Once Benedict was arranged to his satisfaction on a sofa, Mr Winters returned to his seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit to my humble home?”
“Hmm, it is rather a strange visit, I confess. But if you will indulge me?” said Benedict in a mild tone that belied the irritation he felt seeing the man so at his ease.
Here Mr Winters was taking tea and writing letters while his daughter carried out the work Benedict had paidhimto do, left alone in a strange house with not even a companion to keep an eye on her.
Mr Winters’s brows rose almost imperceptibly, but he nodded, gesturing for Benedict to continue.
“I cannot help but notice that you are not occupied at present with anything that seems remotely like an emergency. Why then, is your daughter seated before your easel, and not yourself?”
Mr Winters blinked owlishly at Benedict, his jaw slack as he took a minute to formulate a reply.
“Erm, yes. Quite so. Nonetheless, my daughter is quite proficient, and of course I will return soon to inspect the work and make any final adjustments that might be needed-”
“That does not answer my question. It has been more than a week since you were last on the property.”
For a moment the two men stared at each other with brows furrowed. Then, Mr Winters cleared his throat, adjusting his neckerchief with agitation.
“Well, you see-”
“Cut the bollocks, Mr Winters. Spit it out.” Benedict was never one for crass words, but he found himself suddenly irrationally angry at the apparent neglectful attitude of Emmaline’s father.
What if she had been taken advantage of, misled, abused in some way?
By God, anything could happen to her. It was surely not the first time she had been left alone in a stranger’s home while her father took his leisure in front of the fire.
Never mind that insistent voice in the back of his mind that reminded Benedict he had done just that, taken advantage of her.
“Very well,” sighed the man. He opened a box on his desk and took out a small white clay pipe, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he tamped the bowl and lit the tobacco with a few short puffs.
“You see, Emmaline, my daughter, has been the one truly painting my portraits for almost three years now.” Mr Winters scowled down into the bowl, his eyes darting to Benedict and then quickly away again. “I am not proud of the manner in which we have deceived you, but Iamproud of my daughter’s ability. Her skill as a painter has outpaced mine some time ago.”
He waved the pipe in the air dejectedly. “It’s my eyes, you see? My sight is failing me and I can’t paint anymore. Glasses and such are no use, I need tosee, dammit.”
He cleared his throat, visibly getting a hold of himself.
“It’s a matter of necessity, I assure you. We need to live, and Emmaline can do the work. In fact, if she was born a boy, there would be no question of her taking over the studio from me. ‘Tis how things are, the master trains the student and so the knowledge is carried down the line.”
With that little speech done, Mr Winters leant back in his chair, puffing on his pipe and eyeing Benedict speculatively.
“Come, I would show you something.”
He rose from his chair, indicating that Benedict should follow. Leading them down the passage, Mr Winters took a staircase to a back room. It was large, with nothing but trestle tables and shelves of paint in the centre. The walls were hung from ceiling to floor with a myriad of paintings, salon style.
Mr Winters waved at the room. “These are almost all hers, you see.”
Benedict stared at the room, moving thoughtfully into the space and choosing a wall to examine. The variety and scope of the work on display was astonishing.
Portraits, yes. But also landscapes, park scenes, and street views. There was a sense of movement and vivacity to these that was clearly different to the relatively staid studies of various men and women in formal poses.
Leaning closer, Benedict noted the signature scribbled at the bottom right of each artwork.
“You sign all her work?” Benedict scowled as he threw the question at the old man, who lifted his chin defiantly.
“It is my name that sells the work. That is the way of it.”
Benedict found himself suddenly livid. Why should Emmaline have her work appropriated in such a manner? It was practically exploitation.
“Mr Winters, are you to tell me that you are in the habit of leaving your daughter alone in the homes of strangers for weeks, allowing her to pose as a stand-in for you, while you lounge here at your leisure. Then, when the work is completed, you scamper over and sign the painting, collecting your payment on the way out the door.”
