A Mad, Wicked Folly Page 8

Nine

  Darling residence, the breakfast room,

  Friday, nineteenth of March

  THE NEXT MORNING I awoke to the noise of snipping and of branches scraping the wall. I got out of bed and crossed to the window. My curtains billowed in the wind. The rain had gone and it was a fine day. A fine day, apparently, to cut down a wisteria vine. Harold stood on a tall ladder wielding a saw. There would be no wisteria blossoms this May.

  He looked up then and saw me, a pitying expression on his face.

  Only my father would have ordered such drastic action. My mother would certainly never sacrifice flowers for any reason.

  I hoped that would be the end of it. I hadn’t spoken to my father last evening. He had come home from work very late, missing dinner, which had become a common theme since I had returned from France—much to the dismay of my mother, who had had to turn down many invitations for lack of an escort. I knew it was I who kept him away. My father didn’t want to see me or speak to me. He had always dealt with me in this fashion. But it wouldn’t make any difference whether he spoke to me or not; he would never understand why I’d chosen to pose nude.

  I delayed as long as I could, but finally hunger won the day. So I went to my wardrobe, dressed in the first skirt and blouse to hand, and brushed my hair, pinning the sides back with tortoiseshell combs and letting the rest fall down my back. This done, I went to breakfast, hoping that my father had been and gone.

  I entered the breakfast room and saw my father sitting behind his newspaper, a cup of tea at his elbow. I hesitated for a moment, considering going back up to my room.

  “Don’t hang about like that, Victoria,” my father said from behind his newspaper. “Come in and have your breakfast.”

  “Good morning, Papa.” I tried to keep my voice bright and cheerful, as if nothing had happened whatsoever. I went to the sideboard and filled my plate with a boiled egg, kippers, toast, and marmalade. I sat down in a chair next to him, glanced at his newspaper, looked at it again.

  Two Suffragettes

  Arrested

  at Parliament

  Miss Lucy Hawkins and Miss Victoria Smith were arrested yesterday afternoon for obstruction of the pathway near Parliament. Additionally, Miss Smith was accused of resisting arrest and causing grievous bodily harm to Police Constable William Fletcher.

  Miss Hawkins refused to pay her fine and has been jailed for a fortnight at Holloway Prison. All charges were dropped against Miss Smith.

  For a moment I thought I might laugh out loud. There my father sat, calmly reading the newspaper, while another scandal involving his daughter was front-page news. I sat openmouthed, leaning in, staring at the story.

  My father folded down a corner of the paper and saw me. His brow furrowed and he snapped the paper shut and placed it under his plate. My father did not like me reading newspapers. It might undo my delicate constitution.

  Quickly, I turned my attention to my breakfast, slicing the top off my boiled egg. Thank goodness I had thought to give a false last name.

  I’d imagined PC Fletcher’s Christian name might have been something like Reginald or Rupert or Simon. Somehow the name William didn’t seem to fit a policeman. It seemed more of a nobleman’s name: the name of a man loyal to Henry Tudor during the Wars of the Roses, who would ride out in a suit of armor under the dragon banner of red, white, and green. Considering the kind of person PC Bumptious was, he probably would have turned coat and fled Bosworth Field directly the horns for battle were blown because his horse had thrown a shoe or some such.

  “Victoria,” my father said. “Your mother has asked me to speak with you.”

  I set the egg topper down and tried to arrange my features in some sort of bland expression that would not anger him.

  “I know you have ideas for your future, but I must say that further schooling is quite out of the question. A girl’s duty in life is to be a pretty and entertaining wife to her husband. She should not outshine him in knowledge, lest she show him up among his peers. Advanced study is harmful for women as it makes them discontent and unfit for lives as wives and mothers. You are quite a pretty girl, so your prospects are much more promising than Louisa Dowd’s anyhow, poor thing. She is but a plain girl, and education is the only option for her.”

  I tried not to let an angry remark slip out, so instead I ate a spoonful of egg. “Thank you, Father.” I smiled, knowing that egg yolk was all over my front teeth. So much for not angering him, but I could not help it. I hated when he came out with rot like that.

  Father straightened his cravat with an angry tug and stood up. “This willful behavior of yours will stop, do you understand me? If you put one toe out of place again, you will lose your drawing privileges. I will remove your art things from your room myself.”

  I looked down at my plate. The smoked kipper’s murky eye stared up at me balefully. My stomach churned, and I pushed the plate away.

  “They should have been taken from you directly after you returned from France. But your mother convinced me otherwise.”

  “Mamma convinced you?” I sat back. Why would my mother have done such a thing?

  He shook his head, and went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I don’t understand you, my dear. What possessed you?”

  I didn’t say anything. What could I say that would make him understand? My father, like many people, would only ever see the tawdry side of the nude figure, which always confounded me. People flocked to the annual Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. There were many paintings there that depicted the undraped figure. To most people, the process was unspeakable, but the resulting work of art was not.

  “You will turn your mind away from such pursuits and to marriage, where it belongs. You will be a wife and a mother, and that is all.” And then he left, pulling the door shut behind him a little harder than he needed to.

