Portrait of My Heart (12 page)
“Yes,” Jeremy choked. “Well. Good morning, Mags.” Turning stiffly, Jeremy stalked, with all the grace of the mechanical horse, from the room, closing the door quite firmly behind him.
Well, she told herself, as soon as he was gone. That hadn’t been so awful, had it? As far as first interviews went, it had gone quite smoothly. She’d behaved with a modicum of composure. She certainly hadn’t swooned or done anything else foolish. She hadn’t, she thought, with a feeling of self-satisfaction, done or said anything at all that might make him think she still had feelings for him.
Except for the dog.
But that was all right. She’d see him at breakfast, and explain.
The whole thing was really rather silly. The truth was, when she’d first arrived in Paris, Maggie had felt … well … lonely. Wretchedly so. Madame Bonheur, though a celebrated artist, honored with a medal from Queen Victoria, no less, turned out to be a bit alarming: She dressed in waistcoat and trousers, and smoked little cigarillos. Maggie had been rather shocked by her appearance, and was quite glad neither her parents nor her sister Anne had met Madame Bonheur beforehand … she surely wouldn’t have been allowed to attend her school!
Her fellow pupils hadn’t made things any easier. Few of Madame Bonheur’s students had any actual talent, and even fewer of those had any desire to improve upon that talent. The others appeared to be there because their parents hadn’t known what else to do with them. Too old, too unattractive, or too poor to expect any marriage proposals, they had been
sent to art school either in the hopes that they might learn a marketable trade, or simply to get them out of the house a few days a week.
sent to art school either in the hopes that they might learn a marketable trade, or simply to get them out of the house a few days a week.
Therefore, the girls with real talent ruled the school. They led the critiques, they set the tone of each class, they received the bulk of the praise and precious little criticism. Their leader, Maggie observed her very first day, was a wealthy, attractive young Frenchwoman named Berangère Jacquard, exactly Maggie’s age, but her opposite in every other way. Berangère was light where Maggie was dark, dainty where Maggie was large, and cruel where Maggie was kind. The only thing—besides age and social status—that the two girls had in common was their talent. Berangère was an excellent draftswoman. She could render anything in startlingly lifelike detail, so that the results might almost pass for a daguerreotype, they were that accurate. Only in Maggie’s dreams could she have hoped to draw so well.
And so Maggie was miserable. She was alone—well, except for Hill—in a foreign country. She missed her family. She had no friends. She was often the object of ridicule by her fellow classmates, for her accent and odd English habits. She was, for the first time in her life, not even the best artist in her class.
And then one day she arrived at the painting studio early and was sitting at her easel, waiting for Madame Bonheur’s assistant to set up. the still life they were to paint, and trying to decide whether she ought not to simply pack it all in and return to England, when Madame Bonheur herself entered the studio. After looking around to make sure everyone was paying attention, Madame plopped a tiny white thing on the pedestal before them.
“From the latest litter of my niece’s bitch,” Madame Bonheur explained in her gruff voice, lighting one of the brown cigars she habitually smoked.
Maggie looked down at the squirming ball of fur in the center of a still life of fruit and harvest vegetables and quite totally lost her heart.
“But you cannot expect us to paint
that
, Madame,” Berangère Jacquard said laughingly, from behind her easel.
that
, Madame,” Berangère Jacquard said laughingly, from behind her easel.
Madame Bonheur exhaled a thin stream of blue smoke. “Why not?”
“Why, because it’s … moving!”
Madame Bonheur looked at the puppy. “Yes, it is moving. What do you want me to do, Mademoiselle Jacquard? Kill it?”
Maggie let out an exclamation that caused the painting instructress to swivel her head to look at her. “Never fear, Mademoiselle Herbert,” Madame Bonheur said with a faint smile. “We French love our pets quite as much as you English do. Now, girls, stop squabbling, and
paint
.”
paint
.”
Maggie needed no further urging. Though the puppy did squirm—and even walked about, eyeing the edge of the pedestal trepidatiously, and whining because it was too high for him to jump down from—she managed to produce a lovely portrait of him. So lovely, in fact, that at the end of the class four hours later, Madame Bonheur approached, stared, and then wordlessly removed it from its easel.
Placing the painting on the edge of the windowsill, so that it leaned up against the glass, Madame Bonheur then went to Berangère’s easel, removed her painting, and leaned it side by side with Maggie’s. And that was when Maggie made an amazing discovery.
Her painting was better than Berangère’s. A lot better.
Oh, it wasn’t perfect. The grapes were a little too green, and the background needed work, and she’d muffed the peaches, making them a little too large in the foreground. But that, as Madame Bonheur was quick to point out, didn’t make any difference. What was important in this painting was the dog. The dog that Mademoiselle Herbert had managed to render not so much as he actually
looked,
but as he actually
was.
