Work Text:
The Grecian helmet sat heavy on Minerva's head and she shivered. The almost see-through peplos she'd been put in didn't provide her any shelter from the wind that seemed to have little to no regard for the walls of the royal academy, better equipped at evoking the classical past than at keeping out the cold. She was almost grateful for the dead lion draped at her feet meant to be a live one in the portrait that was currently being taken of her because if she shuffled her feet underneath it at least she could feel a bit warmer.
After what seemed like an eternity she was allowed to move. And immediately wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to inspect the work done. It was even worse than she feared. Doe eyed she stared over the sea and the deplorable wretch had drawn her with the peplos slipping of her shoulders to expose her breasts.
Tell-tale storm clouds passed over her face. The painter winced because she was known to be tempestuous.
"What is that." She pointed to the exposed bosom. It didn't sound like a question.
"I emphasized you as a nurturing mother, kind and gentle to all her colonies."
"This is wrong."
"Pardon?"
"This is wrong! This!? This is not your country!"
She's shouting in a most unbecoming way.
The poor painter protests: "but I worked for hours- this is some of my best-"
"I don't care if you're sir Joshua Reynolds himself! We're having a do-over. AND YOU DO
AS I COMMAND!"
He nods afraid his painting might end up smashed over his head if he pressed on.
"Everyone get out I need to think"
The man gathers his canvas and painting supplies and scurries out, gesturing at his assistents and fellow societymen to follow, leaving his nation breathing loudly through flared nostrils with balled fists alone in the room.
The next day a small company is gathered at Kenwood house in Hampstead where Britain is currently resident. There’s excited murmuring in the crowd, gossip spreads fast and the spat over the painting is being readily discussed. No one really knows what is to be expected now. When the nation joins their guests in the drawing room, however, scandalized gasps are elicited from the crowd. They all had expected something but none of them had expected this.
“Please, company, join me in the garden where I’ll have my portrait taken.” The murmurs are being uttered unceasingly and everyone is too stupefied to be truly angry or disobey the firm orders Britain administers. In the garden their favourite horse is prepared for them and Britain mounts it and steadies the animal with a loving touch. Finally, the nation turns towards the still murmuring crowd. A stern but calm smile plays on their lips as they speak: “You act like this is an unfamiliar sight. Surely you’ve seen a man in uniform before.” The sumptuous red uniform is of the highest rank and adorned with the silver star, Britain’s long hair is all but hidden under a tricorn hat and here on their horse they command respect and obedience. “This is how the empire was built, so this is how it should be portrayed.”
No one in the crowd reacts.
“I said that this is how it should be portrayed!”
Hurried the painter realizes that this is his cue and sets up the easel. Everyone watches breathless at the portrait being taken and let their tea grow cold and their sandwiches remain untouched.
Everyone has left and the house had gone quiet. Arthur admires his portrait. He hasn’t changed out of his uniform and is alone in the room with the painting as the paint is drying still. He sits still and just stares. The uniform hides his already small chest perfectly. The hat hides his hair and there’s nothing that would insinuate he was not a man. He is not a mother.
“Are you my mother then? If you’re my mother why’re you not a sweet mum! Ollie down the street has a mum who kisses him and always gives him candy almonds.” Arthur sighs softly. That does tug at his heartstrings. Poor child. He takes little Alfred onto his knee.
“Listen America, you’re a foundling. A child with only me for a parent. So, I asked myself- what does a child need to grow into a successful man? How do children who only have one parent prosper? Those who only have a doting mother never amount to anything. A man needs a father. A father who’s firm but who’ll guide you onto the right path, makes you work, makes something out of you. So, I wanted you to grow into a successful man, so that’s what I’ll have to be for you.”
Alfred seems pensive but unhappy with the answer.
“But you’re a woman, aren’t you?”
Arthur pauses and grows rigid.
“I suppose.”
The child folds his arms.
“I hate this. I wish I had a mom who gave me candy and kisses my cheeks but instead I have you who makes me learn French verbs.”
