But Esme still felt broken. Like she didn’t fit together; that there was no room for her in London anymore. After her catalogue of errors she wondered if it was time to leave. She had outstayed her welcome at the gallery, she was sure – but was relieved that no one was there when she arrived back and let herself in to the bedsit. The sad little pile of her belongings packed and ready to go felt like a sign that she should just go straight back to Scotland.
This might be her last night in St James’s. She was exhausted, wrung dry and prayed that a good night’s sleep would dissolve her self-pity and that the darkness would wipe the slate clean enough to let her to make things right with Bill before she left.
It was a fitful night filled with uncertainty. At one point, Esme woke with a start, soaked in tears. But she found no relief in the peaceful silence of her room, because there everything was real; solidly, unrelentingly real. Each time she opened her eyes, she quickly shut them.
She woke up early, and took a long time persuading herself to get up, staring at her ceiling for a good ten minutes. A knock sounded on her door a second before it opened. Suki popped her head in, eyes wide with hesitation.
‘I thought I’d better wake you as it’s nine thirty.’
‘Shit,’ said Esme, scrambling out of bed.
‘Don’t panic. Bill’s not here and I got us coffee.’
Suki was in the kitchen when Esme came down.
‘I’m so sorry, Esme, about what I said at Kensington Palace. I should never have told everyone about what happened. I was nervous and the stupid story just fell out.’
She went to give Esme a hug, then stopped.
‘I embarrassed you and myself,’ she continued. ‘Are you terribly cross?’
Esme put a teaspoon of sugar in her cup.
‘It wasn’t your finest moment but nothing compared to my behaviour. I deserve everything that’s coming to me.’ If Cece could forgive Esme her sins, then letting Suki off the hook for running her mouth seemed easy.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The last thing Bill said to me was “make yourself scarce”,’ she said stirring her coffee, ‘and I’ve not seen him since. I think he’s going to fire me.’
‘Of course he won’t sack you.’
‘Are you sure?’
Suki must have heard the nervousness in her voice, ‘Yes, I swear.’ She made a sign of the cross to reinforce the truth of her statement, then passed her an envelope with Max’s name on it.
The reality of Suki’s words kicked in. Bill was probably just getting Esme to tie up loose ends before he gave her her notice. But still, if nothing else, it was a temporary reprieve and she thought this way, at least she’d have chance to talk things over with Max, to get her painting perhaps, and to say goodbye.
Esme knocked on the door and went in. Flea got up from his basket and padded over, his head bowed and tail swinging lazily in submissive recognition.
‘Hello, fella,’ she said, stroking him whilst watching Max lost in his work and oblivious to her arrival. A large landscape was clamped upon the easel which at first glance looked to be by Guardi or Canaletto. Most scenes of Venice in this style were by one of these two and this showed the Grand Canal in winter.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to say thank you for your party. I had a ball.’
‘It was fun, wasn’t it?’ said Max.
‘Coralie and Oti were lovely, and I was more than a little surprised by your piano-playing skills.’
Max laughed, ‘Hardly skilful. More like beating the shit out of the ivories, but I can bang out a tune.’
He finally turned to look at her, resembling a deep-sea creature who has learnt to adapt to the absence of light with its personal torch to attract prey. His hair stood crisp with turpentine and paint around his headlamp and he was full of a wildness of one obsessively driven to do something at the cost of all else – personal hygiene and sleep, by the look of his dark circles.
‘You are the first human I’ve seen in days. The Uffizi is driving me mad. Left my phone off the hook so I don’t need to hear that I’m two months late on delivery, every five seconds. They pay a fortune so I can’t tell them to piss off.’
‘I won’t keep you – Bill sent me with this envelope – I haven’t come to badger you about my painting. You can take as long as you like.’
‘No, no, you’re a heavenly distraction.’
Esme gave him a hug, taking in his chemical tang. His shirt was unevenly buttoned and despite spending most of his days inert she could feel a strength that came from good genes rather than athletic prowess.
‘I just want to thank you, really.’
He raised his eyebrows, ‘Oh yes?’
‘You’ve been a rock, Max. If I’m honest, I was shit-scared about leaving home and coming to London. Scotland doesn’t prepare you for the madness of this city and well…’
Max had gone back to cleaning a gondola, but he was listening.
‘I wanted to thank you for making it easier. It’s been lovely spending time with you and watching you work. Almost like going back to when things were…’ she paused, ‘less complicated. All about the art, not the art world. What you do is amazing. I mean, you are an artist in your own right and I feel lucky to have been able to see it up close, to escape…’
Putting his brush down and removing his magnifying glasses he swivelled his stool to face her.
‘What have you done?’
Recognizing his master’s admonishing tone but not the smile that went with it, Flea slunk to his basket.
‘I’ve been a bit of an idiot,’ she said, blushing. ‘More than a bit.’
‘Oh God, don’t worry. We’ve all been there.’
‘I know but I…’
‘Tell me. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Anything you do would be like being mauled by a teddy bear.’
Esme told him. Everything. He sat quietly listening with his arms folded across his chest. At times he looked like he might laugh and at others a proud father. When she had finished, he put his hands behind his head and stretched like an idle lion.
