Portrait Of Charlotte

by Jessica Blair

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Struggling artist Richard is persuaded by his benefactor to leave his home town for the grand salons of London. He is encouraged to paint the beautiful Charlotte's portrait, and in doing so, the couple begin to fall in love. But Charlotte is married to an older man, who cares for her deeply. How can she reconcile her passion for Richard with her loyalty to her husband? In an attempt to forget her, Richard returns home to Whitby. But when unexpected events force the Lincolnshire countryside and the London art world to become entangled, Richard and Charlotte's worlds are forced to collide once more . . .

Release date: April 7, 2011

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 448

Sample

Stepping outside of his Chelsea home overlooking the Thames, Charles Campion glanced skywards and was thankful that the poor
July weather of 1820 had turned better with the new month. It augured well for a good crossing of the Channel.


‘Goodbye, Charlotte, my dear. I should be home in two weeks. Buying the wine and lace and arranging shipment shouldn’t take
any longer than that.’ He kissed his wife on both cheeks and held her hands as they stood beside the post-chaise which would
take him to Dover. He looked tenderly and admiringly into her eyes, expressing the love he had felt from the first moment
he saw her two years ago.


It was a moment he would never forget. He had been invited to a small dinner party arranged by Francis Wakefield, Charlotte’s
father, for some business friends. He had had several contacts with him, which had turned out profitable to both men. He liked
Francis, fifteen years his senior, recognised his shrewdness, and saw that future arrangements could be beneficial to his own commercial empire.


Francis on his part admired the business acumen of the younger man. Many a person, if they had inherited, at thirty-eight,
estates in Lincolnshire, property in London, ships sailing out of Boston and London, would have sat back and enjoyed the wealth,
but not so Charles. He was determined to expand and broad-mindedly saw that in doing so he was not only adding to his own
coffers but was providing work for others not so well off as himself.


Suspecting that Francis might have a proposition to make he had accepted the invitation, the first to Wakefield’s home, and
had come from Lincolnshire especially for it. That decision was one he did not regret, for the moment he walked into the parlour,
where jovial conversation buzzed, and saw Charlotte, her face lit up with laughter at some remark which had been exchanged
among her group of four, his heart was lost. His mind was transfixed and he had to forcibly direct his attention to the welcome
from Francis. Even in that moment he wondered if he dare hope that he, a thirty-nine-year-old, could gain the love of someone
who, at nineteen, filled that room with magic.


He went through the introductions with Francis, acknowledging those he already knew, making polite and charming exchanges
with those who were new to him, but all the time eager for the second when he would be face to face with the girl who had
captured his imagination.


‘My daughter, Charlotte. Charlotte, Charles Campion,’ Francis presented them and then turned to answer a query from one of the other guests.


Charles bowed but his eyes never left her. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’

Charlotte gave a demure inclination of her head. She had been aware of the tall handsome man who had entered the room; now,
close to, she saw that he was even more so. His dark hair, with its attractive sweep above a broad forehead, was thick around
the sides and ran into two sidewinders which accentuated the squareness of his jaw. The laughter lines around his mouth proclaimed
an enjoyment of life and relieved the firmness of his mouth. His steel-blue eyes were sharp, demanding attention, but she
knew that at the same time they were shrewdly observant. He was immaculately dressed in a dark blue coat cut away square at
the waist but dropping in knee length tails at the back. The large silk covered revers ran into a high collar. He wore the
new fashion of trousers which Charlotte liked much better than the breeches still preferred by her father. His yellow waistcoat
covered a white shirt, at the neck of which was a neatly tied yellow cravat.


‘It is a pleasure to have you with us this evening, Mr Campion,’ returned Charlotte. ‘I believe you have come all the way
from Lincolnshire especially.’


‘I thought your father might have some business proposition to make.’

‘And that was your only reason for coming?’ There was a mild rebuke in her teasing tone.

‘I knew no other when I received the invitation, but I do now. At this moment business is far from my mind and no doubt will be for the rest of the evening.’


