The Glass Painter's Daughter (11 page)
I studied the faces on the cartoon, the carefully drawn features, the attention paid to details of light and shadow. The joyful light in the Virgin’s eyes was reflected in her child’s, and I marvelled at the artist’s ability to recreate emotion. Carefully I folded up both drawings and replaced them in their respective files. Then I continued my search for the angel. In the foolscap file where I’d found the
Virgin and Child
vidimus there were several letters, bills and lists of materials relating to that window, but nothing for the angel. It was frustrating. Still, these would help illuminate the artist’s processes with the angel, which we would need to follow.
I took Laura Brownlow’s journal down to the living room. There I foraged in the bureau for Dad’s magnifying glass and sat down to read once more. Laura wrote so vividly it was hard to remember that everything had happened over a hundred years before. I could almost imagine I was there…
Sunday, 15 February 1880
Oh, that you were here, Caroline. We would have shared such confidences, for I have received my first proposal of marriage! But, Caro, I’ve said him nay, for I cannot love him nor indeed feel any affection towards him at all. He is Mr Anthony Bond–Papa’s lawyer, you might remember–a gentleman of distinction and property with, Mama assures me, distant connections to the Dukes of Norfolk! (So distant, it seems I require opera glasses to see them!)
I shall explain exactly how it came about. Such a surprise, for Mr Bond had passed no hint of his intentions towards me. He took luncheon with us on Friday and that same evening Papa told me the man intended to take tea with us on Sunday, that he wished particularly to speak to me and I should think most seriously about his purpose.
It never crossed my mind that his frequent excuses to visit our house should have anything to do with me. His countenance rarely betrays any emotion except embarrassment. Believe me when I say I imagined he merely wished to discuss a book I’d lent him.
After he arrived, Mama excused herself and we were left alone together in the drawing room. He seemed quite agitated, spilling his tea in his saucer. I reached to take the cup from him, but instead he clasped my outstretched hand and growled, ‘Oh, Miss Brownlow, Laura,’ in such a strange, squeaky voice that I was frightened and snatched away my hand. We both sat staring at one another in horror. Then he cleared his throat in that nervous way he has and whispered, ‘Did your father not give you any intimation of my intentions?’ and I shook my head, suddenly realising what he meant.
Blood rushed to his face. ‘I had hoped…’ he said, but I read terror in his features.
‘No, Mr Bond, pray say no more. It cannot be!’ I cried out in my panic. I was furious with Papa and Mama for not preparing me, and so it was worse for poor Mr Bond than it might have been.
I thought I would feel elated to have had my first proposal–do you remember how we talked about how it might be? Instead I feel sad. I have caused Mr Bond misery, though the fault is not mine. I never sought his attentions.
Monday, 16 February
I have finally begun the new tale. The young woman is an orphan and marries a young man for love–he believing, it turns out falsely, that she is independently wealthy. When he learns that her estate is entailed and he may not touch the money, he abandons her and she loses her position in society. I have yet to establish how matters should proceed, but I wish her to fashion her own life in the face of public condemnation.
Wednesday, 18 February
We returned from dinner with George and Harriet last evening to discover a terrible scene. Mrs Jorkins was disputing with a drunken man who, it transpired, was the mysterious Mr Cooper. Do you recall that I told you about the Coopers? It’s so sad. The baby has died and the doctor has despatched poor Molly Cooper to the hospital.
Mr Cooper cursed and shouted, like you never heard, and demanded money. Papa sensibly wouldn’t give him any, determining he’d only spend it on liquor; instead, he hustled us all inside and threatened to fetch a Constable. Fortunately the man went away but we could hear him banging railings and shouting all down the street. Mama was quite shaken, but you may guess how she set her mind then. ‘The children will be all on their own, James,’ she cried, and she wouldn’t go to bed and was all for changing her clothes and setting out to see the abandoned family at once until Papa forbade her. ‘They’ll come to no harm before morning,’ he said. ‘What can you do for them now? You’ll catch your own death if that man doesn’t murder us first.’
So we were up early this morning and visiting the Cooper children. Such distress. No sign of their dissolute papa and, while Ida had done her best with keeping the young ones’ spirits up, they’d not eaten since the doctor came the previous day. Mama made me stay and help while she took Ida with her to the hospital, but tonight the news is as bad as it can be. Molly Cooper died of her fever this evening and, for all the use their father seems to be, the children are in effect orphans, their fate to be decided by the authorities tomorrow.
