The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘I’ve had some.’

  ‘This is green tea, and you need to eat that with it.’ Elizabeth pointed to a shrivelled, blackened piece of something on the small saucer.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A dried plum.’

  Jane popped the shrivelled nugget into her mouth and spat it straight back out again.

  ‘Better if you nibble on it while you drink the tea. An excellent cure for over-indulgence the morning after.’

  And how would Elizabeth know that?

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘A little strange. Disorientated. Vague.’ So vague she hadn’t noticed Elizabeth was dressed in her hat and coat, and her large black umbrella sat propped against the table. ‘Are you going out?’

  It wasn’t Sunday, was it? What difference did that make? Elizabeth hadn’t set foot inside a church since Michael’s funeral; perhaps it was something she’d done to please him, not for any belief of her own.

  ‘I am, and so are you.’ Elizabeth peered down at her, almost a challenge. ‘Finish your tea.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the auction house.’ She glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘We’re meeting Mrs Penter there in half an hour.’

  ‘Marigold? Not Mr Penter?’

  ‘The message I sent asked her to meet me there at eleven. As you can see, we have fifteen minutes. Hurry up. Lucy has fetched your things. You’ll need an umbrella. It’s been raining nonstop since last night.’

  Had it? She hadn’t noticed. ‘We can call a cab.’

  ‘No time. A bit of rain never hurt anyone.’

  ‘Why do you want to see Mrs Penter?’

  ‘It occurred to me last night that unless I face my fears I may never know my origins.’

  Jane finished the rest of the plum and washed it down with some tea. ‘How so?’

  ‘Who is going to believe the incoherent ramblings of a nostalgic woman of a certain age? Lethbridge would have me up the river before anyone could say Les Darcy. We must tell Marigold of our suspicions, share everything with her. If she is my sister, she has a right to know as much as I do. I must face the past.’

  ‘You and Marigold are similar. You have the same eye colour, the same mannerisms, the same bearing.’

  ‘Well, how did I get to the workhouse in Liverpool?’

  Elizabeth’s question made Jane start. ‘You’ve remembered something.’ No need to ask the question. She could tell by the look on Elizabeth’s face.

  ‘Last night I had this … I don’t know what to call it. It wasn’t a dream …’

  Jane straightened. ‘A repressed memory surfaced, as Lethbridge said it might …’

  ‘Indeed. I was being dragged down a path, struggling. I was thrown into some place, and the birds came, as before. Then I was on a train. I’m certain it was a train. I could smell coal smoke and my eyes were gritty with soot.’

  ‘Were you alone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who was with you?’

  Elizabeth stopped her pacing and picked up her umbrella. ‘I don’t know.’

  By the time they reached the auction house the rain was coming down in sheets.

  ‘Good morning, John.’

  ‘Good morning, Miss Quinn.’ He took Elizabeth’s umbrella and held out his hand. ‘Miss Jane.’

  She handed over her dripping umbrella. ‘Good morning, John.’

  ‘Mrs Penter is here. She’s waiting in the auction room.’

  ‘Very good, thank you. Come along, Jane.’

  Marigold stood in the middle of the room looking damp and more than a little forlorn; no colour tinted her pale face and dark circles shadowed her eyes.

  ‘Mrs Penter, thank you for coming.’

  ‘I expect you’ve decided you want to cancel my exhibition.’

  ‘No, on the contrary we are expecting it to go ahead. I thought I made that clear yesterday.’

  ‘Circumstances have changed.’ Marigold took off her hat and gave it a shake. Drops of water scattered across the floor.

  ‘Why don’t you take off your coat as well? You’re wet through.’

  She fumbled with the buttons and shrugged out of the sopping garment. ‘Thank you. It’s been pouring all night.’

  ‘Surely you didn’t spend the night outside?’

  ‘No, only since early this morning.’ Her shoulders heaved. ‘Timothy and I have been searching for my husband, he seems to have vanished.’

  ‘He’s gone back to Sydney?’