‘You flatter me, Mr Campion,’ she protested demurely.

‘Indeed I do not, Miss Wakefield.’

‘But, you must have met many young ladies far more beautiful than I.’

He gave a slight shake of his head. ‘None that captured my attention as you did immediately I entered the room.’

‘Ah, maybe that was my dress.’ She gave a knowing smile.

Charles raised his hands in protest. ‘No you underestimate your charm and my judgement.’ The pause was almost insignificant
but it placed an emphasis on those words. Then he added, ‘But of course your dress is most exquisite.’


His glance of appreciation slid over the pale blue silk dress with its Gothic V-neck trimmed with lace in the manner of Vandyke
portraits. The puff shoulders gave way to the newer fashion of longer sleeves complementing the narrow skirt and natural waist-line.
The design set off her figure and its colour matched perfectly the blue of her eyes. Her mousey-brown hair was curled and
drawn up from the back of her neck making an alluring setting for her petite nose, full rosy cheeks, bowed lips and rounded
chin.


Their conversation was interrupted by the announcement that dinner was served.

Francis quickly assessed the situation around the room and turned to Charles.

‘Will you escort Charlotte?’



‘It will be my pleasure.’ He held out his arm which Charlotte took gracefully and, after a moment’s pause, they followed the
other couples to the dining room.


Charlotte smiled to herself. This had the signs of being engineered by her father and she thought that more so when she found
that she was seated next to Charles at the table. She knew her father thought highly of him and realised that his assets and
the way in which he conducted his affairs could be helpful to his own business. She suspected that her father was hoping that
she would develop more than a pleasant relationship with Charles Campion.


Well, he would make a good catch even though he was twenty years older. He was rich with vast country estates and a London
home. He was handsome and from the few moments she had been with him she thought he would be kind, considerate, gentle and
attentive. So did age really matter if they were compatible? But, she wondered, why had he never married?


She found her judgements confirmed throughout the meal. He was all she thought he would be; not only to her but to everyone
around the table. He was a stimulating conversationalist with a wide knowledge which was abreast of the times.


He was delighted to be sitting next to Charlotte for it enabled him to find out more about the girl whose sparkle had attracted
him to her beauty. In closer conversation at the table he found that she did not conform to the set image of the daughter
who was seen and not heard, waiting to be married off to some eligible man picked out by her parents. He suspected that Francis Wakefield might have had a match in his mind when he made the invitation, but he realised that Charlotte would definitely
have her say in who she would wed. She would have to be won.


And win her he had done.

Now, Charlotte watched the post-chaise turn out of the short drive. Charles waved, and she raised a hand in return. He passed
from sight. She stood, lost to her surroundings, her thoughts nowhere, her eyes unseeing. Then she sighed, turned and walked
slowly back through the doorway where James, one of two footmen, waited patiently to close the door.


She paused in the centre of the hall.

‘Will that be all, ma’am?’ James’s voice almost startled her.

‘Yes, thank you, James,’ she replied tonelessly.

His footsteps faded into the silence of the house.

Her gaze drifted slowly round the hall. A wide staircase curved gracefully to the first floor, its iron balustrade exquisitely
shaped with roses, joining and intertwining two sets of the letters ‘CC’ spaced at intervals all the way up the stairs. ‘The
flower of love linking Charlotte Campion and Charles Campion together forever, my dear,’ Charles had whispered when he had
brought her to the house for the first time on their return from their month’s honeymoon in Italy.


Italy! Oh, it seemed so long ago, yet so much was still vivid. Charles had been ever attentive, concerned for her comfort
and well-being. Only the best was good enough for her, the travel, the accommodation wherever it was; on the journey, in Milan, Rome, Pisa, Florence, Venice. He showered her with gifts, tokens of his love, mementoes of their
honeymoon. She had been happy, revelling in his attention, enjoying the sun, the new experience of foreign travel, the excitement
of returning home to the estates in Lincolnshire, to this, their London home especially purchased and renovated by Charles
as his wedding gift to her.


