The Girl in the Picture

by Kerry Barrett

  Leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I gazed out at the sea. There was another storm coming. Fat drops of rain splashed against the window. Down on the beach, a figure caught my eye.

  Mr Forrest, I thought. Without hesitation, or any thought of the awkwardness I had felt the last time I had seen him, I picked up my shawl from the sofa, skipped down the stairs and out on to the lane. The rain splattered on to the scorched earth, splashing on to my feet, but I walked quickly, undeterred, scrambling down the steep path faster than ever before. The beach, though, was deserted. Disappointed I stood for a moment, watching the grey waves pounding the sand, damp and shivering in my thin shawl.

  ‘Violet?’

  I looked round. Mr Forrest was standing beneath an overhanging rock behind me, tucked into a shallow cave and sheltering from the rain. He gestured with his head that I should join him and gratefully I ducked beneath the rocky shelf, glad to be out of the rain.

  ‘It’s getting worse.’ Mr Forrest didn’t look at me; instead he stared out at the clouds looming purple over the waves.

  A rumble of thunder sounded and the rain increased. I shivered and Mr Forrest looked at me, concern etched on his face.

  ‘Dearest Violet, you’re freezing,’ he said, slipping off his jacket. He took off my shawl and draped his warm coat over my shoulders, then he hung the shawl from the rock.

  ‘It should dry soon,’ he said.

  I smiled, shivering at the memory of his touch on my skin now, instead of from the cold. ‘Thank you, Mr Forrest,’ I said.

  He waved his hand. ‘Call me Edwin,’ he said. ‘I think we’re friends, don’t you?’

  I nodded and Edwin looked pleased.

  ‘Let’s sit a while and wait for the storm to pass.’

  He sank down on to the sandy floor of the cave, his back against the stony wall. After a second, I joined him, spreading out my wet skirt so it would have more chance to dry. It felt as though we were in our own little world, away from the ordinary rules of society where Edwin wouldn’t even have called me Violet, let alone asked me to sit with him, away from the comforting watch of a chaperone. I felt heady with anticipation. Anything could happen here. Anything at all.

  ‘So tell me,’ Edwin began. ‘What brings you out in a rainstorm?’

  ‘Frustration,’ I said. ‘I’m beginning a new painting and it’s not going well.’

  Edwin frowned. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  I flushed, thinking of how rudely I’d spoken to Philips. ‘I have a problem with the model,’ I admitted. Cautiously, I explained what I’d wanted Philips to do, and Edwin laughed.

  ‘It was not funny,’ I said, hurt. Then I realized actually it was and laughed too.

  We sat in easy companionship, while the storm lashed the beach, and chatted about my painting. Edwin offered ideas about how I could compose my work and I tried hard to remember his suggestions.

  After a while I realized his arm was lying loosely about my shoulders. I knew I should move away but it felt so natural I couldn’t bring myself to shift across the sand.

  ‘So your model,’ Edwin was saying. ‘There is no persuading him to do as you wish?’

  I shook my head. ‘None at all. He is too afraid of my father. And I can’t say I blame him.’

  Edwin turned his head to look at me. His face was very close to mine. Again I thought I should move and again I stayed exactly where I was.

  ‘I,’ Edwin said. ‘I am not afraid of anything. Not the thunder.’ His face moved closer. ‘Not lightning.’ He moved closer still. ‘And certainly not your father.’ So gently I barely noticed him do it, he pressed his lips to mine. ‘I will model for you, sweet Violet.’

  I was dizzy. Whether it was the kiss, the joy of finding a new model, or simply the closeness of the air in the cave, I didn’t know.

  I have been good for many years, I thought as I sank into Edwin’s embrace. I have done everyone’s bidding but my own. Not any more.

  Chapter 19

  Present day

  Ella

  The next day was gloriously warm. We’d definitely moved to Sussex at the right time of year. We were into August now and I was starting to think about school uniforms for Oscar and getting Stan ready for nursery. I thought the tiny village school was going to be a big change from their large London primary, but I hoped they’d settle down quickly. Meeting Priya had definitely helped, because Oscar had already met Amber and Priya had promised to arrange a few play dates with some other children from their class before term started.

