A Mad, Wicked Folly Read online

  “Who is to know, Mr. Baldwin?” I said pleadingly.

  “I feel very badly about what went on in France, Miss Darling. Perhaps if I hadn’t encouraged you as much, this wouldn’t have happened. And indeed your father made the same assumption in his letter to me.”

  My face burned, and I was filled with an equal measure of shame and outrage.

  No matter how much I begged, he would not budge, and in the end I left the shop empty-handed.

  I didn’t have time to go to another art shop, even if I knew where one was. Trying desperately not to cry, I walked back to the school. I felt like a marionette where my father was concerned: helpless to do anything on my own, and with one twitch of a cord he could spin me in any direction he wished. Soon, soon I would be away from his control.

  I would have married Edmund the next day, if I could have.

  I turned the corner to Miss Winthrop’s, and there was Cumberbunch standing by a lamppost, arms folded, green eyes regarding me from behind her steel spectacles.

  I stopped short. My mouth went dry.

  “Lovely afternoon for a walk, don’t you think?” Cumberbunch said.

  “Uh, well . . . I—”

  “Went shopping, did you?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  I started, and then looked at her, incredulous. “How did you know? Were you spying on me?” I spluttered.

  She regarded me. “No. Your mother told me you weren’t to go near an art shop. I wondered if you’d try to find a way.”

  “So what if I did?” I asked. “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “I’m assuming they wouldn’t sell to you?”

  I quickened my step and strode ahead of her; my dance skirt swished about my ankles.

  “I know you don’t wish me to pry into your affairs,” Cumberbunch called.

  “So don’t!” I threw the words over my shoulder. “I know you’re planning on telling my mother.”

  “I won’t tell her.”

  I stopped abruptly and turned around. “Whyever not?” I said, watching her draw near. “My mother employs you, and your loyalties must lie with her, after all. But know that if you tattle on me, then I’ll tattle on you. I saw you at the WSPU headquarters, and my parents would not be glad to know they have a suffragette in their employ.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “You were there?” she said quietly.

  “I was.”

  We were blocking the pavement, and people were moving around us, grumbling, so we started walking back to the academy.

  “If you feel you need to tell your mother that I belong to the WSPU, then do,” Cumberbunch said. “But I won’t tattle on you.”

  I was still wary. “Why not?”

  “Your mother hired me to sort your clothes and chaperone you about, not to spy on you and stomp on your dreams. You saw me at the WSPU so you know we’re all about helping women, and I’ve pledged to do that, no matter my occupation. I had someone help me when I was just an orphan. She taught me all about sewing and fashion and helped me get my first job with the Hollingberrys. I know I’m only your lady’s maid, granted, but I can’t see as that’s a barrier between us. May I ask why you were there?”

  I hesitated, unsure of how much to trust her. “I wanted to see what it was about. I was meant to go to my church charity, but I went there instead.”

  She nodded. “Now, do you want those art things or not?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She held out her hand. “I can’t buy them without money.”

  I stared at her for a long moment. Then I handed her my purse.

  “Do you have a list?”

  I handed that over and my bag as well.

  “So get back in there, dance your feet off, and I’ll go to that art store and get them for you.”

  “I won’t tell I saw you at the headquarters. I wouldn’t. I was just saying that, Cumberbunch.” I felt ashamed.

  “I know you wouldn’t.”

  And good as her word, she met me after the class, my dance bag filled with everything I wanted.

  Seventeen

  Avenue Studios, Fulham Road,

  Thursday, twenty-fifth of March

  TRUE TO HER word, Cumberbunch completed the alterations on my brother’s garments in time. The tailor-made fit perfectly. She had removed the fussy flounce from my skirt and dropped the hem. I didn’t feel as though I looked like anybody else, even though tailor-mades were very popular. Cumberbunch had made this one my own. She had even trimmed my brother’s boater with a navy-blue satin ribbon, tying it into a large bow on one side, which gave the otherwise masculine hat a very feminine touch. She braided my hair into one long plait and then twisted that into an intricate bun at the base of my neck.

