a house. He had looked after me since I was in short pants, taking over my care after Nanny got sacked for being discovered dead drunk. He was my valet, my maid and footman, my teacher, and my one companion, who kept me from becoming lost in my own mind—a hazard of permanent solitude.

I came across that shabby bohemian who is painting Miss Rose’s portrait. He was coming from the direction of your rooms. Did he bother you?

I had no idea he was here. What did he say?

Made up some sort of excuse about being lost. Ledbetter snorted his doubts. I sent him packing in no uncertain terms, the nosy parker.

I wish you hadn’t. I might have liked to meet him.