Jane Anderson

The Princess Painter - Jane Anderson

Chapter One - May 1823, Marylebone, London

Christina Robertson’s hand hovered over the miniature painting on her desk. She’d selected her smallest sable brush to add the last details to the flowers. The viscous puddle of paint she’d mixed was the perfect shade, and there was just enough afternoon light left. The portrait of a young woman with enormous, expressive eyes was so nearly finished, and she felt a flutter of anticipation. Suddenly, the silence was split by a costermonger’s shout from directly outside. The bellowing call offered sprats, and the smell he brought with him from the docks drifted in through the open window. She glanced over at the cradle and saw a tiny fist fly up into the air. Baby Agnes began the grizzling noises that preceded a full-blown scream. Christina sighed and laid the brush down. There was no question of ignoring her new-born. Agnes’s lusty cry chased away Christina’s anxiety about her daughter’s health, and she couldn’t help but smile. At the same time, there was frustration at the lost painting moment. No doubt, this was going to be the pattern for her life from now on.

As Agnes suckled, she gazed up at her with serious, knowing eyes. Only two weeks old, but Christina felt herself in the presence of an old soul, someone reliably weighted to this earth. Pale blue now, she wondered if Agnes’s irises would deepen to sapphire like James, or fade to grey like her own eyes? The warmth of her tiny body and the quiet sound of her breathing flooded Christina with grateful love. Meanwhile, the glossy paint on her palette dulled and hardened.

There was a tap at the door, then her uncle entered. ‘Are you well enough for visitors, my dear? James said I might come.’ His tentative smile said everything about her uncle’s warm and unassuming nature.

‘I am always delighted to see you, Uncle George, and we are both very well.’ Christina pulled the shawl away from the baby’s face.

‘Oh, my dear, she is so like you. Most certainly a little Saunders. Although, I think it will surprise my sister to hear you’ve named the child after her.’

‘Aunt Agnes took me in and gave me a home. That we quarrelled later, was not her fault.’

‘Agnes is a good woman but she wasn’t equipped for raising an artistic girl.’

‘Who could have predicted my nature at four? You kept your deathbed promise to my mother to keep me safe. You fulfilled it then, and since I’ve come to London, you’ve done so again. I couldn’t be more grateful.’

‘Do you really remember that night? I’d thought you too young.’

‘I don’t remember everything. In fact, not much from my life in Edinburgh at all. But I can picture her face. She was so very pale,’ her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘and the blood on the sheets.’

‘Oh, Christina.’ George looked shocked.

‘Do you realise Agnes was born on the same day? If my baby brother had lived they would have shared a birthday. He would have been twenty-three.’

He nodded, his eyes full of pain. ‘How could I forget the day I lost my wee sister?’

Christina reached out to squeeze his hand. Her uncle was the only person in her life who’d never let her down. She hated to upset him. ‘I’m glad I got to say goodbye to her. The strongest memory of all was the love in her eyes. Certainty of that gave me something to cling to.’ Christina kissed her sleeping baby. ‘I’ll make sure this little one always knows such love, too.’

He smiled. ‘A mother and a debut Royal Academy exhibitionist in the same year. I wish your mother had lived to see it.’ George walked over to her desk. ‘And you’ve even found time to work?’

‘A miniature of Henrietta Stuart. I visited her before my confinement.’

‘First class work. You truly are a marvel, my dear.’ He picked up his hat and gloves. ‘I’ll take my leave of you now. I’m looking forward to attending the Academy exhibition next week. It’s such a shame you’ll miss the opening.’

Christina frowned. ‘Of course I mean to go. What made you think I wouldn’t?’

‘Isn’t it too early? James said…’

Christina stood to put Agnes in her cradle, then kissed her uncle on his cheek. ‘James fusses too much. I’m perfectly well. I’ll ask Eliza to take Agnes. I don’t plan to go for long, but I’m longing to see where my paintings are hung.’

‘Splendid,’ Uncle George replied. ‘And I confess I’m looking forward to walking in beside my protégé. To achieve such an honour after only three years tuition is quite extraordinary.’

‘And I shall be sure to tell everyone how much I have benefitted from your teaching. You’ve changed my life.’

Uncle George beamed with delight. ‘See you next week, Christina.’

Christina prodded Agnes’s puckered mouth with her little finger. She’d fallen asleep on the breast and she needed her to drink her fill. Ten minutes later, she handed the baby to Eliza to wind. Christina was already dressed to go to the Academy Exhibition and didn’t want baby sick all down her gown.

‘I’ll be back within two hours. I’m hopeful she’ll sleep.’

Eliza propped Agnes expertly against her shoulder. Her housekeeper was in her forties with four grown-up children. Christina found her expertise reassuring. The child burped almost immediately. Christina shook her head in disbelief. She’d seen that process take forever.

