Rebecca Wentworth's Distraction Page 9

  “I see.” He turned it over in his mind some more. “And what is your price at three or four sittings then, Mr. Sanborn?”

  “Depending on your wishes for the final portrait, usually it comes to something on the order of ten guineas, sir.”

  “I see,” he repeated. His face had the look of mild surprise. “And you would expect it to be as much for your country clients?”

  “Indeed, sir, considering the expense of travel and lodging, and guide fees, and so on. In point of fact, I’ll not nearly clear the modest profit I do producing likenesses in my home port.” He smiled. “In any case, it comes to considerably less expense than in a city like Boston, for example, where you would expect a Kit-cat to require from twelve to fifteen guineas, a half-portrait, say, sixteen, and a whole length above thirty, sir.” He did not say that these would be a Mr. Smibert’s prices.

  “Aha,” Prescott said in a noncommittal voice. “I suppose there is some truth in that.” He looked at Sanborn carefully. “Though I expect if, as you say, you’ve been painting in Portsmouth for a year, there may be some dearth of patrons just now.”

  “That is true, sir. For now. But I had wanted to see something of the interior, and, as I say, on the recommendation of certain of your associates I thought I might try my hand in these parts. I thought there might be some yearning after my traffic.”

  Prescott was still looking directly at Sanborn as they spoke. “I imagine there is, Mr. Sanborn, but whether people about here can afford your wares is another matter. Still, I expect you’ll find some business of the sort to occupy your hours and reward your travels.”

  Sanborn wondered whether he had just lost a potential commission, a commission that would surely lead to others. He decided at the moment he had nothing to lose now.

  “I also paint children in groups or singly,” he suggested. “I painted, in fact, the step-daughter of Colonel Browne.” Prescott didn’t display any surprise, but Sanborn felt sure he had reached him. “Mrs. Prescott had mentioned in passing that one of the children here was from other cousins, and I happened to see the connection the more she spoke. I imagine she told you I knew of the relation. And I quite believe this is the girl I painted, from what your wife said, sir.”

  “She may well be, Mr. Sanborn. The girl had lived some years with Squire William, as you say.”

  “She was a delightful child, I recall, and very talented herself, in the painting way.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Have you by chance seen my painting of her, on your own travels back to the port, I mean?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “It was hanging in the squire’s dining room.”

  “Aha,” he said. “No, I have not seen it, Mr. Sanborn.”

  “Pity. It was a good likeness, if I say so myself, and I believe you’d have appreciated it, sir.” He offered an ingratiating smile. “I hope in any case you will consider my proposals. I know it’s a matter that takes some thought, consideration. Perhaps I could return at a day and hour of your appointment to inquire whether you retain any interest in a portrait, or portraits.”

  Prescott did not answer immediately, but finally said, “Let me consider what you’ve said, Mr. Sanborn. Should I find I’m interested in your proposal, I’ll send a man round to you. You are lodging at Mrs. Sinclair’s? Yes, good. Then I know where to reach you if I find I require your services.” He began to rise out of his chair. Sanborn stood up and made a courteous bow with his good-day.

  After taking his leave, he returned to his rooms where he began to consider the best way to obtain a commission or two while awaiting word from Mr. Prescott.

  Chapter 14

  HE HAD NO LUCK from his inquiries of a few families that Mrs. Sinclair had recommended to him as worthy clients. After three days’ waiting, he began to look on the whole of his project here as a failure. He saw Mrs. Prescott once in the main street and asked after her husband. She had only the disappointing news that he had been away for two days over some new dispute or uncertainty over the use of 500 acres that had been put aside for the royal governor, his cousin—essential to the agreement for establishing a proprietorship in the first place. Sanborn returned to his room utterly discouraged. His proposals must have seemed but a mere nuisance to Mr. Prescott, whose business, apparently, regularly took him abroad and consumed all his days.

