Girl Reading (19 page)

Your . . . ?

It is a silly pet name, she asked me to call her it once. Maybe the others will follow now, and she will have a semblance of her old life back.

Angelica does not contradict the girl, so youthful and determined.

May I be candid with you? In the days that followed, Maria was completely devastated. It was dreadful to watch, and I . . . I had very bad thoughts. I stayed with her for a while because of it, because I could not shake the suspicions I had. She is my godmother and we are close, but still, it was presumptuous of me. I was overcome by these fears, overwhelmed by them, and I think Mrs. Plett thought the same, although she did not say so. I told myself I would only stay until her friends or relatives came. I ended up staying with her for a long time. No one came.

How did your parents feel?

My mother and father are simple people. They said the countess had shown me many kindnesses. They said I had a duty to help, if I was able to comfort a soul in need.

You shared her burden. That was kind of you.

That was when the portrait of Frances became important to her again. It became an obsession.

It is human nature to want ways of remembering the people we love.

What Muriel says next is hastily thought, hastily shared: Do you think likenesses of departed loved ones possess a special power?

I would have to say yes.

Like heathen idols? When the physical resemblance has been locked in paint or stone, is some aspect of the unique spirit also fixed, also sealed? Is the soul drawn to its image in life like a beacon on the shore?

What makes you ask these questions?

Muriel checks over her shoulder. Because I think, for Maria, the picture has an element of the occult. I think she has some plan for it when it is finished.

Angelica Kauffman decides it would be wise not to dwell on these ideas and leads the conversation away: Did you know Frances well, Muriel?

Yes. And at first I did not like her. Rather, I wanted not to like her. It looked too much to her advantage. With hindsight, I now hold the opinion it was the other way around. Frances tolerated a lot. Maria can be demanding.

Angelica just smiles at this.

Maria may have been the countess, but Frances was definitely the adult. She was a force. Never bitter or resentful, always gentle, always sensitive. Maria seemed, what is the word . . . ? Besotted? No,
smitten.

What made you change your mind about Frances?

She visited me at home, arrived at the doorstep with some strawberries for my parents and one of your engravings for me. In a way, I was smitten as well, because I could see they were the right fit. You will never tell Maria any of this? I would be mortified if she ever found out.

No, I swear it.

I knew you would not be shocked. As an artist, you must be good at reading people. Creativity and perceptiveness are linked, I think. Both require one to see clearly with the mind.

Angelica is surprised by this creature, watches her pick at salad leaves without self-consciousness. What are your passions, Muriel?

Gardens. I like flowers and fruit trees and insects and earth and birds. The way it is all interconnected, a balancing act. I like the way everything gives something back. Maria’s garden is wonderful. I spent a lot of time in it as a child. I shall have my own garden one day; it is what I require from a prospective husband.

You cannot be thinking of marriage already?

Muriel shrugs. Perhaps you will introduce me to a wealthy bachelor when I come to London?

There are plenty. Not all are desirable mates, and competition for the best prizes is fierce.

I do not need a prize for a spouse, only a man who is sensible and friendly and has a simply enormous garden that is mine to do whatever I like with. That is not too much to ask, is it?

Are you prepared to leave your home?

I shall have to one day.

The wind quickens, making both women shiver.

Muriel points: Look at that! Coward is dragging a stick in his mouth that is obviously too big for him. Enjoy it while you can, because you are not taking it back with you. Silly beast. Shall we pack this away?

I might get some work done, if we go back.

Do you know if Mrs. Plett has made a cake today? I think I will ask.

Muriel carries the rug over her shoulder and they each take a handle of the basket.

We called this “Jack and Jill” when I was little. (Muriel recites the nursery rhyme, which Angelica has not heard before, and makes Angelica do one in the German dialect of her childhood.) It was Penelope, by the way. The print Frances gave me.
Penelope at the Loom.
I look at it every day.

What am I doing, Frances? Caught up in the moment, giddy and—this is awful. No one will come, or if they do it will be out of morbid curiosity. I have forgotten how, what to do and say.

