A Mad, Wicked Folly Page 19

  THE LIGHT WAS starting to fade when I realized that nearly an hour had gone by. I sat back and put my pastel down.

  “Is that it, then?”

  I nodded. Once the model’s job was over, an artist shouldn’t continue to stare, so I busied myself with my sketchbook to give some privacy while he dressed.

  “That wasn’t as strange as I thought it would be. I mean, no one’s ever seen me in the buff like that before,” Will said. “Actually, that’s not true. One time I was out with a bunch of my mates. It was a scorching-hot day and we just stripped off and jumped into the river. Problem was a bunch of girls from the village came down the path just as we were getting out!”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Jumped back in.” He laughed. “Quick as we could. Well, apart from Charlie. He stood there staring at the girls with his mouth dangling open.”

  “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you posed like that. Honestly.” I looked away. I felt bashful all of a sudden.

  He waved his hands. “Aw, that’s just standing still. I didn’t do anything.”

  “Being a model is more than just standing still. It’s a collaboration with the artist. The Pre-Raphaelites always said they were nothing without their models. They fought over them.”

  “Do you like to draw people in the buff?”

  “I do. I love it.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something about it that makes me feel like a real artist, like I’m not pretending. I don’t know if you feel this when you write, but so many times my head is filled with voices telling me that I’m only playing at being an artist. But those all leave me when I draw from the nude figure. I don’t know why.”

  I felt shy for saying that and a little embarrassed. But the look on Will’s face told me that he understood completely.

  We were only able to go to the summerhouse once more because the builders were due to start the renovations. In one way I was relieved, because I began to have stronger feelings about Will. I didn’t feel at all like I had when I’d drawn Bertram or any of the other artists.

  Truly, the Pre-Raphaelites had had similar feelings. Rossetti married his model, Lizzie Siddal, after all, although that ended disastrously. Hunt considered marrying Annie Miller for a time, and Millais ran off with John Ruskin’s wife, Effie Gray, after he painted her portrait. And the more I thought about it, the longer the list of famous artists marrying or having affairs with their models grew. One didn’t have to act on that impulse. I certainly wouldn’t marry or have an affair with mine.

  I thought I would feel better at that realization, but somehow I didn’t.

  Twenty-Three

  Sylvia Pankhurst’s mural studio,

  Thursday, twenty-ninth of April

  I NEEDED ONE MORE day at the mural to impress Sylvia, and so the last Thursday before the deadline, I decided to work the entire afternoon at the mural. There was nothing for it; I had to sacrifice my session with Will. Harry scurried down his ladder to greet me as soon as I walked in the door of the mural studio. Sylvia set me to work on filling in the mottoes that would hang from the ceiling. Harry tailed behind me.

  “Siddhartha Gautama, do you know of him?” Harry asked after we had been working for several minutes. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the brick wall of the studio.

  “Not personally, no,” I replied.

  Harry crouched down beside me, his long, skinny legs jutting up on either side of him like grasshopper’s limbs. He picked up a piece of chalk and began to sketch a picture on the floor of a man sitting cross-legged. “Siddhartha Gautama is the Buddha. Buddhism is the very foundation of life. Buddha was here long before Jesus, yet most contemporary religions are based on Jesus’ teachings.”

  “Mmm,” I said absent-mindedly, trying to close my ears to his patter.

  “Buddha believed that suffering was an essential part of life,” Harry went on, adding two arms to the man in his picture, one with the hand in his lap and the other held up, palm out. I glanced over. It was a good effort for a boy who said he only dabbled. Art talent ran strongly in the Pankhurst family. He regarded the drawing with his head cocked to one side, and then smudged a bit of the pastel with his thumb, creating a pleasing shadow. “This gesture is the Abhaya mudra, which represents protection and peace.”

  “Is that so,” I murmured, moving on to another section of the banner. Harry stood up and trailed behind me like a loyal puppy, jabbering on.

  “Eastern religions . . .”