  By the end of his first week in the town, he grew desperate indeed. He was convinced he had lost an initiatory commission. But what of Rebecca? Was he to fail in that instance as well? He gave over any hopes of profit by his painting and went to the Prescott house once more.

  Again, and as he expected, the proprietor was not in. He told Mrs. Prescott that he had not found commissions and was preparing to leave in a day or two, but he wondered if he might at least pay his respects to Squire William’s stepchild before departing.

  “She is not in either, sir, at the moment. But since you are on the verge of leaving, let me explain that to Mr. Prescott. He’s had no time to think of portraits.”

  “May I return, then, on the morrow, Mrs. Prescott, to inquire?”

  “Yes. Why don’t you come tomorrow morning in fact, before the children leave for the fields. And if my husband has no objection, then you may pay Rebecca your respects.”

  That was all he needed for hope at the moment. Upon leaving the house, he went directly to the town’s tavern to pass the time. He looked emptily at a notice of four-pound bounties on wolves and wildcats nailed to the door, and felt vaguely resentful that no one here seemed prepared to spend even that, or little more, on a portrait by a Portsmouth master. As he seated himself at a table, he thought gloomily of how much he missed the companionship of Gingher. But of course, such a well-ordered proprietorship had none of the vices typical of a worldly seaport.

  THAT NEXT MORNING, a man called on him at Mrs. Sinclair’s to say that the Prescott family was unexpectedly engaged. If, however, he cared to attend them the following morning, they would see him at that time. Sanborn felt deeply frustrated, believing they were putting him off, but he kept a pleasant and expectant countenance while the man relayed the Prescotts’ message. What choice did he have? By now he wanted very much to be on his way. He was tired of the town and its insular ways. Its rustic preoccupations. The only light so far in his stay here had been the convivial tavern. But that was hardly enough to keep him occupied.

  As another dull day developed, he began to fear that they were removing the girl for some unfathomable reason—anxiety over his own intentions? Biding their time while they effected her “escape,” as he began to think of it. He would leave tomorrow, the way he had come, and guide himself along the bridle path if he could hire no other guide for his return. Where was Ladd? He would make inquiries with the time he had left. He found himself calling the Prescotts smug devils and worse. He was convinced they were out-maneuvering him. But he could not say why they wished to.

  Feeling he had little choice, he returned to their house the following morning. The entire family, to his surprise, was in residence. They were not disagreeable, as he had half expected by this time, and the parents seemed to be displaying the children as if they were perhaps being considered for portraits after all. At first he was simply confused.

  But Rebecca was among the children. She wore homespun now, yet she was still pretty, if less . . . well—he searched for a word—brilliant. In her dull blues and grays she had lost that elegance and radiance of beforetimes, but she looked to be in good health, if a little subdued. There was one concession to her former eccentricity—a white ribbon on her cap tied into something like a blooming flower. She had curtsied to him, with greater politeness than the other girl. The boys bowed like little gentlemen in training. Yet, like Rebecca, they were all dressed for the coarser work of farm and shop. What immediately impressed him, however, was the difference a year had made in Rebecca. She was now, he believed, thirteen, perhaps nearly fourteen, and the child was giving way to the woman. Not conspicuously, and s
he was not clothed to advantage, but clearly enough for all that. She had every appearance of having grown comfortable with her new family as well.

  It was as if Sanborn could feel his fortunes turn even as he spoke to the parents and children, and then, still most unexpectedly, Mr. Prescott proposed an offer. A portrait of the husband and wife together, seated at a large, elegant table pointed out to him for that purpose. He would be paid his ten guineas for the two of them, if that met his satisfaction. He accepted the offer on the spot, inquired as to when they might have a first sitting, and was gratified to understand that they had every intention of beginning the following afternoon. He said nothing about their possible interest in portraits of the children. Taking his leave, he made a special point to speak to Rebecca.

