The Beauty Within

He had obviously walked in on some sort of altercation, for the atmosphere in the study fairly crackled with tension as Giovanni entered the room in the portly wake of Lord Armstrong’s butler. The manservant, either oblivious to the strained mood or, more likely in the way of English servants, trained to give that impression, announced him and departed, leaving Giovanni alone with the two warring factions. One of them was obviously Lord Armstrong, his client. The other, a female, whose face was lost under a mass of unruly curls, stood with her arms crossed defiantly over her bosom. He could almost taste the pent-up frustration simmering away beneath the surface, could guess too, from the way she veiled her eyes, the vulnerability she was trying to hide. Such a mastery of her emotions was intriguing, for it required, as Giovanni could attest, a lifetime’s practice. Whoever she was, she was not your typical simpering English rose.

Giovanni made his perfunctory bow, just low enough and no more, for it was one of the advantages of his success that he no longer had to feign deference. As was his custom, his dress was austere, even severe. His frock coat with its high shawl collar and wide skirts would be the height of fashion were it any colour other than black. Similarly his high-buttoned waistcoat, his stirrupped trousers and highly polished square-toe shoes, all unrelieved black, making the neat ruffles of his pristine shirt and carefully tied cravat gleam an impossible white. It amused him to create an appearance in such stark contrast to the flamboyant and colourful persona his high-born sitters expected of a prestigious artist—and an Italian one at that. He looked as if he were in mourning. There were times, of late, when he felt that he was.

‘Signor de Matteo.’ Lord Armstrong sketched an even more shallow bow. ‘May I present my daughter, Lady Cressida.’

The glance she shot her father was a bitter dart. It was received with a small smile. Whatever had transpired between them was the latest in what Giovanni surmised had been a lifetime of such skirmishes. He made another bow, a little more sincerely this time. Looking into a pair of eyes the azure blue of the Mediterranean Sea in summer, he saw they were overly bright. ‘My lady.’

She did not curtsy, but offered her hand to shake, like a gentleman. ‘How do you do, signor.’ A firm clasp she had, though her nails were in an atrocious state, chewed to the quick, the skin bleeding around the edges. She had a pleasant voice, to his ear, the vowels clipped and precise. He had the impression of a fierce intelligence blazing from her eyes under that intense frown, though not beauty. Indeed, her dreadful gown, the way she rounded her posture, curling into herself as she sat down, made it clear that she cultivated plainness. But for all that—or perhaps because of that—he thought she had an interesting face.

Was she to be his subject? A pique of interest flared momentarily but no, the commission was for a portrait of children, and Lady Cressida was most definitely well past her girlhood. A pity, for he would have liked to try to capture the vitality behind the shimmering resentment. She was no empty-headed society beauty, nor appeared to have any aspirations to be depicted as such. He cursed the paradox which made the most interesting of subjects the least inclined to be painted, and the most beautiful subjects the ones he was least inclined to depict. Then he reminded himself that beauty was his business. A fact he was having to remind himself of rather too often.

‘Sit, sit.’ Lord Armstrong ushered him to a chair and resumed his own seat, surveying him shrewdly from behind the desk. ‘I wish you to paint a portrait of my boys. James is eight. Harry six. And the twins, George and Frederick, are five.’

‘Four, actually,’ the daughter intervened.

Her father waved away her comment. ‘Still in short coats, is the important thing. You’ll paint them together, as a group.’

It was, Giovanni noted, an instruction rather than a question. ‘And the mother too?’ he asked. ‘That is the usual …’

‘Lord, no. Bella’s not—no, no, I do not wish my wife depicted.’

‘What, then, of their sister?’ Giovanni asked, turning towards Lady Cressida.

‘Just the boys. I want you to capture their charms,’ his lordship said, looking pointedly at his daughter, whom he obviously considered to possess none.

Giovanni repressed a sigh. Another tedious depiction of cherubic children. Sons, but no daughter. The English aristocracy were no different from the Italian in their views in that regard. It was to be a pretty and idealistic portrait totally lacking in any truth, the licit products of Lord Armstrong’s loins displayed in the family gallery for posterity. His heart sank. ‘You wish me to show your sons as charming,’ he repeated fatalistically.

‘They are charming.’ Lord Armstrong frowned. ‘Proper manly boys, mind. I want you to show that too, nothing namby-pamby. Now, as to the composition …’

‘You may leave that decision with me.’ Forced to paint a vision far removed from reality he might be, but his fame had at least allowed him some element of control. As Giovanni had expected, his lordship looked put out. It was all so predictable. ‘You may have every confidence in my choice. I presume you have seen my work, my lord?’