It had been decorated to the latest fashion by expert decorators. Curtains and drapes matched or contrasted in the best taste
with the wallpaper. Furnishings, comfortable and practical, had been bought from craftsmen. Nothing had been spared and when
he first brought her to this house she could do nothing but stare in wonder, lost for words. She had been used to a beautiful
elegant home but that paled beside the luxury which now surrounded her. She knew any girl would give anything for the life
of opulence which lay ahead of her. She had servants at her beck and call ever ready to do her bidding for they liked her
as much as they did their employer, seeing him as a kindly, considerate man who paid them justly and would never think of
exploiting them.


Everyone said how lucky she was to capture this most eligible of bachelors. Mothers who had been trying to match their daughters
with Charles Campion tended to be cutting about his choice, their daughters envious.


As Charlotte walked slowly up the stairs to her room, and stood looking out of the window across the drive, she knew how lucky
she was. Her mother and father had told her so, right from the moment when Charles had asked their permission to visit their daughter whenever he was in London, and Charles made that often, leading up to the
day when he asked them for their daughter’s hand in marriage.


By that time she had become convinced that it was the right thing to do. She had told herself that life with this man would
be happy. Love? Well, she liked him … yes, she loved him. But did she really know what love was? She had dismissed the doubts.
Of course she loved him. Did he not spoil her, lavish her with gifts, give her every comfort? She wanted for nothing. And
plainly he was so in love with her.


She sighed. In love? Was that it? Was she in love with Charles? She loved him, but was that the same? She sensed a disturbing
questioning in her mind. Had she discovered something lacking in her feelings? Was this why at times she felt a chill in the
relationship? It did not emanate from Charles but from her inner self. She had always dismissed it as being something which
had come with her new life, doubts about whether she could live up to Charles’s expectations, but now she wondered if she
had misinterpreted her reactions.


She stiffened and chided herself for such thoughts. They were the result of being parted from him for the first time. That
was it. She was gloomy because he was not here, would not be coming in later in the day. It was not like her to be feeling
depressed. Stupid to doubt her feelings. Of course she loved him.


She was about to turn from the window when she saw a carriage come through the gateway.

Her face broke into a broad smile. ‘Mother and Father!’ She raced down the stairs, and was out of the front door and reached the bottom of the steps just as the carriage stopped.


‘Oh, it’s good to see you,’ she cried as she hugged them both.

They laughingly exchanged greetings with their daughter as she ushered them up the steps and into the house.

‘You’ve just missed Charles.’

‘We know,’ smiled her mother, and Charlotte sensed some intrigue.

‘We knew what time he would be going but did not want to intrude on your goodbyes.’

‘You shouldn’t have worried about that.’ Charlotte pulled the bell sash. ‘Take your coats off.’

‘No, my dear, no need for that. We’re not stopping.’ Her father laughed when he saw disappointment darken his daughter’s face.

‘Francis! Don’t tease the girl,’ his wife frowned.

‘Don’t spoil the fun, Gertrude.’

‘Fun? See the girl’s face? Do you call that fun?’

A little bewildered, Charlotte looked from one to the other, but the arrival of one of her maids drew her attention. ‘Oh,
Betsy, we shan’t need you now.’


‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl bobbed a curtsey and turned away.

‘Wait!’ Francis boomed, drawing Betsy up with a start.

She shot a questioning look at her mistress.

Before Charlotte could say anything Francis went on. ‘Charlotte, you are coming home with us and tomorrow we sail to Whitby
where we will spend ten days!’ He delivered the words with a flourish.




Both Francis and Gertrude noted with glee the look of astonishment with which their daughter regarded them. They exchanged
glances of pleasure at the way they had surprised her.


‘Don’t stand there gawking, lass,’ laughed Francis. ‘You’ll need to pack a few things. We’ll wait.’ He shrugged himself out
of his coat. Gertrude removed her cape and bonnet and handed them to Betsy who thought how lucky her mistress was to be taken
on holiday. ‘Betsy, do you think you could get us a cup of hot chocolate?’ Francis asked as she took his coat and hat.


