The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  The sight of him brought a smile to her face. ‘No, not at all. I was hoping to clear this up a little. I’ve spoken to Mr Quinn and he’s more than happy for the exhibition to take place here. Have you found somewhere to stay?’

  ‘Yes. Rooms at the Wheatsheaf. Small, two, but adequate.’

  ‘My idea for a studio for your mother in here would be perfect.’ The early morning light spilled from the window across the floor, bathing the room in a gentle glow.

  ‘It would.’ His face broke into a cheerful grin. ‘My work is almost done!’ His eyes were soft and crinkly at the corners as though he’d spent time squinting against the sun, or perhaps an easel. ‘Do you paint?’

  ‘Me? No.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I’m the gallery slave, and sometime framer.’

  She struggled not to lose herself in the grey depths of his eyes. ‘What about your father?’

  ‘I doubt Father knows one end of a paint brush from the other.’

  Jane gestured to one of the two chairs at the table and sat down.

  Timothy folded his long limbs under the table and leant forward. ‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

  Her face flamed. ‘Have you?’

  ‘What happened to your parents? You said the Quinns rescued you.’

  She exhaled, a strange sense of disappointment swirling. ‘No idea. I was dumped, like an old suitcase, on the doorstep of the orphanage in the dead of night. I always hoped Florence Nightingale was my mother and would come and rescue me.’ She tried for a laugh, but only managed a pathetic groan.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She couldn’t pine for something she’d never known, yet sometimes it would’ve been nice to know who she was. ‘The Quinns took me in a few weeks after my ninth birthday. They’re like family to me.’

  Why for heaven’s sake was she telling him all this? She never discussed her feelings, she stuck to numbers and organisation—much, much safer.

  ‘Enough of that.’ She pulled the diary towards her and dragged her hair back. ‘Have you any idea when your parents will arrive?’

  ‘I expect them late next week.’

  Jane ran her finger down the list of auctions. ‘We have a few more auctions planned. General goods, foodstuffs, and haberdashery and fabrics. There’s a lull at the beginning of next month. How long do you think the exhibition should run?’

  ‘Normally two weeks or so. It depends on interest and whether Father has arranged anything I’m unaware of.’

  ‘Well, I’ll block out two weeks. How does that sound?’

  ‘Perfect.’ His wide friendly smile made her feel as though she’d solved every one of his problems. ‘You must let Mother tell you about her paintings. I’m sure she’d offer lessons, as a thank you.’

  Jane let out a loud, open-mouthed laugh. ‘Painting is not my thing.’

  ‘What is your thing?’

  ‘Calculations, mathematics, and most especially da Vinci and Fibonacci.’

  ‘Without mathematics there is no art.’

  The words rendered her speechless. Jane was more used to reactions like Bessie’s, and she’d never managed to interest Michael in Fibonacci. As for Elizabeth, well, it was hard to tell; her polite face was the best Jane had ever received. ‘Yes! Luca Pacioli said that. He was a contemporary of da Vinci.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy talking to Mother.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. So many of da Vinci’s paintings are based on the Golden Mean. The Mona Lisa is a perfect example. Where did you learn about Fibonacci?’

  ‘Mother. She studied art in Paris and likes to apply the principles in her landscapes. She maintains it is more pleasing to the eye. Even though it may look an apparently natural arrangement, there is much more to her compositions than you would imagine.’

  Jane clasped her hands together, rested her chin on her knuckles and let out a long slow sigh. ‘You have no idea how much I am going to enjoy talking to you.’

  ‘Thank you, ladies. I shall ask Jane to explain in more detail and let you know.’

  Elizabeth closed the front door on the ladies of the Benevolent Society with as much restraint as she could muster and stormed down the corridor.

  ‘Lucy!’ Where was the nuisance, and more to the point where was Jane? She knew perfectly well the meeting was at ten this morning. ‘Lucy!’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Your cap is askew.’

  ‘Beg pardon, miss.’

