The Prince and the Quakeress - Plaidy Jean (книги полностью бесплатно TXT) 📗

But my sins are so many, she thought. What is a little vanity added to them?

In her nursery lay her daughter—her idolized child. Born in sin, she thought. What will become of her? But all must go well with her, for was she not the daughter of the Prince of Wales?

She had a suspicion that she was again pregnant. She had not told the Prince yet. She understood him so well and he was so good that their sin worried him as much is it did her, although he was not a Quaker and had lived his life at a Court which in Quaker circles was another name for debauchery.

What a beautiful gown this was! She thought of the day the seamstress had brought in the material and how it cascaded over the table in the sewing-room...yards and yards of thick white satin.

‘Oh, Madam, this will become you more than any of your gowns.’ And the woman had held it up to her and draped it round her and Hannah had swayed before the mirror, holding the stuff to her as though it were a partner in a dance. Then she had caught sight of her flushed face in the long mirror. Even such a mirror would have been considered sinful in her uncle’s home. And she though: What have I come to?

But even so, she could not help being excited by the white satin and when the sewing-woman had made those enchanting blue bows with which to adorn it she had expressed her delight.

And now she was going to be painted in this gown by a great painter.

Her maid had slipped the white satin gown over her head and stood back to admire.

‘Oh, Madam, this is truly beautiful. The most beautiful of all your gowns.’

Hannah’s gaze returned to the mirror. I am always looking in mirrors, she told herself. Yet she could not look away.

She had changed since the child’s arrival; the hunted look was less apparent in her beautiful dark eyes. She was more serene. Odd, she thought, for the sin is greater now. I have passed on the sin to an innocent being and that my own child.

‘You like this dress?’ she said to the maid. She must remember not to use the Quaker thee and thou which slipped out now and then.

‘Oh, Madam, it is a miracle of a dress. But it needs a beautiful lady to show it off...and you are that.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiled gently. Yes, she thought. I am glad I am beautiful. And if I were meant to live humbly all my days in a linen-draper’s shop, why was I made beautiful?

It sounded like one of Jane’s arguments.

‘Tell them to let me know,’ she said, ‘immediately when Mr. Reynolds arrives.’

• • •

The painter’s carriage turned in at the private drive which led to the back of the house and was completely secluded. I his was the drive George used when he came.

Some secret woman, mused Mr. Reynolds, but he was not very interested in whose mistress this was, only whether she would be a good subject. He supposed she would have beauty of a kind, but he did not seek a conventional beauty. Nor did he wish to turn some woman, plain in the flesh, into a canvas beauty, which was often the expectation. He hoped for a subject who had something to offer, something on which his genius could get to work, so that he might reproduce her as a Reynolds portrait which would be apart from all other portraits which might be painted of her.

He was here because of the notorious Elizabeth Chudleigh. From what he could discover she was involved in almost every Court scandal, while she took care to keep her own past—which he suspected must be lurid—well hidden.

Not that he was interested in Court intrigues but he was interested in Miss Chudleigh. He had a special reason for this. As soon as he had seen her he had recognized her as a perfect subject for his art. There was a great deal more in Miss Chudleigh than met the eyes, and the artist in him itched to get something of that on canvas.

It must have been eighteen or nineteen years ago when he had first met her. He was visiting his native Devonshire and Miss Chudleigh would have been sixteen or seventeen at the time. To all she must have appeared as a ravishing beauty: to Joshua Reynolds she was a girl he must paint.

He soon made the acquaintance of Miss Chudleigh and asked her permission to paint the portrait. Miss Chudleigh’s permission was very readily obtained and during sittings he learned something of her background. She was the daughter of a Colonel and Mrs. Chudleigh, she told him. Papa was an aristocrat...but a penniless one. Mamma was not an aristocrat but she had all the spirit. He was Lieutenant-Governor of Chelsea Hospital and I was born there.’

He liked his subjects to talk; it brought out their character. He liked to watch the emotions flit across their faces as they discussed this or that incident from the past. It told him so much that he wanted to bring out in the portrait.

‘Papa married for love...an extremely foolish and inconsiderate thing to do—in the eyes of his relations.’

‘They disowned him?’

‘Not exactly. I believe if we could get back to London we might find...friends.’

If we could get back to London! This girl had been obsessed by the idea of getting back to London. She had been like a tigress in a cage, pacing up and down...imprisoned by the green fields and winding lanes, longing for the freedom of the London jungle.

‘Why did you come to Devonshire?’

‘It was all we could do. Papa died. He was rather fond of...strong waters...rather too fond. It was bad for his heart...his liver...I forget which...in any case it was bad. I was too young to remember him...but I remember London. I remember riding with my parents through the streets. The City...the sedans, the carriages, the fine ladies in their carriages and masks...I particularly remember the masks...and the gentlemen with their elegant snuff-boxes and quizzing glasses. I was young when we came here but I wept and wept for the ladies and the gentlemen and the snuff-boxes and the quizzing glasses, and the noise and mud of the streets. And it is where I must be sooner or later for I do assure you, Mr. Reynolds, the country is no place for me.’

He had nodded encouragingly. What a wonderful sitter! He would never forget her. How could he when that picture had meant so much to them both.

‘No one would help us...My mother was without the means to stay in London. It is cheaper to live in the country...and rightly so, for who would live in the country from choice?’

He smiled, remembering that his friend Dr. Johnson had expressed the same sentiments often enough. ‘Sir, the man who is tired of London is tired of life.’ There was a world of difference between Miss Chudleigh and the venerable doctor, but at least they thought alike on this point.

‘We have an income of two pounds a week. Country folk think that’s a fortune, Mr. Reynolds. We are ladies here. How could we live in London in befitting manner on two pounds a week?’

There were many living on far less, he might have reminded her, but he understood Miss Chudleigh’s viewpoint perfectly. When she came to London she would live in Court circles; she would make a stir in her surroundings. Of course she would. Miss Chudleigh was the girl to make a stir wherever she might be.

He had proceeded with Miss Chudleigh’s picture and each day he looked forward to those sittings; as he painted he listened to her colourful conversation—her scorns and hatred, her desires and ambitions. They were all there in the portrait for anyone who had the discernment to recognize them.

When the portrait was finished he was almost satisfied with it; she was entirely so.

‘One of us, Mr. Reynolds,’ she observed, ‘is very clever. Or perhaps it is both of us—you for painting this picture and myself for giving you such an opportunity to show your talents.’

He was amused. It was one of the best pictures he had painted to that date.

‘I want to exhibit it in London.’

Her smile was dazzling.