Who Can Deny Love Read online

  For the model he had chosen a number of oranges lying on a table beside a vase of flowers.

  He had painted them in great blobs of colour, picking up the light in brilliant patches that seemed at first glance to have nothing to do with the subject and yet, when one looked closer, they intensified it.

  As the Marquis stood gazing at the painting, he was aware that Cyrilla was looking at him, hoping desperately that he would understand.

  He sensed too that she was afraid he would laugh her father’s efforts to scorn.

  “I have a feeling,” he said at length, “that your father is so far ahead of his time that, as you say, people don’t understand what he is trying to portray. And yet I can quite honestly say that I consider this a very clever, if not brilliant, piece of work!”

  She made a little sound of sheer joy.

  Then she said,

  “I wish Papa could hear you. No one has ever said anything like that to him. I think perhaps it would be worth all the disappointments, all the years he has felt he was a failure.”

  “It is the last thing I would say your father was,” the Marquis replied, “but I suppose you are aware that all great artists, whether they are musicians, painters or writers, have to fight to obtain a hearing and usually only when an artist is dead is his work appreciated.”

  As he spoke, he thought that he had been rather tactless, seeing that Cyrilla knew that that was exactly what would happen to her father.

  “I think,” she said, “that to know that he would be understood and appreciated in time would make Papa – very happy. When he is well enough, I will tell him what you have said.”

  “He is not well enough for me to speak to him now?” the Marquis asked.

  Cyrilla shook her head.

  “He has been – unconscious for the last three days. The doctor came to see him this morning – and said there was – nothing he could do.”

  She spoke in a tight little voice that told the Marquis she was controlling her feelings.

  “I would like to buy this painting,” he said, “if you will allow me to do so.”

  He expected that she would be pleased, but instead she answered him quickly,

  “No – of course – not.”

  He raised his eyebrows and she explained, the colour rising in her cheeks,

  “You are aware that Papa has tried to – deceive you with the Van Dyck? To make amends, perhaps I could give you the painting.”

  “You know that I could not accept such generosity in the circumstances,” the Marquis said. “Let’s be quite frank, Miss Wyntack, you need the money and I would like to give it to you, because I can see in this painting the merit that other people would miss.”

  She looked indecisive and he added with a faint smile,

  “I think pride is something you should dispense with at the moment.”

  “It’s not exactly – pride,” Cyrilla said, “it is because – Mama would have been so – shocked at Papa painting – f-fakes – even though we were desperately in need of the money.”

  “I think your mother would have understood,” the Marquis said. “And now, because I must discuss with the Prince of Wales what we should do about the Van Dyck and, because I know you must have the money immediately to spend, I am going to insist upon giving you fifteen pounds for this painting, which I intend to take with me now.”

  “It’s too much!” Cyrilla cried.

  The Marquis would have offered more, but he had a feeling that she would not accept it. He had therefore chosen a figure that he knew would seem quite considerable to her, while to him it was of no consequence whatsoever.

  “I dislike arguments,” he said, “and never enter into them if it is possible. So you must allow me to have my own way in this instance.”

  As he spoke, he drew some notes from the inner pocket of his driving coat and put them down on the table.

  Then he took the painting from the easel.

  “I am going to show this to His Royal Highness. It will be very interesting to see what his reaction is – whether it is the same as mine.”

  “Perhaps he will be very angry – when he learns that the Lochner is a fake,” Cyrilla said in a small voice. “Supposing he decides – to prosecute Papa?”

  “I will see that he does nothing of the sort” the Marquis answered. “You are not to worry, Miss Wyntack, and if you will allow me to do so, I will call on you tomorrow and see how your father is and I hope, in all sincerity, that he will be much improved.”

  “So do I,” Cyrilla sighed. “Thank you – thank you very much for being – so kind.”

  She looked up at him as she spoke and the Marquis had an almost irresistible impulse to take her in his arms and see if she was real.

  There was such a fairy-like quality about her, the feeling of beauty that Lochner had portrayed so brilliantly, but the Marquis still felt as if she was part of his imagination and had no substance in fact.

  “How do you spend your days?” he asked.

  She looked surprised at the question and then answered after a moment,

  “My maid Hannah and I cannot leave the house at the same time. Someone always has to be looking after Papa.”

  “And when your father is well?”

  “I still look after him,” she said with a little smile. “He would never leave his studio if I did not sometimes make him take me for a walk and – even though he hates it, accompany me to the shops, when we have any money to spend.”

  “It seems a strange life for anyone as lovely as you are.”

  He had spoken without thinking and now he realised that he had startled her. Her eyelashes were dark against her cheeks as she replied rapidly,

  “I think I will hand this money over to Hannah. She will be glad – so very glad that I have sold a painting – so that we can buy the things Papa needs.”

  As she spoke, Cyrilla moved towards the door, but the Marquis deliberately walked to the big window of the studio to look out

  Outside were the back yards of Islington but he looked at them with unseeing eyes.