  “Right.” Harry didn’t seem to realize I wasn’t taking any notice of him.

  “. . . hobby of mine . . .”

  “Mm, you don’t say?”

  Finally I had finished my task and began to walk back across the room to the supply table where the paints were kept. Harry moved up to walk beside me and seemed to be wrestling with himself about something. He’d slant his eyes in my direction then shake his head, clench his fists, and open his mouth to speak and then close it again. I didn’t mind this new quirk of his much because at least he had stopped his infernal rabbiting. He rubbed his palms on his trousers, and all of a sudden he reached down and grabbed my hand. He stared at it with a startled expression, as if he had caught a fish with his bare hands on the first try.

  “Harry!” I snatched my hand away. “Steady on.”

  Harry’s face went red as a beetroot. “Sorry,” he muttered. He slumped his shoulders and shoved his hands back into his pockets, as if he didn’t quite trust them to be out on their own and roaming freely.

  I touched Harry’s arm. “It’s all right, Harry. But I’m engaged. I should have said. Friends though, right?”

  He looked horrified. “I’m awfully sorry, Vicky.”

  “You’re really sweet, Harry; please don’t feel bad.”

  Harry looked like he was going to cry. He turned away and hurried back to his place at the mural, his shoulders up around his ears.

  I felt guilty then for not wearing my ring. If I had, Harry would have known right off. I sighed and went back to work myself.

  I stayed at the studio as long as I could, until everyone had gone. Finally, at four o’clock, just Sylvia and I were left. I only had an hour before I had to go home, and I was growing more anxious with every passing minute.

  I was working on transferring Sylvia’s master drawing of the vine-leaf border pattern onto a blank canvas with tracing paper when Sylvia climbed down from her ladder and stretched, her hand on the small of her back. “I think we ought to break for tea, Vicky.”

  I laid down my materials with a sigh of relief and went to join her. Finally, a chance to talk to Sylvia about the letter.

  “Do you think it will be ready for the exhibition in time?” I asked as I watched her make the tea. “Only a fortnight to go.”

  “It will have to be. We’ve done such a lot already. I think we’re close.”

  We sipped our tea in silence for a moment, and then I waded in. “You’re such a thoughtful artist, Sylvia. I admire you so. The mural is magnificent.” It was true. I wasn’t just buttering Sylvia up. I really did mean it. You couldn’t help but look around the studio and know what she was trying to say with her design.

  “That’s kind of you. But I agonize over my art all the time.” Sylvia looked at the murals. “Sometimes I wonder whether it is a waste of time to devote my life to painting when so many people are suffering and women are not free. My friends from the art college feel that art is all there is to life, but I can’t in good conscience agree with them. What do you feel about that, Vicky?”

  “Art does inspire people, does it not? The world would be a far bleaker place without it. You only need to look at your work here to know that.”

  “You’re so right. The way I can reconcile myself is to use my painting skills for social reform. I saw so many women in the north working in swea
ted labor who have nothing and earn nothing. Art moves people to see things in a way they may not have thought of before.”

  Sylvia was voicing the same thought that I’d had that day in the French café. It heartened me to hear such an opinion from another woman, especially someone as talented as Sylvia.

  “You know, there’s a suffrage atelier that’s started up in a member’s garden in South Hampstead. It’s going great guns at the moment,” Sylvia said. “It’s more of a craft atelier at the moment, but the organizers are thinking of bringing in artists and offering some fine-art classes, if there’s demand. The atelier makes all sorts of things to sell at the WSPU headquarters and some of the shops throughout England. After we’ve completed the mural, I think you should consider helping out. The woman who runs it, Clemence Housman, is looking for people to do illustrations for our newspaper Votes for Women. Could you help?”

  I couldn’t say no to Sylvia. But what was more, I didn’t want to say no. I didn’t want my only art outlet to be working all alone in my bedroom before the sun rose. The thought of joining another atelier and working in the company of other artists appealed to me greatly.