Maggie had captured the dog’s soul. One could tell, Madame Bonheur explained, simply by glancing at this painting, that its object was a slightly silly, highly excitable, but very good-natured little dog. A dog quite unlike anybody else’s dog, with his own personality, his own likes and dislikes, his own doglike qualities.
looked,
but as he actually
was.
Maggie had captured the dog’s soul. One could tell, Madame Bonheur explained, simply by glancing at this painting, that its object was a slightly silly, highly excitable, but very good-natured little dog. A dog quite unlike anybody else’s dog, with his own personality, his own likes and dislikes, his own doglike qualities.
Moving to Berangère’s painting, Madame Bonheur pointed at the cleanly executed animal featured on the large
canvas. This dog, she explained to the class, could be any dog. He had no personality. His eyes could have been made of glass. There was nothing behind them. He was painted without emotion, without joy. A stranger, Madame explained, would pay money for this painting, and hang it above his fireplace, and be pleased to own it, for it was a thing of beauty. But anyone who
knew
this dog would prefer to own Maggie’s painting. And in the world of portrait painting, where the public commissioned an artist to render a family member, animal or human, it was the
personality
of that pet or person they wanted captured, not just his or her looks.
canvas. This dog, she explained to the class, could be any dog. He had no personality. His eyes could have been made of glass. There was nothing behind them. He was painted without emotion, without joy. A stranger, Madame explained, would pay money for this painting, and hang it above his fireplace, and be pleased to own it, for it was a thing of beauty. But anyone who
knew
this dog would prefer to own Maggie’s painting. And in the world of portrait painting, where the public commissioned an artist to render a family member, animal or human, it was the
personality
of that pet or person they wanted captured, not just his or her looks.
And that was why, Madame Bonheur went on to say, Mademoiselle Herbert was going to be a great portrait painter, while Mademoiselle Jacquard was only going to be an average one.
Berangère, outraged, exclaimed that if the dog hadn’t been moving around so much, she might have been able to capture it better, to which Madame Bonheur replied that it was unfortunate that not many people commissioned works of the dead.
And then, without another word, Madame Bonheur went to the still-life pedestal, scooped up the puppy, deposited it in Maggie’s lap, and left the room. It wasn’t until four years later, when Maggie had established herself as the school’s star pupil, and had become one of Madame Bonheur’s closest confidantes, that she finally asked the illustrious painter how she had known that Maggie had wanted that dog. Madame Bonheur only smiled and said, “My dear, anyone who looked at that painting could tell that you were already in love with him. I only gave you what, in your heart, you already owned.”
That reply had struck Maggie as ironic considering that, almost upon her first moment of owning the dog, she’d started referring to him as Jerry. Not that Jeremy Rawlings in any way reminded her of a small, fluffy white dog. God, no. It was just that, those first few months away from home, hardly a moment seemed to go by when she was
not
thinking about Jeremy. She found herself constantly wondering what he was doing, how he was feeling, what he was thinking.
She worried about him. India was a long way away. His family never heard from him at all. Only Lord Edward’s connections in the Horse Guard kept him informed of his nephew’s well-being, and since Maggie was not at Herbert Park, just a short way away from Rawlings Manor, but all the way across the Channel, very little of this information trickled her way. Certainly her mother and father went out of their way never to mention the Duke of Rawlings to her, considering the subject something of a taboo.
not
thinking about Jeremy. She found herself constantly wondering what he was doing, how he was feeling, what he was thinking.
She worried about him. India was a long way away. His family never heard from him at all. Only Lord Edward’s connections in the Horse Guard kept him informed of his nephew’s well-being, and since Maggie was not at Herbert Park, just a short way away from Rawlings Manor, but all the way across the Channel, very little of this information trickled her way. Certainly her mother and father went out of their way never to mention the Duke of Rawlings to her, considering the subject something of a taboo.
And so she was left to wonder about the dangers Jeremy must necessarily be facing in that far-off land, dangers like exotic foreign princesses, with jewels in their navels; the attractive wives of his fellow officers; even a passing Hindu peasant girl, bearing a water pitcher upon her head. Whenever she entertained thoughts of this kind, sleep, which to Maggie had always come easily, evaded her for the night, and she was left bleary-eyed and testy the following day.
She knew she was being ridiculous. She had no right to feel jealous. She had turned down his proposal, thereby cutting off any right she might have to feel possessive toward him.
And it was ridiculous to suppose that, in spite of her rejection, he might remain faithful to her. Ridiculous and unrealistic. The Duke of Rawlings was a virile man … more than virile; an almost
unearthly
specimen of the human male. He had, like all males, needs. These needs, since she’d given up her right to cater to them, would necessarily be met by someone.
unearthly
specimen of the human male. He had, like all males, needs. These needs, since she’d given up her right to cater to them, would necessarily be met by someone.
