A Mad, Wicked Folly (18 page)

THAT THURSDAY AT
Avenue Studios, I kept a close
watch on the time, determined not to have a repeat of last
week. I cleaned my brushes, tidied my work space, and
said good-bye to the mural artists in plenty of time. Out on
the Fulham Road, there was no cab stand about so I stood
on the pavement with my arm up for ages, but all of the
cabs, motorized and horse-drawn, were full, and the ones
that weren’t didn’t seem inclined to stop.

Finally, with no choice, I took a horse-drawn omnibus. The only vacant seat was at the top in the open air,
and I had to sit next to a man who kept sneezing into his
handkerchief. A child behind me insisted on tugging at my
hat, and it took several pointed glares from me before his
mother reined him in. And the entire carriage, or whatever
it was called, reeked of musty old curtains stirred in with
mildewed library books. What was more, the streets were
so crammed with traffic that I could have dismounted the
conveyance and walked to Piccadilly faster.

The row with Will was in the front of my mind, and
I worried that if I didn’t arrive on time, he would leave,
thinking I’d snubbed him. And so I was in near hysterics
when the horses trundled past the winged figure of Anteros
on the Piccadilly Circus fountain and came to a lumbering
stop. I was twenty minutes late. I rushed down the bus’s
steps, picked up my skirts, and ran to the RA.

Will was still there at the Royal Academy, in the same
tweed jacket, waiting under the archway. “What time do
you call this, then?” he said, not sounding perturbed in the
slightest.

“I’m so sorry!” I said, breathless. “The traffic’s a nightmare. I was at the end of Fulham Road. It took ever such a
long time to get here in the horse bus.”

“A horse bus?” Will looked incredulous. “Those old
things? They are so slow with the horses plodding along.
Why don’t you take the Underground? It’s much faster,” he
said. “You’d be here in a heartbeat.”

I shivered. “Can’t bear the thought of it.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t stand being in close places. It’s a fear I have,