  With the patterned tie knotted under my collar, and the altered jacket, I felt so much surer of myself. I stood a little taller, held my head a little higher in it. I felt more grown-up in it, too. Gone was the teenage girl with her hair dangling down her back and ankle-length skirts with babyish flounces.

  I hugged Cumberbunch hard. “Thank you. I can’t wait for Will to see me in this.”

  “Who’s Will?” she asked, readjusting my tie. “I thought your fiancé was called Edmund. Or did I get that wrong?”

  I felt the smile fade from my face. In my excitement over the new frock, I’d let Will’s name slip out.

  “Am I wrong?” Cumberbunch asked again, confusion on her face.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed. “Can I tell you something? A secret?”

  She nodded, watching me carefully.

  I took a breath. “Will is my art model. I’m drawing him so that I can work on my application to art school. By the time school begins, I’ll be married, so it’s really nothing to do with my parents. But if they knew, they’d forbid me. You might as well know the rest, because you might hear about it anyway. I’m going to help Sylvia Pankhurst with the mural, the one for the Women’s Exhibition.”

  Cumberbunch’s eyes brightened. “But that’s wonderful! I’m helping trim hats and make scarves for the exhibition, myself. And the art-model thing sounds innocent enough. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  I stood up and hugged her again. “Thank you, Cumber-bunch!”

  She blushed deeply and looked pleased. “Can you call me Sophie? I know it’s not the done thing to call a lady’s maid by her Christian name, but I can’t stick my surname.”

  “Sophie it is, but I’d better call you Cumberbunch in front of my mother or she’ll have both our heads.”

  I couldn’t imagine ever confiding in any of the servants like that, and I suppose Sophie made me think about them in a different light. My mother always forbade me to engage them in conversation apart from discussing the business at hand. I knew my mother was close to her lady’s maid, Bailey, but that closeness was one-sided. My mother controlled that relationship completely. If she grew tired of Bailey, or if Bailey overstepped the line, my mother could dismiss her. I had to remember that Mamma could do the same with Sophie.

  I WAS ON my way out to my adventures, heading down the stairs of my house, when I saw Papa standing in the hall, a look of bewilderment on his face. He was staring at the new telephone, a copper upright desk stand with ornamental finishing, on the hall table. I was surprised to see him home in the middle of the day.

  I paused, my hand on the newel post. “Good afternoon, Papa,” I said.

  He looked up. “Victoria. My, you look so grown-up. Very fetching, my dear.” He stared at the telephone again.

  “I’m going to my church charity. Do you wish to make a telephone call?”

  He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “I would prefer not to, but Frederick says I must embrace this new machinery or else be left behind.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I must say I feel the fool. How does one speak into such an appa
ratus? I feel as though I’m talking to a doorstop.”

  “It is intimidating the first time you make a call.”

  “Have you made one?” Papa looked surprised.

  I nodded. “Lily’s family has a telephone. When I was visiting their home in France, she showed me how to work it. It’s ever so much fun, once you get the way of it.” I held out my hand. “Would you like me to show you?”

  “Hmm, yes. I would.”

  I sat and demonstrated. “You sit on this little bench here and rest your elbow on the table, like so. You want to hold the receiver to your ear with that hand. And speak into the mouthpiece here.”

  “How do you contact the person you want to speak to?”

  “Press down this little lever and wait for the operator to answer. You give her your party’s details and she’ll connect you. If you want to answer when it rings, simply lift the receiver and speak.”

  “Well, I never! Aren’t you clever? Does one have to shout to be heard?” Papa asked, warming to the subject.

  “Not at all. Only your normal voice is required.” I stood up. “Would you like to have a go?”

  Papa sat down and I directed him through the steps. He flinched and pulled the receiver away from his ear when the operator answered, but he soldiered on and placed his call. I waited to make sure he was comfortable before I went on my way. When I left, he smiled at me.

