The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  Gertrude Finbright.

  She worked at Brownlow Hill, the workhouse in Liverpool. He contacted her after he received this telegram from the authorities.

  That was it.

  Elizabeth pushed the tray away and stared out of the window. What would Michael want her to do?

  She had no idea. A few months earlier, she would have read it without a second thought. Now, knowing that he’d kept so much from her, she wasn’t sure she should pry. Ridiculous. They’d lived under the same roof for more years than she cared to count. Been through drought, flood, depression and good times. Many, many good times. He would want her to sort this conundrum. Otherwise he would have taken her secret to his grave. She returned to the letter.

  Dear Michael,

  The memory of you has stayed with me for many a long year. Compassion and courage in one so young is rarely seen. I am sure you grew to be a fine man.

  A tear trickled down Elizabeth’s cheek and she brushed it away. He had. A very fine man.

  Brownlow Hill remains much as you would remember and I still make the pilgrimage once a year to Lizzie’s grave, as I promised. I have often hoped you might one day return and we could share this small remembrance. Would you recognise me? I doubt it, for I am now well past my prime. You, I am certain, have fulfilled your promise.

  Oh, for goodness sake! She reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out another handkerchief. This was worse than the eulogy at Michael’s funeral. This woman had known a Michael Elizabeth barely remembered. Michael as a young boy.

  Now to your query. Of course, I remember the little girl you speak of. Lizzie took her under her wing.

  The hateful throbbing returned to her temple and she could feel herself slipping. God damn it! Why couldn’t she remember? She gritted her teeth and pushed higher up the bed. Not now. No distorted memories yet.

  I well remember the night she arrived, poor little cherub, freezing cold, wet through and stinking of fowl manure, deposited on the doorstep by a young boy who knew nothing of her origins. He claimed to have found her outside the railway station.

  A tremor ghosted across her shoulders and she pulled up the counterpane before turning the thin paper over.

  And this is where circumstances appear to have come full circle. Some months ago, before I received your letter, a man visited me, a Mr Langdon-Penter. It appears her family have been searching for her for a very long time and he was keen to offer them closure by way of a death certificate.

  I explained that the last time anyone saw her was the morning I gave you the dreadful news of Lizzie’s passing. I mentioned your name but could offer him no contact details other than the fact I believed you had emigrated to Australia.

  Elizabeth dragged the bell from her bedside table and shook it furiously. ‘Lucy! Find Jane and send her to me this minute. Do you hear me? This minute.’

  Langdon-Penter. Jane was right, there was something decidedly suspicious about the man and Elizabeth intended to find out what it was. She scanned the last few lines, constantly ringing the bell.

  An advertisement under his name appeared the following week in the paper requesting information regarding a Daisy Dibble. I saw no need to respond as he had already made contact with me. Sadly I can offer you no other information.

  Michael, I will remember you in my prayers and trust that life has been kind to you and hope we may meet again.

  Yours in our Lord,

  Gertrude Finbright.

  ‘Jane! Where are you. I need you this moment.’ Elizabeth’s voice boomed, surprising her. How long was it since she’d shouted aloud? Longer than she cared to remember.

  ‘Aunt Elizabeth!’ The door flew open. ‘Are you all right?’ Jane stood there, blouse hanging out, hair askew.

  She had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life before. ‘Read this.’ She handed Jane the letter and threw back the bedcovers. ‘Turn your back while I dress, and say nothing until I am ready.’

  It was only when she was fully clothed, Elizabeth realised she’d forgotten to put on the ghastly mourning dress. She ran her hands down her navy skirt and finished buttoning her blouse. No matter. Michael would understand. Might even approve. Besides, she had more important matters to attend to.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Jane turned, the letter held in both her hands. ‘You realise what this means …’

  ‘Don’t say another word. I want them here, in the dining room, at one o’clock sharp.’

  ‘There is something I have to tell you first.’

