The Dragonfly Pool

“I don’t have to—but the money would be useful. Only I have to go tomorrow and set it up and I wondered if you could possibly come along and pretend to be my assistant. She’s supposed to be an absolute horror and you know how good you are with children.”

“Yes, of course I’ll come. Where does she live?”

“It’s a place called Rottingdene House—a great gloomy mansion. Her grandfather’s the Duke of Rottingdene—why, what’s the matter?”

Clemmy had frowned. She knew the name of Rottingdene House only too well. The children had spoken of it when they came back from Bergania—and she could see the name now on the envelopes that Tally left for the postman.

And she didn’t want to go there. She understood how easy it must have been for Karil to get drawn back into his former life, but he had hurt his friends.

“What is it?” asked Francis.

“Nothing. It’s all right. Of course I’ll come.”

It would be as well to keep an eye on Francis, she thought. He had a temper and had walked out of more than one sitting when his subjects had thrown their weight about.

And after all, they were most unlikely to meet the prince: painters in those sorts of places were not usually admitted by the front door.

So the following day, carrying Francis’s easel and his box of paints, they made their way down Pall Mall toward Rottingdene House.

As Clemmy had expected, they were shown in by the back door and told to wait in a small cold lobby. No one offered them a cup of tea or suggested that they should sit down, and they saw no member of the household. When they had waited for nearly half an hour, they were shown into a stuffy and overfurnished drawing room and into the presence of Carlotta’s mother, the Archduchess of Carinstein.

“My daughter is preparing herself,” she announced. “She will be with you in five minutes.”

Again they waited—not for five minutes, but for fifteen. Then Carlotta swept in, followed by one of the mournful governesses, and stretched out her hand so that Francis could bow over it. At the same time her eyes swiveled over to Clemmy, waiting for her curtsy.

She waited in vain. The painter said, “Good morning”; his assistant smiled—and that was all. It was an outrage, and for a moment Carlotta thought of sweeping out again. But the vision of her picture framed in gold on the wall of the Berganian palace stopped her, and she walked over to a large carved chair, draped in a piece of brocade.

“This is where I’m going to sit,” she informed them.

She had decided in the end to be angelic, and wore a white lace dress and a white ribbon in her hair.

“I’m afraid there won’t be enough light with the chair at that angle,” said Francis. “It will have to be moved closer to the window.”

Carlotta scowled, but she allowed him to adjust the chair. Then she got into it, clutched the chair arms on either side and stared at Francis.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear today, Carlotta,” said the painter, “because I’m only doing the preliminary sketches, but next time I don’t want you to wear a white dress. I’d like you to wear blue . . . or yellow.”

“I always wear white dresses,” said Carlotta, “when I’m being photographed.”

“But you’re not being photographed. You’re being painted,” said Francis.

Carlotta’s mouth shut in a tight line. “I don’t see why you should tell me what to wear.”

Clemmy now moved toward Carlotta. “You see, Mr. Lakeland has noticed how beautifully a blue dress would take up the color of your eyes. Your eyes are a most unusual blue—it’s more of an azure or ultramarine. On the other hand, yellow would blend with your hair. Your hair is such a rich blond—not boringly flaxen. Of course you can wear white—only it is . . . well . . . a bit ordinary.”

“All right,” said Carlotta. She waved her hand at the governess. “Go and fetch the yellow organdie,” she ordered, “and the blue velvet. The one with the embroidered collar.”

The governess hurried away and came back with the two dresses on her arm.

“There’s no need to change this time,” said Francis. “Just tell me which one you’d prefer to wear and then I can block out the color tones before I go.”

“I’ll wear the blue.”

She sat back in the chair and Francis began to sketch the outlines of her face and arms.

“That drape is much too fussy,” he said to Clemmy. “I’ll have the chair as it is.”

“I won’t sit on a bare chair,” said Carlotta.

“But surely you don’t want people to look at the drapes rather than at your face?” said Clemmy, deftly removing the brocade. She was getting a little bit worried about Francis.

“Could you perhaps turn your head a little,” he said, taking up his sketchbook. “Just find a position that’s natural and comfortable.”

“I don’t want to be natural,” said Carlotta. “People like me aren’t meant to look natural; they’re meant to look important.”

But she allowed Francis to turn her head aside, and for a short time she sat still. Then she began to wriggle and kick the legs of the chair and say she was tired.

“You’ve done very well,” said Clemmy. “Have a good stretch and then you can come back for a bit longer.”