  JOHN TOOK ME to All Saints Church in the carriage midmorning. I’d told Mamma I’d be coming home in a friend’s carriage. Of course, in reality I’d make my own way back.

  I walked up and down the Fulham Road but I didn’t see the address or anything that resembled an art studio. I was growing frustrated but then finally I found it behind the main buildings, down a quiet tree-filled mews. The studio was a large brick building with arched windows and a large black door bordered by a white colonnade. AVENUE STUDIOS was printed on the window. Someone had planted pansies and daffodils in tubs on either side of the door.

  I went inside and immediately the scent of art hit me: an earthy aroma of clay and the woodsy perfume of oil of turpentine. I walked down a long hallway bordered by doors leading to art studios. Avenue Studios was a much larger space than Monsieur Tondreau’s, which had consisted of one small room. Some of the doors were open, and I saw sculptors at work in one and a painter working on a large canvas in another. Behind a closed door, someone was playing classical music on a gramophone. There was a lot of activity coming from a studio at the end of the corridor. I could hear a murmur of voices, a bang as someone dropped something, and the swooshing sound of someone dragging heavy material across the floor. Then I saw Studio 1a: Sylvia Pankhurst written on a sign outside a door. I stepped inside.

  When Lucy first mentioned the mural, I assumed it would be a simple affair, a large picture with a motto to hang against one wall, but what I saw took my breath away. The cavernous space of the studio was hung floor to ceiling with several canvases. Some were still blank and some were traced with patterns of angels, flowers, trees, doves, and wildlife. One of the canvases was already finished; it featured a figure of a woman sowing grain. It was ten feet high, maybe even more. There were several artists at work—half were women and half were men. Some stood on ladders or knelt on mats filling in color with paintbrushes; others were moving huge canvases around.

  “Excuse me,” said an artist carrying a panel. “Can I get by, please?”

  “I beg your pardon.” I stepped out of the way, and he hoisted the panel over his head and continued on. I took a couple of steps after him. “Excuse me, I wonder . . .” But he didn’t stop.

  I looked around. Everyone was busy doing something. I felt completely insignificant. Engrossed in their work, as artists were wont to be, no one took any notice of me. I eyed the door, thinking maybe the best action would be to leave and come back another day.

  No. I was here now; I’d just have to wait.

  Over by the window, I spotted a taboret laden with an untidy jumble of oil-paint tubes, mahl sticks, rags, and jars with brush handles poking out. From time to time, I had cleaned the brushes for the more experienced students at Monsieur’s, so I knew how to do it. I headed for the table and got to work. I wiped each brush clean with a rag dampened with turpentine and rinsed it in a bottle filled with mineral spirits. Under a pile of rags I unearthed a paintbrush comb and ran it through each brush to get the dried paint out. I was organizing all the oil tubes according to color—mostly white, purple, and emerald green—when someone spoke.

  “You look like you know what you’re doing there.” A woman dressed in a plain cotton blouse and wool skirt stood by the table. Her dark-blonde hair was piled up onto her head in a messy bun that was held together with two pencils. She had a kindly look about her, but dark circles smudged her eyes, as if she’d had no sleep for some time. “It’s good of you to do that. Someone’s always meaning to do it, but we’re so busy around here that brush cleaning gets put off.” She pulled a face. “Shame to treat good brushes that way.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sylvia Pankhurst.”

  What luck! I shook Sylvia’s hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Vicky Darling. I was told by Lucy Hawkins that you required artists to help with the mural.”

  “I do. I’ve undertaken a vast project, I’m afraid to admit,” Sylvia said. “I began in February and already I’m exhausted. Several of my friends from art school have helped me, but it’s still a huge undertaking.” Then she broke off; her gaze fell on the tie Sophie had given me. “William Morris’s Strawberry Thief, isn’t it?”

  I looked down at my tie. “Is it?”

