The Barefoot Baroness

Chapter Eight

The baroness had no trouble arising at six o'clock the next morning for her sitting. Laura was fatigued, and she looked it. They had not got to bed till one o'clock. She was a little annoyed to see that Lord Hyatt showed no sign of dissipation. He had his easel set up when they arrived and had been working on the background since daybreak. Some of the trees and sky were filled in already.

"You must have been here for hours!" she exclaimed when she saw the canvas.

"You weren't supposed to peek once I began applying paint," he scolded.

"At this rate, you will be finished in no time."

"I am a fast worker," he replied, pinning her with a mischievous eye.

She refused to recognize any ambiguity in the speech. "Good! Truth to tell, I find these early mornings a trial after a late night."

"Aha! So you went on to another party last night. I thought as much."

"Indeed we did not. We went straight home.”

"Then why do you speak of a late night?"

"We were not in bed till one o'clock."

"That late," he said, laughing. "Three or four might be considered late-hardly one o'clock."

She looked at him as if he were mad. "I only had five hours' sleep. I feel like a dishrag this morning."

"You most assuredly do not look like one, if that is any consolation. Personally, I don't mind a touch of fatigue in my models. A slight drooping of the eyelids is romantic, if it is done right. And even a little shadow under the eyes."

"You may find those tokens in the baroness. My eyelids are not only drooping, but will be closed as soon as you begin work."

He mixed the pigments for the skin tone and selected a clean brush. "It was my understanding that ladies slept all winter, to be rested for the exertions of the Season."

"We do not quite hibernate at Whitchurch."

"A lively spot, is it? It stands to reason. If it has kept you from London all this time, it must have some peculiar charm."

As it had nothing of the sort, Laura did not pursue this topic. "Did you bring any coffee today?" she asked, looking for the thermos.

"In that hamper." He nodded at it.

"Would you like some?"

He shook his head and watched her as she poured. Hyatt was always looking for a new type of model. He had taken Miss Harwood for the typical older, experienced lady he often painted, but he was beginning to realize he had erred. She was older than a deb, and of course wiser, but he was beginning to doubt her experience. That thin veneer of town bronze faded at times to reveal the naive girl beneath. He soon decided he wanted to paint Miss Harwood and was considering what pose and what expression he would use to suggest that intriguing combination of-what was it? Innocence and something else that he could only call common sense. "No, but I'd like to paint you," he said, and watched for her face to light up in delight.

He seldom said this to a lady. More usually, they were begging for the honor. To his considerable astonishment, Miss Harwood appeared unmoved.

"I have already had my portrait done," she said.

"Lawrence?"

"A Mr. Wiggins, from Whitchurch. He made me look like a Methodist. I have sworn off having my portrait taken, but I thank you for offering, Lord Hyatt. I realize it is a great honor," she added as an afterthought.

Hyatt stood, momentarily stunned into silence. She had declined! Miss Harwood did not want him to paint her picture. He had refused to do the Prince Regent until he was all but threatened with treason, but a Miss Harwood from Whitchurch cavalierly dismissed his offer.

"I would not make you look like a Methodist," he said, when he had recovered from the shock of refusal.

His astonishment brought a very natural smile to her lips. "I know it well! You would, no doubt, transform me into a beauty, but still I must decline your extremely generous offer."

He couldn't make sense of it. "There would not be any charge, if that is what…" He could construe no other possible reason. Perhaps she had heard of the Prince paying him a thousand pounds, but that was really a donation to charity.

"It isn't the money. You are busy and have to work in these extra assignments at the crack of dawn. Much as I appreciate the offer, I cannot envisage rising at six for the remainder of the Season.”

He was about to suggest afternoon sittings, but he recovered his wits in time. He did not have to beg for models after all. Olivia resumed her pose, holding the hem of her skirt up, with her arm poised in the air, and Hyatt began to paint.

