Faces of the Wind

Chapter 48

Among the many jobs Adrian hated most was painting portraits of ugly, pompous creatures. He had to rely mostly on his imagination of how this being could be made to look more agreeable because even the subject himself would not want a record of his horrid image passed down in his family for generations. The man he now painted had the harshest features and a big belly that started from his chest and swelled its most some inches above his crotch. He wore his hair proudly in grey patches and never cared to cover the patchwork with a decent wig. Nothing about him was easy on the eye.

His thoughts skipped back to Maverick. Though he had seldom come face-to-face with the goblin-looking man, he remembered him being the vilest, foulest creature he had ever seen. The only piece of artwork that could be done in his image was a gargoyle to join those on the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. Had the cholera wave not claimed Maverick's life, Adrian would have probably poured some cement over him and sold him for a good price.

"For how many more hours do I need to sit stiff like this, lad?" The ugly subject asked, his voice very deep and his lips barely moving.

"Well, if you're tired, Mr. Archibald, we can resume work tomorrow," Adrian replied, occupied with his painting as if the subject did not matter. He wondered how much the man was paying Edgar Medley for this portrait—certainly a fortune. Would it be so bad if this money went to its rightful owner instead? He had to find a way to pull his neck from under Edgar's guillotine.

"Come, then, let us have some tea," the round, short man said as he laboriously rose from his beige mahogany armchair, "or perhaps you'd fancy something stronger?"

Adrian began to pack his things in a noisy haste. "Sorry, Mr. Archibald, perhaps next time?" He checked the huge pendulum clock standing against the wall. It was half past ten in the morning.

"Coffee perhaps?" The old man asked, but Adrian was already gone.

***

Mayfair was fairyland in comparison with the neighborhood in which Adrian lived, but if Lady Catherine Hammers did not live in a fashionable townhouse in Mayfair, who else would? Without hesitation, he knocked on the door but then regretted it immediately. Sometimes he thought seeing Death would be a more pleasant experience than an hour in his aunt's company, but then he never knew what Death looked like.

A jovial Mr. Baker opened the door. "Why, my dear, I thought I'd never see you in my life again!"

Adrian thought this man could live at least seven more decades. He smiled and shrugged. "Is my aunt here?"

"Oh, indeed, she's in." Mr. Baker squinted at the visitor and frowned, "Good Heavens! You look quite ill! I hope none's amiss?"

"I assure you, Mr. Baker, I look my best. Am I allowed inside?"

Mr. Baker opened the door widely and made way. "Yes, my dear, yes indeed, yes. Please, do wait in the drawing room while I let your aunt know you've called."

His aunt has obviously had her drawing room refurbished. Why not when she can afford it? New chairs with cherry cushions, silk rugs, probably from Turkey, and cherry velvet drapes. He barely recognized the place. There was a huge oil of his aunt and her four precious sons. He thought it poorly painted and not at all suited for a drawing room. The painter also has given Phillip a smaller nose. He wondered if his cousin and that bag of bones, whatever her name was, have gotten married. Lydia never mentioned them after he was thrown out of his aunt's house in Bath.

A tray of macaroons was left on the coffee table. He stretched his arm to help himself to one. It sure was not left there for decoration purposes.