  “You’re looking well, Rebecca,” he told her. “I remember fondly your sitting for a portrait, and I’m very glad to make your acquaintance once again.”

  “And I yours,” she said.

  For the first time she turned her attention fully upon him, opening her eyes wide and smiling. Her face seemed to flood with light, a light he recognized from his days of painting the child. Whatever her domestic circumstances here, he thought, that attentiveness, that brightness, had not been crushed out of her.

  “Perhaps before I leave this fine town,” he said, “you and I will find a moment for conversation. I come bearing some tales of Portsmouth that might amuse you.”

  “I’d like that very much indeed, sir.”

  And that was the sum of his communication with her. The next afternoon he began his connubial portrait, but the children, as usual, were nowhere to be seen or heard. He devoted his conversation with his sitters to petty gossiping. Only once did he insert an incidental reference to Rebecca—how agreeable to see her again, and so well cared for, and how agreeable were he to have a few words with her before he resumed his travels. But they took no direct notice of this reference as the conversation continued to bubble along on this and that.

  In the end, the Prescotts were so pleased with their portrait that he began to speculate about their recommending him to others. He was honored and pleased to find that they presented the portrait formally to the children and a few favored acquaintances at an evening gathering. He was invited to look in on them briefly and meet the guests.

  From that moment, he found himself in some demand among those townsfolk who could afford portraits of their own. There were two or three weeks of work for him, and he made the most of it. As his acquaintance with Blackstone grew, he seemed to earn the trust of the Prescotts as well. He came, in time, to know those proprietors who lived in town, and families of the first order. And after nearly a month in his temporary residence, he felt ready to renew his request to speak with Rebecca.

  He developed, in fact, a somewhat different ploy, however. He would paint the children, a group of three boys and two girls ranging from seven to fifteen years, as a gift to the Prescotts for all the trade that had come his way as a result of their trust. They did not refuse him; indeed, they seem honored by his offer. They agreed the sittings should begin within the week.

  Chapter 15

  THE CHILDREN WERE WELL BEHAVED. When he was nearly finished with the third sitting, he let the others go and asked that only the youngest boy and Rebecca return on the fourth day to complete the group to his satisfaction.

  That following day, he worked on seven-year-old Seth’s likeness for another hour. Then he dismissed him and positioned Rebecca for her last sitting.

  He began his conversation with promised tales of Portsmouth.

  “You are very amusing, as you promised, sir,” she said, laughing now. She did seem, if not happy, quite settled and accepting of her new home and position. Or if there was any unhappiness, she was hiding it skillfully. Recalling what Mrs. Prescott had said in their first meeting, he asked the girl whether she continued her own painting.

  “There is little time for the finer arts here,” she said. “This is a most industrious family, and we all pull together.”

  “Do you not miss it, however?” he asked.

  “Very much.” She looked at him curiously. “As you yourself might expect, Mr. Sanborn.” She smiled.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I can’t imagine giving up my painting. It’s all I’ve ever done, or nearly so. I had my first drawing lessons when I was about your age—when we first met, I should say.”

  “You studied much?”

  “Yes, I continued from there. Three or four masters over the course of nearly ten years, until I turned out as my own master and began to paint portraits and give lessons for my bread and butter.”

  “And portraits have done very well by you.”

  “Well enough, and the lessons too.” He stopped work on the canvas and looked her in the eye. “Forgive me, but I can’t believe you’ve given over all picture making. You must of an evening or idle moment try your hand.”

  “I do a little sketching and drawing, but very little. And I have no colors here.”

  “That’s a shame, truly. You could not bring colors with you, or purchase some anywhere?”

  “No, sir. I was not allowed to.”

  Not allowed to? he thought. Had the Prescotts seen her darker productions? Perhaps so, and determined them not suitable or healthy.

  “I see,” was all he dared say. “I can leave some colors with you, I suppose, when I return to Portsmouth. A few pastels anyway. What sort of drawings?”