‘Certainly, sir.’ Betsy hurried from the room. She liked Mr and Mrs Wakefield; they were always pleasant and never put on
airs and graces though he was a successful merchant, highly thought of in London trading circles.


Charlotte was still trying to take in her father’s announcement. It was so unexpected and, coming at a time when she was feeling
a bit low, it had taken her breath away. ‘Whitby? On the Yorkshire coast?’


‘Aye,’ replied her father.

‘But why Whitby?’ she asked as she and her mother sat down on the bar-backed sofa, based on the designs of Hepplewhite, while
her father, hands clasped behind him, stood with his back to the fireplace.


‘Your father’s been angling for a while to go to Whitby to revive childhood memories though why he should want to do that
considering the circumstances he was in at that time I shall never know,’ explained Gertrude.


Charlotte looked queryingly at her father. She knew nothing of his early days except that he had come to London from Yorkshire. She had only ever known him as a successful
merchant living in the capital. It seemed that his origins were something that he never wanted to discuss. It appeared he
had forgotten his roots though there were times, especially when he was excited, that his words were laced with the Yorkshire
accent.


Francis shrugged his broad shoulders, hardened early in life by physical work, but softened as his mode of living changed
and demanded less muscular exertions. His sharp mind had always been there, seeking opportunity to progress beyond the poverty
he had once known. The seizing of those chances had brought money, a better way of life, a new social circle where he had
met and loved the only child of a moderately successful merchant whose business only needed a nimble brain to take it to the
forefront of the London trade, specialising in wine imports from the Continent.


The taste for his own goods was beginning to show in his florid complexion and the enjoyment of good food had started to show
around his middle, a fact he did not deliberately attempt to disguise, though the superb cut of his clothes, in the best of
cloths, channelled people’s attention to the way he held himself – straight, commanding attention.


Though he exuded an air of authority when it came to business matters he was known for his friendliness and his easygoing
manner. He did not see these as weaknesses but rather as positive attributes for they enabled him to get on well with people,
not least his wife and daughter. He was well aware that they could twist him round their little fingers, but he did not let them know that, allowing them to imagine it was their lovable guile which
had won him over.


‘It’s just something I feel I want to do,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know why, but the urge is there. The business is running smoothly,
my capable manager can take over for a few days.’


‘I’ve been pressing him for some time to let Jack have more authority. After all, he’s been with your father a long time and
knows the business inside out,’ put in Gertrude.


‘Aye, your mother will have her way,’ he flattered, knowing it pleased her to think she wielded such influence, though he
told himself he had decided to take that course some time ago but had only just got around to finalising it.


The chocolate arrived, and, though they settled down to drink it, Charlotte was all excitement inside. What she thought was
going to be a drab time while Charles was away now held the promise of something new: a sea voyage, different sights and experiences,
and a view of the place where her father was born.


She looked at him. ‘What is Whitby like?’

‘I doubt if he’ll remember,’ Gertrude put in. ‘Your father was only ten when he came to London forty-six years ago.’

‘With your parents?’ asked Charlotte.

Francis shook his head. ‘Alone.’

‘What? At ten?’ Charlotte was aghast at the prospect which must have faced him, for she had never known anything but the protection
of loving parents.




He nodded. ‘They both died when I was eight.’ Charlotte was held by every word as he went on for now she was learning something
about her father which she had never known. ‘Father was lost on a whaling expedition to the Arctic, Mother went to pieces,
never really recovered and was found drowned in the river.’


‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Charlotte’s voice was low with sympathy.

Francis gave a sad smile. ‘It was so long ago, I hardly remember them.’

‘How did you get to London?’ asked Charlotte.

‘I was put in a home after they found Mother. It was awful so I determined to run away but I didn’t get the opportunity until
I was ten. Stowed away on a ship bound for London.’


‘You weren’t found?’