  “I’d know that pattern anywhere. We studied Morris when I attended the RCA. He was the leader of the Arts and Crafts movement, and a student of the Pre-Raphaelites. How clever of you to wear it as a tie.” Sylvia smiled. “Very artistic.”

  How had Sophie understood how to reflect my personality so quickly? To suggest an accessory that harkened to the Pre-Raphaelites? I had assumed she was in league with my mother then, but she had dressed me exactly the way I wanted to dress without my knowing it myself.

  “Your mural reminds me of the Pre-Raphaelite Brother-

  hood,” I said.

  “They were my inspiration for the mural! Their use of symbolism is extraordinary.” Sylvia’s face held the slightly maniacal expression all artists seem to have when discussing painters they love. “The woman planting grain symbolizes hope. I’m going to add another woman harvesting the wheat. So she’s reaping what the other woman has sown. I need to draw some ideas first.”

  Needing to make an impression on Sylvia right away, I waded in. “I . . . I could sketch it for you,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. “If you like, I mean. I attended an atelier in France. I have nearly a year’s training in life studies. You don’t have to say yes. I’m happy with doing basic work, too.”

  I was happy to see that Sylvia looked relieved when I suggested this. Sometimes artists didn’t like others to interfere with their designs. So far I’d impressed Sylvia with my brush cleaning and my sense of fashion. If she liked my sketch and I showed commitment to the mural, maybe she’d write the reference letter for me. I had to put in the time, however. I knew I couldn’t just come once or twice. I had to show Sylvia exactly what I could do. I needed a true reference that reflected my work, not just some generic letter.

  Sylvia set me up at a makeshift table and I got to work, and for the next hour I was so engrossed that I barely noticed when someone came up. I felt a tap on my shoulder, looked up, and saw Lucy standing there, but for a moment I didn’t recognize her. Gone were the serviceable clothes. Today she was wearing a loose scoop-neck dress with wide sleeves and an elaborately embroidered bodice. Her dark, curly hair, freed from the clutches of her felt hat, tumbled down her back.

  “I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she said. “How was church?”

  “Church?�
�

  “Didn’t you go to church first?” Lucy said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Oh, that!” I shrugged. “I don’t actually go to church. I tell my mother I’m going to a church charity. It’s how I get out of the house.”

  Lucy hooked her foot around the leg of a stool, dragged it over, and sat down. “What’s the matter? She won’t let you keep company with suffragettes?”

  “Let’s just say the word suffrage is not to be uttered in our home. Among many other things.”

  “Welcome to the club.” She waved her hand at a girl around our age, standing on a ladder painting. “Clara isn’t supposed to be here either.”

  I touched the embroidery on Lucy’s sleeve. “You look like a medieval maid. Beautiful.”

  “I only wear that other hideous outfit at the rubber factory and when I’m working for the WSPU. As you saw, sometimes the coppers get a bit handsy. Often people throw rotten veg at us, too.”

  “Why do you work in a rubber factory?”

  “Some of us have to work,” she said, looking at me askance.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling like a toff. “Of course. I didn’t think.”

  “It’s not like I get my fun there or anything. I need the money. I came over to study jewelry making at Goldsmiths College, but my dad won’t send my tuition,” Lucy said, resting her chin in her hand. “He wants me to come home. So I do piecework at a factory in Lambeth. It pays for my tuition and I rent a flat in Clement’s Inn, above the headquarters. Mr. Pethick-Lawrence owns a bunch and lets them out cheap to WSPU members. That doesn’t leave much else, but I make jewelry in suffragette colors and sell it at department stores. Suffragette jewelry is very chic, and Selfridge’s, that new department store on Oxford Street, buys all I can make.”

  At that moment, the door opened and a disheveled teenage boy burst into the room. He was very delicate, almost elf-like, with blond hair and blue eyes. Tall and whippet thin, he looked as though the slightest breeze could bowl him right over.