  ‘I have no idea. Timothy is still out looking for him. No one saw him leave our rooms last night. Timothy is checking the railway station.’

  ‘I’m sure he will turn up in his own good time.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Marigold’s face flushed. ‘We had an argument last night.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit?’ Elizabeth led Marigold to the bench seat in the middle of the room. ‘Jane, perhaps some tea?’

  Damn. That was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘I’ll ask John.’

  ‘I’m sure you can manage. Milky tea with sugar. John will have some milk and bring some of those Iced VoVos you’ve got stashed in the drawer upstairs.’

  Elizabeth waited until Jane left the room before sitting next to Marigold. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I feel so bad I even considered the possibility your brother Michael might be responsible for taking Daisy.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. We all jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Last night Tyler lost his temper. He’d been drinking and he, well, when he drinks he becomes arrogant, difficult. He accused me of sabotaging his attempts to secure the estate, our future.’

  ‘I’m sure it was simply the alcohol talking.’ Elizabeth offered the platitude even though it didn’t ring true. ‘May I ask a personal question?’

  Marigold rummaged in her pocket and brought out a soggy handkerchief, patted the reddened end of her nose and then nodded.

  ‘Your mother’s will. Is there provision should Daisy’s death not be proven?’ Surely the family had received advice from solicitors. Fifty years was a long time to indulge her mother’s fey belief.

  ‘Indeed there is. If Daisy is not found then her share of the estate passes to Timothy on his twenty-first birthday, next year.’

  ‘I can’t imagine it causing any great problem. Surely Timothy would want to keep the estate intact.’

  ‘Of course he would. When I die, as my only son he will inherit my portion. However, my husband doesn’t see it that way. He firmly believes he is entitled to it.’

  Elizabeth could quite imagine that. She had no doubt Penter saw himself as the squire, not a pensioned-off relative dependent on his son’s charity.

  She patted Marigold’s hand and stood and edged towards the paintings, waiting for her heart to begin pounding and the birds swooping. Like a fleeting shadow, Lethbridge’s words drifted through her mind. A repressed memory of a traumatic event … She boldly fronted the painting of the pair walking along the path hand in hand. ‘Who are the people in this painting?’

  ‘I don’t know. In her later years, my mother suggested that the bond between twins might mean I had, in some way, absorbed Daisy’s memories.’ She lifted her shoulders in defeat. ‘That painting represents one of many memories that flit in and out of my mind—when I wake, before I fall asleep. You must know what I mean.’

  Oh yes, she did. The night before she’d possibly experienced a very similar memory, except she hadn’t walked happily away, she’d been hauled, screaming and kicking.

  ‘Do you believe that painting relates to Daisy’s disappearance?’

  ‘As I said, Mother was convinced it did.’

  Elizabeth studied the painting. ‘The little girl doesn’t seem to be afraid. She seems to be quite comfortable holding the boy’s hand.’

  And he was a boy, not a man. Small and thin, a smock over a pair of ragged trousers and dirty bare feet. How could she have let the odious Penter man suggest it could have been Mich
ael? They’d called him a big strapping bloke, wide shoulders and a grin to match, not cowered and scrawny.

  ‘Where were you when it happened?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Mother and I went over this time and time again. When she discovered Daisy was missing she searched the garden and then went down to the gypsy camp.’

  ‘She took you with her?’

  ‘Of course. After Daisy vanished she never let me out of her sight. She was terrified I’d be taken too.’

  ‘If you don’t know who took your sister, how can you presume that the girl in the workhouse in Liverpool and Daisy are one and the same?’

  ‘That’s the very argument Tyler and I had last night. I can’t understand how he knew to go to the workhouse. He is convinced Daisy died in the fire, but how did she get there? A four-year-old couldn’t find her own way to Yeovil and onto a train to Liverpool.’

  ‘If we could answer that question it would solve both of our …’ Elizabeth cleared her throat, ‘our dilemmas.’

  Marigold’s head came up with a snap.

  Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and sat down next to her. She reached out and took one of Marigold’s cold hands in her own and chaffed it. Peculiar to think that she might be holding her sister’s hand.

  ‘I believe I might be Daisy.’

  The poor woman let out a mournful wail, which brought Jane skidding into the room scattering pink biscuits and coconut all over the floor. ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Pick up the biscuits and pour some tea.’ Elizabeth slipped an arm around Marigold’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Marigold sniffed. ‘It’s all too much. After all this time.’

  Jane produced a cup of milky tea laced with sugar. The mere thought of it turned Elizabeth’s stomach but Marigold took it in both hands and sipped. Gradually the colour returned to her cheeks.

  ‘I’m not sure I quite understand.’ Marigold rubbed at her arm and Elizabeth’s skin prickled in response.

  ‘It’s a very long story, and one I would like to share with you. You’re wet through. We’ll take a hansom cab and return to Church Street.’

  Marigold started to rise then sank back down again. ‘I told Timothy I’d be here. When he finds his father he’ll bring him here.’

  ‘If he finds …’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Jane.’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, Aunt Elizabeth. Why don’t I stay here and you and Marigold take a cab home?’

  ‘An excellent idea. Marigold and I are much of the same size. I’ll find her some dry clothes and we’ll wait for you there. Please make sure you clean up those biscuits.’

  Thirty-Three

  Jane picked up two of the cracked biscuits and crammed them both into her mouth. She was starving. She hadn’t had any breakfast except for the strange dried plum and tea that smelt of freshly mown grass and something she’d rather not dwell on.

  While she chewed she stared at the paintings. In the faded yellow-grey light it was difficult to see the details. Through the window, storm clouds were massing, and as if in answer to her observation, a huge clap of thunder sent her rocketing to the window. It was a good job Elizabeth and Marigold had decided to take a cab, they’d be drenched if they tried to walk. She’d simply have to stay put for a while and survive on Iced VoVos.

  Perhaps life wasn’t too bad. The tea in the pot was still warm, so she poured a cup and wandered around looking for the girl in each painting.

  A sudden rap made her turn.

  Timothy! His face pressed to the glass, hair flattened, rain streaming down his face. She gestured to the door.

  He as good as fell through and landed in a heap at her feet. ‘It’s bloody pouring. I’ve never seen anything like it. Australia doesn’t do anything by half, does it?’

  ‘How do you know?’ That was a bit brusque, but she still hadn’t got over the fact he hadn’t been honest with her from the outset.

  He peeled off his coat and dropped it to the ground, then his jacket, until he was in his shirt sleeves and braces. A great damp patch sat across his shoulders, making his shirt stick to his skin. ‘I can’t find Father. He had a skinful last night and Mother’s worried he might make a nuisance of himself. He doesn’t do well when he’s been drinking.’

  ‘I expect he’s found somewhere nice and dry.’

  ‘Nah! I reckon he took the train back to Sydney. He was in a right mood. I went to the station; they thought a man matching his description might have got the last train. Couldn’t be sure though.’

  ‘The last train?’

  ‘Yep. The rails are under about two feet of water and it’s rising. It came from nowhere, something about some dam that’s broken its bank and sent the water rushing over the railway line. No more trains until the water level drops.’ He shook the rain from his hair. ‘Does the sun ever shine in Maitland? It’s done nothing but pour since we’ve been here.’

  ‘That’s a ridiculous exaggeration. It didn’t rain for Michael’s funeral.’

  ‘It was raining the day I arrived with the paintings.’

  ‘We’re due for some rain.’

  ‘Looks like a bit more than rain to me out there. More like a flood. The water’s up to the bottom of the bridge.’

  ‘It’ll go down.’ There hadn’t been a decent flood in Jane’s lifetime. The last one had been in 1893, she’d seen the levels marked on some of the older buildings. ‘Your lips are blue. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ll make another pot. There are some biscuits too.’

  She picked up the tray and led the way past John’s empty office and upstairs. He’d probably gone to check the water; his mother lived down near the river.