The way Muriel gasps at the suggestion, the reaction, yes, it makes me melt. Seeing the glow of pleasure. Giving her a reason to stay several nights with us, helping to plan it. That is why, I know it, of course.

I say that I can send someone with a message to her father’s house requesting his permission and to collect anything she needs.

She exclaims, Oh, let the theme be
Angelicamad
!

Angelica is mortified, but accepts gracefully. Then Muriel runs to find Mrs. Plett, hungry for cake.

When we are alone, Angelica asks me, Does she know? That you are her mother?

I reply that Muriel is an innocent. Or maybe I do not say it aloud.

Muriel opened my eyes. You showed me the sky.

The ballroom is lit by tiny lights and swathed with curtains. Statues, objects, and plinths are arranged like a set for a play—Roman ruins, or Atlantis to Muriel’s fertile mind. Pagan gods gleam and cast shadows.

But the incomplete portrait of Frances will not be displayed.

To avoid the expense of entertaining society and the inevitable flurry of refusals, guests have been chosen for their youth or for previous kindnesses or because they are admirers of the arts, and, in a few rare cases, because they were once friends of both Maria and Frances together. They mostly accept. Maria is still a countess, after all; Muriel has a knack for galvanizing the mannered young people of their parish; and the draw of Angelica’s fame certainly swells the numbers. Assistance comes from Maria’s uncle in the form of carriages and servants, gifts of sugared sweets arrive that supplement the repast. Muriel and Duncan gather peonies, gladioli, lilies, carnations, roses, poppies to make delicate and glorious arrangements, as though the garden has come indoors smelling delicious and wet. Maria finds she has little to do, with Mrs. Plett attending to the practicalities, and Muriel and Angelica taking care of the aesthetics. Her idleness compounds her anxiety. Your job is to thank people, Angelica reminds her.

The musicians strike up. The guests mingle, greet and compliment
one another, dashing praises for healthful complexions and ingenious ensembles. The spectacle of the fancy dress. Some have gone to great lengths: crowns, masks, flora, instruments, weapons, and puppets. The company in the ballroom includes Mark Antony in a bedsheet toga, Cleopatra with a crepe-paper asp, Queen Eleanor, Cordelia, Prospero in emerald robes, carrying a carved staff, Socrates in a horsehair beard, Troilus and Cressida, Ulysses, the Muses and allegories, a bevy of nymphs. A minority have resisted the impulse, dress conventionally or incorporate a single salient detail denoting their character. A woman who has brought an apple with her explains she is Aphrodite after the judgment of Paris; a priggish gentleman is dressed as “a lord,” one of Miss Kauffman’s many portraits, he says, though is vague about which one. Muriel is most pleased with her costume, for she has come as a self-portrait, Angelica lending her one of her own exotic outfits; she proudly carries a palette and brush.

Among the gathering are Maria’s second son, Augustus, and her daughter-in-law, Harriet.

It is wonderful to see you both.

He kisses her hand.

How well you look, Mother.

Thank you. How are my grandchildren?

Harriet replies, A handful. They have sent you their love, and these letters and tokens . . . She gives a little bundle tied in pink ribbons to Maria.

There is a pause. Harriet raises her brows at her husband. He coughs.

Mother, it occurs to me you have not seen the girls for some time, and how nice it would be if you deigned to stay with us . . . (That appears to be his whole speech: either he has not prepared or cannot remember the rest.)

The daughter-in-law takes the initiative: The children would
be very pleased, you would be welcome to come whenever you liked, either to the country or to town. If you had other appointments to keep in London, then a visit might be of particular benefit?

Maria wavers, promises to give it some consideration.

The rhythms and swirls of conversations, the swish and ruffle of gowns, the fragrance of hairstyles and snap of fans, the pounding of feet and the shower of clapping at the end of each dance. Muriel leads a game of Bluff—the blindfold is tied on her first, and she is turned and turned, hands outstretched, giggles and jibes until she catches a young man (he does not try hard to evade her), then he is It and the game goes on.

Muriel flops next to her godmother, catches her breath from laughing hard, her hands over the twinges.

Is this what you wanted, my girl?

You have not called me that in a long time. Yes, it is splendid, perfect. Do you like it?

