The Portrait Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Joan Wolf and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Note on Classical Equitation

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Portrait

  By Joan Wolf

  Copyright 2020 by Joan Wolf

  Cover Copyright 2020 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Cover Design by Ginny Glass

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Also by Joan Wolf and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The American Earl

  The Reluctant Earl

  The Master of Grex

  The Heiress

  A London Season

  His Lordship’s Mistress

  The Guardian

  The Pretenders

  Golden Girl

  www.untreedreads.com

  Note on Classical Equitation

  Today we call Isabel’s style of riding dressage. It is very beautiful and has been practiced in Europe for centuries. Basically, it is the classical art of riding. To quote one of the greatest riders and trainers of all time, Alois Podhajsky: “The object of the classical art of riding is to train a horse not only to be brilliant in the movements and exercises of the High School, but also to be quiet, supple, and obedient.” (Complete Training of Horse and Rider in the Principles of Classical Horsemanship, Wilshire Book Company, 1967, 1982.) The Spanish Riding School in Vienna is the most well-known of all the European schools today.

  This is the kind of riding Isabel espouses. Alonzo is at what we would today call “Grand Prix” level. Dressage today is one of the equestrian Olympic sports. An interesting fact: the equestrian sports are the only Olympic sport where men and women directly compete against each other. It’s all about the horse.

  If you would like to see what Grand Prix dressage looks like, go to YouTube and type in Charlotte Dujardin’s World Breaking Freestyle Test at London’s Olympia. She and her great horse Valegro are the pair who were my model for Isabel and Alonzo. Every time I watch that video I get chills up and down my spine—it is that amazing.

  Prologue

  Isabel stood next to her horse, the reins held firmly in her hand. “Don’t be nervous,” her father said to her in the French language that was their native tongue. “This is just another ride with Alonzo. You’ve done it a hundred times. Pretend this is just another performance in Le Cirque Equestre and you’ll be fine.”

  The big white horse Isabel was holding nodded his head as if in agreement with Pierre Besson, owner of the circus. Isabel and Alonzo had worked together for three years and the rumors of their excellence had reached Britain. Their reputation, and that of the entire Cirque Equestre, had been so impressive that Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre in London, the premiere horse circus in the world, had invited Pierre’s company to perform at their arena. Tonight would be their first performance.

  The Bessons had been impressed by Astley’s spectacular show. A traveling circus such as the Cirque Equestre could never compete with what was staged in Astley’s huge amphitheater. The number of riders, the number of horses, the costumes, the scenery…it would be impossible for a circus that traveled from town to town to equal such extravagance.

  Isabel said, “Everything in this show has been so exciting, Papa. Perhaps the audience will find us boring.”

  “Nonsense,” Pierre returned stoutly. “They will love you.”

  The props for the previous scene had been cleared away and it was Isabel’s turn. She was the last act on the program and her ride had been advertised all over London. The orchestra, which was placed below a stunning arch that overlooked the ring, began to play her music. Alonzo heard it and his ears flicked back and forth.

  It was time. Isabel allowed her father to give her a leg up into the saddle. As soon as she took up the reins she could feel Alonzo’s anticipation. He was a magnificent gray Andalusian stallion, and he loved his job. She patted his muscular neck, took up a contact, and horse and rider made their entrance. The buzz of the crowd quieted as they turned their attention to the ring.

  Pierre stood in the entryway and watched as his daughter advanced to the center of the large arena. Alonzo’s trot was so incredibly light that he appeared almost weightless. Horse and rider came to a perfect halt, and Pierre sent up a prayer to the lord that this English audience would appreciate the beauty they were about to witness.

  Isabel and Alonzo had a bond Pierre had never before seen between rider and horse. When she was on his back, it was as if they were one creature, not two. By the time Isabel had reached sixteen she had proved to be such a talented rider that one of the riding masters from Saumur, the French national riding school, had seen fit to teach her and Alonzo. This was something that had never happened before, and would probably never happen again. If she had been a boy, they would certainly have invited her into the school.

  She was dressed today in fawn-colored breeches, a tailored black coat and high black riding boots. Her dark hair lay against the back of her coat in a long plait. Her white-gloved hands were slightly raised, and it seemed as if her body and leg position never changed. Pierre watched with swelling pride as girl and horse went through their program: from passage to extended trot, to piaffe, to half pass, to piaffe again, to canter to canter pirouette, back to half pass and then to canter changes of lead on every stride. The music that accompanied them enhanced every change in speed and gait. Alonzo, a solidly built horse, seemed to float across the ground.