Friday, 20 February
Another dreadful day, the five youngest Coopers taken to the orphanage and Ida come to be kitchen maid until we can think where else she must go. She can only sit in the kitchen and cry, poor dear. Mrs Jorkins is kindly enough and will take her in hand.
Saturday, 21 February
That rogue Cooper’s been back with his shouting, demanding to see his daughter, cursing Mama and Papa for taking away his family when all they’ve done is make good his negligence. He even accused Mama of killing his wife–the man’s demented. Eventually two Constables came to arrest him and who knows what’ll happen to him now. Ida wouldn’t appear to speak to him, she was so terrified. She’s told Mama he used to hit their mother when he was under the influence of drink. Mama is holding herself together magnificently, as she does in times like these, but she wears the same expression on her face as the Blessed Virgin in the
Crucifixion
window; one of anguished self-sacrifice. Am I cruel to notice this? I don’t know how long it will be before her health suffers.
After this, there was a gap in the journal of a couple of months. The next entry was 15 April 1880. I read on…
We should pray to the angels for they are given to us as guardians.
St Ambrose,
De Viduis
L
AURA’S
S
TORY
The handle turned smoothly, the door swung open with a sigh and Laura stepped into the church. The air, pungent with lilies and incense, was cool after the spring sunshine and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She stood, listening to the ringing silence–‘It’s the presence of God,’ her mother had once whispered to her. Sounds from the street, the rhythmic scraping of a broom, the impatient trot and rattle of a passing horse and carriage, the bark of some tethered dog, barely rippled the stillness.
Laura tiptoed down the aisle, her skirt swishing on the flags. She bowed her head to the altar, with its new gold cloth, crossed herself, then knelt down awkwardly in the front pew. Gazing up at the frozen agony of the
Crucifixion
scene she tried to still her troubled mind enough to pray.
Two months after his first proposal, Mr Bond had again asked to see her on her own, had begged her hand in marriage. This time he’d been more forthright, had declared his love for her with a passion she’d not suspected in him. How had she stirred such hot feeling in this dry, serious man, she who was always plainly, even dowdily dressed, unadorned, lacking Harriet’s pretty flirtatiousness or Caroline’s pale-gold fragility? ‘You’re beautiful,’ her mother always told her beloved eldest daughter, but Laura’s tiny mirror gave a more honest verdict. She had the glow of youth and good health glossy chestnut hair, bright eyes and a mercifully clear complexion. Less happily, her mouth was too wide, her nose had a bump in it, she knew her movements were gawky, without grace.
‘Think carefully, my dear,’ her father had said when he warned her of Mr Bond’s intention to renew his suit. ‘He’s a good man and well situated. Your mama and I would be happy were you to accept him. Hear him out, is all we ask, but we will not press you.’
‘I do not have any feelings for him…’
‘Love can grow, my dear. Love can grow with God’s help. We judge the marriage to be advantageous. He is of sound character. I rely on him in the parish.’ Still, Laura could sense her father’s heavy mood. He put out a hand to pat her shoulder as though comforting her. She felt bewildered.
‘We would miss you, my love,’ said her mother. ‘But you must consider your happiness and we must be thankful that we will have both you and Harriet living nearby.’
Laura considered the face of Mary, glowing ghostly white in the window before her. Mary, who accepted everything that happened to her. Which life should she choose? To marry a man for whom she felt no warmth, and hope love might flow, or stay with her parents, comforting them in their troubles, sharing their work.
‘Is there no one you have ever liked, dear?’ Harriet had asked her, exasperated, the last time Laura visited. Harriet left the house rarely now that the child had dropped in her womb.
‘Not so very much,’ Laura answered. But there had been Papa’s young curate, Gilbert Osborn, who had left two years before. For a short while he had seemed to seek her out, but then suddenly it was announced he was to be married to his second cousin in Hampshire, and was raised to a living in the patronage of the girl’s father. Wasn’t it obvious, Harriet had remarked–being wise in the ways of the world–that the two events were related? Laura supposed her sister was right, but could think no ill of him. She remembered his fine dark eyes, his teasing manner, the way he could make her forget her dragging fears for Caroline. The news of his engagement caused her to weep silently into her pillow every night for a week.
From the shadows of the Lady Chapel she heard a sigh, the creak of wood on stone. Someone was there. She pushed herself to her feet and straightened her skirts, thinking it must be the verger. But the figure outlined in the doorway to the chapel was not stooping old Mr Perkins but someone taller, straighter and much younger.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I didn’t realise there was anyone here,’ the man said, his voice gentle, the T-sounds slightly sibilant. He bowed slightly. In one hand he clutched his hat, in the other a large book. He made to walk past her and his hair glinted gold in a sudden shaft of light, like a revelation. She gave a sharp intake of breath and lowered her gaze. The book, she saw now, was a sketchbook.