Maria kisses the young woman, uplifted to have given her something she enjoys, thankful there is at least this much beauty in the world. And so the party continues, peaks, and peters out—warm-blooded jolly tipsy noisy fatigued. The chatter fades, the mood dims, the music concludes; they bid good night, the candles are snuffed out.

Angelica is to be found in the orangery early.

I wanted to finish this.

Maria is disheveled and bleary, stands behind the artist to inspect the picture.

You have put a book on the table. One of these? She picks up a poet.

Writers are readers.

* * *

Initially Angelica refuses Miss Wheatley’s book.

I said I would accept no payment.

A gift then, from one friend to another, as you have done for me, Miss Angel.

Angelica is uneasy about leaving, repeats her invitation for both Maria and Muriel to visit her in London. They embrace.

Maria waves at the departing carriage; Angelica’s hand is visible waving back until the horses turn down the lane.

Maria pulls her tippet around her against the morning, walks to keep warm, follows Coward between the flower beds and high hedges, his tail disappearing through the rose arch. Sitting on the bench within is Frances in her red and black riding habit, a writing board and pen in her lap.

I am sorry. I do not mean to disturb you.

Frances sets the tools down by her feet, scoops the dog into her lap: You are not.

Maria sits by her, tears sliding down her face; how easily they fall: Why did you not come before?

I came when you called me. You waited for Angelica and Muriel to go home, you waited for Mrs. Plett’s sister to get ill so she went to her bedside, you waited until you and I would be entirely alone.

I am so glad to see you.

Yet you did not ask for me until now.

Where have you been?

Here. Nearby. Nowhere.

You are angry with me? You
are
angry with me! Why are you angry with me? This is your doing. You have done this to us, it is your fault.

Stop it, Maria.

Look at me—look at what you have done. I am a wreck, an invalid, I am broken into pieces.

You know I never chose this, so why do you insist that I did? What is it about being abandoned that pleases you? I treasured every second we had. I would not willingly have given you up. I fought to stay alive, and it is hateful to imply that I did not. Sometimes love is not enough to bind us to the world. What is beautiful may also be finite. It is written:
The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.

Well,
you
were the one who was taken away, not the one who was left behind! Maria gasps, hardly composes herself . . . I changed everything for you, Frances.

Yes, you did.

You did not have to beg me or argue with me. I did it because I wanted to.

Yes, you did.

It is mortally unfair that what we had, what we made, was ripped from us.

Yes, it is.

You were the strong one, Frances, I was never made for this.

Then pray tell me, what were you made for, Maria?

To spend my youth and fulfill my duties, and after I met you my purpose was to love you.

Is that your purpose still?

More than ever.

A ladybird lands on Frances’s skirt. She lets it crawl onto the tip of her gloved finger and fly away.

I know that you hide my writings in your bedroom with a loaded pistol and a bottle of gin. Were you waiting for the portrait to be completed so my face would be the last sight you saw in this life?

And the first in the next.

Is this how you love me, Maria? Forlornly and destructively?

I have this pain, Frances, or I have nothing. I have told you enough times.

Does the painting resemble me, I wonder?

It is at once a pale reflection and speaks the truth.

Frances presses her temple, thinks. Maria, I shall speak the truth to you now. I shall tell you what I would have done if it had been the other way around. I would have mourned you desperately. I would have grown sick, I would tear my hair out and not sleep, I would weep and wail and despair and long for death and lament that it had been this way and not different, and scream until the ceiling fell in. I would break every glass within reach and knock over furniture and throw objects just to watch them smash. I would rage, I would blame you for leaving me, I would consider diving into a swift river or drinking poison. I would be shattered, I would be defeated, I would be mad, I would be the undead. And then, then—
the following day
, I would look into the glass and begin the process of healing. I would . . . devise a tour with Muriel, yes, that is what I would do, to London to begin with, and the friends and relatives who will have us. She is a young woman who deserves the advantages that being introduced into society can give, and perhaps under my guidance I can help find a suitable path for her. Share what small seeds of wisdom I have acquired. Bath next, then Europe. It would enrich her.