  I slumped in my chair. As if my life were only about being decoration for a man. Well, that decided me. I wasn’t going to wait around any longer.

  I quickly finished my breakfast and went upstairs to find my mother in her drawing room. “I’ve decided I’m going to marry Edmund Carrick-Humphrey.”

  My mother looked taken aback at my sudden change of heart. “I told your father you would see reason, for despite all your willfulness, you are not a stupid girl—”

  “Only I have a caveat,” I interrupted.

  Mamma looked at me warily. “And that is?”

  “Let’s have it over and done with. I wish to be married by the end of August.”

  Mamma rose and went to look at her diary. “August twenty-ninth might do. If the Carrick-Humphreys agree, then I don’t see why we can’t accommodate that request. Your father and I will discuss it with them when they come to dinner this evening.” Then she smiled. “I’m very happy that you’ve learned your lesson and have seen sense. We’ll announce your engagement after the king’s first court in June. You will have a wonderful life with Mr. Carrick-Humphrey. Just think of it.”

  But all I could think about was my college tuition paid.

  Ten

  Mrs. Kipling’s kitchen

  AFTER OUR CONVERSATION, my mother invited me to take a turn round the Royal Arcade with her friends. She suggested we begin looking for things to fill my marriage trousseau, but I demurred. I didn’t tell her that picking over ribbons and staring at hats was more than I could bear. After she left, I collected my charcoal and pastels from my room, took some paper from my father’s study, and went out into the garden to find something to draw. At least I could practice until I had purchased a new sketchbook for the RCA admission.

  Things were looking brighter. I knew my marriage would not be one of love, but I would marry the devil himself if it meant I could pursue my artistic goals. I thought of the handful of successful women artists. Most of them were wealthy and could afford to spend their days immersed in their work. I would soon be filled
with the satisfaction of joining the ranks of Mary Cassatt and Evelyn De Morgan. Even Lizzie Siddal, an artist in her own right, had money of her own because of John Ruskin’s patronage. Although I admired the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, I did not relish the idea of having to choose between eating and purchasing art supplies, as they often had. As my artist friends in France had, too.

  After an hour I began to get hungry. I hadn’t had much to eat at breakfast. I could have asked for something to be brought to me, but I didn’t want the footman hovering. So I decided to go into the kitchen and snaffle some of our cook’s pikelets. I loved them, and Mrs. Kipling always made them up for afternoon tea. My mother didn’t want me in the kitchen mixing with the servants, but it was nearly ten o’clock, and Mrs. Kipling would be taking her morning break. No one would see me.

  The kitchen was in the basement, down a set of stairs that could be gotten to from the breakfast room, through a door painted white and adorned with a crystal handle on our side but covered with green baize and a gunmetal knob on the servants’ side.

  My mother would never drag her decorating ideas in here. The kitchen was for service only. Large wooden sinks lined one side of the room, and a monstrous oven sat on the other. A wooden clothes airer hung with stockings had been hoisted up over it to dry. The only windows in the room were at street level, and I could see shoes walking and skirts sweeping by.

  I paused at the bottom of the steps. No one was about, so I tiptoed across the flagstone floor to the cake tin. I pried open the lid, took out a pikelet, and bit into it. Heaven.

  As I leaned against the worktop and ate another cake, a pair of very shiny black boots paused at our window, turned, and then walked toward the steps that led to the servants’ entrance. Then I heard the sound of footsteps marching down the marble stairs. I froze, the cake halfway to my mouth. Any moment now the person would knock, and if anyone came through the hallway that led from the scullery to answer the door, they would see me standing there.

  The heavy iron knocker fell against the door.

  I darted a look down the hallway, but no one was coming. I set the cake on the worktop and went to the door, peering through the bull’s-eye glass.

  The owner of those boots was a police constable. He stood in the door well, looking across the road and toward Berkeley Square.

  Blast! I took a step back. Had the judge changed his mind? Had the constable come to arrest me? But how could the police trace me here without my real name or address? They would have gone to Freddy’s house first. Rose! I’ll bet it was she who told them.

  I thought about running out of the kitchen, ignoring him altogether. But if I answered the door, I could send him on his way before he had a chance to speak to a servant. I lifted the latch and opened the door.

  “May I help you?” I said. I tried to keep the alarm from my voice.

  The constable turned around. And you could have knocked me over with a feather. It was PC Fletcher. A paper sack was tucked under one arm. His chin sported a dark-purple bruise.

  “Good day,” he said, bowing slightly.

  I must have looked a gormless ninny, staring at him with my mouth dangling open.

  “We meet again.” He leaned against the doorframe as if he planned to stay awhile.

  I finally found my voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “I believe I have something that belongs to you. I thought you might like it back.”

  He handed me the bag. I opened it, and inside was my sketchbook. It was completely undamaged.

  “Your address was inside the book.”

  “You have no idea what this means. I feel as though my life has been handed back to me.” I tried very hard not to squeal with glee, like the girls at my school when they made a goal on the hockey pitch. But instead I did something equally embarrassing. Without even thinking about what I was doing, I stepped up and kissed his cheek. He smelled the same as he had the previous day, of a mixture of green grass and fresh laundry.