Laura sat with Meadows, considering Hyatt's startling offer. Why did he want to paint her? He only painted celebrities-and his mistresses… Lady Devereau was not precisely a celebrity, or had not been one before Hyatt painted her. What would people think if a portrait of Miss Harwood suddenly appeared at his exhibition? Olivia was different-she was to be the Season's star. But an unknown Miss Harwood from Whitchurch? Hyatt obviously had no serious interest in her. She was a passing fancy of the moment. A flirt, in other words. No, it would not do. He might get out of hand, and she knew she could not cope with a Lord Hyatt bent on romantic mischief.

She had observed people gossiping behind Lady Devereau's back at Lady Morgan's ball. Hyatt had hardly spoken to her. If that was the fate of his flirts, she was not eager to join them.

The painting session proceeded without interruption until after eight o'clock, at which time Mr. Yarrow arrived. He was casually outfitted in a belcher kerchief and a waistcoat of a strident canary yellow. The buttons on his jacket were not much smaller than saucers. Hyatt looked up with a scowl but said nothing. Yarrow nodded to Mr. Meadows and Laura but went to stand at Hyatt's elbow.

"A jolly fine picture, Lord Hyatt. But don't you think the baroness's hair is a little too dark?"

"I have not put in the highlights yet."

"And her gown-why is she wearing that old thing? Supposed to be an heiress. I should think a few diamonds-”

"Go away," Hyatt said, through thin lips.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you." He ambled over to Meadows and Laura. "The baroness invited me," he said.

"Lord Hyatt doesn't like a crowd when he is working," Laura said coolly.

"The baroness told me. I am hardly a crowd. I haven't told a soul." He looked hungrily at the coffee. "Hyatt is a bit of a grouch, ain't he?"

"Perhaps you had best run along, Yarrow," Meadows said.

"I'll just wait and have a word with the baroness. She told me I could come." He strolled off, but when the session was done, he was back, and Olivia seemed troublesomely happy to see him. She joined him at his carriage, while Meadows went to discuss the intrusion with Hyatt.

"I told him to shab off. Seems the baroness invited him," Meadows said.

"Tell her to uninvite him. He's the worst sort of distraction, a clapperjaw."

"I'll give him the hint."

Laura stayed sitting where she was, her attention on Olivia and Yarrow. She thought Hyatt might join her when Meadows went to speak to Yarrow, but he did not. She put his air of annoyance down to Yarrow's interruption and was happy that the question of painting her again did not arise. They all parted soon after.

"Same time tomorrow?" Hyatt said, as they got into the carriage. "Or would the ladies prefer eight o'clock?" He looked at Laura, who looked to Olivia for guidance, though she noticed that Hyatt had taken note of her complaints.

"Now that Yarrow knows, we had best come at seven again," Meadows said. "He'll never keep it to himself. We'll have half the town here if we do it late in the morning.”

Hyatt said, "If that happens, we'll remove to my studio."

The two carriages left. The ladies returned to Charles Street to prepare for afternoon callers. Several gentlemen had asked permission to call, and every one of them came, some with friends. The afternoon was a regular squeeze. That evening, the ladies were to attend the opening play at Drury Lane. Mrs. Aubrey was invited to make up the sixth in their party, the others being the full contingent from Charles Street, and Mr. Meadows. Hettie Traemore felt she could tolerate an evening of sitting, so long as she had her recliner to console her.

A lively rendition of The Taming of the Shrew was enjoyed immensely by the audience. For Laura, the evening's greater thrill was the invasion of their box by a throng of gentlemen met at Lady Morgan's ball. At intermission, she had the unusual sensation of occupying the most crowded box in the theater. People were queued up in the hallway, waiting to get in. It seemed the whole polite world was there-except for Lord Hyatt. He was not present. Mr. Yarrow, by dint of pushing and shoving, managed to squeak through and gain a private word with Olivia.

"By the living jingo, Baroness, I am glad you recommended this play to me. There was never anything like it. It is famous good sport. I am sheering off before the next act. A bunch of fellows have been hounding me to sit down to a game of cards. Hyatt was pretty miffed that I went to watch him work this morning. Making a dashed mess of your picture, if you want my opinion. You look like a bran-faced country lumpkin-in the picture, that is to say. Very pretty in the flesh. I should think he could paint out your freckles, at least."