  Why could the girl never do what she was told? ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘I spoke to Marigold, Mrs Penter, yesterday. She told me her sister disappeared and admitted that they had come to Australia in search of Michael. They believed him responsible.’

  ‘What rubbish! I will not have his name besmirched.’

  ‘Marigold said her sister was seen walking down the path with a skinny, lanky boy, not a full-grown man.’

  ‘Exactly where and when was this?’

  ‘Norton-sub-Hamdon, Somerset. Twenty-eighth of August, 1862.’

  ‘Michael never made mention of having visited any part of England other than Liverpool, certainly not the West Country. I’d know. Give me that letter, and do not mention a word to anyone.’

  Jane opened her mouth to speak again, but Elizabeth’s glare sent her beetling for the door.

  ‘Bring Michael’s papers to me before you go and get the Penters.’

  ‘Will you be wanting lunch served?’

  ‘No, I will not, Bessie, so you can wipe that tedious look off your face,’ said Elizabeth. ‘When they arrive, I want you to show them in here—you and not that Lucy girl—and I want you to make sure we are not disturbed. I am also expecting the Messrs Brown.’

  ‘What about Jane?’

  ‘Send her to me as soon as she returns.’

  ‘She’s back.’

  ‘Send her in here now, and ask her to bring a tray with some glasses and water.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘No. Nothing more. This is not a social occasion.’

  Within moments Jane appeared. ‘They’ll be here in ten minutes.’

  ‘Very well. I want you to sit down there.’ Elizabeth pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. ‘I don’t want you to say a word, however I want you to make notes of everything that is said. You can manage that, can’t you?’

  Jane’s courses in shorthand and typing had stood them in good stead on many an occasion; she was more than capable of keeping a perfect record of everything that might occur.

  ‘You have your notebook?’

  A stubby pencil and a bedraggled handful of papers appeared from Jane’s pocket and she quirked a grin. She must see the girl got some more notebooks, she went through them like barley sugars.

  The Penters—all of them, the boy as well—arrived on the dot of one and Bessie showed them in. Dispensing with the niceties, Elizabeth gestured to the chairs at the other end of the table, having chosen her usual place at the head of the table.

  ‘Thank you for being prompt.’

  ‘It doesn’t appear we have an option.’ Langdon-Penter pulled out a chair and sprawled into it, giving no thought to his wife.

  The boy held a chair for his mother. At least he appeared to have some semblance of civility.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  Elizabeth peered down her nose at Langdon-Penter, and raised her hand. ‘I will do the talking, and I would like your succinct responses. Jane will be taking notes so there can be no confusion or misinterpretation. I have asked Messrs Brown and Brown, my solicitors, to join us.’

  As if on cue, the door opened and Bessie ushered the two men into the room.

  ‘Please take a seat, gentlemen.’

  One of them raised an eyebrow and chose a chair on her right, the other on the left. They had attended enough meetings she’d chaired to know exactly how matters would proceed; they were there simply to give substance to the proceed
ings.

  ‘What in the devil’s name is going on?’ Langdon-Penter rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers on the table top.

  Refusing to acknowledge his petulance, Elizabeth addressed his wife. ‘What brought you to Australia, Mrs Penter?’

  ‘Why, my paintings. The national gallery bought one some years ago and have made an offer on another. I have friends in Melbourne from my days in Paris and I thought it the perfect opportunity to renew our acquaintance. My mother died recently and we all needed a change of scenery. She had been ill for a long time.’ The poor woman’s voice hitched.

  A pang of remorse shot through Elizabeth. But Michael was more important. This was for him. No one would besmirch his name. Not if she had anything to do with it. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘I fail to understand why this is any of your business,’ Langdon-Penter interrupted.

  ‘I believe that it is. Mrs Penter?’

  ‘Mother clung on to life for as long as she could. We held out the hope that one day my sister would be returned to us.’

  ‘Returned to you? She didn’t pass away?’