  “Well, it’s much easier to make you happy than I would have reckoned!” he said, laughing. “I thought you’d have my guts for garters.”

  “Did someone turn this in to the station?”

  “No, I found it.”

  “You found it?” I glanced at the cover again. Not a raindrop on it. “But when?”

  “I . . . um.” He looked sheepish. He scratched the side of his face and gazed across the street for a moment. And then he turned back to me and shrugged. “Just after you were arrested,” he finally said.

  “When I was in the police van?” My smile faded.

  He nodded.

  “But at the station you said you hadn’t even seen me drawing. And when we were walking home, you said you knew nothing about my book. I don’t understand.”

  A flush began to darken PC Fletcher’s face. “Let me explain. I found your sketch pad after you were arrested and hid it in the police box by Parliament. If Catchpole had found it, he would have destroyed it. Or the judge would have taken it off of you. I hate that they do that. It’s not right.”

  I remembered the way PC Fletcher had rolled up the poster so carefully and handed it to Lucy, and how the other officer had ruthlessly torn the other poster. From the short time I’d known PC Catchpole, I felt certain he’d probably have thrown my sketchbook into the trash.

  “I was going to take it to the WSPU headquarters, but then at the station you said you weren’t a suffragette. You were going on about it, and you seemed angry with the other girl, so I guessed you were with the Anti-Suffrage League. I thought maybe you were drawing a cartoon, to make fun of the suffragettes—like the ones in the papers lately. I think the antis are wrongheaded, so I didn’t want you to have the book.”

  “So that is why you were so foul to me?” I said.

  He nodded. “Then I looked through the book and found you weren’t an anti, just an artist like you claimed. I saw your address and your real name and I felt ashamed at what I’d done. I’d hate for someone to nick my work. Now I know why you ran off like you did. I would have done the same. Come to think of it, I’d probably have put up a hell of a fight. They’re really good, your drawings. I hope you don’t mind me looking?”

  “No,” I said. I did, a little, because an artist’s sketchbook is a personal thing, but a part of me was happy that he had. “You’re very kind.”

  “My favorite’s the cartoon of the girls with the books on their heads. I had a right laugh over that one.”

  The cartoon he meant was a satire I did of a crushingly boring comportment class at finishing school. Madame had us swan around the room with books on our heads to teach us to stand straight. I had captioned the picture Young Ladies’ Literature Lectures.

  “Are you an artist, too?” I asked, curious about what he’d meant when he referred to his own work.

  “I’m a writer,” he said. “Well, I want to be a writer, that is. I write serials, like the ones in tuppenny novelettes. I want to get them published, but I haven’t had any luck so far.”

  I remembered how he had remarked about my brother’s novelettes and carefully put his card in his pocket. “Would you like me to recommend you to my brother? I’d be happy to, if it’s a favor you’re after.”

  A confused look skittered over his face. “No, not a bit of it. I was going to ask if you’d collaborate with me and illustrate my stories, like Charles Dickens and Cruikshank did. I’ve been told that publishers prefer illustrated stories. I’ve been looking for an artist, but I never found one good enough until you. I would submit them to your brother’s company, yes, but I don’t expect you to speak to him. I’m not looking for any favors.”

  Illustrating PC Fletcher’s stories appealed to me greatly, and I was just going to say yes when I realized how impossible that was. How would I leave the house to help him?

  Just then I heard the clop of Mrs. Kipling’s heavy steps
approaching. “Is someone there?” she called. “Miss Darling? Is that your voice I hear?”

  “I have to go!” I whispered, throwing a look over my shoulder.

  “Wait!” he said. “What do you say?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’d best not. It’s tempting, but truly I cannot.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed.

  The cook’s footsteps grew nearer.

  “I really have to go. Thank you so much for bringing the book. Best of luck!” I waved good-bye, shut the door, and dashed for the stairs, hugging my sketchbook to my chest.

  Eleven

  At home, a dinner party

  I WAS STILL THINKING about PC Fletcher later that evening as I waited for my mother’s maid, Bailey, to dress me for dinner with the Carrick-Humphreys. I so wanted to illustrate his stories, and perhaps I could have come up with some ruse to do so, but I was taking enough chances applying to art school without my parents knowing. Besides, my getting caught in the company of a working-class boy would send my father into a frenzy of anger from which he would probably never recover. Stepping down the social ladder to consort with someone below me, as I had done before with the artists in France, was out of the question. As Mamma said, They know their place and we know ours.

  No matter. I had my sketchbook back, and my own art was what mattered, no one else’s. I had so much to look forward to now. I would submit my sketchbook to the RCA acceptance panel at the end of April and sit for the exam in July.

  I finally felt content. I had made a good decision to marry Edmund Carrick-Humphrey. It solved so many problems in one fell swoop. I would have my own life, my own money, and a husband who would not try to tell me what to do.

  Bailey came into my room, her arms full of garments, which she placed upon the bed. She set to work putting up my hair. My hair was quite heavy and long, and it took ages for her to haul it all into place. Her deft hands combed, tugged, and pinned my hair. Finally her hands fell away from the finished coiffure and she stepped back and folded her hands, a pleased expression on her face.