‘Thank Christ you’ve got it in you to go off piste. I was concerned you might toe the upper-class line too conscientiously.’
‘I know, but what if Bill fires me? He’d be well within his rights.’
‘He’d never do that. He’s just making you stew, and rightly so. There will have been plenty of worse things he has done. No one with Bill’s success could have an unchequered past. No. He won’t sack you.’ Max smiled.
‘But I’ve betrayed his trust.’
‘Listen, it’s these kinds of things that make you more interesting as a person. You fucked up, got fucked and now you have to learn from your mistakes and move on. Find a way to make it up to him.’
Esme considered this and perhaps Max was right. She’d come to London looking for adventure and found it, albeit not in the way she hoped.
‘If he sacks me I’ll have to go back home. How can I convince him I’m sorry if I’m not even here?’
‘It won’t happen, especially when he sees your painting. Worst-case scenario is he’ll want you as a client.’
‘What?’ Esme held her breath.
Max rose and wandered to the back of the garage. A stack of canvases lay protected under a calico dust sheet and with little consideration he tugged one out, flung it over his shoulder and returned to stand square in front of her. With no ceremony, he flipped it around to show her.
‘Is this the same painting?’ Esme gasped, staring at the young woman with long dark curls in a white dress.
‘She’s pretty stunning, isn’t she? I knew she was good but once the soot came off she revealed herself to be even better than I suspected.
Esme inched forward, almost scared to get too close.
The painting’s loose, experimental brushwork surrounding the subject’s head and figure gave the portrait an outstandingly atmospheric presence. The sitter’s hands had been left sketchy in an unresol
ved manner which added to the painting’s charm. Romney must have deliberated over their placement and Max had left them unfinished which enhanced the picture’s impressionist quality.
‘You see the lute and organ and how her hands are almost in the prayer position? I think she was depicting St Cecilia. Emma was supposed to have had a beautiful singing voice and we know she was an accomplished actress, both on and off the stage.’
Lady Hamilton’s features had the regularity of a Greek sculpture and were full of immediacy and poetic expression. Romney had captured an innocence – a sense that all are children in the eyes of God – that was in contrast to her voluptuous body.
‘Oh, Max, it’s ravishing. You are a genius.’
‘I could have made her good as new but her flaws are what makes her beautiful. All that remains is to put her back in her frame.’
‘I love her. I can’t believe that this is the same painting I brought in.’
‘Well, it just shows that nothing broken is beyond repair.’
As valuable as the restored painting was Max’s ability to see behind the mask of deliberate destruction. She wondered how the Contessa knew the picture was coming to her and if she did, had she defaced it because of Emma Hamilton’s resemblance to her mother? Either way, Esme was in love with the picture. Before the renovation she assumed she would offload the painting to anyone who would take it off her hands. It had embodied everything she wanted to bury in order to move on. But now, Emma Hamilton, in all her saintly disguise, represented a future where anything was possible. The Earl had wanted her to have this painting and his gift had been there all along, hidden, just waiting for her to realize that with a little patience and willingness to look beneath the surface, she would find something closer to the truth. Lady Hamilton was a symbol of familiarity and reassurance who instilled courage.
Esme hugged Max again, ‘I think Emma is my first girl crush,’ she giggled.
‘I wish everyone was as grateful as you, Esme,’ said Max. ‘Right, I’d better get on before the Uffizi turn me into meatballs. I’ll get the painting sent over with Bill’s Tiepolo.’
‘Thank you, Max. Really. Thank you.’ And Esme retreated out of the studio and into the glare of the day. She hadn’t noticed the significant drop in temperature on her way to the studio and the coolness made her feel alive, made her feel as if she’d stepped out of a painting.
‘Esme!’
Esme whipped around to see Max running after her, waving an envelope.
‘I almost forgot to give this to you. It was stuck on the back of the canvas – sandwiched between the painting and a layer of board.’
Esme instantly recognized the writing. It resembled the movements of an insect that had fallen into a pot of ink and taken a brisk walk across the paper – scratchy boy-writing like the letters sent to her at school.
Clutching the letter, she entered Brompton Cemetery under its pillared portico. The cemetery was vast. Acres of headstones of all sizes, tall stones higher than Esme, small ones, grand ones and weathered ones all sat alongside each other. Despite the ranks of the dead, it felt teeming with life; a continuous conversation between departed souls, birdsong, plants and sky. An avenue of lime trees seemed to go on forever. So many trees. Dozens of species. It was a revelation. This felt like a place of communion for the living as well as a resting place for the dead.
A soft breeze chased around her shoulders making her shiver a little. The slick green leaves of tall trees rustled, and a skein of ivy dangling from the branches began to wave. As the ivy blew, it cast pretty lace-like shadows on the ground which reminded Esme of banners, rippling over the dearly departed in silent celebration.
She thought of the all the thousands of people buried under her feet, their dreams unfulfilled. The countless echoes of ‘could have’ and ‘should have’… countless books unwritten, countless songs unsung. Was this how the Earl had thought when he died? When she’d realized who it was from, she’d wanted to open the letter alone but this place, balanced between the living and the dead, felt right. Sitting on a grass bank in the shade of a headstone, she pushed her finger under the flap of the envelope, eased it open and pulled out the letter:
My dearest Esme
I write this as my life comes to a close. I have had a happy life, not in small part, thanks to my darling Diana, your mother.
