Banishment by Lake Deryn

Author:Lake, Deryn [Lake, Deryn]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-04-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

“I am not,” said William Dobson, standing back from the canvas and staring at it narrowly, “too happy about the mouth. If you have the patience I would like you to grant me another sitting, my Lady.”

“Then may I have a look at what has been done so far?” Nichola answered teasingly, somewhat amused by the artist’s constant reluctance to show her the portrait of which she was the subject, yet in a way understanding why the King’s Sergeant Painter was so protective of his work until it was complete.

“I would rather not do that,” he said, smiling at her. “The picture isn’t quite ready for criticism, if you follow me.”

Nichola nodded, standing up. “Like an under-rehearsed play?”

“Precisely.”

“Then come back tomorrow at this time if it would help you.”

Dobson bowed and began to pack up his brushes.

The portrait had been commissioned in January, just before Joscelin had returned to the war, the wretchedness of parting heavy on them both and the idea of having Arabella’s likeness on canvas a welcome diversion. So inundated with requests for portraits that he was now forced to ask for half his fee in advance, it was rumoured that Dobson was being given a substantial sum by Prince Rupert to make a copy. And looking quizzically at the artist now, Nichola wondered whether this were true.

As if reading her thoughts about the Prince, William Dobson said unexpectedly, “I recently finished a portrait of Prince Rupert and he, too, has a deep dark quality about the eye.”

“What do you mean?”

“That, like you, his soul lies within his pupils but, no offence my Lady, also like you the Prince prefers to keep his secrets.”

Nichola’s brows rose in surprise but she did not answer. “It might interest you to know,” the artist went on, “that at one time I made it my habit to go into the House of Commons and paint or sketch the members therein. It was in this way that I caught the likeness of the member for Huntingdon, Colonel Cromwell. Now there’s a man to be watched.”

Nichola’s spine grew cold. “Tell me about him.”

“His eyes burn with a bright clear blue, the colour of fanaticism. He has found God but not God’s favour.”

“What are you saying, Mr Dobson?”

“That within his unattractive exterior — clumsy, wart-ridden, balding, slovenly — lies a ruthlessness, a dedication, that frightened me. He is here to establish God’s Kingdom on this flawed earth and cares not who perishes in the attempt. To me, Lady Attwood, Colonel Cromwell is probably the most powerful of all the Parliamentarians because he is a horse in blinkers, he sees only his version of God’s purpose and gives no quarter to the frailty of humanity.”

“But as yet hardly anyone had heard of him,” Nichola answered slowly.

The artist ignored the oddness of her phraseology. “It was only because I drew his likeness and heard him speak that I came to these conclusions.”

“You are a very observant man.”

“Painters are,” said William Dobson, and left the room.

After

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