That Summer: A Novel (29 page)

About two-thirds of the way in, a name leapt out at Julia.
We had guests for dinner tonight! They were all artists who had come to call on Papa and see his
—the words blurred there, but the next line was clear enough.
There were three of them: Mr. Rozzetty, Mr. Thorn, and Mr. Fotheringay-Vaughn. Mr. F-V was quite elegant and more like a fine gentleman than an artist.

Jackpot.

Julia sat down on the floor next to the bed, in a dusty little nook between cardboard boxes, drawing her legs up to her chest as she read.

Aunt Jane was very cross at not having been told there would be that many for dinner, but the rest of us were very glad for the company.
Mr. F-V was particularly amusing.

Julia checked the date on the entry.
February 1849.

She went back and read the rest of the entry, more carefully this time. It was mostly about Mr. F-V. Mr. F-V’s witty stories, Mr. F-V’s cunning watch fob, Mr. F-V’s pretty compliments; at least, Evangeline thought they were compliments (was there anything more tedious than a teenager’s
does he like me?
), but the evidence was there, Mr. Thorn and Mr. Rozzetty, in the house, in early 1849.

It was kind of amazing to think that Dante Gabriel Rossetti—it had to be Rossetti—had eaten in Julia’s dining room.

Evangeline was disparaging of both Rossetti and Thorne. Rossetti went on and on about art, and Thorne was very quiet and when he did speak spoke only of serious things, which was really very tedious and made Aunt Jane cross, although Mama seemed to find it interesting.

“Julia?”

The sound of her name made Julia’s head jerk up. Knocked 160-odd years out of the past, it took her a moment to focus her bleary eyes on the strange man in the doorway.

“Wha—oh, hi.” She scrubbed the hair back from her face with a grimy hand. “What’s up?”

“Success,” Nick said with great satisfaction. He rested a hand against the doorframe. From Julia’s position on the floor, he seemed to be about ten feet high. “In 1849, Arthur Grantham paid one Gavin Thorne the lordly sum of twenty guineas for painting a portrait of his wife.”

Julia stretched her cramped legs out in front of her. Her brain felt muddled, still half in Evangeline Grantham’s diary. “Lordly?” she echoed.

“Not really.” Nick was clearly on a high. He paced in a little circle between the boxes. “Twenty guineas was a fair amount of money in those days, but much less than you’d find spent on comparable paintings. It seems like Grantham got Thorne at fire-sale rates. Struggling artist, grateful for patronage, needing to eat…”

Julia rubbed the grit out of her eyes. “But that’s the portrait. What about
Tristan and Iseult
?”

“Nothing,” Nick admitted. “At least, yet. I checked Grantham’s account books from 1848 to 1852. No more mention of Thorne. If Grantham did commission that painting, he paid him under the table.”

“So, basically,” said Julia, her voice rusty, “we still have no idea how the Tristan and Iseult painting got here. Or why it was in the back of my wardrobe.”

“But we do have something linking Thorne to the household. And you, dear girl, have not one Gavin Thorne painting, but two.”

“You are a poet and you did not know it,” murmured Julia. “Sorry. Getting a little slaphappy here.”

Unsteadily, she levered herself to her feet, one hand on the old bed frame, the other still holding the diary. Her limbs felt old and creaky.

Nick nodded at the book in her hand. “What’s that?”

“This?” Julia couldn’t help herself. She gave a nonchalant little wave. “It’s a diary.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. But it’s not Imogen’s,” she added quickly. “It’s her stepdaughter’s. And, yes, Gavin Thorne was here. Don’t get too excited. She mentions Thorne only in passing. It’s typical teenager stuff. She’s mostly interested in the things that directly concern her. New dresses. Her first big crush … Who, by the way, is another painter.”

Nick perked up. “Does she say who the other painter might be?”

“Augustus something-or-other. Sorry,” Julia said as Nick’s face fell. “Not Rossetti or any of the big names. Although Rossetti was here for dinner.” The thought of it still gave her a thrill. “Here.” She handed the diary over, open to the relevant page.

“Hmm,” said Nick, rapidly skimming. “At least her handwriting is reasonably tidy. Although her prose style appears rather … overwrought.”

“Teenager,” said Julia succinctly. “Teenager
and
Victorian. Bring out your italics.” The last word was slightly muffled by a massive yawn.

Nick lowered the book and looked at her with a professional eye. “You’re done in.”