  Sylvia leaned forward over the table and squeezed my hand. “I’m so glad you’ve come to us. Your talent is a blessing to the WSPU.”

  Now was my chance. “But my skills are limited, Sylvia.” My heart started to beat a little harder. “I wish to go to art college, as you have done. It’s been my dream to study at the RCA, but I don’t have the reference letter the college requires.”

  Sylvia was quiet, which worried me.

  “If you’re happy with my work here, would you be willing to write a letter of reference for me?”

  She shook her head sadly. “I wish I could.”

  My heart sank. That was it then. It was over. I knew it. It was preposterous of me to ask her. Who do I think I am? But still, I had to ask, as much as I didn’t want to hear Sylvia’s opinion out loud. “Am I . . . am I not good enough?”

  “Oh no! Quite the contrary. I just don’t think a letter from me would help. It would probably make things worse for you. I butted up against the establishment one too many times. I can’t say I enjoyed my time much at the school but I did learn, and that is what is important.” She thought for a moment. “Austin could, however. A letter from him would hold a lot of weight. He was very well respected.”

  Austin! Brilliant, even better. I hadn’t thought of asking Austin. And then I felt a prick of guilt that I would prefer a letter from Austin, a man, over one from Sylvia. “Oh, would he, Sylvia? I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “Of course he would.” She picked up a scrap of paper. “I’ll make a note to ask him.”

  I had it all now. I had everything. Now what I needed to do was to get through the exam and marry Edmund.

  Twenty-Four

  Frederick Darling’s residence, Friday, thirtieth of April

  Later, the Royal Academy

  THE EVENING BEFORE my eighteenth birthday, Rose gave birth to a boy, whom she and Freddy named George. My parents, Sophie, and I went to Freddy’s the next morning to see the baby and Rose. My mother was over the moon to finally have a grandson, proclaiming him to resemble Freddy exactly. She cuddled the baby for a moment. Papa stood back, admiring the baby from a safe distance, and then the two left the nursery to congratulate Rose.

  “You and my son born nearly the same day,” Freddy said, and handed little George to me. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

  The baby woke up then and yawned, his little mouth shaped into a circle. He blinked at me, his blue eyes unfocused.

  “I’m your Auntie Vicky,” I told him, and shook his little starfish hand. “How do you do?” He regarded me solemnly.

  Charlotte came up and leaned against my leg. “He doesn’t know how to talk yet, Auntie Vicky,” she said.

  “I can’t tell who he looks like.” Freddy peered over my shoulder.

  “Mamma’s right. He looks exactly like you,” I said. “His face is the picture of a sponge pudding, round and podgy, just like yours.”

  “Brat.” Fred nudged me with his shoulder.

  “I don’t want a brother,” Charlotte said. “Can we give him back, Papa?”

  Freddy laughed.

  I pushed her hair away from her face. “I don’t think so, dearest. Besides, brothers aren’t so bad. Why, your papa and I are the best of friends.”

  It was nearing ten o’clock. I had to get going to the RCA, but I had to wait for my parents. Thankfully Papa wanted to leave quickly, and so I put George down and left Charlotte peering into her little brother’s basket, looking doubtful.

  Sophie had smuggled my sketchbook out under her coat. And with the excuse that Sophie and I wanted to stroll around Kensington Gardens, which was a short walk from the Royal Academy, I had John drive us there.

  While Sophie waited in the anteroom, I looked through my drawing book once more. I had several studies of Will, a collection of the illustrations for his story, and sketches of the mural angel and of the artists at work. Austin’s reference letter was tucked inside. I had done the best I could, and I could do no more. It was in the lap of the gods.

  At the RCA there were several other artists submitting work. Only one other woman was there, dressed in a navy-blue tailor-made, a hopeful look on her face. We nodded to each other in passing, but she looked as wary as I did. The men did not look at one another this way; in fact, several were standing in a group going through one another’s books, making admiring comments.

  I handed in my work at the clerk’s office, and Sophie and I walked out of the RCA and into the bright sunshine. I saw a police constable watching the door. My eyes adjusted to the sun and I realized the PC was Will.

