Shooting Butterflies (25 page)

We are on the floor, eye to eye, and something small and tight loosens within me. He smiles, a little sadly, and straightens, his hand held out. I allow him to pull me to my feet. ‘I'm sorry, Arthur.' Before I know it my eyes brim with tears. ‘I get these black thoughts; they scare me. I behave badly, I know I do. And I love you so much. You're so good to me. You've given me,' my gesture takes in the room, the golden child within, the pretty dress I am wearing, the pretty woman he thinks me to be, ‘
everything
.'

His lips move downwards in concern but not before I glimpse the slight smile in his eyes. ‘There, there, don't upset yourself.' He pats me on the cheek. ‘Just try and be more mindful of my needs in the future. You know how I have only now got my confidence back after that dreadful fallow period. It's something altogether new to me, not being able to work, feeling that the fire has cooled and fearing, dreading, Louisa, dreading, that it might have died for good. I'm not saying that this had anything to do with your presence in my life, although the tensions you create at times can be very wearing. But without my work, Louisa, I might as well be dead. Dead, do you hear? And now I am feeling better, you seem at times to go out of your way to upset me. It's not what I expected, Louisa.' Following his little speech he walks to the door. His steps are light. He turns in the doorway and his face has relaxed. ‘Don't forget our guests. They are asked for twelve o'clock. It would be a nice surprise for me to see you there on time and with a smile.'

I dress for luncheon, weighed down by guilt. According to my husband, I create tension, upset the equilibrium of the household, endanger his art. I stand in front of the glass and stare at my wretched reflection. Was it really so? Had my uneasy presence stopped him from working? I, who loved him? I, who wanted to understand his work? What kind of a woman did that make me? An ungrateful one, and a failure. I had set out to be his love, his friend and his inspiration; mine would be the calm spirit reigning in his house, making it a haven of solace for his tumultuous soul. I would be the softness where Lydia had been harsh; the quiet light
where she had been blinding. Instead, I am just another shrill voice in the cacophony around him. How had I got it so wrong? At times he called me sharp and crass; at others a moping dragging thing. But he is the moody one. Of course, with Arthur the cause and the justification is the artistic temperament. I raise my hands to my throbbing temples. Thoughts rush round my head colliding with each other. It was wrong of him to lay the dark clouds at my door. I was mostly even-tempered. Maybe not inside, but I took great pains not to let him know. It is as if, when looking at me, he sees himself reflected – his bad temper, his despondency, his petulance – and thinks it is me.

‘Your husband has recommended an excellent teacher for Viola,' Lady Glastonbury is saying.

‘Teacher, Lady Glastonbury, what kind of teacher?'

‘For Viola's painting.' She looks across the table at Arthur, her smile approving, warm, grateful. ‘He has arranged for wonderful Monsieur Grandjean to come to the house two afternoons a week. Derek has had a little studio built just for the purpose.'

‘Yes, Arthur, you have been most helpful.' Viola is sincere but as always her eyes seem to be laughing as if at a joke of which only she is aware. I want to see what she sees through those merry eyes, but I'm too big – galumphing, Arthur says, in jest of course. Sitting there at the table I have a vision of myself galloping across a field with a net held high, like an inept butterfly catcher, chasing Viola's elusive jokes, and I begin to laugh. Everyone turns to look at me.

‘Is something amusing you, Louisa?' Lydia's question is phrased like a reproach.

‘I'm sorry.' I make my face placid, my voice soft. ‘I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about something that … that Georgie said.'

‘Why don't you join me for my lessons?' Viola asks me. ‘I would love some company and I believe you have an eye. I have admired your flowers on many occasions.'

Lydia's face assumes a look as if the maid had just spilt gravy down her best silk frock. ‘Are you sure it's not Jane's arrangements you've noticed?'

Viola turns and looks at Jane Dale who sits so quietly at her end of the table. ‘I'm sure Jane has excellent taste but I believe I am thinking of Louisa's flowers, the colours she uses. I myself would never have thought of putting such combinations into the same arrangement but when Louisa does it it looks like it is the only way.'

‘I would hold you back,' I tell her. ‘I haven't picked up a brush or a piece of charcoal since I was a girl at school.'