Christina pinned on her new bonnet. It was made of simple straw, but the wide three-quarters brim made a pleasingly symmetrical arc around her face. A green silk ribbon around the crown was repeated in two more ribbons, hanging from the brim edges. She secured the ribbons in a large bow just below her collarbone. The green was a good match for the piping on last year’s pelisse robe. Christina rushed downstairs to their small sitting room. James stood with his back to her, and Uncle George was seated on the high-backed chair.

‘Is the carriage here?’

‘We’ve been waiting for you this past half hour, my dear,’ James replied. He turned, revealing a new tailed coat in midnight blue and pale, and tight-fitting trousers with stirrup straps. The outfit accentuated his wide shoulders and small waist, the coat brought out the colour of his eyes. My husband will be the most handsome man in the entire gallery, she thought. What she said was: ‘Where found you the money for such an outfit?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘All the eyes will be on us, Christina. Would you have me turn up looking like a country carpenter?’

‘I doubt anyone will give me a second glance,’ she said. But every lady in the room will notice you, she thought. I’m like a peahen with her peacock. Christina picked up her paisley shawl and handed James his top hat from the chair. He passed his hand over the glossy new crown, as if to smooth away imaginary dust They’d been married exactly one year, but she still hadn’t got used to going out with him in public. She knew people’s opinion. How did such a handsome man come to choose a dowdy girl?

James offered his hand as she climbed into the coach first, then Uncle George got in and sat down.

‘Your new bonnet suits you, Christina.’

‘I thought it worth the expense since I could be relatively sure that Agnes wouldn’t be sick on it.’

James got in and looked suspiciously at them, as if he thought their shared laughter might be at his expense. ‘Take us to Somerset House on the Strand, driver.’

Top-hatted drivers queued to set down their passengers from shiny black carriages. They walked through the arched entrance and found the courtyard of Somerset House was extremely busy. Christina had been in that crowd often over the last nine years, but the buzz of excitement amongst those waiting to go in never failed to make her heart race. Today, for the very first time, they’d come to see her work. A dream come true.

Uncle George had first brought her from Kinghorn to visit here when she was seventeen. When she’d looked up at the hundreds of Academy Exhibition portraits, she’d been seized by a wild idea that her work might one day be on those walls. From that moment on she’d spent every possible waking minute sketching and painting, forever trying to evade Aunt Agnes’s plans for her time. When she moved to London, her uncle had provided coaching to polish her skills, and just as importantly, she’d learned from him the knack of finding a sitter willing to pay for her work. For a portraitist without independent means, her skill with words was just as important as her artistic talent. She felt ready. This was her chance.

Christina swallowed hard as they walked up the staircase and entered the Great Room. Would the public like her work? As usual, every inch of wall space was covered in paintings. She lifted her heels off the floor, resisting the urge to go on full tiptoe like a child. The fashion for ostrich feathers and large flowers on bonnets was a great nuisance for viewing the lower paintings, and her own shortness was a handicap.

Then she spotted her painting. She’d spent so much time studying his face, she knew it as well as her own. The two men followed her over to stand below the gilt frame. Christina let go the breath she’d been holding. Even set high on the wall, the boy’s angelic charm shone through. You could make out the nap on his blue velvet suit and he was full of such youthful energy, as if he might run off after the terrier at his feet.

‘I don’t know how you manage to paint children so well, Christina. I find them unable to sit still,’ Uncle George said.

‘That’s true,’ she replied. ‘I devised a game for Edward that required him to make the puppy sit at his command. He was so intent on the dog, he never guessed I was capturing those brief moments of stillness.’

‘It’s a shame your first large Academy portrait is not of a society person,’ James remarked, turning to look at David Wilkie’s portrait of the Duke of York.

‘Not at all.’ Uncle George said in an offended tone, ‘Christina’s portrait was chosen on the merit of the painting, not the sitter. I couldn’t be more proud, my dear.’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ she replied, ‘but James is right. Most people are more interested in looking for faces they recognise. The profusion of paintings blurs all but the famous.’

She took Uncle George’s arm to dissuade him from saying more. He and James were always disagreeing about something. ‘Shall we look at the other rooms?’

When they entered the Anti-Room, a painting of a Scottish gentleman was directly in front of them. He was dressed from head to foot in garish red and green tartan, including his hose. James burst out laughing.

‘What in the name of God was he thinking?’ he said through his laughter.

‘Shush, James,’ Christina said, ‘The painter George Watson is extremely influential in Scotland. If he hears of your comment, I can forget ever exhibiting in my native land.’

Christina observed that James’s laughter was infectious. Several people were smiling. ‘But the bonnet feathers, Christina,’ he added, then could hardly talk for laughing. ‘Where on all earth did he find such a huge pheasant, and he appears to have skinned his mother’s white cat?’ An enormous ermine sporran extended from just below the man’s shiny belt buckle almost to the kilt’s edge.

The young lady next to them had a fit of the giggles and was admonished by her parents. Christina pinched James hard. ‘Enough now,’ she said under her breath.

‘The object of your mirth is Sir Evan Murray Macgregor, the clan chief, and apparently eagle feathers are traditional,’ Uncle George said.

‘Come on, George. Admit it, you’ve never seen the like before.’

