Portrait of a Lady in Red
Étienne Lyons was a brilliant artist, but there was little call for fine art in the days immediately following the American Civil War. Although he had been too young to go off to battle himself, he was quite aware of the death and destruction suffered on both sides of the conflict. His father and his brother were killed, and his mother grew old beyond her years. The death of her son and husband left her a mere ghost of the woman she had once been.
Less than a year after Appomattox, Whitewood, the plantation that had been in the Lyons family since before the American Revolution, fell into the hands of a carpetbagger after the widow lost it for nonpayment of taxes. The loss of her home was the final blow for Laurette Lyons. She soon fell ill and, lacking the will to live, passed away quietly in her sleep one night.
A devoted son, Étienne stayed in North Carolina long enough to bury his mother. He regretted that she could not be buried in the family cemetery, but it, too, belonged to the carpetbagger.
"I don't suppose it matters where your body rests," he mused as he planted wildflowers on his mother's grave. "I'm sure your soul is now with Father and Jean-Marie."
With his mother's final resting place properly adorned, Étienne wiped the dirt from his hands and the tears from his eyes. Then he stood up, mounted his horse and headed north.
For the next five years, Étienne lived in the fertile Shenandoah Valley. So many of Virginia's sons had been killed in the war that he had no difficulty finding work as a farmhand. The difficulty lay in getting paid for his labor. All too often he was rewarded only with a roof over his head and food on his plate.
During the long, hard days he spent in the field plowing, planting and harvesting, Étienne had time to wonder what his life might have been like had there been no war. His father had been a gentleman planter, an educated man who enjoyed books and music. His mother had been a delicate French beauty, a woman of fine breeding and genteel speech and manners. It was through her that young Étienne got his love of art. While her older son was being groomed to take over the management of the family's tobacco plantation, Laurette taught her younger boy to draw and paint.
"You have a God-given talent," she often encouraged him. "When you are older, you will go to Paris and study art. You will be as fine a painter as Monsieur Rembrandt."
But Laurette had not foreseen the bitter conflict that would tear her idyllic world apart. Her surviving son was reduced to the level of a common laborer, living in barns and working for handouts. Nonetheless, he vowed that the Lyons line would not die out, nor would it be swallowed up by obscurity. Someday he would fulfill the dream of being a famous painter, not just for himself but also for his mother.
* * *
Farley Stoughton had been born into a family with far greater wealth but not nearly as much taste and breeding as the Lyons family. The Stoughtons were Yankees, their ancestors having settled in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the seventeenth century. Yet the first Stoughton to arrive in the New World was not a Bible-toting Puritan. He was a sailor, a man well acquainted with the ways of the world. With hard work, a good deal of luck and occasionally some unscrupulous business dealings, the former seaman established his fortune. His children and his children's children expanded the family's interests and added to its wealth. By the time Farley was born, the Stoughtons were one of the richest families in New England, with money invested in shipping, mining and railroads.
Unlike Étienne, Farley had not been too young to go to battle, yet rather than risk his life for his country, he paid $300 for a replacement to fight in his stead. Let the poor and middle-class men fall victim to war, the Stoughtons believed. The smart people, like themselves, would not only remain safe, but they would also turn the war to their own advantage. During the years of fighting, they made millions selling supplies to both the Union and the Confederacy alike, and after the armistice, the Stoughtons wasted no time laying their hands on the spoils.
Then one day in 1873 Farley was traveling through Virginia when the horse pulling his Phaeton bolted and the carriage overturned. The driver was thrown from the vehicle and killed instantly. Farley found himself pinned under the weight of the carriage, and for hours he lay on the road, unable to free himself. He cursed the cruel fate that had kept him safe in Massachusetts during the war only to have him die on a Virginia road nearly a decade after peace had been won.
The afternoon passed, and the sun was just beginning to set when Farley heard a wagon coming down the road and called for assistance. Étienne, who was driving the wagon, stopped to help. Unable to lift the Phaeton himself, he hitched it to his own horse and soon had the vehicle in an upright position.