‘You will be fine, Louisa. And anyway, mine is a very small talent, really a facility more than anything.'

‘Don't do yourself down, Viola,' my husband says. ‘Claude Grandjean tells me your watercolours of the gardens at Horton Hall are quite charming.' He spears a piece of mutton on his fork as he looks at me. ‘Why don't you take Viola up on her invitation, Louisa? It would do you good to get out of the house. There, I think it's a capital idea.'

‘Don't you think it's enough with one artist in the family?' I ask, but I feel happier suddenly.

‘I don't know that we shall consider you an artist quite yet, Louisa,' Arthur says, but he is smiling, well fed and benevolent.

‘Then yes, if you are sure, Viola, I should love to join you.' I turn to my husband. ‘And, Arthur, I shall have a much better understanding of your work as a result. I might be of real use.'

He wipes his mouth. ‘You're getting ahead of yourself, Louisa. One step at a time and then we shall see.'

I don't know what gets into me at times; I drop my knife and fork on to my plate, the heat rising in my cheeks. ‘Why do you always have to slap me down, Arthur, the moment I feel some enthusiasm?'

Arthur is angry, throwing words at me over his shoulder as he strides off towards the studio. He tells me I put on a performance to embarrass him in front of his guests. I note that he says
his
guests. I follow him, anxious to explain that it is hurt that makes me say those things, not spite, and that the last thing I wish to do is to embarrass him. ‘Arthur dear, wait.'

‘I've said my piece.'

I catch up with him and place my hand on his sleeve. He
halts. If he were a statue I would name it
Impatience
. ‘Yes, speak.'

I let my hand drop. ‘No, you go. It's nothing.'

I am alone in my room, reading by the open window, when Arthur steps inside, having knocked first. He has made an effort to wash the paint from his hands and face and his hair is slicked down and wet still. But for the beard he looks like a little boy who knows he has upset you but is also aware that he need do very little to be forgiven. I try to remain stern.

‘Louisa.' He steps towards me, both hands outstretched. ‘Louisa, my temperamental little wife.' He takes my hands and smiles down at me, amused and loving. My head spins with this sudden turnaround. ‘I should be more understanding of my little girl's moods and fancies.' His smile is rueful. I smile back at him and my cheeks turn hot as he takes me in his arms and waltzes me round the bedroom singing:

Dance little doll, dance while you can,
Dance little doll while you're young,
For soon you'll be old and so heavy.
Dance little doll, dance while you're young and lovely,
Because soon you'll be old and have no one to dance with.

In his light I felt as if I was painted bright. I look at myself in the glass after he has gone. ‘Why, Louisa, you're quite the beauty.'

When you touch Arthur he is always warm; even in winter with the fire cold in the grate. But he is wanted in so many places. He is constantly on the move, and I'm left shivering in his shadow.

Viola is making good progress, delighting Monsieur Grandjean with her neatness and her delicate colours. My work pleases him less.

‘Too much colour.' He peers over my shoulder at the easel. ‘Too much wildness. This is crudeness, Madame. You go over lines and use these colours as if they were oils. But these are watercolours;
water
, Madame. They should be applied with the light hand. Look at Miss Viola, how delicate is her work, how right for a lady to paint.'

I can see from Viola's profile that she is trying not to laugh. ‘But, Monsieur Grandjean, this is what I see.' I point out at the gardens. ‘How can I paint it otherwise? Look at the borders out there and you'll see that I'm right. Those plants might look so neat, so groomed and staked, but look again and you will see how they struggle to get free from the wire and how they clamber over the edges of the borders in their eagerness to escape.'

Monsieur Grandjean sighs and shrugs. I don't believe he's paid to work too hard with us. He contents himself with saying that my eyes must be very different from his, if that is what I see when gazing out at the immaculate gardens of Northbourne Manor.

Viola and I take tea together after the lesson. It pleases Arthur that I have become friends with Miss Glastonbury and it surprises him. He would deny it, of course, but I know he asks himself why would someone as jolly, as well connected, as spoilt for choice as Viola Glastonbury choose his poor Louisa as her companion.