Curiosity caused her to burst out, ‘Oh no, you’re not disturbing me at all. You have been drawing the church? Do let me see.’
He stopped, turned and looked at her hesitantly, then down at the book, weighing something up. Finally he said, ‘A few ideas for a commission. Only early sketches.’
He stepped fully into the light and she almost gasped at the beauty of him. His skin was pale against his gold-brown hair and moustache. When their eyes met, his were hazel, flecked with green. He opened the book and she peered down at the page he showed her. A pencilled arched window containing the outline of a figure was criss-crossed with scribbled notes.
‘Goodness, you must be Mr…Russell,’ she said, remembering the name her father had mentioned. ‘The artist for our windows.’
‘I am indeed he,’ he said. ‘And you are…?’
‘Reverend Brownlow’s daughter,’ she rushed on. ‘Miss Laura Brownlow.’
‘Well, this is a most felicitous meeting then, Miss Brownlow,’ he said. His hand momentarily enveloped hers. Even through her glove she felt its warmth.
‘It’s my first visit to the church,’ said Mr Russell. ‘I like to wait, to watch and listen, immerse myself in the atmosphere of a building before I begin work.’
She thought of him sitting still as a stone saint in the semi-darkness, unseen, watching and listening.
Since she didn’t speak, he went on, ‘It’s important to view the church at different times of day, I find. To see how the light strikes the windows.’
‘I understand,’ she said.
‘And to gauge the particular tones of the church, to imagine what will suit it best–rich rubies maybe, or silvery whites.’
‘And what do you see here?’
‘The limestone requires soft colour tones. Nothing too hot, too strident.’
‘You must study the other windows, too, I imagine.’
‘Yes, indeed. This is a fine one, this altar light. By Mr Kempe. Do you see his sign, the wheatsheaves, almost hidden in the corner there, to the left of the Magdalen?’
He moved forward and now red light and blue and green fell across him from the window, like a blessing.
Laura too stepped into the shower of colour, followed the line of his pointing finger and nodded. ‘I’d not noticed before.’ The sleeve of his coat, she saw, had slid back slightly, and she was strangely touched by the fact that his shirt cuff was frayed, though the dappled light transformed the threads into something fine.
‘Do you have a sign, Mr Russell?’ she said, looking up at him with a steady gaze.
He smiled at her, then in a flowing movement, flipped up his coat-tails and sat down in the front pew. He was left-handed, she noticed, his fingers curved like a crab’s claw as he drew. A quick flourish and he was done. ‘I like to use this.’ He passed her the book.
Laura studied the intricate knot pattern he’d drawn. She swivelled the drawing round. ‘It’s the same from all sides,’ she said, marvelling.
‘And I can draw it without lifting my pencil from the paper,’ he said. ‘You’ll find them on ancient Celtic crosses, though this one’s of my own invention. I like the idea of the eternal line.’
Lose not the things eternal
…Her father’s reading of the old prayer, his voice deep and pure, resounded in her mind.
‘I like it too,’ she told Mr Russell gravely. ‘It makes me think of the important things of this life, the good things that we’ve lost, running on beyond this world into eternity.’
They were both silent for a moment, Laura imagining her brother Ned, a little boy running for ever, laughing, across a sward of green. She wondered of what Mr Russell was thinking. His face wore a tense expression and a fast pulse throbbed in his throat. She glanced away, afraid that he’d notice her looking.
‘I have in my mind’s eye a vision for the
Virgin and Child
window,’ he said finally. ‘But the angel design–I gather the window is in memory of your sister.’
‘Caroline, yes.’
‘Can you tell me a little about her? If…that’s not too hard for you, of course.’
‘I like to talk about her. It feels as though she’s still with us then. Caroline was four years younger than me, nearly seventeen when she died. There was something about her, I can’t explain. She had a sweetness, a goodness.’
Russell, who was drawing something swiftly on a corner of his page as he listened, nodded encouragingly.
She continued, ‘We were never jealous of her. We always loved her. That’s surprising, isn’t it, for brothers and sisters? It was Harriet I sometimes quarrelled with–she’s the sister between Caroline and me. And there’s Tom, the eldest. He’s at Oxford learning to be a priest like Papa. We had another brother, too. Ned was the youngest, but we lost him to a fever of the brain.’
Mr Russell’s expression was full of tender sympathy. Her breath caught in her throat.