Cancer is a terrible thing – but for far longer than my present illness, something else has been eating away at me. When you harbour secrets, it is they that wear you out, outlasting everything until it is only the secrets that remain.
Since your birth I have known you are my daughter. It is a terrible thing to know a child is yours and never to hear them call you ‘father’. But it was not just my secret to tell. In fact, I only write this now because I fear your mother will never be able to say the words. We wanted to tell you, Esme, but your young life was the eye of a storm and we did not want you to feel its destructive force any more than you would already have to. I suppose I was lucky too because you and your dearest mama have always been such a big part of my life and Culcairn’s; I have never felt the guilt of absenteeism.
I have watched you grow, the spitting image of Diana, with love and pride. You share her beauty and compassion, her gentle and forgiving nature. I do not write this a confession for absolution, but as a keepsake from your birth father who loved you very, very much.
This painting holds more value to me than all the more famous names housed at Culcairn because she reminds me of Diana. And of you. Cherish her and keep her safe.
With my enduring love
Henry Culcairn
Esme’s spine was tingling as she read and reread the words. She saw the sky above her and felt the wind in her hair but her surroundings seemed as though they had turned upside down as she clung onto the grass to keep her balance. The Earl’s words were balled tightly in her trembling fist. She was stunned. If there had been a fire she would have thrown the letter into the grate to watch it burn around the edges and go up in smoke.
Which pain was worse – the shock that the Earl was her father or that the man she called ‘father’ never was? There had been many times at Culcairn when the Earl had acted like a father, taking her in when her mother couldn’t look after her, protecting her from his vicious wife. There had even been moments when she had wished the Earl was her father, given his kindness and patient interest in the things she did, but she’d always imagined him as some additional father figure, never in exchange for her own. This letter of confession changed all that. It showed that his acts of kindness were, in fact, acts of guilt. Everything had been a charade to appease his conscience. The Earl had never truly been there, she realized – not for her, nor her mother. Now the truth was out it filled her with unexpected anger and disappointment. What had seemed like occasional welcome flashes of kindness from a friend seemed meagre offerings when measured against what a father should do.
She found herself thinking of the man who had raised her. She had often judged him harshly, felt his absence. But in the light of this news, she saw she had been looking at her family not with clear eyes but as though through a broken window. She saw that her father had done his best, amid the cracks and sharp edges. He had taught her so much about beauty, about art. But only now did she feel his greatest lessons – about loyalty, about love and family. Dysfunctional they might have been, but Esme felt grateful that he’d showed her that family was about more than blood. Unlike the Earl, Colin Munroe had been proud to call her his daughter.
Esme longed to see him, to hold him and thank him for not rejecting her and treating her as his own to the outside world. Then she froze. Did her father know? Who else knew? Mrs Bee, Bill? The affair between her mother and the Earl was common knowledge, so he must have suspected. Esme wished she had a mirror so she could look at herself for familial similarities with fresh eyes but she had never noticed a physical resemblance with anyone other than her mother.
In a matter of minutes she had also
gained three more siblings. It meant Lexi, her childhood playmate, was her half-sister. This would have been their dream come true when they were little but given Lexi’s refusal to reconnect, Esme suspected she would see this as more of a poisoned chalice than a magic wand to save their friendship. She wondered now if Lexi knew – was that why she’d shut Esme out? And what about Sophia? She’d always seen her intelligence and blue-grey eyes as Munroe traits but she supposed they weren’t a reliable indicator of paternity.
No wonder the Contessa had treated her as if she was contaminated. Being the daughter of her husband’s mistress was bad enough, but to be his daughter, too – Esme finally understood the depth of her loathing. There was a farcical symmetry to the ‘the bastard child’ being another potential heiress and the fact that she, the Contessa, was driven to exact revenge by defacing the one thing the Earl had left his daughter. She had tried to destroy the Romney in the same way she done everything in her power to break Esme. It was a grand failure on both counts and Esme wanted nothing more to do with her or the Earl’s fortune. The painting was legacy enough.
The letter had changed her past in a few short lines and she knew it was also a signal to change her future. Her childhood defined her yesterdays but since it was built on lies she saw it could not control who she was today. She could start over and leave her sorrow behind and all she had to do was walk forward. The actions of others may have shaped her but they didn’t own her. Nor could she hide behind them as excuses. It wasn’t her mother, the Contessa, the Earl, and certainly not her father who was holding her back. She had to face her own anger, stubbornness and fears and let them go. Esme shut her eyes and mentally shuffled through the different personalities she had been trying on for size, one after another. The cool worldly young woman, the party girl, the career woman, the society, they were all just parts in a play. But the role of victim was one she had become used to and she had looked to others to shake it off. But she saw she could cast it off herself. Finally see herself as lucky. The Earl’s gift was not the painting but these handwritten words, the key to her freedom.
Summer in Mayfair Page 27