  There were quite a number of things he wanted to say, but he had no idea how to put them into words.

  He knew Cyrilla expected him to go, but he wanted to stay.

  He felt strangely that if he left her he might never find her again and yet now that he had discovered her, there should be no difficulty in the future.

  He did not know quite what he was seeking, he only felt confused to the point where it was almost impossible to think clearly.

  The Madonna in The Virgin of the Lilies was there, in her face, which he had looked at hundreds of times since the Prince of Wales had bought the painting, it was the face which had haunted his dreams and which he had thought belonged to a woman long since dead, but she was, unbelievably, alive!

  And her name was Cyrilla.

  He knew without turning round that she was looking at his back and wondering why he did not go and that in consequence she was a little uneasy.

  And yet was that true?

  The Marquis knew in his heart that he had known Cyrilla since the beginning of time.

  She had always been there in his mind and in his ideals.

  Then he told himself that he was being ridiculously and absurdly sentimental and, if he spoke of this aloud, she would think he was a madman and she would be quite right in doing so.

  With an effort he turned from the window.

  “I must leave you, Miss Wyntack,” he said in a business-like tone, “but, as I have already said, I will return tomorrow. Is there anything I can bring you?”

  It was almost an offhand question, but it was one that invariably evoked the same response – the women he knew well would say, “only yourself”. Others, with whom he was just beginning an acquaintance, would look coy and say, “I should be thrilled with anything you could give me”.

  Cyrilla’s answer was very different.

  “You have been so kind – so generous,” she said. “I only wish I cou
ld find the right words in which to thank you. Perhaps when Papa is better he can paint you something you would really like and we could give it to you in gratitude.”

  “I should appreciate that,” the Marquis replied, “especially if it was a portrait of you.”

  She was still for a moment and he knew that a sudden thought had come to her.

  “You have a portrait of yourself?” he asked.

  “Not – exactly,” Cyrilla replied, “but one I would like to show you.”

  She went to a corner of the studio and took two small canvases from a drawer.

  When they were in her hand, she began to walk towards the Marquis and he felt as if she floated rather than walked and he almost expected to see a white cloud beneath her feet.

  When she reached him, she held up the canvases shyly, as if she was not quite certain what he would feel about them.

  He took the first one from her and saw that it was Cyrilla’s face painted against a blue background. Her hair was haloed by light in the manner that Frans Wyntack had made peculiarly his own.

  He saw too that it was, in fact, an impression and not a finished portrait and yet the huge eyes were there with the strange dreamy light in them and the little straight nose.

  “It’s perfect!” the Marquis exclaimed. “And exactly like you!”

  She gave a little laugh that he did not understand and then handed him the other canvas.

  This, he saw, was a sketch of Lochner’s The Virgin of the Lilies. The face and the expression were identical and the light came from behind as it did in the finished painting, suggesting by a few brilliant strokes a kind of celestial glory from another world, which was not round the Madonna but within her.

  The Marquis looked from one to the other.

  “They are both excellent likenesses.”

  She gave another little laugh.

  “The first one is not me!”

  “Not you?”

  “No, it is Mama. As you see, I am very like her.”

  “I find it difficult to believe that there are two such beautiful women in the world!” the Marquis said quietly.

  “Mama was much more beautiful than I could ever be. Papa painted that when he first knew her.”

  “I feel you would not wish to part with it,” the Marquis said reluctantly, “so if you are offering to give me anything, Miss Wyntack, I accept with the greatest pleasure this picture of you.”

  “I am – glad you like it,” she said, “and I shall not feel so deeply in your debt.”

  With an effort the Marquis bit back the words he wanted to say and instead remarked,

  “I hardly think we can go on thanking each other over and over again, but we will talk about our gratitude tomorrow.”

  “There is – just one thing I want to – ask you,” Cyrilla said in a low voice.

  “What is that?”

  “What are you going to do about the paintings? I shall be so frightened of what might happen to Papa! It would be difficult to wait until – tomorrow.”

  “I promise you, on my honour, that nothing will happen,” the Marquis said. “Nothing unpleasant at any rate. In fact perhaps you will feel a little happier if I tell you I bought the Van Dyck at the price that was asked for it and I shall not tell the dealer that I have discovered it is a fake.”

  “Do you mean that – do you really mean it?” Cyrilla asked.

  “I always say what I mean,” the Marquis replied, “so stop worrying and tell your maid when she returns to go out again and buy anything your father requires.”

  He saw the excitement on Cyrilla’s face and added,

  “If he is not better tomorrow, I shall suggest sending my own physician to see him. I cannot allow you to be worried in this manner.”

  Again he realised that he had said more than he had intended to and, without waiting for Cyrilla’s reply, he opened the studio door and started to climb somewhat carefully down the narrow stairs.

  When he reached the front door, the Marquis turned to take Cyrilla’s hand in his.