you see. I expect you find that silly.”
“Not at all. My sister, Jane, has the same fear. I have
a horror of spiders.” He shuddered comically. “Can’t stick
them.”
“You won’t ever find me near the Underground,” I said
emphatically. “The name alone gives me the collywobbles.”
“I don’t think there is any shame in being afraid. But
I think it’s important to conquer your fears.” He grinned.
“How do you mean?”
He held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll take you.”
“No, Will! I don’t . . .”
Will reached down, took my hand, and strode toward
Piccadilly Circus.
I tripped along behind him. “Will! I don’t have time for
this. The drawing!”
“We won’t go far. Just a quick nip down the line to the
next station and back. Won’t take a moment, and then
you’ll see it’s a doddle. No sense spending the whole of
your life behind a horse’s arse.”
“William Fletcher!”
He laughed.
It was only a short walk to Piccadilly Circus
Underground station, yet in that brief space of time my
knees had begun to shake and I found I was having trouble breathing properly. But Will didn’t give me time to
pause. He towed me through the crowd and trotted down
the steps, into the station, and up to the booking office.
“One ticket, please,” he said to the ticket seller behind the
gated window, and handed over the coins. “I have a season
ticket,” he said to me. “It’s much cheaper and it will get you
on any train you like as many times as you like.”
I made a face. “I don’t think I’ll be purchasing one of
those anytime soon, William. I won’t be repeating this
exercise.”
He took my hand again. “Oh, come on, don’t be such a
noodle. It’s fun.”
One more flight of stairs, and we were on the platform.
It wasn’t as bad underground as I had thought. The area
was well lit, and there were even newsagents selling their
wares along the tiled walls. Women, men, and children
stood patiently along the platform.
“All right?” he asked me.
I shrugged. The longer we stood there waiting, the
worse I felt. What would it be like inside that tunnel? I
thought my heart would burst out of my chest, it was beating so loudly. My palm was damp inside Will’s hand, but he
didn’t seem to care; he grasped my hand tighter.
“It’s easier to stand something difficult when you picture happy things.
A Mermaid
, how about that? Pretend
you’re in front of her. Close your eyes.”
I closed my eyes and imagined myself standing in front
of the painting, and the feelings I usually had when I saw
her began to fill me, and I felt calmer. I took a deep breath.
Will stepped a little closer.
“Don’t worry, Vicky. We’ll just go to Oxford Circus. If
you’re too scared, we’ll walk back. I promise.”
The conductor shouted into a bullhorn that the train
was approaching and we should step back. A moment later
a loud squealing noise came from deep inside the tunnel, a
rush of air filled the arched room of the platform, and then
the train arrived. It was not at all what I had expected. It
was a narrow iron engine with several linked cars behind
it. The train was quite elegant.
“I thought it would look like a goods train, like a steam
locomotive.”
Will laughed. “Those went out ages ago. These are electric. Smooth as anything.”
Will opened the door on one of the cars, and we
entered. It was spacious, with a wooden floor; upholstered
benches lined both walls. We sat down on one by the door.
Will took my hand again. “Ready?”
I nodded.
“If you feel afraid, just squeeze my hand.”
“I’ve decided that I’m going to collect as many spiders
in a jar as I can and then pour them all over you, William
Fletcher. Seeing as how it’s good to face your fears.”
“Fair enough.”
The conductor blew his whistle, and the train moved
forward with a jerk. I expected the lights to turn off and
pitch us into darkness, but they didn’t. There was nothing
visible out the window; it was not unlike riding an overland train at night. And before I knew it, we arrived at
Oxford Circus. It would have taken me nearly half an hour
to walk that distance.
“Well?” Will said. “You want to ride back or walk?”
“Ride!”
Will and I stepped onto the platform at Oxford Circus
station and walked over the footbridge over the rails
and onto the other side. We waited only a minute for the
next train to come along, boarded it, and rode it back to
Piccadilly.
“Now then, miss. What do you think to that?” Will
asked as we stood safely back on the platform. The con
ductor looked at us oddly.
“You’re quite right; it’s very efficient and not scary at
all,” I said. “But how do I know what train to get on?”
“Right over here on the map.” Will led the way to a
large poster that said

on the top. The map below was traced with colored lines.
“Here we are.” Will pointed to Piccadilly Circus. “The
Bakerloo Railway and the Piccadilly Railway leaves from
this station. Each route has its own color. Piccadilly is yellow; Bakerloo is brown. Where is the studio?”

