Picture Perfect Long-held secrets are discovered

Her next commission was a little problematic – even feisty…

It’s amazing,” Alan said, gazing at the portrait on the easel. “You’ve done more than just restore it. “She looks alive. I knew the painting was dirty – goodness alone knows when it was last on display – but I never imagined that it would ‘sing’ the way it does now. Really, Charlotte, you’ve done a magnificent job.”

He was standing several feet from the portrait, and Charlotte stepped aside to give him a better view, wishing she had the nerve to go and stand beside him.

They both regarded the portrait critically. Duchess in Blue Damask, the small brass plaque said, and the Duchess in question gazed demurely back.

Alan, the curator of the gallery, nodded with satisfaction, then moved towards a painting leaning against the wall.

“I haven’t got the funding committee to give the go-ahead for this one yet,” he said, picking up a portrait of another grand lady, “so don’t get excited, but I’m sure that when they see what you’ve done with Duchess in Blue Dam ask they’ ll agree .”

Charlotte forced her face to remain calmly interested. She’d known setting up on her own as a picture restorer would be risky, that there would be lean times ahead, that she would miss the security of a regular salary – but she knew, too, that it was what she had to do.

And it had been lean. She’d eaten more beans on toast some weeks than she had thought possible. Thank goodness no one expected artists to dress smartly!

Still, it would all be worth it if Alan could get her more work. Not to mention the fact that she would see more of him, Charlotte admitted to herself, wishing for a moment that she was in fact a bit more smartly dressed – or perhaps she meant more prettily – today.

“It would be an interesting commission,” she said, in a level voice, her head on one side as she surveyed the painting. It was a fairly large canvas, perhaps a metre square. A catalogue sticker on the back identified it as Unknown Lady By Loch.

“Unknown?” Charlotte said, surprised. “This will have been a very expensive portrait – surely of someone important. There’s something not quite right about it, though… The composition…”

“It’s as close as we’ve been able to get to being properly authenticated. It’s not signed but we think it could even be a Hogarth,” Alan said, sounding alarmed.

Why didn’t she learn to keep her mouth shut? She didn’t want to upset him.

“Something about the colour of her dress,” she added hurriedly. “It’s probably the yellowing of the varnish – it’s turned the red rather orangey, do you see?” Alan visibly relaxed. “Yes, you can see it would have been red originally,” he said, squinting at it. “Just normal ageing, I suppose.” He redirected his gaze to her own paintsplattered blue smock. “Yes, you’re right, I can see it’s in even more desperate need of restoration than I realised. And if it is a Hogarth, it’s gaining in value all the time!”

“Ironic, really,” Charlotte said. “Isn’t that one of the things Hogarth complained about? People only valuing old masters, not modern stuff?” “Did he?” Not like women, a voice in Charlotte’s head said. Only the young are admired. Alan laughed. “Oh dear! I hope that’s not true.” Surely she hadn’t said that aloud? But Alan was still speaking. “I’ll be in touch about it. “He smiled at her. “Early next week, I expect.”

Over the next few days, Alan rang several times to keep her abreast of his progress. Once or twice Charlotte thought he was about to ask her something else, but he never did. He clearly wasn’t as interested in her as she was in him, she thought ruefully.

However, today he had at last delivered the portrait to her, and she was sitting in her studio, studying one corner of the painting with a magnifying glass and planning her order of work.

There was definitely something odd about the painting. More than could be explained by a different hand painting the folds of fabric, or the painting having hung in uneven light. It felt familiar, though she

There was something odd about the painting – and it felt familiar

knew she’d never seen it before. Could she have seen a photograph of it? Come across a reference to it?

“You’re a puzzle, you really are,” she said, addressing the portrait as she looked for her smallest scalpel. “Cleaning hasn’t had the effect on your dress that I would have expected. Sorry, Madam, but that gown doesn’t suit you one bit.”

Charlotte looked up suddenly. Someone close by had snorted. She opened the window and looked down at the street below, but there was no one there. Anyway, you couldn’t hear passing pedestrians from up here, with the double glazing. She must have imagined it.

She went back to her box and found the scalpel, then carefully removed a flake of paint from where the canvas had been stretched over its wooden frame.

Charlotte slowly flattened the canvas and stared at it. The paint covered every millimetre. There was none of the plain canvas border she would have expected.

“You’ve been cut down,” Charlotte said in surprise. “That explains a lot… the composition wasn’t right. You are, if you don’t mind my saying so, a bit top-heavy. And I was wondering why you’re titled Unknown Lady By Loch when there’ s hardly any ‘loch’ in view at all.”

This time there was no question, there was definitely a snort of disgust. And a voice – in her head, obviously, Charlotte admonished herself, but where from ?– said, Unknown Lady? I’ ll remind you to whom you are speaking! I am Queen Caroline, wife of George II. Unknown Lady indeed! And of course I’ ve been cut down. That… flibbertigibbet the King took up with didn’ t want me staring down at her! Oh no, it was out with

the old and in with the new! And the new didn’ t want me around.