  ‘I’m looking for Jane. Do you have any idea where she is?’

  ‘At the auction rooms. She left real early this morning, before breakfast. Something to do with some paintings.’

  ‘She was meant to be here. Go and find her.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Lucy opened the front door.

  ‘Don’t use the front door.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  What was the matter with everyone? Michael’s strange behaviour, locking himself in his study insisting he had work to do; Lethbridge’s ongoing rubbish about women of a certain age, followed by a perfectly sleepless night, and now this. She lifted her fingers to her throbbing temples and closed her eyes against the blinding waves of dizziness.

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a lie down, miss. I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.’

  Her head swirled; she could do with some peace and quiet. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  Elizabeth climbed the stairs to her room and sat down in the chair overlooking the garden. She reached for Jing’s red thread.

  A flight of parrots wheeled and squawked in the trees, their jewelled colours lighting up the dark line of trees marking the slow winding curve of the river. She pressed her palm flat against the glass. Not a quiver or a tremble, not a trace of fear. Why had she reacted so violently to the exhibition? Gritting her teeth, she played it back. She remembered walking into the exhibition hall. The large eagle with the wide wing span hadn’t caused any adverse reaction, nor had the kookaburras with the lizard on the rock. Nothing there. She remembered passing under the Gothic arches to look at the paintings. One of Antwerp, a cathedral somewhere, and …

  The smell, the dreadful smell. She slammed her hand over her mouth against the rising surge of bile and staggered across the room, collapsing face down on the bed. ‘G’woam! G’woam!’

  ‘Miss Elizabeth. Miss Elizabeth. Oh, heavens above. Here, let me help.’

  ‘Take your hands off me, Lucy. I am perfectly fine.’ Her tone sent the girl scuttling from the room.

  It took a good half an hour for her breathing to settle and her heart to achieve some sort of normal rhythm. All the while her mood alternated between dread and despair, driving her further up the river, straight into the waiting arms of Lethbridge and his cohorts at the asylum.

  She had to act. The possibility her dilemma might cause embarrassment or, worse, injury, was more than she could bear. She had to find some way to control these sudden moments and the overpowering sense of helplessness they engendered.

  Twenty

  Hill End, 1873

  Elizabeth didn’t want to deal with Michael’s anger. She wanted to sort out the tangle of emotions wrapping tendrils around her heart. The way she’d felt when Jing held her close, his warmth, the sparkle in his eye and the dimple in his cheek when he smiled. The palms of her hands still tingled from the warmth of his skin. She smoothed them together, trying to recreate the sensation of his beating heart. If Michael hadn’t interrupted them he might have kissed her. She ran her tongue over her lips, imagining the touch of his mouth on her skin.

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  ‘Hmm?’ She wriggled, the cotton of her blouse rough against her skin. Skin that prickled and shimmered with an unnatural sensitivity.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ The front door banged. ‘Elizabeth! Where are you?’

  Michael’s boots thumped down the hallway and the door flew open, bringing the scent of the night, the smell of damp and wood smoke.

  She plastered what she hoped was an attentive look on her face.

  ‘I want to talk
to you. About Jing.’

  She stood bolt upright, backed against the kitchen table, colour flooding her face anew.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’ Nothing except the delicious feelings Jing’s closeness brought. ‘We work together, spend time together. He’s my friend.’ Her only friend. ‘I was upset and he was comforting me.’

  She had to make Michael change his mind. She was certain if he made Jing an offer of work, he would come with them. She knew he would. Hadn’t he told her they’d always be tied? She ran the piece of red thread through her fingers and flopped down on the kitchen chair.

  Michael reached her in two long strides and stood staring down at her. ‘Oh, me little darlin’, don’t be lying to me.’ He ran his rough hand down her damp cheek. ‘I’ll have his guts for garters. Leading you on like that.’

  ‘He didn’t lead me on.’