  The amphitheater was silent. Even the children, and there were always children at Astley’s, were quiet. When Isabel cantered to the center of the ring and halted, giving Alonzo a hearty pat on his neck, a great roar came from the crowd. A shiver of pride ran up and down Pierre’s back as he watched his daughter take Alonzo around the perimeter of the floor, waving at the crowd as she passed by.
Alonzo walked along with his neck stretched out in front of him, blowing contentedly through his nostrils. He had been brilliant, and he knew it.

  Father and daughter retired to bed that evening with a mixture of exultation and relief. They were thrilled that the English audience had been able to appreciate Alonzo’s excellence. Neither of them knew that Isabel’s appearance at Astley’s would have a much further reaching effect than either of them had ever dreamed.

  Chapter One

  Two weeks after my first performance at Astley’s, a be-wigged footman garbed in magnificent blue and silver livery appeared at the door of the hotel room where Papa and I were staying. “Monsieur Besson?” the vision inquired, bowing.

  “Oui,” Papa said.

  I got up from the sofa and went to stand behind Papa. What on earth could this footman want with us?

  He handed Papa an envelope and bowed again. “From the Earl of Camden, Monsieur. I am to wait for a reply.”

  “What is it?” Papa asked.

  “I have a message for you from the Earl of Camden,” the footman repeated. “I will await your reply.”

  “Come in,” said Papa, and he moved away from the door so the footman could enter. I stood close as he opened the folded page of the letter. There was an engraved crest on the top of the stationery page.

  Papa folded the paper again and stared into space, saying nothing.

  “Papa!” I couldn’t contain my curiosity. “What does it say?”

  “The Earl of Camden has invited us to his London house. He will send a carriage for us tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

  I stared at my father. “Do you know the Earl of Camden, Papa?”

  “No.”

  “Then why is he inviting us to his house?”

  “I have no idea, Isabel.”

  There was a strained look on my father’s face.

  “Perhaps he saw Alonzo’s performance and wants to ask about his training?”

  Some of the strain left Papa’s face. “That may be true. These English are such terrible riders. They sit on their horses’ haunches and stick their legs out in front of them.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I don’t know how their cavalry ever managed to keep their horses under control; the poor creatures must have been miserable with all that weight bearing down on their kidneys.”

  “They need a riding school like Saumur.”

  “They need to find instructors to teach at such a riding school.”

  We seemed to have got off the topic of the invitation. I said, “We should accept this invitation, Papa. An earl is a powerful man. We cannot afford to alienate such a person.”

  “You are right little one,” he said with a sigh. “If you made an impression on such a man, it can only be good for us.” And he gave the splendid footman our reply.

  *

  I don’t have a wardrobe that embraces visits to the nobility, but I did the best I could. Elisabeth, the wonderful woman who had taken care of me since my mother died, helped me. We decided on a dark gold dress. It was old but still in good repair. May in England was colder than May in France, but I had a brown cloak that had belonged to my mother that looked all right.

  “This invitation—it is very strange is it not?” Elisabeth asked as she brushed my hair.

  “Very,” I agreed. I told her about my idea that the earl might be interested in our training methods.

  “I hope that is all he is interested in,” Elisabeth said darkly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this earl may think you are a circus girl and want something other than horse training from you. It is a good thing your Papa is going with you.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” I said. I would have thought of it had I been invited by myself. You cannot travel with a circus and not be aware of what goes on between a man and a woman outside of marriage. But our circus was a close-knit group. There were riders and grooms we took on and let go, but the core of the circus had remained the same since I was small.

  Finding a hat to match the dress and cloak was difficult. Then I remembered that Papa had a beret almost the same color as the cloak. I put it on, and Elisabeth thought it looked very well.

  When I was ready, I looked into the mirror in my small bedroom. I was not fool enough to think I looked like a lady of fashion, but at least everything matched.

  “Are you ready, Isabel?” my father called.

  “Yes, Papa. I am coming.”

  He regarded me, head to one side, when I presented myself.

  “It’s the best we could do, Papa,” I said apologetically.

  “It is I who should apologize to you little one, for not buying you the clothes you deserve. But no matter what you are wearing, Isabel, you will always be beautiful.”

  He said this very gravely and I slipped my arm through his. “Come, Papa, let us find out what this earl wants.”

  *

  The Earl of Camden’s house was in Grosvenor Square. We drove there in a shiny black coach pulled by four lovely gray horses. I was curious about their breeding and thought I would ask the earl about them if I had an opportunity. I looked out the window as we drove through Mayfair, a part of London I had never seen. The houses were splendid, the streets were clean, and there were trees and well-kept gardens everywhere. Grosvenor Square, when we reached it, was impressive. A variety of houses were built around a very large garden. Some of the houses were magnificent and others more ordinary. The house we stopped in front of was one of the magnificent ones.