‘No. Got ashore. Lived rough. There were those who tried to befriend me but I was wary, reckoned they wanted me to thieve
for them. I kept myself to myself. Got a job running messages for two brothers who had four shops. Worked my way up, bettered
myself, met your mother and the rest you know.’ He glanced at his wife and, before Charlotte could comment, said, ‘And, Gertrude,
I can remember something of what Whitby looks like. It’s a place you never forget; the river flowing to the sea between high
cliffs, up one of which there are layers and layers of red-roofed houses seeming to stand on one another, reached by narrow
alleys. And high on the cliff above them the old parish church and the ruined abbey. Quays line the river, busy with ships
which sail to other British ports and to the Continent.’




‘It sounds exciting,’ said Charlotte enthusiastically. ‘And interesting. I’m longing to see it.’

‘Then finish your chocolate, lass, and away and get packed,’ urged her father.

‘Come home with us now and then we can all go to the ship together tomorrow,’ explained Gertrude. ‘I’ll come and help you.’

Mother and daughter chose the clothes they thought would be most appropriate for their stay in the Yorkshire coastal town.
While Gertrude and Betsy packed two bags Charlotte issued instructions to the housekeeper, Mrs Baines, knowing that everything
would be taken care of conscientiously.


‘Good morning, my dear.’

Her father’s cheerful voice made Charlotte turn from the rail. ‘Good morning, Father.’

Beneath her blue bonnet, held to her head against the strong breeze by a matching ribbon tied in a huge bow, he saw her eyes
were shining so that he knew the answer to his question as he put it, ‘You’re up early. Enjoying the voyage?’


‘Oh, yes,’ she replied with such energy it was as if she were hugging herself with pleasure.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Once I’d got used to the motion of the ship. I woke early so thought I’d come on deck. Is Mother all right?’

‘Sickly at first; had a fitful night; still a bit queasy. I told her some fresh air would do her good. She’ll be here soon.’

They turned to lean on the rail. The sails, filled with the strong breeze, cracked above them. Ropes creaked and timbers squeaked, the sounds mingling with the swish of the water sent curling along the sides by the bow as it cleaved
through the waves.


Charlotte breathed deeply of the brisk, crisp air, relishing its tang tingling her lungs. Her eyes beat through the distance
towards the coast which had been in sight ever since she came on deck.


A movement behind them caused them to turn.

‘Now, my dear, how are you feeling?’ Francis stepped towards his wife to take her arm and steady her against the roll of the
ship.


She gave a little smile which soured as she pulled a face.

‘Take some deep breaths, Mother. You’ll feel better,’ advised Charlotte.

She did as her daughter bade her and had to admit that there was a wise head on her young shoulders. She came to the rail
and gripped it tightly.


‘Don’t look down!’ Charlotte’s instruction was sharp and Gertrude obeyed instantly but not before her eyes had focused on
the water rushing from the bow towards the stern. Even in that brief moment she had felt her head spin, but as soon as she
followed her daughter’s gaze towards the coast the sensation disappeared.


Within a few minutes she was enjoying the sail as much as her husband and daughter and kept up a flow of conversation until,
ten minutes later, the sailor assigned to steward duties informed them that breakfast was being served.


They went to the saloon where the other four passengers had already assembled.

They were halfway through their meal when the captain appeared, bade them ‘Good morning,’ hoped they had had a trouble-free night, and announced that they were making
good time with an estimate that they should arrive in Whitby about midday.


After breakfast the Wakefields spent the time on deck eager to take in the views as the ship beat its way northwards close
to the Yorkshire coast.


‘The abbey!’ Francis’s voice rang with excitement at being the first to glimpse the ruin as the ship rose to the crest of
a wave. The vessel slid into the trough and the abbey was lost to sight.


Charlotte let her gaze follow the direction of his pointing finger.

‘There!’ he cried again.

‘There!’ Charlotte called at almost the same moment. ‘See it, Mother?’

‘Yes.’ Gertrude was swept up by her daughter’s enthusiasm, and eagerly shared the exhilaration which gripped her husband at
his ‘homecoming’.


They watched the abbey come closer, a prominent sentinel high on the cliff, a ‘welcome home’ sign to Whitby sailors, a beacon
to strangers seeking a safe haven from the trials of the sea.