  ‘Oh no, that was Mother’s difficulty. She believed my sister was taken by the gypsies, was convinced that she was still alive. Every year, on the anniversary of her disappearance, she put an advertisement in the local papers. Nothing ever eventuated until last year.’

  ‘When did your sister disappear?’

  ‘In the autumn of 1862, not long after her fourth birthday.’

  That tallied with Jane’s information, though it seemed a little far-fetched to still be searching for a child who disappeared fifty years earlier.

  Langdon-Penter pushed his chair back, half stood. ‘We should not be subjected to this inquisition. I’m not going to—’

  ‘Sit down, sir.’ The Browns glared across the table at him. Such good fellows. They knew nothing of this but they were in her corner; perhaps they’d learnt it from that boxing man they represented, Darcy.

  ‘Over fifty years ago and your mother still hadn’t accepted her daughter’s disappearance?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Mother was a little, how should I put it, fey. She believed she would know in her heart if Daisy had died, as would I, because of the bond we shared. We were twins, though not identical. Mother used to say we were autumn and spring. Daisy’s hair was the colour of autumn leaves, mine the colour of spring sunshine. We were bound nonetheless.’

  ‘I would prefer to deal in facts.’ Elizabeth shot a look at Jane, who raised her head and gave her a nod, assuring her she had everything down. ‘I have received a letter.’

  She wouldn’t mention it was addressed to Michael, that would complicate matters. She held up the envelope. Langdon-Penter stood to make a grab for it but she had the little man’s measure.

  ‘Later, Mr Langdon-Penter. I believe you know Gertrude Finbright, one time matron of Brownlow Hill, the workhouse in Liverpool.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘A simple yes or no will suffice.’

  ‘Yes.’ He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers.

  ‘Could you please explain to me how you came to know her?’

  ‘She answered the advertisement about Marigold’s sister, Daisy Dibble.’

  ‘Is Liverpool close to where you live? I was under the impression you came from the West Country. Jane, how far is that from Liverpool?’

  Jane’s scratchings stopped and she lifted her head. ‘One hundred and seventy-one and a half miles by train, slightly more by road.’

  ‘Thank you. You said the advertisements were placed in the local newspapers; one hundred and seventy miles hardly seems local.’

  Langdon-Penter cleared his throat. ‘On this occasion we placed advertisements further afield.’

  ‘Was there a reason for this?’

  ‘I’m not putting up with this bloody rubbish. We’re leaving …’

  Shooting him a look of defiance, Marigold shook her head. ‘My mother’s will stipulated that I should only receive half of the estate, the other half was to remain in trust for my sister should she return home, unless proof of her death could be established.’

  ‘I see.’ Messrs Brown broke their silence in unison, much as they did everything else, and leant forwards.

  ‘We broadened the range of the advertisements in an attempt to reach closure,’ said Marigold. ‘I also included drawings of her as she looked when she disappeared and as I thought she might look as a young woman.’

  ‘Did Miss Finbright answered this advertisement?’

  ‘She did.’

  Elizabeth controlled her grin of triumph. ‘Could you explain to me why Miss Finbright says, in this letter: Mr Langdon-Penter approached the workhouse and they sent him to me.’

  Langdon-Penter wiped his hand over his face. ‘She’s mistaken, she’s an old woman.’

  ‘Her letter doesn’t read as one whose rationality is in any way impaired. She also adds: an advertisement under his name appeared the following week in the paper requesting information regarding a Daisy Dibble. I saw no need to respond as he had already made contact with me.’

  The silence hung.

  Marigold leant towards her husband. ‘You told me she contacted you.’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters very much. How did you know to approach the workhouse?’

  ‘A lucky guess.’

  ‘What a coincidence.’ Timothy spoke for the first time and Jane’s head came up, displaying more than a glimmer of curiosity.

  ‘How did you know Daisy had been taken to the workhouse in Liverpool?’ Marigold articulated each word slowly and clearly, a hint of menace in her tone.

  ‘Everything I have done has been for you. I have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘Lying to me about Daisy’s whereabouts—how can that be in my best interests? How long have you known? How long? Mother went to her grave broken-hearted.’