Farley tried to move, but the pain was too great.
"It looks like you broke both your legs," Étienne announced after a perfunctory examination. "I'm not a doctor, but I've had some experience with farm animals. If you want me to try setting your legs, I will."
"I don't suppose I have much choice," he said and moaned with pain.
Étienne was startled by the man's speech.
"You're from up north, are you?"
Farley paled. As if things were not bad enough, now he was at the mercy of a Secesh who would no doubt seek revenge for the defeat of the glorious cause by ridding the world of a no-good Yankee.
The young man from North Carolina held no grudge against his former enemies, however, even though the Yankees had taken from him all he had held dear. It had never been his war, and once the fighting was over, he had no desire to let hatred fester inside him and destroy his soul.
"This is going to hurt," he told the injured man, as though Farley was not already well aware of that fact. "I'll try to be quick."
Hurt was an understatement; the pain was excruciating. But, true to his word, Étienne had set the broken bones quickly. Then he took two pieces of wood from the back of the wagon and fashioned makeshift splints for Farley's legs. By the time night had fallen, the injured man was lying in the back of the wagon, thankful that he had been rescued.
"I don't suppose you're hungry," Étienne said as they came within sight of a small farm.
"I'm famished," Farley admitted. "But more than food, I could use a drink. I was lying in the scorching sun all afternoon."
The cold water from the farm's well did much to slake Farley's thirst, and the farmer gladly sold him some food as well as a bottle of homemade cider.
"What's all this stuff?" Farley asked as the two men sat in the back of the wagon, eating their meal.
"Paints and canvases," Étienne replied.
"You're an artist?"
"I was going to be—before the war."
Neither man spoke for some time as both were reminded that they had been on opposite sides of the conflict.
"Are you any good?" Farley asked, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"I was going to study in Paris, but I don't have the money now. What little I make as a farmhand, I use to buy supplies. Maybe someday I'll take my paintings to New York or New Orleans and see if I can find a gallery to show them."
Farley felt he owed the young man a debt for coming to his aid, so he offered, "If you can spare the time from your farming, I'd like to hire you to paint portraits of my wife and children."
A sudden rush of pride swelled in Étienne's chest. He wanted to tell the injured Yankee that he did not need his charity, but then he thought better of it. After all, he did not want to spend his life in the fields. He had aspirations of being something greater than a poor farmer, and to accomplish that goal, he needed money.
* * *
"How are the legs?" Étienne asked while he and Farley were waiting for a northbound train at a Shenandoah depot.
"Not too bad today," Farley replied.
It had been nearly six months since his carriage accident, and although the broken bones knitted together, Farley still winced from discomfort whenever he had to stand for any length of time.
His injuries had not kept Farley from tending to business, however. Even though he was unable to walk, he managed to travel to Charleston and buy into several businesses whose owners had fallen on hard times. As he promised, on his way back north, he stopped in Virginia to collect the man who had saved his life.
When the train pulled into the station, Étienne picked up his bag and headed toward the nearest passenger car.
"Not that one. I wired ahead and had them send down my private car," Farley said and pointed toward the rear of the train with his cane.
As Étienne turned his head to follow where Farley was pointing, out of the Pullman car stepped a woman whose beauty would rival the most dazzling of the Old South's famed belles. She gave the artist an inquisitive glance before turning her attention to his companion.
"Darling!" she cried, running into the older man's arms. "I missed you so much."
Farley smiled and gazed longingly at the exquisite creature.
"Wait until you see what I bought you. But first, I want you to meet Étienne Lyons. He's an artist. I've hired him to paint my wife and children."
Étienne stared with surprise. He had assumed the young woman with the auburn curls and green eyes was Stoughton's wife.
"Oh," the girl said, pouting like a petulant, spoiled child.
"Now, don't be that way. If it'll make you happy, I'll get him to do your portrait, too."
