Page 8 of The Quiet Wife
“I… if my husband permits, it might be possible,” she said, not entirely certain how Frederick would digest such an idea.
He nodded. “I shall ask him.”
“Perhaps the children?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Them too.”
“Darling do introduce us,” Lizzie appeared beside her, breaking the strange tension that was thickening the air between them. Relieved, Frances did the necessaries.
“I was just suggesting that I should sketch Mrs Leyland and her children,” Whistler remarked with an impish grin. “I can see delightful looks run in the family.”
Lizzie arched an eyebrow and skewered the artist with a look. “You have an interesting accent, Mr Whistler,” Lizzie said with a wry smile. “American?”
He laid a hand on his chest and bowed. “For my sins.”
“How did you find yourself in England?” Lizzie’s curiosity seemed genuine.
Frances listened with interest.
“My father was in the military, and we travelled a lot. I spent time in Russia and then we moved here. Sadly, he’s no longer with us, but my mother loves London, so here we are.”
He turned his attention back to Frances. “Do your children have your hair?”
Thrown by the sudden change of topic, she answered cautiously. “Some of them do, though some favour their father in colouring.”
Mr Whistler cupped his chin and shook his head. “What an absolutely capital idea,” a smile crept across his face.
“Ah, exactlywhatis a capital idea?” Frances asked, trying not to laugh. The man’s thoughts flitted about like a butterfly.
“I should paint you all! A study of you all would be simply magnificent.”
Frances cast a helpless glance at her sister, but Lizzie’s eyes were dancing with amusement.
***
Most of the guests took their leave to their rooms to rest awhile before dinner. Whistler set off to his own with a last, lingering look at Mrs Frances Leyland. Leyland’s wife was as sparkling and charming as Leyland was gloomy and abrupt. How on earth had the two become a pair? Frances Leyland was quietly playing the part of hostess, but one didn’t have to look too hard to see a vibrant, colourful, wonderful creature hiding beneath all the hard layers of societal etiquette.
It was also easy to see there was some tension between husband and wife, though he suspected Leyland was oblivious to it. According to Rossetti, Leyland’s reputation wasn’t the best in these parts, and he was noted not only for an abruptness that bordered on uncivil, but for a shocking temper.
As he turned back to look at Frances Leyland, rays of late afternoon sun broke through the cloud and streamed through the window, lighting the room and causing his breath to catch in his throat. Her skin glowed, and her hair… oh God, her hair. His hands itched so badly he had to put them in his pockets. He wanted to remove every pin and unwind all the coils of ringlets to let them cascade over her shoulders. He’d wager they would fall as far as her waist. He wanted to sink his fingers into it, running them through like a waterfall. Bury his face in it and inhale it. Then paint her. God, he wanted to paint her. Again, and again and again…
He shook his head and looked away before she noticed. He’d already behaved like a dumb struck schoolboy once today.
Sometimes he set his eyes upon a subject and just knew. Knew that it would work. Knew it would be superlative. Knew he could do it justice.
He knew he could paint Frances Leyland.
CHAPTER 4
Speke Hall - Liverpool
Frances stood still as her maid added the finishing flourishes to her hair, then turned this way and that to examine herself in the looking glass. She was pleased with the effect, and very pleased with her new gown. It was a deep, emerald green, an incredible colour that complemented her skin and hair perfectly. Tight fitting in the bodice and draped elegantly over a bustle, it emphasised her still tiny waist, which she was proud of after birthing four children. With a plunging neck and tiny puff sleeves just off her shoulder, it was daring, but entirely within the bounds of propriety and the modiste had assured her it was the latest fashion. Frances loved the way it made her feel. A matching emerald ribbon about her throat completed the look.
She was debating which jewels to wear, considering a pretty double bracelet that would go nicely over her long gloves, when the door opened, and her husband entered.
“What have you been saying…” he broke off his tirade to stare at her.
Frances froze under his scrutiny.