‘Mama says you wouldn’t know it now because he’s so grey, but Papa once had hair of pale gold. Caroline’s was like that, too, before it all began to fall out. Her illness left her so thin, you know, her skin was transparent. You could see the blood moving in her veins.’
‘Is there a photograph, or a painting of her I might see?’
‘There were photographs, but my mother has hidden them away. She cannot bear to look at them. I will ask her, if you like.’
‘Do you think she would like the angel to recall the image of your sister?’ He seemed anxious now. ‘Or maybe…it would be too painful.’
Laura didn’t know what her mother would want. What did she herself think? The face of Caroline in the window would be too strange. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should visit and ask her yourself.’
‘I will do that,’ he said. He closed his sketchbook.
Laura stood up to go, drawing her shawl around her. He stood, too, and when she grasped the pew end for balance, caught her arm to steady her. For a moment he was so close she felt dizzy.
‘You’ll come soon?’ she asked him.
‘Of course. Tuesday morning, perhaps, if that’s convenient.’ Bowing slightly, he stepped back to let her pass.
‘Oh, Baby has the hiccoughs again. Look!’
Harriet was stretched out on a sofa, where Nurse Stephens had left her to rest with pillows under her feet and head. Laura stared with fascination at the mound of her sister’s great belly, clearly visible beneath her voluminous skirts. After a moment the mound twitched slightly and they both laughed.
‘Oh Laura, it’s so tedious lying here. I see hardly anyone. And George’s mother sends advice by every post. If she writes me once more about what a marvellous baby George was because she refused rich food or took fresh air or…I don’t know, fed him nothing but blancmange, I swear I’ll scream. Oh, help me up, will you? I’ve pain, just here, down my back. I’ve had it all day. So odd. Oh, that’s better, Baby’s moved. Put your hand here, dear, you’ll feel his little foot.’
Laura tentatively laid her fingers on Harriet’s stomach. It’s so hard, she thought in wonder. ‘Oh!’ The baby kicked under her hand. ‘Harriet!’
They pressed each other’s hands in excitement.
‘Do you think it will hurt very much? When the baby comes, I mean?’ Laura asked.
‘Nurse Stephens says it will, but that it is woman’s lot and I must be brave. I don’t feel very brave, Laura.’ Harriet’s once-pretty complexion, lately as blotchy as porridge, now turned the colour of whey.
‘I don’t think I could ever do it,’ whispered Laura, more to herself than to her sister. ‘But if Mama is there, perhaps it will be all right.’
‘I hope she can be, but Nurse says the doctor may not allow it. Laura, I’m so scared.’
‘You must send for Mama as soon as you need her. It’ll help you to know she’s near, at least.’
‘I think it will be soon. I feel so strange today. My nerves twitch like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Poor you. I’ll sit and talk then, to take your mind off the strangeness.’
‘Thank you, dear, I’d like that. Laura, I’ve been longing to ask. Mama said Mr Bond proposed again. What did you say to him?’
‘I haven’t given him my answer yet. I think my head tells me yes, but my heart says no.’
‘I wish you would say yes. Then I could help you with your wedding clothes and arrange your house and you would live nearby and, oh, we’d have such fun.’
‘But I live nearby already, and I don’t think I want to have fun, Harriet. Not the kind you mean–going to people’s houses and having them come to yours. I want time to myself, to read and write and to think. Anyway, I don’t love Mr Bond. I don’t think I even like him much. I couldn’t call him “my dear heart”, like you do George, and share his bed.’
Harriet laughed. ‘I didn’t love George when he asked me, but I do now.’ She smiled a secret smile, then winced and put her hand to her belly.
George was pompous and too sure he was right, but Laura had seen a spark between him and Harriet from the start. Harriet managed to play him skilfully, Laura always thought, bewitching him with her teasing but never flouting him, at least, not in public. The spark between them had caught, and now the sudden fire of their love had settled to a warm steady flame.
There was no spark between her and Mr Bond, decided Laura, none at all. She was simply not interested in drawing him to her. But nobody seemed to think this mattered, except her.
‘You might stay at home for ever then,’ said Harriet, pouting. ‘Soothing Mama’s headaches and arguing with Mrs Jorkins about how best to cook veal, and visiting all the Coopers of the parish.’
‘Mr Bond or the Coopers,’ she said lightly now. ‘Mmm, that’s no choice at all.’ But she felt uncomfortable as she said this. The Coopers of this world needed people like the Brownlows. Papa was right. To do God’s work one must be selfless.
But she’d had enough of being selfless. She wanted to live.
And so, suddenly, did her sister’s child, for Harriet let out a sharp gasp of pain.