  ‘It’s a load of nonsense, Elizabeth. How many times must I tell you? You can’t. You just can’t love him. It’ll give people the wrong idea. Young girl like you needs to take care.’

  ‘I’m not a girl. I’m nearly sixteen. A woman.’

  Her pig-headed brother didn’t even deign to answer, simply tipped the corner of his lips in the infuriating way he had and lowered himself into the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him and what looked suspiciously like a satisfied smirk on his face.

  ‘Plenty of women get married at sixteen.’

  ‘You’ll not be getting married, forget the idea.’

  ‘You can’t stop me if I …’

  ‘When you’ve calmed down, how about you listen to what I’m saying?’

  She flopped back down on the chair. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’ve solved the problem and, if you’d bear with me for five minutes and stop all the shenanigans, I’ll explain.’

  She let out a long huff of air. ‘Stop smiling.’ How could he smile? She’d never been so miserable in her life. She glared at him.

  ‘Very well.’ He pulled a long face and plastered a frown on his forehead. Within a moment he gave a big deep rumbling laugh. ‘Would you be ready now?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘I’ve sold up.’

  ‘Everything? Now?’ This insane idea of his about going to … she couldn’t even remember the name of the place. If she had to go, she wanted Jing to come too.

  ‘Aye, everything.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that? Hill End is still booming. Holtermann’s find will lead to others. It’s the most ridiculous decision you’ve ever made. Property prices are the highest they’ve ever been.’ She flew out of the chair and pulled the ledgers from the pile on the table. She fanned the pages. ‘We’ve got plenty of money in the bank. We don’t owe anyone anything. We own this house and the Diggers Rest, the top floor is earning a good rent and it’s slap bang in the middle of the best street. You own three drays and employ five people. You’ve invested all your time and effort in the auction house.’ She threw her hands up in despair. ‘And you’ve sold!’ He was insane.

  ‘For someone who’s supposed to have a handle on the business, you’ve missed the point, me little darlin’.’

  ‘Don’t call me that. I hate it.’ It made her feel like a lap dog, some sort of treasured pet without a mind of her own. ‘How have I missed the point? You told me your aim was to make something of our inheritance. Not give it away. Why sell now when property prices are still rising …’

  ‘Think for a minute, me little …’ He bit his lip.

  Good. Maybe he’d take notice of what she’d said.

  ‘Prices are going to fall. They haven’t had a decent strike since Holtermann’s. He’s resigned, left town. Sydney bankers are pulling out.’

  He didn’t know what he was talking about. Michael freely admitted she’d a much better head for business than he did. His skill was with people, not numbers. That’s why he made such a marvellous auctioneer. Father MacCormick said he could sell fool’s gold to the assayer.

  ‘We’re selling. At the top of the market. I’ve done it. Sold the Diggers Rest to Li & Co. They’ve been after it ever since they bought the shop next door, want to expand, and I’ve sold the cottage to one of Holtermann’s mates who seems to think the walls are plastered in gold.’

  ‘You’ll get more if you wait. Another find or two and prices will jump again.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but I’ve had enough. It’s time to leave.’

  She threw her arms around his neck. ‘Then Jing can come too.’ If he was happy to sell to the Li family he couldn’t have anything against Jing.

  ‘No.’

  She reared back as though scalded, heat flooding her face.

  He brought his fist to his mouth and made some sort of trumpeting fanfare noise. ‘I’ve made an offer on a place called The Potters Inn in Maitland.’

  She moistened her lips as the implication of Michael’s words sank in. ‘A pub. For goodness sake, you spend your time complaining about every single one of the twenty-seven pubs in Hill End.’ The words spluttered from her mouth.

  ‘Ah, but this one’s different. It’s going to be our auction house. Right in the middle of town, it is. In the High Street.’

  The man was truly mad. Elizabeth snapped her gaping mouth closed and glared him. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She pushed the chair out of her way. This conversation could wait until her thoughts aligned.

  Spinning on her heel, she slammed out of the house into the cool of the garden, every nerve ending aflame.

