A Mad, Wicked Folly (20 page)

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

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.

“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 sitting 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.

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.

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 absentmindedly, 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, then
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 sweated 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
and to work the
portrait stall at the Women’s Exhibition in mid-May
.
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 for a moment. “And they don’t take
many women there. They look for anything to disqualify
women applicants.”
“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 did I think I
was?
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.

HE 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 vestibule, 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 navyblue tailor-made, a hopeful look on her face. We nodded to
each other in passing, but she looked as wary as I did, for
we were competition for each other. The boys 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 he 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.