  ‘Sit.’ Jane shovelled a whole load of brochures and advertising flyers into a pile and made room at the table. Once she had her back to him, lighting the stove, she summoned up the courage to speak. ‘I still haven’t forgiven you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For not telling the truth.’ And if his father’s sudden disappearance was anything to go by, there was more to tell.

  Timothy came and stood alongside her. ‘I told you the truth.’ His contrite expression was at least in his favour. ‘I didn’t mention a few things, and by then it was a bit late.’

  ‘It was, wasn’t it.’ She plonked the teacup in front of him, minus saucer, and she wasn’t too sure he deserved an Iced VoVo either. ‘Where else did you look, apart from the railway station?’

  ‘I checked all the pubs, called in at some of the shops, the School of Arts and the technical college. I thought perhaps he’d gone there since they’d offered to have the exhibition in the first place.’

  Hopefully Mrs Witherspoon would be more worried about the rain than spreading rumours of Penter’s disappearance. Jane pushed the packet of biscuits across the table.

  ‘Thanks.’ Timothy chewed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Do these come ready-made from the shop?’ He turned the packaging over and took another.

  ‘Delicious, aren’t they? Arnotts biscuits—they make them locally, in Newcastle. Everyone loves their biscuits, meat pies too.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  She wasn’t letting him off that easily. ‘What about this business about Michael being the one who kidnapped Daisy.’

  He scratched at his head, making his wet hair flop over his forehead. ‘Father came up with it. I’m not sure when, but he decided that because Michael was the last one to see Daisy alive he must have taken her to the workhouse.’

  ‘Ah! So he put four and four together and came up with …’

  ‘Something close to fifty-six now the truth is out.’

  ‘Aren’t you upset to find out that he lied to your mother about contacting Gertrude Finbright?’

  ‘It came as a shock, of course it did, but I can’t say I was upset about it. I was almost pleased.’

  ‘Pleased?’ The word ended in a shrill squeak.

  ‘I wouldn’t care if I never set eyes on my father again. It’s as simple as that. He pushes Mothe
r around, makes her life a misery. When he’s had a skinful, he belts her. He’s about given up on me because I’m bigger than him, but it wasn’t always that way.’

  Jane sneaked a glance at his broad shoulders and the corded muscles in his forearms below his rolled-up sleeves, where drips of rain still clung to the pale hairs. She clenched her fingers, resisting the impulse to reach out and touch his arm.

  ‘I didn’t want to come with them on this trip. I wanted to walk away, leave him to his own misguided ambitions. I couldn’t, couldn’t leave Mother.’

  The image of him standing in front of Marigold in the auction house, protecting her and taunting his father, sprang to her mind.

  ‘But he’s your father, surely …’ She couldn’t imagine having a family, a real mother and father, and hating either one of them.

  ‘A mother who lived in the shadow of her missing sister and escaped into her art, and a father who was obsessed by money and position. He believes he has some God-given right to be Lord of the Manor, like old man Langdon. Once Grandma died there was no stopping him. He wants to restore the Langdon estate to its former glory. He didn’t want to find Daisy, he wanted Mr Quinn to provide proof she was dead.’

  ‘But she may not be.’ The remains of the Iced VoVo churned in Jane’s stomach.

  ‘What do you mean she may not be? Who’s keeping secrets now?’

  This was a bit tricky. Was it her place to tell Timothy that she believed Elizabeth was more than likely his long-lost aunt?

  ‘Where is Mother, by the way? She said she would be here, something about the exhibition being cancelled.’ He turned and searched the room as though she might jump out from behind a cupboard.

  ‘She and Aunt Elizabeth decided to go home.’

  ‘G’woam?’

  Why did he have to say it like that? It made Jane shudder. Most of the time she barely noticed his accent.

  Timothy propped his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his interlocked fingers and stared into her eyes. She couldn’t hold his gaze.

  ‘I’ve got the feeling you’re not telling me the whole truth,’ he said. ‘What’s good for the gander …’

  He had her there.