"So that you can hang it above the fireplace in your grand house? I'm sure your wife will like that."
Farley looked contrite. The pretty vixen had quite a sharp tongue. Étienne instantly seized upon the nature of the woman's relationship with his benefactor. He had, after all, been born into the southern plantation aristocracy where men kept mistresses—black and white—under the very noses of their wives. Apparently, things were not much different up north.
* * *
The trip to New England was comfortable and pleasant. Farley's private car was equipped with the most modern conveniences, and its bar was well stocked. In addition to the spirits, Farley, not trusting the railroad's food service, had arranged for a chef to cook their meals. The most satisfying aspect of the trip though, as far as Étienne was concerned, was Birdie O'Toole, Farley's beautiful Irish mistress.
Not long after the three travelers left the station in Virginia, Farley excused himself and went to the rear of the car to freshen up. He had been traveling all morning and wanted to bathe and change his clothes. Thus, Étienne unexpectedly found himself alone with Birdie, not an unpleasant circumstance by any means.
The young woman turned to him and glanced at his clean but threadbare attire, his calloused hands and his well-worn shoes. In her quick mental appraisal, the young man came up short.
"You're not really an artist, are you?" she asked bluntly. "From the look of you, I'd say you were a farmer."
She then turned her head toward the window, clearly dismissing him as being beneath her. Étienne did not like being snubbed, for even given his reduced circumstances, he was still a man who had been born to privilege and social position.
"I was accepted at a prestigious art school in Paris," he boasted. "That was before the war, of course. But I'm sure the offer still stands. Perhaps when I'm done painting Mrs. Stoughton and the children, I'll go to Europe and find out."
"How could the likes of you ever afford to go to Paris?"
"For generations, my family was one of the wealthiest in Virginia. The war was a setback, but I don't see why my fortune won't improve again now that the fighting is over."
Birdie turned to him again, seemingly reassessing his worth.
"Rich family, huh? Cotton?"
"Tobacco. And you?" he asked with a smug smile on his face. "What business is your family in?"
At the young man's callous reminder of her humble birth, Birdie's beautiful face darkened with anger. However, the artist was spared a verbal lashing by Farley Stoughton's sudden reappearance.
"Either of you want a drink before dinner?" the host asked.
Étienne nodded and smiled at the woman sitting across from him, who was still glaring angrily at him. It would be an interesting journey, to say the least, he thought.
By the time the train arrived in Massachusetts, Birdie was on better terms with Étienne. A woman ruled by her passions, she found it difficult to stay mad at so handsome and charming a young man.
Farley's carriage was waiting for them at the train station. Before going to the Stoughton mansion, the trio first stopped at Birdie's home on Essex Street. It was a small house, but it was well-furnished, clean and comfortable. Outside, complimenting the well-tended front lawn, was a beautiful rose garden where Birdie often sat awaiting Farley's arrival. Inside, hundreds of trinkets and knickknacks adorned the tables, shelves and curio cabinets. Clearly, Birdie enjoyed receiving gifts, and Farley clearly indulged her. In fact, she was still wearing the emerald earrings he had bought her in Charleston and given her on the train.
After Farley promised to visit his mistress the following weekend, the two men took their leave and traveled the short distance to the mansion. The large, sprawling house was imposing, but there was no elegance to it. The furnishings were expensive, but they showed an utter lack of taste. It was a house designed and decorated solely to show off the owner's wealth. It was the house of a rich man who wanted to distance himself as much as possible from the poverty of his ancestors.
There was no loving welcome waiting for Farley at his home. His wife, Theodora, was not at the door eager to embrace him as Birdie had. Not even the children were anxious to see their father after his long absence.
"Where is everyone?" Étienne asked.
"Oh, somewhere about," Farley replied with an appalling lack of interest. "You'll meet my wife at dinner. The children are with the nanny, I imagine. Cosgrove will show you to your room."
The butler stepped forward on cue and took Étienne's bag.
"This way, sir."