  ‘Maggie’s heart was broken long before Daisy vanished.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  The Messrs Brown cleared their throats. Elizabeth had no intention of curtailing the conversation, as uncomfortable as it had become. Michael was no more involved in the disappearance of this woman’s sister than she was. She would see this debacle cleared up if it was the last thing she did.

  Langdon-Penter sat back, arms folded, a smug expression on his face. ‘But for your mother’s indiscretion I would not own the Langdon Estate.’

  ‘Mother owns the Langdon Estate, not you, Father.’

  Unless Elizabeth was mistaken, the senior Mr Brown had kicked her under the table. She shot him a look, caught his monstrous ears reddening, and swallowed the reprimand on the tip of her tongue. It would seem she had, unwittingly, opened the proverbial can of worms.

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten, boy, I am her husband.’

  Senior Mr Brown shot to his feet. ‘Perhaps I should provide a point of law here. The Married Women’s Property Act came into force in 1882.’

  ‘I’ve got no interest in you colonials and your ridiculous notions about women’s rights. We’re talking about England where a man’s rights stand.’

  The other Mr Brown rose and cleared his throat. ‘The act applies in England, Wales and Ireland and has provided the model for similar legislation in other British territories.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me? I’m acting on my wife’s behalf.’

  ‘It allows for all women to own, and control, their own property.’ With something resembling tight bows, the Messrs Brown sat back down.

  Langdon-Penter leapt to his feet and glared at his son across the table, his face suffused with blood. ‘Right, Marigold, you better make a decision. Do you want to find out what happened to Daisy or do you want that little upstart …’ he waved his forefinger under his son’s nose ‘… who’s never done a decent day’s work in his life, to spend his days in the lap of luxury while I relinquish everything I have worked for?’

  Jane scrambled to
her feet. ‘Mr Langdon-Penter, please …’

  ‘Sit down.’ Elizabeth hissed the words at her, gestured with her hand. No need for anyone to say anything. Flotsam always found its way to the surface. ‘Keep up with your notes.’

  ‘You must have known all along Daisy was taken to the workhouse.’ Marigold’s voice held such a note of disappointment and regret, then a long low moan dribbled between her lips and she buried her head in her arms.

  Elizabeth could hardly contain her urge to caress Marigold’s clenched, knuckle-white fist. There was more, much more to this than she had anticipated. ‘I think now might be the moment for a cup of tea. Don’t you? Jane, go and have a word with Bessie. Let’s all stretch our legs and take a moment.’

  Jane tucked her notebook firmly into her pocket and left the room with a smile on her face. Gertrude’s letter had given Elizabeth a new lease of life—that, and the thought Michael’s name might be discredited. Between them they would get to the bottom of this nonsense. She fanned Michael’s folder, wondering if there was anything she’d missed, and sneezed as the dust flew into the air, bringing with it the scent of the crumpled past. She would solve the mystery.

  ‘Jane, wait.’

  Timothy! What in heaven’s name did he want? She didn’t want to speak to him, it was too difficult. She couldn’t decide whose side he was on and he hadn’t been entirely truthful either. He’d known from the outset his father had arrived in Australia in search of Michael and he’d kept it to himself, and made her look like a susceptible fool.

  ‘What do you want?’ She stopped and turned around, her hand on the kitchen doorknob.

  ‘To talk to you.’

  She rounded on him. ‘How will I know whether you’re speaking the truth?’

  He had the grace to look a little shame-faced, his eyes dulled and downcast. ‘Can you spare me a moment?’

  Something complex, far more difficult to understand than Sir Isaac Newton’s approximation batted around her insides and her anger dissipated. ‘After I’ve arranged the tea. Go and wait on the back verandah, through there.’ She pointed to the flyscreen door at the end of the hallway before scuttling into the kitchen. ‘Bessie, Aunt Elizabeth would like tea for seven in the dining room.’