“Nonsense! You might divert me while he paints! It is the very last word in tedium, I own, to strike a pose for hours together. One’s nose is certain to itch; and to give way to the impulse is quite impossible. Mr. Lawrence is extremely strict on all such matters — I daren’t move an inch! — and he has such a satiric eye. I confess,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “that he makes me quite wild with the penetration of his looks.”

And with that, she turned and hastened up the stairs; and I felt myself compelled to follow.

I had heard, of course, of Mr. Thomas Lawrence. I had even gone so far as to gaze upon his more celebrated subjects, having visited the Royal Academy exhibitions of past years in Henry and Eliza’s company. Who can forget his portrait of the Queen, or of the actress Elizabeth Farren, or of Sarah Siddons herself? These are perhaps his most famous pictures; but many a less notorious head has submitted to Lawrence’s gaze, and appeared again as recognisably itself, upon the humble canvas. Of a sudden I wished for Cassandra — who alone of the Austens may claim a talent for drawing. She would have profited from a meeting with the great man, and studied his manner of wielding the brush.

“Mr. Lawrence,” Lady Desdemona said, as she advanced into the room; and I started at finding the object of her address to be a fairly young gentleman, of a fine figure and noble head — no more than thirty, perhaps.[52] I had assumed that celebration in the world of art was predicated upon an advanced age, if not virtual morbidity; and so displayed my astonishment in my countenance. Mr. Lawrence was arrayed in a very fine wool coat, the most fashionable of trousers, a neckcloth assiduously-tied, and a collar of moderate height — which latter suggested, I thought, some soundness of mind. He might rather have been a suitor for Lady Desdemona’s hand, than a painter in oils; and I understood, of a sudden, that a sort of rank in its own right attends a member of the Royal Academy, whom all the world is desperate to secure, that must be denied the fellow accustomed to daubing at innkeepers’ signs, or attempting the likeness of a squire’s prize horse.

“Miss Austen, may I beg the honour of introducing you to Mr. Thomas Lawrence. Mr. Lawrence, my friend Miss Austen.”

“It is a pleasure, madam.” He bowed abruptly and then turned back to his easel. “Lady Desdemona, if you would regain your place I should be deeply grateful. I am never blessed with a surfeit of time, and I have expended today already more than is strictly necessary.”

“But of course, sir,” the lady replied, with stifled amusement, and settled herself in a chair.

“Turn slightly to the left—my left, Lady Desdemona — lift the chin — now gaze at me adoringly, as though I am the only man you could ever esteem — yes, that is capital—” And so saying, Mr. Lawrence reached for a bit of charcoal and swiftly moved his hand across the canvas.

I was prepared to be suitably silent some minutes, but a very little time indeed was required, before I detected the faint suggestion of Lady Desdemona’s form. It was breathtaking to observe the man — so effortless, so certain, was his crayon — and the results were quite extraordinary. While the Duke’s daughter sat with smile fixed and eyes unblinking, save when necessity required, the master painter all but seized her ghost. Twenty minutes, perhaps, and Mr. Lawrence then released her.

“That is sufficient for today, my lady,” he pronounced, with a step backwards to survey his canvas. “I could not improve upon it were I to labour a fortnight.”

“But are we not to work in oils?”

“Lady Desdemona,” Mr. Lawrence said, with an impression of great forbearance, “it is not my custom to take a likeness so immediately as you would wish. I am far too besieged with work. I have come to you from no less a personage than the Princess of Wales, whose portrait is drying even now in her salon at Blackheath; I must wait upon a gentleman of my acquaintance in London tomorrow, among four or five others; and there remains an endless supply of infants whom, I fear, are not likely to grow any younger before their likenesses are taken. The ledger in which I record my commissions is so long, I confess, that I wonder if any person in England is not upon it! You have paid your half-commission; I have taken the underdrawing; and in due course we shall hit upon a suitable occasion for further application.”

“Of course, Mr. Lawrence. I am deeply grateful.”

The painter cast his gaze upon me, and scowled. “Your opinion of the work, Miss Austen? For you certainly stand in judgement of it.”

“No, indeed!” I replied, tearing my eyes from the easel in some confusion. “I am simply all amazement at the rapidity and skill of its execution.”

“But is it like?” Lady Desdemona moved to study her image. “I confess I cannot tell.”

“Be assured, my dear,” I said fondly, “that it is yourself as you look in dreams — and as you will revel in appearing, long years hence, when the bloom of eighteen has quite deserted you.”

A look of grateful surprise, from Lawrence and the lady both, served as my reward.

“HE IS QUITE WICKEDLY HANDSOME, IS HE NOT?” LADY DESDEMONA said in a half-whisper, when Mr. Lawrence’s assistant had folded the easel with care, and followed his master to the street below. “I nearly swoon at the thought of spending hours under his stare.”

“He is very well-looking, indeed, my lady,” I replied, “but who are his parents? His connexions? His station in life?”

“His father kept an inn at Devizes — the Bear, you must know it—”

“Ye-es,” I said doubtfully.

“—but was many years ago declared a bankrupt, and died not long thereafter. Lawrence maintains his mother and sisters, I believe. He lives in some style in Piccadilly, and keeps a studio adjacent.”

“I see. A man of some means, then.”

“I should say! He will charge my father full two hundred guineas for my portrait alone — and he must turn out dozens each year!”

A faintness overcame me. So much money, for a mere likeness in oils! He might be the late Mr. Reynolds himself! “But can you hope to progress upon the project while resident in Bath? Surely Mr. Lawrence cannot mean to attend you here for each of the sittings?”

“No,” she admitted, her brow crinkling. “If I am ever to wrestle the piece from his grasp, I must do so in London. Perhaps after the New Year, when I am spoiling for amusement. Mr. Thomas Lawrence should do nicely for a heartless flirtation.”

I must have registered my dismay, for Lady Desdemona burst out laughing and took my hand between her own. “I have quite excited your anxiety, my dear Miss Austen, and to no very great purpose altogether. Be assured that I have no intention of making a fool of myself over Mr. Lawrence — though I could not blame any young lady who did. He is far too fond of ordering people about, for my taste; and I should not last a fortnight under such management.”

“No, indeed.”

“But even the most cautious sentiment cannot make him any less charming to look upon — nor less respectable in the Dowager’s drawing-room. He was present, you know, at my grandmother’s unfortunate rout.”

“The masquerade?”

“Yes. He came as Harlequin — though in a costume of red and black, unlike poor Mr. Portal. I believe he slipped away before the constables arrived.”

“I did espy Mr. Lawrence,” I said slowly, “now I come to consider of it — he was in conversation with my very dear friend, Madam Lefroy. Are you acquainted with the lady?”

“I have not had the pleasure. She is one of Grandmère’s intimates, no doubt. Is she resident in Bath, like yourself?”

“In Hampshire, to my great misfortune. I can account the loss of Madam Lefroy’s society as one of the chief miseries of having quitted that part of the country.” I said this with feeling.