I put my finger on the map. “Here. It’s not far from South
Kensington.”
“Well then, you’re in luck. It’s a straight shot down the
Piccadilly Railway; only seven stations and you’re there.”
Will traced his finger along the route.
“Yes, I see! That’s quite simple.”
Feeling brave, I bought a weekly season ticket from the
ticket seller. The seller also gave me a pocket map.
We returned to the street and headed back to the Royal
Academy. As we walked, I realized that Will and I were still
holding hands. My hand seemed to fit perfectly inside his.
I found I didn’t want to let go of his hand, but I did so
reluctantly.
“Thank you, Will,” I said. “And I . . . I wanted to talk to
you about last week.”
“Actually, I was going to fall on my sword and apologize
directly I saw you. It was my fault. My mum always says
I’m too hard on the people I care about. So let’s say no more
about it, hey? We have a lot of work today to get you ready
for your submission. How long do we have, actually?”
“I need as much time to draw as I can get, so I’m handing everything in on the last possible day, April thirtieth.
My eighteenth birthday, as it happens.” I was relieved he
had changed the subject. I wasn’t quite sure what I was
going to say to him.
“We’d better concentrate then. No more messing about.”
We went back to the courtyard, and I handed Will the
illustration I had worked on during the week, which I had
encased between two pieces of card to protect it.
He leaned over me to study the picture more closely
That’s when I started feeling anxious again. It was one
thing for someone to look upon my work without me there,
but it was quite another to watch them look upon it. It
always made me feel slightly sick. I always wondered what
they were thinking. Were they trying to work out what to
say to be polite? Could they see all the flaws?
He was so quiet for such a long time that I started to
get nervous. Maybe he didn’t like my rendition of Hoode.
Maybe the politicians were too ridiculous. “I can do another
if . . . if . . . you don’t like that one.”
He jerked his head up. “Another one? No! This is perfect. Hoode’s better than I imagined him. And the lords!
They are so funny in the way you have them ignoring him.
This is better than I’ve seen in any penny dreadful. You are
going to be famous someday; you know that, right? I don’t
just mean with my story, but on your own, too. I can see
people emptying their wallets for a picture of yours.”
“Will, stop. I’m not that good.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. You’re talented.
You’re not changing a thing.” Will slid the picture inside
his jacket pocket. “Now enough of that. Let’s get to work on
your project.”
I found that it was easier to draw Will this time. I felt
more comfortable around him. I supposed the ride on the
Underground helped. And his expression was perfect.
When he looked at me, he had a measure of longing in his
gaze. Just like Lancelot’s when he looked at Guinevere. I
did several studies of his face, and even of his hands.
I spent the day doing exactly what I wanted to do. This
was the life I wanted. No crushingly boring social-etiquette classes to take or deadly dull tea parties or idiotic
social functions to attend. At the end of the afternoon, I
walked down the pavement to join Sophie, and then I
remembered what Will had said earlier.
I’m too hard on the
people I care about.
I stopped and looked back to watch him
weave through the foot traffic.
Will cared about me. The realization filled me with
such happiness that it was all I could do to stop myself from
picking up my skirts and skipping down the pavement.

ATURDAY WAS THE
day of the Boat Race and
I was looking forward to seeing Edmund again.
It was a fine day and a light wind was blowing,
which was a good thing; it wouldn’t be too choppy
out on the Thames for the fragile boats. Sophie and I made

our way to the Westminster School Boat Club, near where
the race would begin, in a chauffeur-driven motorcar
Edmund had sent to the house. We were to meet India and
her French lady’s maid there, and then cheer Edmund on at
the start at Putney Bridge, and then be driven in the motor
to Hammersmith Bridge, midway point of the race, and
finally to the end at Chiswick Bridge.

Edmund, in his dark-blue uniform, looked as handsome
as ever. When we arrived, he was with several of his teammates, standing in a cluster round their boat. But seeing us,
he broke away from the group and came over.

India kissed Edmund on the cheek. “I wish you the
best of luck,” she said. “But I’m absolutely gasping for a
lemonade. Come along, ladies, let’s leave Miss Darling and
Edmund alone.” India gave Edmund a pointed look, and
she and the two lady’s maids went off and joined the queue
in front of a refreshment stand.

“Are you nervous at all?” I said, casting about for something to say. Even though I was glad to see Edmund, I still
felt somewhat tongue-tied in front of him after that disastrous dinner two weeks ago.

He leaned back against the low wall that bordered
the river, drumming his fingers against the stone. “Not at
all. We have a superb team this year. Cambridge hasn’t a
chance. Don’t tell my father, but I have a little wager riding on the outcome.” He grinned sheepishly. “Can’t make a
leopard change his spots, as it goes.”

I laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Say, this probably isn’t the right time, but I have something for you. If I don’t give it to you now, I’m afraid I’ll
lose it. I’m daft that way.” He reached into his pocket and
drew out a small velvet box. He opened it and removed
an enormous sapphire-and-diamond ring. He lifted my left
hand and slid it onto the third finger. “Your engagement
ring.” The sapphire was oval and set with a trio of square
diamonds on either side.
“Oh!” I didn’t know why I was so surprised that Edmund
would give me a ring, but all of a sudden the engagement
seemed so very real.
“Is it all right?” Edmund pulled my hand toward him
and peered at the ring, as if seeing it for the first time. He
looked up at me quizzically. I couldn’t help but think how
the sapphires matched his eyes. They were both a perfect
ultramarine blue. “Mother said girls love sapphires and
diamonds.”
“Oh. No. I mean, yes, of course. It’s lovely.”
“It’s official, then.”
“Yes,” I said faintly. “I suppose it is.”
“Jolly good. I suppose I can stop calling you Miss
Darling now. And you should call me Edmund.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I’d better get back to my mates or they’ll think I’ve lost
my nerve and jumped ship.” Edmund kissed my cheek and
then ran down the towpath to his teammates, who welcomed him with hearty slaps on the back.
I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. I held my hand
out in front of me. The jewels sparkled in the sunshine.
The ring was pretty—beautiful even—but it wasn’t me. It
looked wrong. It felt wrong.
What was I doing, marrying someone I didn’t love, like
some old-fashioned Victorian girl? I felt claustrophobic,
just as I had when I’d worn my mother’s gown. I looked
around. There were too many people here.
I just wish I
could go home.
The ladies came back, and India handed me a glass
of lemonade. I reached to take it, and she saw the ring.
She squealed. “He gave it to you? Oh, it’s beautiful, Miss
Darling.”
I smiled and nodded. I took a sip of the lemonade, hiding my face in the glass.
A girl in a striped tailor-made and boater hat came over
and started talking to India. Grateful for the distraction, I
turned away from the two. Sophie caught my eye.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Something’s the matter. You’re pale as death, Miss
Darling,” she said.
“It’s nothing, Sophie. I’m quite well, really.”
Sophie looked at me doubtfully.
India came back, hooked her arm through mine, and
began to chatter away about the race, but I was barely able
to take in what she was saying.
We returned to the motorcar, and the chauffeur drove
us through the crowded streets to Putney Bridge. We found
an empty space near the embankment wall to watch. The
ring felt heavy and cold on my finger. I could not stop twisting it around and around, trying to find a better fit. I caught
Sophie looking at me, so I stopped and tried to concentrate
on the race.
Since Oxford had won the toss of the sovereign coin, the
team picked the north station on the Middlesex side of the
river, which had the advantage on the first and last bends,
leaving the south station on the Surrey side for Cambridge.
The two teams rowed downstream for a bit, warming up.
Then the boats’ coxes raised their arms while the teams
got into position, lining up with the University Stone on
the south bank. The umpire waved a red flag, starting the
race. Edmund’s boat got off the mark quickly, rowing to the
center of the river, where the fastest water was.
When the boats disappeared round the bend, we got
back into the motorcar to follow the race farther. Oxford
was ahead at Hammersmith Bridge, which boded well, the
driver told us; most boats ahead there went on to win the
race.
As we reached Chiswick Bridge we saw, turning the
bend at Watney’s Brewery, the dark-blue uniforms of the
Oxford crew, at least a boat’s length ahead. Cambridge
caught them up as the two teams pressed for the finish,
just before the bridge. I saw Edmund, pulling at his oar,
perfectly in synch with his teammates, his brow damp, his
jaw tight. The coxswain, sitting in the bow, shouted at the
team through his bullhorn. The tip of the boat surged past
Cambridge’s, and they won in nineteen minutes and five
seconds, breaking Cambridge’s three-year winning streak.
When the crew stepped ashore, a crush of spectators
surrounded them. India grabbed my hand, and I tripped
along behind her as she rushed up to greet her brother
Edmund saw us and pressed through the crowd.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You were brilliant. I’m so
glad I was here to watch you. Well done, you!”
But my words sounded false. It was as if someone else
were speaking them, as if I had become some other version
of myself.
I could not sleep that night. My mind kept going over
and over my reaction to the ring like a stuck disc record on
a gramophone.
Somewhere close to midnight I finally put it down
to nerves. I was nervous. How could I not be? After all, I
hadn’t wanted to become engaged in the first place, and it
would take some getting used to. I did not love Edmund, but
I hadn’t known him that long. Affection would take time to
build as we came to know each other better. I just needed
to concentrate on my work and let the rest sort itself out.