Arthur feels hurt. Of course, he can’t be a father that Alfred would love. He’s not a mother, but not a father either. He slightly slaps Alfred’s wrist
“I should’ve known that this is just about you not wanting to do your exercises!”
Arthur looks at his portrait and smiles. America never fully understood. He’d fought him in uniform. Chastising, but he could never make him behave. He was never father enough for Alfred. Alfred seemed to always have kept on wishing he would be his mother instead. The revolution had been a blow to his confidence, but when he looks at the portrait, he no longer feels that. He feels strong. A man, a ruler, an empire. Someone who commands respect. He still has the other territories overseas, he’s bigger than he’s ever been! On this man the sun never sets. For once he sees himself. Alfred should see this portrait, he'd understand if he'd see this. He wouldn't come back but he'd understand.
The next few days he goes around his house still dressed as a gentleman. He writes his letters with newfound vigour and finds that he’s for once actually listened to. The portrait is picked up, after all it was meant to adorn the palace and will there soon be unveiled.
The night of the banquet where he’ll meet with king George IV and the portrait will be donated to the royal collection approaches. Arthur is met with the royal chamberlain who seems put of the moment he enters the house. After the first formalities regarding the banquet are exchanged it becomes apparent why. “Lady Britain, while I have no doubts about your sense of decorum I must still enquire. You don’t intend to keep up this masquerade at the banquet? It would be most improper to appear before the king with your legs for all to see.”
Arthur doesn’t fight back too much. He’s very much aware of decorum and complies. “I’ll wear a smart skirt.” It doesn’t matter, the portrait will speak for him.
The banquet is one like Arthur has had many before. He wears something black and modest, not to look like he’s in too frivolous a lady’s skirt. Still he’s anticipating seeing his portrait, the way he truly is, being unveiled and adorning the palace halls. His heart is beating when people flood into the hall for the grand moment. The moment he sees the veiled canvas Arthur’s heart stops. Those are not the dimensions of his painting. Did they cut it to make it fit the hall better? He hopes in vain because a fear is wrapping its clammy hands around his heart. He stands motionless and the words of the speech are just a vague buzzing in his ears. When the curtain drops, he feels like a musket has been driven through his stomach. The doe eyed abomination, with the exposed breasts, meekly holding onto a shield and spear as though caressing them rather than fighting with them. The most alive thing in the painting seems to be the lion that was very much dead when being painted. The nobles exclaim perfectly appropriate adoring cries. Arthur says nothing, he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll lose the roast lamb they are earlier.
“Oh! Lady Minerva, you look absolutely lovely. Such a striking portrait.” He remembers decorum with a start and replies with polite gratitude.
“Why see! I told my friend Lord Salisbury that underneath that sour demeanour you have the potential to be lovely. Truly Minerva, why don’t you grace us with that smile more often?” Arthur feels himself slip away, like his identity is being pried from his hands. When he smiles back, he’s no longer Arthur. Lady Minerva blushes and shows she has the potential to be lovely. She makes perfect company until the very end of the night.
When all the officials and nobles have left, she finds the steward, fuming absolutely fuming.
She clutches his lapels and slams him against the wall.
“Where is my portrait!?” She demands to know.
“The thing you sent in? It was an affront. Be happy the painter was kind enough to provide us with this one as well so scandal could be avoided.”
“Where is it!?”
The steward gives her a look and she knows there and then that she’ll never see it again. With shaking hands, she lets him go and steps back. The steward seems a little surprised, he was convinced he’d be at the mercy of one of the Nation’s infamous outbursts. He hadn’t been expected to be let go without her digging her nails into his flesh like she’d done before. Yet here she stands silent and defeated. A demure and weary woman when she turns and leaves in silence.
Minerva is silent all the way home. She’s been robbed of something so infinitely important. Not just the portrait. Being Arthur feels far away. Like he’s no longer hers to be. She lays onto her pillow and weeps.