‘I have not. But apparently, King George wore a similar outfit at a reception in Holyrood Palace and in the red Stuart tartan. It seems Sir Walter Scott has him enamoured with all things Scottish since his Edinburgh visit.’

‘You should think of plaid for your next new dress, Christina,’ James suggested. ‘We might profit from our Scottish connections if it’s to be in fashion.’

‘Perhaps,’ she replied, wondering when she might afford a new dress?

James and George strode ahead. The enduring pain from the birth slowed her pace and she found herself behind the giggling girl’s party.

‘Who is that uncouth fellow? Her father asked his companion.

‘James Robertson, a noisy presence in London’s salons. His wife is an exhibitionist this year.’

‘Any good?’

‘Competent portraits of women and children.’ His companion answered with a dismissive shrug.

Stung by his words, Christina gritted her teeth and walked behind them with her head held high. Even if they turned she’d be invisible to them. Known only by her husband’s name and dedicated to an artform they deemed uninteresting.

She caught up with James in the Antique Academy room. ‘What hour is it, James?’

‘Ten after two.’

‘Then I need to get back soon. Agnes will be hungry.’

‘We can’t leave without seeing all your exhibits. It surely won’t do her any harm to wait a few minutes?’

‘Then let’s use the catalogue to go to them directly. The Drummond-Burrell girls are first.’

Christina felt a healing surge of pride contemplating the portrait of the young sisters.

‘Now then, James. You wanted a society portrait and there you have it. Ancient families with earls on both sides,’ Uncle George said.

James nodded. ‘How old are the girls?’ he asked.

‘This was one of my very first commissions. Clementina must now be fourteen and Elisabeth thirteen.’

‘Let’s hope they’ll want full paintings when they’re older,’ he replied.

‘We got on very well. I think it’s possible.’

They found two more of her paintings hung nearby. Their positions could have been better but on the whole Christina was more than satisfied with her first exhibition.

‘Congratulations, Christina.’ George said. ‘All your portraits are praiseworthy. I’m very proud.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Now please, James. We really must go home.’

‘Not without viewing your self-portrait, my love.’

She sighed and followed him to where the small gold-framed picture was hung. James had requested the portrait when they married, but she knew he didn’t like it. The miniature was barely six inches long, designed to sit on a desk, so it was lucky it was positioned far enough down the wall to see.

‘It’s a marvellous likeness, Christina,’ Uncle George said.

‘I agree that the technique is first class, but I wish you’d painted yourself looking a bit more like a newlywed. Your expression is so solemn and the linen cap is frumpy,’ James complained. ‘And what letter have you in your hand?’

‘Perhaps it’s an apology to your tailor for the unpaid bill,’ she replied, causing James to frown.

‘Surely that’s your normal pre-occupied painting expression?’ Uncle George said.

‘Of course. How else would I present myself? I’m doing an ink sketch. My paint palette is on the table.’

‘Darling Christina, you are just too modest. Since you refuse to paint yourself in a flattering light, I might do it myself.’ James said.

‘I would love that, James,’ she agreed, regretting her harsh words.

Painting had been a shared obsession when she and James had met as teenagers. They’d bonded over their families’ attempts to get them to settle for the ordinary lives they’d been born to. The physical attraction was part of the heady mix, ambition and intoxicating desire soaring together.

‘I really must go now, James. You may stay if you wish.’

‘I’m coming, don’t fuss.’

Christina’s anxiety climbed as they struggled to push through the gallery crowds. She realised that Uncle George by her side but there was no sign of James.

‘We’ll just have to go without him.’

George nodded to where James was talking to two young men. She caught the end of the conversation as she approached.

‘So you’ll be living off your talented wife from now on then, you lazy dog.’

Christina froze. She’d feared this kind of teasing.

‘I wish,’ James replied with a laugh. ‘You know perfectly well that I’ve worked my finger to the bone completing that desk.’

James had delivered a desk to a customer, but it was the only piece of income he’d brought in this year.

‘You know how it is, Geoffrey. A lady’s artistic muse must be cosseted. Meanwhile we men must attend to business.’

George gasped beside her. She silenced him with a look and a shake her head. She wasn’t surprised that James concealed the fact that she was the main earner.

George coughed. James turned around, apparently oblivious to George’s glare. ‘You’ll have to excuse us now gentlemen. We’re expected at home.’

She’d no time to spare for dwelling on the lack of introduction, but it did gall her to hear him belittle her.

By the time they found a carriage, they’d been gone for over three hours. When it pulled up at their front door in Marylebone, Christina could actually hear Agnes’s screams.

‘Good lord, is that racket coming from our tiny daughter?’ James said with a laugh.

‘She’s hungry,’ Christina replied through clenched teeth. She was already racing up the staircase, her skirts scrunched up in her fingers, when he called behind her.

‘I think you must ask Eliza to look for a wet nurse, or we’ll never be able to go out again.’

He was laughing, but she had to blink to back tears. Agnes’s cries made her breasts ache and the front of her gown was damp with milk.