* * *
Theodora was as different from Birdie as night was from day. Where Farley's auburn-haired, green-eyed mistress was possessed of a fiery, passionate disposition, his wife was fair, exceedingly pale and aloof. She preferred a solitary state to the company of others, including—or perhaps especially—that of her husband. Étienne wondered if Farley sought the warmth of his mistress because of his wife's coldness or if Theodora had become cold because of her husband's philandering. Either way, the result was the same: there was a palpable frostiness in the Stoughton marriage.
After giving the matter serious consideration, Farley hired Étienne to paint four portraits: one of himself, one of his wife and one of each of his children. Once completed, those three paintings would hang on the wall above the sweeping main staircase in the mansion. The fourth portrait was to be of Birdie and was to be kept in the house Farley provided for her on Essex Street.
Work on the family's portraits began immediately. Étienne spent two hours each morning painting Theodora, who insisted on dressing in black, despite her wan complexion. In the early afternoons, Étienne tried to get the children to sit for an hour, which was usually stretching the limit of their attention spans. Finally, just before dinner each evening, Farley sat for two hours, striking a regal, lord-of-the-manor pose.
Stoughton, although an expert at matters regarding finance, knew nothing of art. He barely glanced at the painting of his wife, dismissed that of his children by saying only that it was a good likeness and was openly critical of his own portrait.
"You've made my face look much heavier than it actually is," he complained.
In truth, Étienne had tried to lessen the appearance of the subject's jowls.
Me thinks, the artist thought with amusement, Farley needed to take a good look in the mirror.
Before Étienne had the opportunity to wear out his welcome, all three paintings were completed.
"I suppose he'll have you paint her next."
There was no hint of bitterness or jealousy in Theodora's voice as she stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up at the three family portraits.
Étienne, who was never a man to lie, remained silent.
"In case you're wondering, I know all about my husband's concubine," Theodora continued. "She's not the first one, and I doubt she'll be the last. Farley can be very attentive and generous, but he can't abide betrayal or handle rejection. Unfortunately, the women he favors are not known for their fidelity."
The artist had barely spoken two words to Theodora the entire time he was painting her and was shocked by her sudden confidences.
"You're not like my husband. You're a man of breeding and refinement, and despite your current impoverished state, you are quite handsome. Be careful; don't let her get her claws into you."
Having issued her warning, Theodora retreated to her world of needlework and books.
* * *
"I've arranged for you to board here," Farley announced as he got out of the carriage in front of a two-story house a mile from the one he had purchased for his mistress. "The man who owns the house works for me. He'll drive you to Birdie's each day and bring you back."
"That's not necessary," Étienne objected. "I can walk. It's only a short distance."
"I insist," Farley proclaimed firmly, accustomed to having his wishes taken as law.
Reggie, the man in whose home Étienne boarded, was evidently his employer's guard dog. Each day when he drove the painter to Birdie's house, he remained there, keeping a watchful eye on Farley's mistress. Even had Étienne wanted to know the Irish beauty on more intimate terms, he would not get the opportunity with Reggie always hovering nearby. Birdie, however, was far more daring and determined. One evening as Étienne was preparing for bed, he heard a sound at his second-floor window. The green-eyed Irish lass was outside, balancing on a branch of a nearby chestnut tree.
"What do you think you're doing?" he whispered.
"If you don't know," she teased, "then I must be wasting my time."
Étienne helped Birdie swing her legs over the window sill and enter his modest bedroom.
"I don't think Farley will approve of your visiting me at this hour," the artist warned.
"Then we must be careful that he never finds out."
* * *
Étienne delayed the completion of Birdie's portrait as long as possible, but he could not postpone the inevitable. Farley already seemed suspicious, demanding each time he visited the house on Essex Street to see what progress had been made on the painting.
"We'll have to tell him soon," Étienne announced one morning before dawn as Birdie was preparing to sneak out his window.
"Tell him what?"