Activity seethed around them as the crew raced about their tasks which would see the ship safely into harbour. Orders rasped
loud and were passed on with equal vigour, men swarmed aloft to be ready to take in sails, the ship altered course, manoeuvring
towards the narrow entrance between the two piers.


Charlotte’s eyes widened. ‘We’ll never get in there,’ she cried.



‘Oh, my goodness,’ gasped Gertrude, her voice charged with apprehension, and she grasped her husband’s arm with a grip which
made him wince.


He glanced at her and saw fright in her eyes; but they were not directed at the small gap through which they must sail. Instead
they were focused on the wreck of a fishing lugger lying on the rocky scaur behind the east pier; its captain had evidently
misjudged his run to safety.


‘It’s all right, my dear,’ Francis reassured her with a gentle pat on her hand. ‘Captain Moresby has entered Whitby harbour
many times, I’m sure he’ll do so safely now.’


They watched, fascinated, as the ship swept nearer and nearer the piers. Suddenly they seemed to rush at them. One moment
they appeared far away, the next they were close. The captain held his order to furl sails until the last moment for he wanted
to use the maximum wind power to enable him to make as much way up the river as possible before he need call on the oarsmen,
standing by in boats on the river, to tow them to the berth beyond the bridge.


Orders rang out with a crispness which eliminated misunderstanding.

Charlotte was enthralled by the agility of the men on the yards, who seemed to have no fear of their precarious foothold on
the footrope. The sails were furled with the dexterity of long practice. The ship slowed. Her attention was directed to the
men on the deck who threw ropes to the waiting boats. They were gathered, secured and then, at the command, the oarsmen, who
had kept their boats in motion, now bent their backs with greater tension and hauled hard on the oars to tow the ship up
river.


The intense activity had held Charlotte’s attention, but now she turned her gaze on Whitby itself. On the east side of the
river houses clung precariously to the steep cliff, climbing one on top of the other as if trying to vie for a sight of the
sky. The whole area was a mass of red pantile roofs. Only a few of the maze of chimney pots belched smoke but it took little
of her imagination, having come from London, to realise the pall which would hang over the town in the cold weather, though
there was more chance of it being blown away by the wind.


Above them, as if keeping a watchful eye on everyone, stood an old church, a ruined abbey and what appeared to be a disused
house.


‘I remember that in use,’ commented Francis, seeing the direction of his daughter’s gaze. ‘I wonder what happened?’ He switched
his attention to the west side. ‘And there were no fine houses yonder,’ he added indicating the newer buildings towards the
top of the west cliff. ‘And there’s still a lot of space for development.’


‘Now don’t get that business gleam in your eye, Francis,’ his wife warned. ‘We’re here on holiday.’

‘Don’t worry, my love, my money’s tied up in London,’ he reassured her.

‘Were those older houses built at the same time as those on the other bank?’ asked Charlotte.

‘Yes, dear. Both sides of the river were developed together but the east side more so. Now with the wealth generated by the port, particularly the whaling trade, folk must see better prospects higher on the west cliff.’


Charlotte was drawn by the energy which emanated from this Yorkshire port. She had expected it to be quiet, sleepy in its
remoteness. Instead she was witnessing a pulsating activity.


People were about their business everywhere, hurrying, with hardly a glance at the new arrival from London. They had seen
it all before. Others, though used to the familiarity, paused and watched the passing vessel. Fishermen prepared their nets,
sailors stowed ropes, children clung to the skirts of their gossiping mothers, barefooted urchins ran in chase, clerks hurried
from offices to deliver documents in some other part of the town.


‘We’ll never get through there,’ observed Gertrude with just as much doubt as she had expressed on approaching the gap between
the two piers. This time her comment was directed at the drawbridge which had been opened to allow the vessel to proceed to
her berth upstream.


‘The captain knows what he’s doing,’ replied Francis. He realised negotiating the passage through the bridge would need careful
handling, for, apart from the narrow gap between the supports, the counterweight beams w