A Mad, Wicked Folly (14 page)

HE NEXT DAY
Cumberbunch helped me get
dressed for Miss Winthrop’s Crushingly Boring
Social Graces Academy. I sat at the dressing table
while Cumberbunch did my hair, and I thought
about the final piece of the puzzle—art materials. I had a

model, an idea for a reference, and some money. But the
acquisition of art supplies was proving the hardest of all
because the only art shop I knew was in Kensington. There
were no churches nearby, as it was on a busy high street.
Furthermore, I could only fake a charity visit once or twice
a week or Mamma would get suspicious, and I needed
those precious days for drawing Will and for working on
the mural. As it was, I’d have to go to a real meeting once
a week in case Mamma should ask the charity organizers.

What really rankled was the proximity of the art shop
to Miss Winthrop’s academy. It was so close—a minute’s
walk down Kensington High Street, if even that. If only I
could escape for just a few minutes, I could—

Goose bumps rose on my arms, and I sat very still. I
knew how I could do it. I knew how! But it would take a bit
of planning and some acting.

“Miss?” Cumberbunch was holding my hair in a knot
at the top of my head. “Would you like your hair swept up
here or rolled at the nape of your neck?”

“Uh, I don’t mind. Whatever you prefer.” And then I
put my hand to my forehead. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit
poorly.”

“No . . . it’s important I should attend. Maybe I’ll feel
better soon,” I said.
“I’ll get you some headache powder,” Cumberbunch
said. She looked at me sideways, hesitated for a moment,
and then went to fetch the medicine.

“Cumberbunch, actually, would you mind at all going
to Harrods to purchase some Turkish delight for my aunt’s
birthday? She loves the pistachio and rose flavors.” I held
my breath, waiting for her reply.

“Your mother said you were dancing today. Don’t you
need help changing into your skirt and dancing slippers?”
Cumberbunch looked at me strangely when I said no, but
it was not a maid’s job to question, so she accepted the
money I held out and went off toward Knightsbridge.

Thankfully I knew none of the eleven other girls in the
class, so there would be no reports to my mother through
other girls’ mothers. Girls my age were the biggest tattletales going. Not a one of them could keep their mouth shut.

Without Cumberbunch’s help, it took me longer to
change into my dance things, which was to my benefit. I
was able to hang back for just a moment as the other girls
and their maids went into the ballroom. I tiptoed into the
hall and bundled my dance bag behind a potted fern next
to the door. Then I joined the class.

Owing to the fact that it was a girls-only class, we were
to dance with one another, taking turns to lead. My dancing was terrible because I couldn’t concentrate. I was so
nervous about my scheme that I kept stepping on my partner’s feet and turning right when I was meant to go left.

“Ouch! I say, do pay attention!” my partner said after I
had mashed her toes for the third time.
I didn’t have a moment to waste, so ten minutes into the
class, I told Miss Winthrop that I was unwell. She took me
to the dressing room and bade me rest a moment. As soon
as she returned to the other dancers, I jumped up from the
chaise and crept down the hall, grabbed my dance bag
from behind the pot, and stole outside. It was all I could do
not to break into a run, so I walked as quickly as I could to
Kensington High Street, dodging around the other pedestrians on the crowded pavement.
And then I was there. My favorite place in all the world:
Baldwin Art Purveyors. I had purchased my art materials
there practically ever since I could grasp a pencil. I always
felt as if nothing horrid could ever happen to me in such a
wonderful place.
The tiny shop was at the end of a small arcade of shops.
It sat underneath its sign: a drawing of a paint palette. I
always loved to see what the owner, Mr. Baldwin, chose
for his window display. This time he had arranged a lifesize art mannequin dressed in a painter’s smock in front of
an easel, while another mannequin posed in front of him,
arms held aloft.
A bell tinkled as I stepped inside. Although it appeared
tiny from the outside, the shop was an Aladdin’s cave on
the inside. The long room stretched far back and was filled
with every imaginable kind of art material. Drawers were
crammed with tubes of paint with names like burnt umber,
copper beech, cadmium, and vermilion. Shelves bristled
with jars of paintbrushes, and boxes upon boxes of pencils
and pastels of all sorts were stacked from floor to ceiling
against one wall. A coal fire flickered merrily in the small
fireplace near the till, creating a cozy atmosphere. And
there was that deliciously earthy scent of pencil shavings,
oil paint, and mineral spirits that I loved so well.
A clerk I had never met before came to the front of the
shop. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said. “Do you require
assistance?”
I looked around me. I hardly knew where to begin. “I
am in need of just about everything.”
“You are in luck. We have just about everything,” he
said, smiling.
I drew my list out of my bag, and the two of us went
round the shop selecting everything I needed: a Reeves &
Sons charcoal set in a pretty beech-wood box with a sliding lid; a silver dip pen; a bottle of golden iron-gall ink and
a pot of ebony bister ink; a small tin of conté crayons in
portrait colors; a wooden box set filled with both Derwent
graphite and colored pencils; two erasers, gum arabic and
kneadable; several blending stumps; a glass-paper sanding block; and finally a beautiful new sketch pad with an
Italian leather cover filled with cream-colored cartridge
paper. I hesitated over a wind-up easel, but it was ridiculous to think I could sneak something that large into my
house.
As the clerk toted up my purchases at the till, I wandered over to look at the watercolor caddies, considering
whether I needed one or not. Should I show the examiners I
had a grasp of something other than drawing? Watercolors
weren’t my favorite medium—I preferred colored pencils—but I did like the effect of gouache on tinted paper.
Maybe next time. My dance bag would be full as it was.
“Miss Darling,” a soft voice said.
I turned, and there stood Mr. Baldwin, the shop’s owner.
He had a solemn look on his face.
“Mr. Baldwin!” I said. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen
you. How do you do? The shop looks beautiful, as usual.
I’ve been admiring these caddies. Are they new?” I held
one up.
“Miss Darling, I . . . I’m terribly sorry, but I’m going to
have to ask you to leave.” His homely face crinkled into a
frown.
I set the caddy down. “Pardon?”
“It’s your father, you see. He sent me a letter saying
we weren’t to sell you anything, and he closed his account
here.”
“My father?” I said stupidly, barely able to take in what
Mr. Baldwin was saying.
“I do beg your pardon. Mr. Ashby is a new clerk here,
otherwise—”
“I have money of my own; I don’t need my purchases to
go on my father’s account, Mr. Baldwin.”
He shook his head.
I had known Mr. Baldwin since my childhood. I considered him a friend. He always welcomed me in the shop,
even putting to one side new things I might like. The shop
was like a second home, and now it was barred to me
because of my father. Anger flickered inside me. “But Mr.
Baldwin, I’m begging you. All my art materials are gone. I
haven’t a single stump of pencil to my name.”
Mr. Baldwin looked dismayed. “I simply cannot go
against your father’s request, Miss Darling. I’m sure he has
your best interests at heart.”
“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 on a
string where my father was concerned: helpless to do anything on my own, and with one twitch of the cord he could
spin me in any direction he wished. Soon, soon I would be
away from his control. I would marry Edmund tomorrow,
if I could.
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.

RUE 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-made was very popular. Cumberbunch
had made it 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,
Cumberbunch!”
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.