  We descended to the curb, and walked toward the tall stone house. I was still wondering what in the world we were doing here, when Papa stopped me. The strained look was back on his face. “Whatever happens, Isabel, you must remember that your Maman and I loved you with all our hearts.”

  “I know, Papa,” I said, a little bewildered by why he was saying such a thing here. “I love you with all my heart too.”

  The front door opened before we reached it and a tall, heavy man with white hair greeted us. “Monsieur, Mademoiselle, if you will please accompany me to the drawing room.”

  “Of course,” Papa said in English.

  Both Papa and I spoke English fairly well. One of our riders, who had been with us for years, was English. Papa had taught him to ride in the French way, and Charles had taught us English. I had also learned some German and Spanish from the circus people who came and went as the years passed.

  I looked around as we proceeded through the house toward the drawing room. The foyer had black and white tiles on the floor and was very grand, as was the circular staircase that came after it. The butler stopped before the arched entrance to one of the rooms that opened off the hallway and announced, “Monsieur and Mademoiselle Besson, my lord.”

  I didn’t notice the room, I was too focused on the man who had turned from the window and was coming toward us. He was tall and broad-shouldered with golden blond hair that caught the light from the window. He looked like a Greek god. What on earth could a man like this want with us?

  He stopped in front of us, looked at me and said in French, “Thank you for coming.”

  He was looking at me, not Papa, so I replied in the same language. “We are dying of curiosity to know why you wanted to see us, my lord.”

  The eyes that were looking at me were as blue as the sky at midday. He said softly, “I asked you to come, Mademoiselle, because I want to show you a portrait.”

  A portrait? I hoped my face didn’t show my astonishment. Why on earth would an earl ask Papa and me to visit him so he could show us a portrait? Next to me Papa’s sharp intake of breath echoed my feeling.

  “I hope that will be all right with you, Monsieur Besson,” the earl said courteously.

  “Certainement,” Papa replied.

  The earl gestured to a pale green wall before which an easel was set up. “It is right here,” he said. “If you would come with me?”

  I followed him and Papa came behind me. The earl had stepped away, so I was a
lone when I looked at the painting.

  It was a portrait of me.

  The earl’s soft voice said, “I had it brought from my home in Berkshire after I had seen your performance. It is a portrait of my great-grandmother, done by Sir Joshua Reynolds. It hangs over the fireplace at Camden Hall, my residence in Berkshire. I’ve looked at it since I was a boy, so you can imagine my astonishment when I saw you ride at Astley’s, Mademoiselle.”

  I didn’t answer; I just kept staring at the portrait. The woman in the picture was dark-haired, with wide-set gray eyes and a thin, curved nose. She wore no jewelry and her rust-colored gown had a deep décolletage, exposing a long graceful neck and flawless skin. She looked like a queen beholding her subjects. She looked as if she owned the world.

  “As you see, Mademoiselle,” the earl said in a quiet voice, “you have the same features, the same eyes, the same nose. You could be twins.”

  I turned to my Papa, who had come to stand next to me. “What does this mean, Papa?” I asked in bewilderment.

  It was the earl who replied. “I believe I have the answer to that question, and so does Monsieur Besson.” The earl looked at my father, lifted a golden eyebrow and said, “Shall we talk?”

  “Oui,” Papa said wearily. “I suppose we must.”

  Chapter Two

  The earl took us into a room that was filled with books. Normally I would have been delighted and asked if I could look at them, but at the moment I was much too anxious. The earl invited us to sit before the fireplace, which was giving off a welcome heat. I was feeling chilled; my hands were icy.

  We sat on a soft leather sofa and faced the earl, who was seated on a similar sofa on the other side of a low table. He fixed his blue eyes on me and said in his excellent French, “I want to tell you a story, Mademoiselle. It is about my Aunt Maria.”

  I sat upright on the edge of my cushion. I had a sickening feeling that I did not want to hear about his Aunt Maria.

  He leaned a little toward me and said, “When Maria was young, she married the Earl of Manchester, a man who was a good deal older than she. She was his second wife. He had one son from his first marriage, and he wanted another from Maria. She was married to the earl for eight years before she finally had a child—a girl. The earl was displeased but Maria was ecstatic. She had been praying for a child for many years and she could hardly believe her good fortune when little Charlotte came along.”