“It’s only—” Julia checked her watch. No. That had to be a mistake. On the other hand, no wonder her legs hurt. “Is it really three thirty?”

“Sadly, yes.” Nick relinquished the diary, stretching his arms up over his head, narrowly missing the single, hanging bulb. “And I should be going home.”

Julia tucked the diary under her arm. “You’re welcome to stay here.” Realizing how it sounded, she hastily added, “It’s not like there’s any shortage of empty bedrooms. You can take your pick.”

Empty bedrooms. Empty beds. Nothing suggestive there.

Nick pondered. Probably, thought Julia, trying to find a tactful way to turn her down.

She was on the verge of rescinding her offer—to save awkwardness all around—when he said, “Thanks. You don’t happen to have a spare toothbrush, have you?”

Herne Hill, 1849

The next time Evie left to call on Eliza Cranbourne, Imogen followed.

She watched from the window as Evie left by the front door, properly attired in a prim walking dress, and then, checking carefully to make sure that no one was watching, feinted left, around the side of the house.

Imogen ran lightly down the stairs, not pausing to collect her gloves and bonnet. Part of her was appalled at herself, snooping and spying like—like Jane. She had tried, half a dozen times over the past few days, to elicit confidences from Evie, to lead her gently to discussing the matter. Evie had said nothing.

Imogen had, she realized in despair, made the cardinal error of treating her stepdaughter as more of a friend than a child. She had never made any efforts to exert any discipline, preferring to be a playfellow rather than a parent. Yes, Evie loved her, but when she made any effort to speak to her seriously Evie only smiled and kissed her lightly on the cheek and did not heed her.

She could tell Arthur, she supposed, but at that Imogen’s spirit rebelled. No. Better to nip the affair in the bud with the minimum embarrassment to Evie and no one else the least the wiser. They would laugh about this together someday, Imogen told herself firmly as she reached for the door that led out into the garden, someday when Evie was safely settled with a young husband who adored her and children of her own and Augustus Fotheringay-Vaughn just a childish fancy, the bloom long since worn off.

As Arthur might have been, had Imogen heeded her own father’s counsel.

“Where are you off to?” Imogen started as a voice spoke sharply from behind her.

It was Jane, standing in the doorway of the morning room, her embroidery hoop in her hand.

“I’m—taking a walk.” She wasn’t going to betray Evie to Jane. Jane would go straight to Arthur. She smiled determinedly at Jane. “It’s such a fine day.”

Jane regarded her narrowly. “You’ve been taking a number of walks recently. You should watch where you go. People might start to talk.”

“Yes, well, it is quite good for the constitution. You might want to try it.” Imogen hastily opened the door, although not in time to miss Jane’s parting shot.

“Unlike some people, I prefer to stay close to home.”

Yes, someone else’s home. It was a churlish thought, but it was true. Not for the first time, Imogen wondered how Jane could live as she did, fetching Arthur’s slippers, ordering his household, a perpetual outsider.

Except that she wasn’t, not really. It was Imogen who was the outsider and had been since that first day. She had no more place in Arthur’s household than she had ten years before.

If she were to leave—

Imogen nipped that line of thought before it could go further. She was meant to be looking for Evie. From the direction in which she had been heading, it seemed as though she was heading for the orchard gate, down by the far end of the garden. The very same route Imogen had used in her meetings with Gavin. Why was it that that thought filled her with such distaste?

It was all topsy-turvy. The idea of Evie trysting with Fotheringay-Vaughn filled Imogen with repugnance, and, yet, in the eyes of the world there was nothing so very wrong with two young lovers seeking a stolen moment alone, while there was something very wrong with a married woman meeting her lover. Try as she might, Imogen couldn’t see it that way, though, couldn’t find anything wrong or sordid about the time she spent with Gavin, except for the awful technicality of those marriage lines that bound her to Arthur.

Being with Gavin felt natural, in a way that being with Arthur never had.

It was cold among the trees of the orchard, the air acid with the vinous scent of rotting apples, fallen from the tree to decompose among the yellowing leaves. The smell seemed even more acute than usual; the combination of overripe fruit and rotting leaves made Imogen’s stomach turn. The enchanted season was well and truly over. The few apples that still clung stubbornly to the tree were misshapen and worm-eaten.