  “Different things. For a time, Mr. Prescott allowed me to choose some books, under his care, from his small library. But here, beyond school lessons when the town can keep a schoolmaster, the children are only allowed to read the Bible and Dr. Watts’s Divine Songs. Luke and Joshua, the older boys, are allowed certain readings and sums for trade, for when they grow to manhood. The school-house has been standing for some time, but they have not been able to induce a schoolmaster to stay on. I don’t care for the dull illustrations in the Songs, so I am making a few of my own, pen-and-ink sketches. On Dr. Watts’s themes.”

  “Is that so? Interesting.” He said nothing for a few minutes more while he worked. She was a beautiful child, nay, “young woman,” he corrected himself. Character and beauty shone from her face, however dull or common the clothes. It was that vitality she had somehow captured in her old self-portrait.

  Finally, he decided to ask. What had he to lose? “May I see a few of those, Rebecca? Your Watts?”

  She looked at him curiously again. “If you wish. I suppose there is no harm in it. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Sanborn, it’s easy to speak the truth to you as to a young person who is honest and open.”

  “Even naive,” he put in. “Not like other adults.” He laughed.

  “Most adults are always hiding one thing or another, it’s true. They grow afraid to speak their minds.”

  He laughed again. He thought of Gingher, who always spoke her mind. “So long as you’ll allow me to view these new drawings.”

  “After we finish, then, yes. But I’m wanted in the kitchen garden this afternoon. I mustn’t tarry.”

  When he completed Rebecca in the group portrait, she was very curious to see it. He allowed her to be the first to see the completed painting.

  “That is well done, Mr. Sanborn,” she said seriously.

  “Thank you. Have I improved to your satisfaction?” he said and laughed.

  “Please don’t mock me, sir. Your portraits please me.”

  “Well, then, do you suppose you might fetch a few of your drawings while I clean up?”

  She agreed and left him. In but a few minutes she returned with the redoubtable Watts in her hands, sheaves of loose paper sticking out of the slim book.

  She placed the book on the now clean table he had used for his own materials. She smiled but said nothing as she opened the book to her sketches. They were all in pen on paper, black-and-white only, with something of the quality of wood engravings. The subjects most respectably religious. Nothing offensive or d
istempered. Yet they were accomplished, larger, and vastly superior to the book’s own crude and childish illustrations.

  The happier verses were rendered into light pictorials: domestic animals fatted and grazing in fields, while on mountain and in forest birds and deer feasted on fruited trees and bushes. This drawing illustrated the “Song in Praise of Creation and Providence.”

  I Sing th’ Almighty pow’r of God,

  That made the mountains rise,

  That spread the flowing seas abroad

  And built the lofty skies. . . .

  I Sing the goodness of the Lord,

  That fill’d the earth with food,

  He form’d the creatures with his word,

  And then pronounced them good.

  Another of the light drawings illustrated “Innocent Play”: lambs in meadows sporting by the side of their dams, their fleeces spotless. All the while, on the other side of the picture young doves in a large open cage were playing innocently, “without anger or rage” as the lyric put it, even as good children should play.

  But there were darker songs, and to these she had appended darker drawings: a blooming youth “snatch’d away / By death’s restless hand.” Annanias struck dead for lying and his wife Sapphira dying for confirming his lie. Prideful men and women, looking suspiciously like Dantesque caricatures of Portsmouth merchants, strutting in their opulence, illustrating “Against Pride in Clothes.” Beggars, mostly children, in a city street depicting the lines,

  Whene’er I take my walks abroad

  How many poor I see. . . .

  How many children in the street

  Half naked I behold

  While I am clothed from head to feet,

  And covered from the cold.

  “These are very well done, Rebecca, I must say.” “You think I improve, sir?”

  “Well, these are but drawings only, yet if you do not mock me, I think you do.”

  She smiled, her face glowing. “Thank you, Mr. Sanborn.”