  “Let me say in all sincerity,” he said quietly, “that I am very delighted to have met you, Miss Wyntack.”

  She curtseyed, but did not look at him and he restrained himself from kissing her hand.

  Then he was outside on the pavement and, as he put his tall hat on his head, he turned back to say goodbye again before climbing into his phaeton.

  Then he saw that Cyrilla was not, as he expected, watching him go from the front door, but standing there instead was an elderly maid-servant looking at him severely and with undisguised hostility.

  Chapter Three

  “Miss Cyrilla!”

  The voice was urgent and instantly Cyrilla was awake, raising her head from the pillow.

  “What is it, Hannah?”

  She knew the answer without the maid having to reply and quickly she jumped out of bed, picked up her wrap which lay on a chair, slipped it on and hurried from the room.

  She had only to go next door to find Frans Wyntack’s room and, as she entered it, she knew without being told that he was dead.

  Hannah had crossed his hands on his chest and he was lying on his back, looking, she thought, in the pale morning light like one of the warriors she had seen so often on the tombs in a Church.

  In death, without the sparkle in his eyes and the smile on his lips, Frans Wyntack did in fact, with his handsome features, look almost classical, but it was different from the way Cyrilla remembered him.

  Always he had been filled with gaiety and laughter, a heritage from his Austrian blood and yet there also had been a serious side to him, which, like his painting, came from his Flemish ancestors.

  She stood looking at him, thinking how handsome he was and feeling that she understood even better than she had in the past why her mother had loved him as wholeheartedly as he had loved her.

  There had always been something inescapably romantic about Frans Wyntack and something too that made him different from ordinary men because he lived in a fanciful, imaginative world all his own.

  He saw everything with an artist’s eye and the commonplace never seemed to encroach on him, however much Cyrilla and her mother had to face the problems of poverty and discomfort.

  ‘He was like the Prince in a Fairy story,’ Cyrilla thought now.

  As if the description brought home to her forcefully that she had lost him, she went down on her knees beside the bed and tried to pray.

  Inescapably it came to her mind that now Frans Wyntack and her mother would be together and, as far as they were concerned, nothing else would be of any consequence.

  Cyrilla was quite sure that their love was eternal and believed that they would be close through all eternity.

  But that left her utterly alone.

  She knew as she knelt there that she had been afraid of this moment ever since her mother had died and yet she would not really have wanted to keep Frans Wyntack from the woman he loved.

  Ever since he had lost her, he had seemed not to be really living but only existing and Cyrilla, watching him, would often think that the only time he came alive was when he was painting.

  She was aware that it was agony for him to sleep alone in the room he had occupied with her mother.

  At night, long after she had gone to bed, she often heard him moving about the studio and knew the reason was that he shrank from lying down alone.

  ‘He is happy now,’ she thought.

  Then, because she knew how much she would miss him, the tears began to pour down her face.

  *

  The Marquis came down the stairs of his house in Berkeley Square and entered the breakfast room.

  The butler and two footmen were waiting to attend to his needs. Unlike most of his contemporaries, he drank only coffee with breakfast, but ate a substantial meal from the silver-crested dishes which were brought to his side for his inspection.

  The hard drinking amongst the bucks and beaux of St. James’s, following the example set by the Prince
of Wales, had assumed such proportions that the majority of them found it impossible to rise from their beds before noon and were often not presentable until far later in the day.

  But the Marquis was always rose at seven in the morning, even if he had been up late the night before and, when the streets of Mayfair were only just waking to a new day, he would be riding through them on the way to the Park to exercise one of his horses.

  It was a time when he liked being alone so that he could think and he realised that he was thinking now of the same subject that had been on his mind most of the night.

  When he had left Cyrilla, he had driven to Carlton House and, while he was waiting for the Prince, who he was told was occupied in studying plans for alterations to his house at Brighton, he walked into the music room.

  It was something he had done quite often before, but now his step was eager and his eyes were more perceptive as he examined The Virgin of the Lilies with a new interest.

  No artist, he felt, could have portrayed Cyrilla’s lovely face more accurately or more delicately and it aroused feelings in the Marquis that he had felt before and yet were now intensified to the point where they seemed completely new.

  ‘How is it possible that anyone so perfect and so exquisite really exists?’ he asked himself.

  Then instantly another question presented itself.

  How had he been so fortunate as to find The Virgin of the Lilies as unspoilt and innocent of the world as she looked in the painting?

  It was then that he suddenly made the decision to keep Cyrilla to himself.

  He had intended, when he left Queen Anne Terrace, to tell the Prince exactly what he had discovered, because he knew how much it would interest him.

  But now he realised that if he did so, the first thing the Prince would ask was that he should meet Cyrilla.

  How could he do anything else?

  That, the Marquis resolved, was something he must prevent at all costs.

  Never amongst the numerous women he had known and who had amused and entertained him had he seen one as beautiful as the Lochner Madonna nor had he imagined that one actually existed in the flesh.