So I was demoted to a bed chamber so poky that it was never used. No room for my loch! Hacked off without so much as a by-your-leave. She didn’ t dare to actually throw me out though: the King had paid good money to have my portrait painted. Of course he was unaware of Ho garth’ s reputation at that point. Dangerous ideas.

The voice had faded from incandescent to wistful.

Don’ t ever get old, that’ s all I can say. The King tossed me aside like an old pair of breeches. One lady’ s maid after another… But that last one was a vixen. Cutting my portrait down, indeed!

“So it was Hogarth you sat for?” Charlotte mused aloud. “But in that case, why didn’t he sign it?”

Well he did! Of course he did! But then when that bra zen hussy got one of his acolytes to paint over my dress…

“Paint over your dress? Oh…” Charlotte took a step back and narrowed her eyes. “I wondered about the folds in the fabric. And the lace…”

And well you might, spat the voice. She knew I hated red, so she had this flunky of an artist re-do it in this hideous garish colour. And she made him add the lace. There was a slow intake of breath, almost as if she was drawing herself up to her full height. Ihad, she continued, themost magnificent emb on point. “Embonpoint?” Charlotte echoed. Yes of course, girl, emb on point. Bosom. Magnificent. Well, of course the floozy got him to add lace. And he needed a lot of lace to cover it up, I can assure you. It took him days and days… “And the signature?” Well, the pipsqueaks he hired had enough integrity not top ass his work off as Ho garth’ s, so he painted over it. It was just by my left foot, near that rock. “So it’s still under there somewhere?” Presumably. But only if you have magical powers to see through paint!

“Well times have changed,” Charlotte murmured. “There’s a lot we can do now that we couldn’t do… when exactly was this portrait painted?”

When? Oh, sometime in the 1730s. Not long before my own tragic death. I mean, George was quite elderly–over fifty–but still admiring them aids! Stay young and beautiful, that’ s my advice to you, girl.

Wasn’t that a song? Charlotte felt as if her mother used to sing it. Keep young and beautiful, if you want to beloved…

Yes, Charlotte thought as she painstakingly removed more paint, the Queen had been extremely wellendowed. And she should have seen instantly that the lace hadn’t been the work of Hogarth himself: the brushwork wasn’t consistent with his style at all.

She ought, of course, to have kept Alan informed as to what she had found, but she hadn’t wanted to risk his taking the portrait elsewhere. Even though she would have liked the excuse to see him again. Try as she might, she couldn’t get him out of her head.

And there was her pride, she admitted to herself. She wasn’t well-known – no one in their right mind would entrust this portrait to her if they could prove it was genuine. Alan would simply have to take it to someone better known.

She didn’t think she could bear to hear the regret in his voice as he (in effect) sacked her… and she certainly wouldn’t be able to bear it if there was no regret! And where was he now, she wondered? Who was he with?

She found herself humming Keep Young and Beautiful and smiled.

You work very industriously. I wonder that you are not married. You won’ t find a husband without effort, child. Are your parents not concerned?

Charlotte stopped what she was doing and stared at the unmoving portrait.

I had thought that the gentleman who brought my portrait to you had marriage on his mind–but he has certainly made himself scarce since then, has he not?

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not interested in me,” Charlotte said, wondering how she could possibly be blushing at words inside her own head.

I am rarely wrong. Sadly, I knew who my husband was interested in before he did–but there’ s not a lot one can do if one is married to the king…

Charlotte blinked at the portrait. Where was all this coming from? But if only she was right…

Freed from the heavy dark varnish and the clumsy overpainting, the picture had a freshness and vitality that sang in the flat north light of her studio. The flesh tones were plumply sensuous, and the folds of the fabric were tactile.

There’s no comparison,” Alan said for the fourth or fifth time when she delivered the painting to the gallery. “It’s unbelievable. We will of course need to get the signature properly authenticated, but there can be no doubt… I can’t believe it.”

Then he turned to her, puzzled. “As you say, it’s definitely Queen Caroline. But what made you look for the signature? And look in that particular place?

“And as for removing the overpainting – I mean, you really took a serious risk. But…” He leaned forward suddenly and planted a kiss on her lips. “I’m so glad you did. This will really seal your reputation! What made you so sure?”

“Well, I did some research,” Charlotte said vaguely, conscious only of where his lips had touched hers, “and there was something about the face that I thought I’d seen before… Then the way the painting had aged made me suspicious.”

The voice in her head was saying, I told you he was interested, didn’ t I? Now, give him some encouragement!

“But mostly,” Charlotte continued, looking into the eyes of the beautiful Queen, “the portrait really spoke to me.”

And so she kissed him back.