  “Wait here a moment, will you, Sophie?” I ran down the steps.

  “Happy birthday!” Will said when I reached him. He handed me a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a green ribbon.

  “Will! You didn’t have to do this.”

  “I wanted to. It’s just a little thing.”

  He watched carefully as I undid the package. Inside was a slim volume of the poems of Tennyson.

  “Turn to page twelve,” Will said.

  I found the page, and there was the mermaid poem. Above the poem was an illustration, a woodcut of Waterhouse’s A Mermaid. The illustration was signed JW Waterhouse.

  Without any warning, tears filled my eyes. No one had ever given me such a kind and thoughtful gift before. I pictured Will going into the shop, looking over the books, and then discovering the very one he knew I would love. I even pictured him watching as the clerk wrapped the volume in brown paper. I wondered if the clerk had tied the green bow on it or if Will had gone into a notion shop and chosen it himself. These were all small things, but kindness was built of small things.

  “It’s the closest I could come to the actual picture,” Will said. “I found it in a bookshop in Charing Cross.”

  I brushed at my eyes. “Thank you.” My voice cracked.

  He hesitated. “I need to get back to my beat, but . . . I’m given a whole rest day off once a month, which is Saturday week, and I had planned on going to Rye to see my family. Would you like to go with me? We could work, of course. There is a hill there that overlooks the marshes. If the weather is fine, you could draw.”

  A whole day out of the city to spend drawing Will appealed to me greatly. I’d have to fix an excuse with Sophie first.

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  “In the meantime I’ll write my mum and tell her to expect us. You’ll love my mum. And I can’t wait for you to meet my nephew, Jamie.”

  We parted, and Sophie and I went off to meet John.

  I could tell Sophie was dying to know who Will was. Of course, as a lady’s maid, it wasn’t her place to ask, but when we were in the carriage, I told her anyway.

 
“That’s your art model?” Sophie looked at me, her eyes wide. “That’s Will? He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he?”

  I smiled. “I suppose you could say that. He gave me this for my birthday.” I handed Sophie the book of poems. She turned the pages carefully. There was an illustration above each poem. Each one by a different artist.

  I took the book from Sophie and looked at the cover again. “I’ve heard of these books, Sophie. They’re hard to find and very dear.”

  “How much does a police constable earn?” Sophie asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  Sophie and I looked at each other. Neither of us said anything, but we both knew that the book had cost more than a constable should spend.

  My parents had a birthday party that evening, and Edmund came, bearing champagne, roses, and a diamond bracelet. They were beautiful. But they didn’t compare with Will’s gift. If I was honest, nothing about Edmund did.

  Twenty-Five

  Fletcher family home, Rye, Sussex,

  Saturday, eighth of May

  THAT SATURDAY, A week after my birthday, the Charing Cross train station was a hive of activity with people bustling all around. When Sophie and I arrived, I spotted Will waiting by the newsagents, leaning against the wall and reading a newspaper.

  Sophie blew out her breath. “Gosh. Lucky girl, getting to stare at him whenever you want.”

  “I suppose,” I said, in an attempt to sound as though I didn’t care a whit one way or another.

  Sophie and I had cooked up a scheme to tell my mother that a friend from Miss Winthrop’s had invited me to her country home in Royal Tunbridge Wells for the day. Tunbridge Wells was in Kent, far enough away to account for the length of time I would be away. Mamma at first said no because she didn’t know the girl’s mother, but then, having anticipated Mamma would ask, I handed her the invitation from her mother—the one that I had created myself in my bedroom. While I watched Mamma read, my heart was thudding so hard I was surprised she didn’t hear it. Mamma looked up from the note and, finally satisfied, gave her permission. She told Sophie to go with me, and I argued a little, just to keep her from becoming suspicious. But this gave Sophie the day off too, which she planned to spend at Clement’s Inn making scarves and helping trim hats to sell at the Women’s Exhibition.