‘Your landscapes
are
strange,' Viola says. ‘What a frightening world you see. And yet beautiful too.' Her smile turns mischievous as she asks, ‘So what about me, how do I look through those strange eyes of yours?'

I pause to study her; teasing because I know her face well enough already. ‘Pure,' I say finally. ‘Good and kind. And beautiful.' Viola laughs but she is blushing. ‘Yellow,' I add, ‘and bright pink and orange.'

‘Yellow and pink and orange? You're mad!'

She is laughing still, but I look back at her, serious. ‘Don't say that.'

‘Oh Louisa, darling, it's only a figure of speech.'

‘I know. But sometimes I wonder.' I look up at her and she returns my gaze, steady and kind. ‘Oh Viola, do you ever feel so sad, so heavy with sorrow, so sick of being you, that it's all you can do not to fall to the ground and slip deep into the earth?'

‘No. No, Louisa, I don't.' She leans forward across the table with its pretty embroidered cloth and puts her small soft hand on mine. ‘Who makes you feel that way?'

‘That's just it; I do. It's all me. But there are times too when I feel as if I have special gifts, as if I can see and hear and understand the world like no one else, or I would, if only I could catch the
thoughts that race through my mind. But they move at such a speed all I ever catch is the echo. I run, Viola, I run and sometimes I get so close that I see the very gates of heaven about to open before me. But I never get there in time.'

Viola keeps her hand on mine. ‘I think you live in an unkind household.'

I stare at her. ‘But Arthur is the kindest man. Although I know he doesn't always seem that way. And he's given me my son. No one loves you the way your child does. It makes me weep sometimes, when I look into those eyes of his and know that I'm the most precious thing in this world to him and he to me.'

‘Why should that make you weep?'

‘Because what if we should lose each other? And because my love is destined to last whereas his will weaken as his world grows. With each year and with each new door he opens it's bound to weaken; that's nature's way.'

Viola has withdrawn her hand and is pouring us both another cup of tea scented with rose petals. She dries the petals herself and mixes them with the ordinary leaves from the grocer in the village. ‘You have a bleak view of life.'

‘It's what I see.' It's my turn to lean close and take her hand. ‘Do you know, the odd thing is I wouldn't want to swap. That's what I mean when I think I might be mad; I can hate myself and feel a sadness so profound I fear nothing can banish it, yet I am glad I'm me because I feel that one day that view will be my very saviour. Oh, I know that sounds contradictory.' I look away, laugh to lighten the mood. ‘I have no idea how I shall accomplish this. I was never any good at music. I've tried my hand at poetry but my work made me blush and giggle with its earnest pretensions. I do love to paint, but look what happens: my work does not delight the eye and inspire the soul.' I look at her and burst out laughing. ‘It repels.'

‘It doesn't repel me,' Viola says. ‘But maybe if you want an audience you need to learn from men like your husband and our monsieur how to please.'

‘But I never know what I am
meant
to do and that's when Monsieur Grandjean gets impatient with me. It's as if I'm following
some rhythm in my head towards a clear goal and then, when I look at what I have achieved, I see the faulty proportions and the childish lines and lack of detail and I understand the poor man's frustration.'

‘Maybe you should concentrate on your drawing skills for now,' Viola says. ‘You have the heart for the work; all you need is for your hand to catch up.'

I tell Arthur what Viola has said and he agrees with her about the need for me to pay more attention to my drawing techniques. ‘Even a hobby is worth taking seriously,' he says. ‘And if you are intent on improving you have to heed the advice of those who know better. Unless of course you belong to the school of thought so fashionable in some circles that all that matters is expressing yourself with no more skill than a child let loose with his brushes.'

‘No, no, of course I want to learn. But Arthur, don't you feel sometimes that the essence of a thing can get buried under too much attention to its exact appearance?'

‘I don't think I follow you, Louisa. Surely it's by the skilled and artful portrayal of your subject that you shall reach its essence. Or maybe you are an admirer of Surrealism? Maybe you yearn to follow the style of Señor Dali? Or maybe you believe that you will understand a person better if you paint him with one eye and four ears and a mouth the size of a cavern?'