"That it's over between you and him and that you're going to go with me to Paris."
"Where did you ever get such an idea?"
She laughed softly and kissed him on the cheek.
He grabbed her arm as she headed toward the window.
"We love each other."
"Don't be silly. We've had a wonderful time, but it can't last. As soon as the portrait is done, it will be over between us."
"I want you to marry me," he pressed.
"And live in some awful garret with no heat or running water? Farley may be overweight and not particularly handsome, but he's rich and very generous."
She looked out the window and saw the first pink rays of dawn.
"I've got to go now before Reggie finds me here."
Birdie exited quietly, leaving Étienne alone, wishing he had heeded Theodora's warning. He thought only to have a harmless fling without any emotional entanglements, but it did not turn out that way. Birdie managed—intentionally or otherwise—to get her claws into him, and he must do something drastic to extricate himself from her grasp.
* * *
"I don't like it," Étienne declared as he, Farley and Birdie stood in front of the easel, examining the finished portrait.
"Nonsense," Stoughton argued. "It's every bit as beautiful as the subject herself."
"There's something not quite right," the artist insisted, looking at the portrait with a critical eye.
He glanced at Birdie and then back at the painting.
"It's the green dress," he declared with finality.
"But the dress brings out the color of my eyes," Birdie protested.
"The dress should have been red to capture the fire and passion in your soul."
Both Farley and Birdie, whose tastes favored the vulgar and ostentatious, reexamined the portrait.
"How long would it take to redo the painting?" Farley asked.
"Not long at all," Étienne assured him. "A day or two at most. All I have to do is repaint the dress. The rest of the portrait is fine as it is."
Farley nodded his head and declared, "I have to go to Boston on business tomorrow, but I'll be back at the end of the week. I'll expect the portrait to be completed by then."
* * *
When the butler showed Étienne into the study of the Stoughton mansion, Farley was surprised to see the wrapped canvas in the artist's hands.
"Why did you bring that portrait here?" he cried in a hushed, angry tone.
"No need to worry about your wife seeing it," Étienne laughed. "I waited until she went out to the garden before I removed it from the carriage."
Farley nodded his approval.
"Good thinking. Well, let's see how the painting turned out."
Étienne unveiled the portrait and was pleased with the look on the other man's face.
"Beautiful!" Stoughton exclaimed, more in appreciation of the subject's features than of the skill of the artist.
After a few moments spent admiring the painting, Farley reached into his breast pocket, took out an envelope and handed it to Étienne.
"I'm sure you'll find this more than enough to get you to Paris."
As far as the wealthy Yankee was concerned, there need be no further social intercourse between them. Étienne felt the same way.
"You were right about the red dress," Farley concluded as the artist took his leave. "It definitely captures the real Birdie O'Toole."
* * *
A month later Étienne boarded a transatlantic liner in New York bound for Europe. He looked forward to the long sea voyage as he would be traveling first class all the way, courtesy of Mr. Farley Stoughton, who was—as Birdie had so often bragged—a very generous man.
Meanwhile, back in Massachusetts, an expensive carriage stopped before the small house on Essex Street. Farley alighted, carrying a gift-wrapped box from a Boston jeweler. As he made his way to the front steps, he passed the flower garden that adorned the front yard. The red roses that bloomed there were the same color as the dress in Birdie's portrait. It was an unusual shade of red, not scarlet or crimson. No, it was a much darker red, blood red, he realized with a wry smile, thinking of the corpse that lay buried beneath the roses. Yes, blood red would be the appropriate vernacular since Birdie's own blood had been mixed into the paint to give the dress the color Étienne had wanted.
Farley turned from the garden and looked at the door where a pretty young brunette with dazzling blue eyes waited impatiently for him—or at least waited impatiently for his gift. He smiled at her exquisite face and hoped that, unlike Birdie O'Toole, her Irish predecessor, his new mistress would have the good sense not to deceive him.
I call this masterpiece "Portrait of a Pest on a Pumpkin."