‘Not seen as such, but I’ve heard excellent reports of it. I wouldn’t have summoned you here if I hadn’t.’

This was new. Across from him, he could see that it was news also to Lady Cressida, who looked appalled.

‘I fail to see how my being unfamiliar with your work is at all relevant.’ Lord Armstrong frowned heavily at his daughter. ‘As a diplomat, I have to trust the word of others constantly. If there’s a problem in Egypt, or Lisbon, or Madrid, I can’t be expected to hotfoot it over there in person. I ask myself, who is the best man for the job, and then I get him to deal with it. It’s the same with this portrait. I have taken soundings, sought expert advice. Signor di Matteo was consistently highly recommended—in point of fact,’ he said, turning to Giovanni, ‘I was told you were the best. Was I misinformed?’

‘Certainly, demand for my portraits far outstrips the rate at which I can produce them,’ Giovanni replied. Which was true, and ought to cause him a great deal more satisfaction than it did, even if it did not actually answer Lord Armstrong’s question. His success was such that he could command an extremely high premium for his portraits, even if that very success felt not like freedom but a prison of his own making. Another thing Giovanni was discovering recently, that success was a double-edged sword. Fame and fortune, while on the one hand securing his independence, had severely compromised his creativity. It was a price worth paying, he told himself every day. No matter that he felt his muse recede ever faster with every passing commission.

His newest patron, however, seemed quite satisfied with his response. To possess what others desired was sufficient for Lord Armstrong, as it was for most of his class.

His lordship got to his feet. ‘Then we are agreed.’ He held out his hand, and Giovanni stood too, taking it in a firm grip. ‘My secretary will handle the—er, commercial details. I look forward to seeing the finished product. I must make my excuses now, for I am expected at Apsley House. There is a chance I may have to accompany Wellington on his trip to St Petersburg. Inconvenient, but when one’s country calls, what can one do! I shall leave you in my daughter’s charge, signor. She will supervise her brothers during the sittings. Anything you need Cressida can provide, since Lady Armstrong, my wife, is currently indisposed.’

With only a curt nod in his daughter’s direction, Lord Armstrong hurried from the room, content that he had in one fell swoop neatly resolved all his domestic problems and could now concentrate his mind fully on the much more important and devilishly tricky matter of how best to address the issue of Greek independence without standing on either Turkish or Russian toes.

Left alone with the artist, Cressida surveyed him properly for the first time. She had been so absorbed in trying to maintain control of her temper that until now she had noted merely that Signor di Matteo’s dress was not at all like the peacock she expected, that he was younger than she had surmised from his reputation, and that his English was excellent. What struck her now with some force was that he was starkly and strikingly beautiful. Not merely handsome, but possessing such an ethereal magnetism and sense of physical perfection that she could almost question whether or not he was real.

Aware that she was staring, she took a mental inventory in an attempt to unscramble her reeling senses. High cheekbones and a high brow, the sleek line of his head outlined by the close-cropped cap of raven-black hair. His eyes were dark brown under heavy dark lids. It was a classically proportioned face, albeit vaguely saturnine. The planes of his cheeks were sharp, accentuated by the hollows below. He had a good nose. A near enough perfect nose, in fact. And his mouth—it was wasted on a man, that mouth. Full lips, top and bottom, deeply sensual, sculpted, and at the same time it curved up just enough to make him look as if he was on the verge of a smile, just enough to take the edge off his forbidding expression. Even without measuring the precise angles, Cressie could tell she was looking at the physical embodiment of perfect mathematical beauty. A face which would launch a thousand ships—or flutter a thousand female hearts more likely, she thought cynically. But it was also the epitome of her theory. And at that thought, her heart gave a little unaccustomed flutter.

She was being rude, though, judging from the way Signor di Matteo was returning her gaze. Haughty and at the same time wearily resigned, he was clearly accustomed to being stared at. No wonder, and even less of a surprise was his indifference to her, for he had painted some famous beauties. Unlike her father, Cressie had studied several examples of Signor di Matteo’s work in the course of her research for her treatise. Like the man himself, his paintings were perfectly proportioned and classically beautiful. Too perfect, almost. His subjects were portrayed flawlessly and flatteringly. There was, in the small number of portraits she had managed to view, a similarity in the way their faces conformed to an ideal, the result of which was undoubtedly a very accomplished likeness, but also moulded the individual features from a kind of template of beauty. Which was exactly the premise of the theory that Cressie had developed. Beauty could be reduced to a series of mathematical rules. It would be fascinating to see first-hand how Signor di Matteo, the famous artist, set about creating his works.