  When Elizabeth woke the following morning, an unnatural silence hung over the house. Michael often left early, but usually Susie would be slamming around getting the chores done as quickly as possible. Elizabeth rolled over and peered out of the crack between the curtains. Surely she hadn’t slept that late. She’d lain awake half the night trying to come up with a solution. If Michael had already sold there was no point in trying to change his mind. It was too late. She had to see Jing. Just because Michael was leaving Hill End didn’t mean she had to. She didn’t need Michael to earn a living. She and Jing could continue the accounts business, and then when they’d made enough money, they could marry, have children, live in the cottage.

  The thought made her heart sing. She threw on her dress, pulled a brush through her hair and slipped on her shoes. Slamming the door behind her, she took off down the road to the warehouse.

  When she arrived she found a rusty old chain and padlock through the door handles. It was never locked, not at this time in the morning—the sun was well up. She cast a look at Li & Co next door. They were open for business, a crowd of women stood at the counter and Jing’s uncle was doing a roaring trade as usual. Michael must be out and about, maybe gone to Bathurst. Elizabeth couldn’t remember what he’d said. It was mid-week so he wouldn’t have to be in town for the auction. But where was Jing? Why hadn’t he opened up?

  She slipped around the back to the kitchen and let herself in. There was no fire in the stove, no steaming kettle. The bamboo tray sat on the table where it always did; the tin of jasmine tea, the little teapot and cups, but nothing more. No stack of bamboo steamers full of pork dumplings, no metal container with her favourite chicken and vegetable soup. Despite the warmth of the morning, a chill prickled her skin.

  She pulled the stool over to the row of shelves and climbed up, bringing down the empty blue and white ginger pot Mr Li had given her. It rattled when she shook it, and with a smile she lifted the lid and took out the key.

  Elizabeth returned to the front doors, slipped the key in the padlock and loosened the chain. The door swung open and she stepped inside.

  The darkness struck her. She’d never arrived at the warehouse first, never unlocked the building, never locked up. Jing always did that. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, she walked down the carefully swept floor to the work bench, her heart thundering in her chest.

  The stacks of led
gers had all vanished, the piles of paperwork gone, tidied away. The only thing that remained on the workbench to remind her she wasn’t dreaming was Jing’s suanpan. She lifted it, inhaling the scent of sandalwood.

  As she placed it back on the table a piece of paper caught her eye, white against the dark wood of the countertop. She picked it up and unfolded it.

  Inside was a line of perfect Chinese calligraphy, more like pictures than words. Elizabeth twisted it one way and the other. It made no sense. Jing had taught her to write numbers in Chinese script but nothing more, and none of these marks looked like the numbers she knew.

  Where was he? An unpleasant twist in her stomach sent her scurrying next door to Li & Co, the piece of paper clutched in one hand and the suanpan in the other. She pushed open the door and skirted the crowd. There had to be at least a dozen women before her and only Jing’s uncle serving behind the counter.

  She eased through the door to the backroom. The air was blue with tobacco smoke and incense, and at the table sat Mr Li, pipe in hand. Elizabeth cleared her throat but he made no move. She took a step towards the table. ‘Mr Li, excuse me.’

  Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his head. He offered no greeting, none of his usual cheerful smiles. ‘What do you want?’

  She stopped still, her hands clasped in front of her, throat dry from the smoke. ‘I’m looking for Jing.’

  ‘Not here.’ He sucked on his pipe and turned his head to the back door.

  ‘Do you know where I can find him?’ She dared another couple of steps towards the table and came up short when he spun around.

  ‘Bathurst.’

  Bathurst? Jing never went to Bathurst, never left Hill End—not once in the all the years she’d known him. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

  Mr Li shrugged his shoulders.

  It was only then she remembered the note in her hand. She held it out. ‘Can you tell me what this says, please. I think Jing left it for me.’

  His eyes narrowed and he opened his palm, not moving from his position at the table.