And so it was childish of her to suppose that he was not seeing someone else … perhaps even making love to someone else. Perhaps even proposing to someone else, and getting accepted this time. There was every possibility he’d return from India with a bride in tow, a submissive little bride who’d make an excellent duchess because she was interested in the kind of things that interested duchesses, like clothing and jewels and who was married to whom and who was sleeping with whom. Whereas the only knowledge that Maggie could have brought to the marriage would have been a
love of art and a particularly detailed familiarity with the habits of bichon frises.
love of art and a particularly detailed familiarity with the habits of bichon frises.
But sometimes—not very often—Maggie allowed herself to fantasize about what might have been: What if she’d accepted Jeremy’s marriage proposal? What if she’d gone with him to Gretna Green? What if she’d thrown caution to the wind and allowed him to make love to her that night in her bedroom?
These were thoughts Maggie hardly dared let herself entertain … primarily because they made her feel a little short of breath. The thought of Jeremy Rawlings’s naked body pressing against hers filled her with a longing so intense she generally had to put Jerry the dog on his leash and take him outside for a brisk walk.
Something, Maggie knew, was very wrong with her for even thinking thoughts of this kind.
And instead of getting better over the years, it only got worse. Because as Maggie’s painting skills increased, her classes became more advanced, until she was placed in private tutorials with actual live models, all of whom were unclothed, and some of whom were male. Given, for the first time in her life, a good long look at the male physique only increased the frequency of Maggie’s fantasies about Jeremy. Did he, she often caught herself wondering, have as broad a chest as Philippe, their gesture model? Was he as muscular all over as Etienne, the model in her anatomy class? Did Jeremy’s inguinal ligaments have as much definition as Gérard’s? And of course, she was often horrified to find herself wondering about Jeremy’s genitalia, comparing them with that of models she’d painted, and wondering if they were as large, as dark, as thickly haired … .
She supposed she was obsessed. Other girls in the school were obsessed with men—their lovers, their fiancés, the man who delivered their milk in the morning, the waiter at the cafe on the corner—and talked of them incessantly. Berangère Jacquard, who, after her set down by Madame Bonheur, actually became rather friendly toward Maggie, talked of nothing
but
men. In fact, Maggie was just about the only girl at Madame’s studio who
didn’t
talk about men. Jeremy’s
name never once left her lips, not in five years. What was the point in talking about him? She had lost him, in a moment of childish fear, fear of the unknown, fear of losing control. A girl as cowardly as Maggie considered herself to be didn’t deserve a second chance, and so she didn’t expect one. Never, in five years, did it occur to Maggie that Jeremy had been serious when he’d asked her to contact him if she changed her mind about marrying him. No man, once rejected, would consider risking his heart a second time on the same object. Maggie didn’t know much about men, but she at least knew
that.
but
men. In fact, Maggie was just about the only girl at Madame’s studio who
didn’t
talk about men. Jeremy’s
name never once left her lips, not in five years. What was the point in talking about him? She had lost him, in a moment of childish fear, fear of the unknown, fear of losing control. A girl as cowardly as Maggie considered herself to be didn’t deserve a second chance, and so she didn’t expect one. Never, in five years, did it occur to Maggie that Jeremy had been serious when he’d asked her to contact him if she changed her mind about marrying him. No man, once rejected, would consider risking his heart a second time on the same object. Maggie didn’t know much about men, but she at least knew
that.
But just because she never spoke of him didn’t mean she never thought of him. On the contrary. She never
stopped
thinking of him. It was a rare day, in fact, that round about mid-morning, she didn’t lay down her paintbrush and think to herself, Lord, it’s nearly eleven o’clock, and I’ve thought of nothing all day but Jeremy! And that thought was always accompanied by so much pain and regret that she continued to think of little else until sleep overtook her at bedtime.
stopped
thinking of him. It was a rare day, in fact, that round about mid-morning, she didn’t lay down her paintbrush and think to herself, Lord, it’s nearly eleven o’clock, and I’ve thought of nothing all day but Jeremy! And that thought was always accompanied by so much pain and regret that she continued to think of little else until sleep overtook her at bedtime.
So when she woke that morning to find Jeremy sitting on the edge of her bed, Maggie had been more than just a little surprised. Her initial shock hadn’t been so much over Jeremy’s altered looks. Those had been startling, it was true. But the fact that he was there
at all
had been what jarred her most.
Why
was Jeremy Rawlings sitting on her bed? He had forgotten all about her, hadn’t he? He hadn’t spared her a passing thought in five years. Why now, when there could be nothing between them, had he chosen to reappear in her life?
at all
had been what jarred her most.
Why
was Jeremy Rawlings sitting on her bed? He had forgotten all about her, hadn’t he? He hadn’t spared her a passing thought in five years. Why now, when there could be nothing between them, had he chosen to reappear in her life?
To give credit where credit was due, she supposed Jeremy could have had no way of knowing she’d taken up residency in his home. Surely, had he known, he’d have had the tact to avoid her … especially considering the fact that he had brought the Star of Jaipur home with him. But perhaps he’d been carried away with the excitement of being among friends again. Yes, that was it. They were old friends, that was all. Very old friends.
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