Imogen nearly didn’t see them. They had chosen their spot well, hard by the high garden wall, shielded by the gooseberry bushes on one side, by the trees of the orchard on the other. They made a pretty tableau: Fotheringay-Vaughn’s arms about Evie’s waist, her head tipped trustingly up towards his, her blond hair, confined only by a ribbon pulling back the sides, tumbling in curls down her back.

“… soon,” Imogen heard him murmur, his fingers playing with Evie’s curls, his lips by her ear.

Imogen planted herself firmly before them. “What’s all this?” she said sharply.

Her voice acted on them like a pistol shot. The lovers sprang apart. Imogen had the petty satisfaction of seeing Fotheringay-Vaughn skid on a patch of wet leaves before recovering himself with a hand against the rough wood of the wall. He sent her a look of pure hatred.

“Mama!” Evie’s color was high, her eyes bright, but there was no shame in her face, just an expression of exalted consciousness, like Joan of Arc listening to spirits. “You remember Mr. Fotheringay-Vaughn?”

She spoke the name like an incantation, looking at him with worshipful eyes.

“Vividly,” said Imogen quellingly. “What I would like to know is what he is doing in our orchard?”

Evie colored but went on undaunted. “You cannot imagine how I have wanted to tell you! But Augustus … that is, I … thought that perhaps—”

“It would be more conducive to your well-being and good reputation to meet in secret?”

“No! That is—” Evie looked imploringly at Fotheringay-Vaughn.

Fotheringay-Vaughn essayed a bored-looking bow and said in his aristocratic drawl, “Madam, I assure you, my intentions towards your daughter are entirely honorable.”

“That,” said Imogen succinctly, “is precisely what I feared.”

Evie’s brow wrinkled. She stepped forward, holding out her hands in an instinctive gesture of supplication. “It’s true, Mama, really it is. Augustus would never do anything to hurt me. We intend to be married!”

Fotheringay-Vaughn inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Ma’am,” he said.

“Isn’t this rather the wrong venue and audience, then?” asked Imogen pointedly. She directed her questions to Evie! “If all of that is true, why are you meeting in secret rather than in the drawing room? Why doesn’t he go to your father and sue properly for your hand?”

Evie glanced uneasily at Fotheringay-Vaughn but rallied gamely. “We thought Papa might make objection to Augustus’s profession. But once he sees us established in society…”

Imogen looked from Evie to Vaughn. “Established in society? Do you mean you weren’t planning to tell your papa until after you were married?”

Evie looked pleadingly at Imogen. “You know how he can be! I wanted to tell you,” she added disingenuously. “I knew you would understand.”

Imogen’s heart sank. These past years, she had prided herself on, if nothing else, having rescued Evie from the stifling influence of Jane. But what had she really done?

“What I understand,” said Imogen quietly, “is that such a marriage is illegal. He didn’t tell you that, did he? You cannot marry without your father’s consent. Unless you intended to go to Scotland?”

From the quick look that passed between the two of them, she knew that she was right.

That Evie would even think of such a thing—that she could so coolly contemplate an elopement— Even worse, she seemed entirely unaware of the consequences of her actions. She had put herself, wholly and entirely, into Fotheringay-Vaughn’s hands. Even now, she was looking to him, a quick, anxious look. Fotheringay-Vaughn gave a little shake of his head, as if to say,
Never mind all this.

The gesture made Imogen see red. She spoke sharply to Evie. “Didn’t you stop to think that such a betrayal would break your father’s heart?”

“We never meant to distress Papa! Did we, Augustus?” Evie twined her hands together, so painfully, achingly, young and earnest. In slightly muffled tones she said, “I’m sure once Papa saw us moving in society—”

“What society? A sordid rented room in a miserable part of town? Or did your gallant lover intend to apply to your papa for the means of setting himself up in the style he so ardently desires?”

She had the satisfaction of seeing Fotheringay-Vaughn’s lips tighten. But he said nothing.

“Oh, it’s not like that,” Evie said quickly. “Augustus doesn’t need Papa’s money, do you, Augustus? He’s more than enough of his own. His family—”

Imogen couldn’t bear to see Evie deceived so. Gently but firmly, Imogen said, “Dearest, you’ve been fed a passel of lies by a man whose only interest is in your dowry.”

Evie looked at her with wounded eyes. “How can you say such horrid things? Augustus doesn’t need my money! He only paints portraits as a—as a vocation! Not for the money.” She looked to her betrothed. “Tell her, Augustus!”