Death in a Gilded Frame (The Roddy and Val DeVere Gilded Age Series) by Tichi Cecelia

Author:Tichi, Cecelia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cecelia Tichi
Published: 2024-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

I DROVE A PONY cart to the Catherine Street studio and found a granite hitching post to tie up Shamrock, our shaggy Connemara pony. Roddy so often took the reins that I needed practice driving and insisted on going myself. The Market Square mix-up over the crated painting was sure to ricochet one way or another. The Counting House might be a Rembrandt or worthless, but it could be a boomerang. My husband’s gentlemanly faith in Knickerbocker ancestry as social armor struck me as naïve. For now, the pony cart and artist’s studio were a welcome distraction.

Calista suggested I wear a silk bodice that could be lowered off the shoulders if desired. Any such lowering, I told her, would be negotiated between the artist and myself.

André Cole opened the studio door at 2:00 p.m. and ushered me inside with a deep bow and sweep of his black suede beret. The curtains were drawn, and the parlor-studio was rose-scented.

“Madame DeVere, it is my pleasure to welcome you for our first rendez-vous.”

“Rendez-vous?”

“‘Appointment,’ if you like. The language of France suffers when it must cross the waters to English, does it not?”

I wished Cassie were here to translate. Cole put the beret back on, angled carefully across his forehead. His artist’s smock was a box-pleated garment that freed his hands but resembled a waistcoat, apparently sewed and laundered by Marianne. It fit flawlessly.

“May I escort you to your seat of honor?”

Cole offered his arm to lead me past as the sizeable blank canvas resting on his easel and a crock sprouting brushes on the side table. Marianne was not here, and the table in the corner was set for two.

A vase of freshly cut red roses stood on the table beside the upholstered chair. “Madame DeVere,” Cole said, “in the States, the rose blooms on the fête de Saint Valentin...as you say, Valentine’s Day. To honor you with a touch of chivalry, André Cole takes the liberté with your name to present un bouquet...les roses for your pleasure. You are pleased?”

“Very thoughtful.”

Smiling, he helped me onto the chair, then stepped close and murmured, “You are prepared, Madame?” Circling the chair, he bent to one knee, gazed upward, and said, “For your portrait, we are ensemble...together as one. The portrait lives when the artist sees the truth of all that is possible.”

He reached toward my upswept hair, released a pin, and loosened a lock with the skill of a hairdresser or lady’s maid. “Les tresses, Madame,” he said, “...and for the shoulders, if you please....” He touched the bodice, and I suddenly posed for the off-the-shoulder portrait.

“There now...Madame is comfortable as in the Tuileries Garden. For you, it is the leisure, but for André Cole, the challenge se montrer à la hauteur...to meet the test and rise highest.”

Tempted to remind him that he had demanded—and received—photographs of my face, I held back. This was for Roddy. I had promised my husband the gift of my portrait. I would cope with André Cole.

“My one commandment, Madame.

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