A famous artist who, Cressie now noted with deep embarrassment, was tapping his fingers impatiently on her father’s desk. She flushed. How rude he must think her. ‘I trust you have in mind a suitably flattering composition, signor. As you will no doubt have noticed, my father dotes on his sons.’

‘His charming boys.’

Was there just the lightest hint of irony in his voice? Could this artist actually be mocking his patron? ‘They are very good-looking,’ Cressie conceded, ‘but they are most certainly not charming. In fact, you should know that they have a particular liking for practical jokes. Their governess has recently left without notice as a result of one such, which is why I shall be taking her place, their reputation being—’

‘You!’

Cressie stiffened. ‘As I have already informed my father, I am perfectly capable of teaching the rudiments of mathematics.’

‘That is not what I meant. It is merely that the Season is almost upon us. I would have thought you would have had parties to attend—but forgive me, it is none of my business.’

‘I have already experienced several Seasons, signor, and have no wish to endure another. I am six-and-twenty, and quite beyond dances and parties. Not that I ever—but that is of no account.’

‘You have no wish to find a husband, then?’

The question was extremely impertinent, but the tone of his voice was not, and Cressie was, in any case, eager to vent her spleen now that the real object of her wrath had departed. ‘There are some women whom marriage does not suit. I have concluded I am one of them.’ Which was not quite a lie, but more like putting the truth through a prism. ‘Until I am at least thirty and saying my prayers, however, my father will not accept that. His gracious permission to excuse me this year is more to do with ensuring I do not intrude on my youngest sister’s chances of making an excellent match. Once she is safely betrothed, I am to be wheeled back on to the market. My role as governess is merely a temporary expedient.’

Her frankness had obviously perplexed him. It had taken her aback too. A small frown marred that perfect brow of his, and confusingly there was also a hint of upward tilt of that far too perfect mouth. Was he laughing at her? Cressie bristled. ‘It was not my intention to provide you with a source of amusement, signor.’

‘I am not amused, merely—interested. I have not before met a lady so determined to boast of her unmarried state and the fact that she understands more than the—er—the rudiments of mathematics.’

He was mocking her. ‘Well, now you have.’ Indignation and anger made Cressie indiscreet. ‘And I do understand considerably more than the rudiments, if you must know. In fact, I have published a number of articles on the subject, and even reviewed Mr Lardner’s book, Analytical Treatise on Plane and Spherical Trigonometry. I have also written a children’s geometry primer which a most respected publisher has shown an interest in printing, and I am currently writing a thesis on the mathematics of art.’

So there! Cressie folded her arms over her chest. She had not meant to blurt out quite so much. Having done so, she waited for Signor di Matteo to laugh, but instead he raised his brows and smiled, not a condescending smile, but rather as if he was surprised. His smile made her catch her breath, for it transformed his beauty from that of a haughty statue to something much more human.

‘So you are a published author.’

‘Under the pseudonym Penthiselea.’ Cressie had just betrayed yet another jealously guarded secret without meaning to. What was it about this man? He had her spilling her innermost thoughts like some babbling child.

‘Penthiselea. An Amazonian warrior famed for her wisdom. It is most—apt.’

‘Yes, yes, but I must urge you to discretion.

If my father knew …’ Cressie took yet another deep breath. ‘Signor, you must understand that in my position—that is to say— my father thinks that my facility for mathematics is detrimental to his ambition to marry me off, and I must confess that it is my own experience too, by and large. Men do not value intelligence in their wives.’

Signor di Matteo’s smile had a cynical twist to it now, his dark eyes seemed distant, turned in on some unpleasant memory. ‘Blood and beauty rule supreme, signorina,’ he said. ‘It is the way of the world.’

It was a stark little expression, which said more precisely than she ever could exactly what Cressie herself believed. Beauty was this man’s business, but she wondered what he knew of the burden of pedigree. She could not find a way of framing such a personal question without inviting offence.

He put an end to her attempts, with a question of his own. ‘If you are studying the relationship of mathematics to art, you must have read the definitive work by my fellow Italian. I refer to Pacioli, his De Divina Proportione?’

Pleased to discover that he was not the type of man to assume her sex prevented her from understanding such an erudite work, Cressie was at the same time distracted by how lovely the title of the book sounded when spoken by a native Italian. ‘You have read it?’ she asked foolishly, for he obviously had.

‘It is a standard text. You agree with what he says, that beauty can be described in the rules of symmetry?’

‘And proportion. These are surely the basic rules of any art?’