"Oh, no. He said he would paint them in, even if I managed to fade them with lemon juice.’

"The man is a lunatic. Not a doubt of it. Where are you going tomorrow night?"

"To dinner and two routs," she said, naming them.

"Save me a dance at the first rout. The fellows will never leave me alone. By midnight, they will have me off somewhere, winning my money from me."

"You should not gamble so much, Mr. Yarrow."

"I hate it, to tell the truth. I only go because the polite parties are such dead bores. Now if you would come to the Pantheon with me some evening, I would forgo my game of cards. Will you do it?"

"Surely the Pantheon Bazaar is not open at night!"

"Ha, ha, that is famous, Baroness. The Pantheon Bazaar. As if I would invite you there, where the cits and commoners shop. No, I mean the Pantheon Dance Hall, where the masquerade parties are held."

"I don't believe I have received an invitation there," she said uncertainly.

This too roused Mr. Yarrow to hoots of appreciative mirth. "An invitation-that is famous, Baroness. You are as droll as can stare. You don't need an invitation. Anyone who has the price of admission may go to the Pantheon. You will find more lightskirts than anything else."

"That sounds horrid, Mr. Yarrow!" she exclaimed.

"Nothing of the sort. Everyone goes. Why, you have not had a Season until you have gone to the Pantheon. Great fun, and unexceptionable. I go all the time. You wear a mask and domino, so no one will know who you are.”

"I should have to ask my aunt."

"I shouldn't do that, if I were you. The gray squadron will always squash any plan for merriment. And be sure you don't tell that man-milliner of a Meadows. He would keep you wrapped up in cotton wool, missing all the fun. I don't know how you ever fell into the hands of such a dull fellow. You would do better with people your own age. Balls and plays are for the old-timers. The real sport is not there.”

"I thought you liked the play!"

"I like the audience," he said, smiling at her with his reckless, bold smile. "If you had not told me you would be here, you wouldn't see me within a mile of the place. A dull scald, I can tell you. About the Pantheon-"

"I shall think about it," Olivia said. Knowing she was to have only one Season, she wanted it to include as many amusements as possible, and she was worried to think that the sport of people her own age was escaping her. She looked at Mr. Meadows, she looked at Laura, and she realized they were eons older than she. What did they know about anything?

When intermission was over, the black jackets returned to their own boxes, and the play resumed. Olivia was much struck with the sly trick played on Kate. That is how people behaved, trying to run a girl's life and make her do what they wanted. Well, they would not tame her! Though Petruchio was very handsome. The actor had somewhat the same square shoulders as Mr. Yarrow; also the same curled brown hair and loud laugh.

With an early sitting in the morning, Mr. Meadows took them straight home after the play. "Many people mentioned going out for dinner after the play," Olivia said. "I am very hungry."

"I am feeling peckish myself," Hettie Traemore said supportively.

"We can have toast and tea at home," Mrs. Harwood suggested.

"It will take an hour to get served in a hotel. They are lined to the doors after a play," Mr. Meadows informed them.

Olivia recognized Petruchio's trick, denying Kate while pretending it was for her own good. "Everyone will be there!" Olivia exclaimed.

Laura feared 'everyone' was Mr. Yarrow and urged the scheme of returning home at once. Outnumbered, Olivia had no option but to go with them, but she began to see that this older set had no notion of how to enjoy a Season.

"I would not have agreed to have Lord Hyatt do my portrait if I had known I had to be home at midnight," Olivia sulked.

"Why, Livvie, midnight is pretty late for us," her aunt said apologetically. "We never stay at up that late at home."

"That is all the more reason we should do it when we are in London."

"When your portrait is finished, then you can stay up later," Meadows said, to appease her.

"Then I hope it is done soon. And furthermore, I don't know why I have to wear that horrid yellow dress of Fanny's."

"She is tired," Mrs. Traemore explained to Meadows. "A nice cup of cocoa and toast will put her back in curl."

Olivia was too tired to argue further, but she took her little grudge to bed with her. And before much longer, she would escape her protectors to find the real London.