  Ben went off for the final training session before the football season started – he was nervous and antsy and I was glad to see the back of him for a few hours. And I decided to make a few more notes for my plot, then go for a walk along the cliff top and scout for a location for the supposed murder in my novel. I went upstairs and threw open the windows of the study, smiling as I heard the sound of the children playing in the garden with Margaret and Dumbledore the puppy, and got to work.

  After an hour or so, I wiped the sweat from my brow, and read through my notes. I’d plotted out the whole novel and I was quite pleased with it. Ish. I was so determined to make things work now we’d moved that I could see the positives in writing anything at all, but I still wasn’t sure I was feeling this new story.

  I thought I’d email it to my agent and see what she thought, before I wrote any more. I’d found myself glancing over at the self-portrait, which I’d put back in the middle of my whiteboard, while I was writing and wondering if she was the missing Violet. I’d even mixed up names a few times and written Hargreaves when I should have written something else. Maybe that was the story I should be writing, I thought. It was just a shame I didn’t know what the story was.

  I stood up and stretched, then walking to the window I breathed in the late summer air and smiled to myself. I saw the children bundling inside – for a drink, I assumed – and decided to go and join them for ten minutes before I headed off for my walk. But as I turned from the window, the cupboard in the corner of the room caught my attention again. The door edged open, gently, as though inviting me to look inside. There was much more to investigate in there, I knew. I’d only just scratched the surface of everything that had been shut up inside. And obviously I couldn’t resist.

  It was a big cupboard, with a sloping ceiling down to the floor. The space inside smelled old and fusty, its floor lined in old, long-since-changed carpet. I discovered I could step inside, if I ducked my head; so I did, holding the door open in case it swung shut and trapped me. There were books on the shelves and, propped in the corner, a roll of papers tied with string. I picked it up, backed out of the cupboard and shut the door again. My heart was beating fast.

  I sat on the floor and pulled the string down to the bottom of the roll. The papers sprang open. I took them apart and spread them out on the floor.

  There was a large painting, then several smaller pencil drawings. I smoothed them out but they rolled up again persistently, so I went to my own shelves and pulled out some heavy books to weigh them down.

  The sketches were all of a man, maybe in his early forties. In one he was wearing a suit and shirt with a high collar and in the rest he was stripped to the waist, seated on the ground, with indistinct shapes of animals – they looked a bit like big cats, lions perhaps – sketched around him. He was handsome with broad shoulders and thick hair and looked serene and calm in most of the pictures, more bold and slightly defiant in the one where he was wearing the suit. I wondered if the suited drawing was the one that showed him as he really was – in his comfort zone, as it were.

  The drawings were very good. They seemed to be preparatory sketches, the beginning of another work, and they had a storytelling feel to them – though they were telling a story that I felt I almost knew, but couldn’t quite remember.

  I turned my attention to the painting. It was larger than the drawings and full of muted oranges and reds. It glowed in the sunlight in the attic room.

  It sh
owed a woman in a blue dress standing in front of a stained-glass window. She was leaning back, massaging the small of her back, a look of boredom on her face.

  I looked closer. The painting was familiar. I’d seen it somewhere recently …

  With sudden inspiration, I got up and went to my desk where I’d left the copy of Illustrated London News I’d taken from the cupboard. Carefully turning the soft, aged pages, I scanned for the picture and found it. This was where I’d seen it before.

  ‘Mariana’ by John Everett Millais, I read. Today we have an engraving of a new painting by Millais, currently being exhibited at the Royal Academy …

  So what was this? The original? Surely not? Though I didn’t know much, I’d heard of Millais and I knew he was a well-known British artist. Had I stumbled upon some hidden masterpiece? Could I be one of those people on Antiques Roadshow, gasping as they told me how much this treasure was worth (I conveniently ignored the fact that we didn’t own this house and any riches would go straight to our landlord).

  I squinted at the picture again, as I looked for a signature, and breathed out as I read Violet Hargreaves in the corner.

  ‘Violet Hargreaves,’ I said out loud. So Violet really was the artist, then. Marcus Hargreaves’s missing daughter had been a painter. No riches for me, then, for finding a missing Millais, but even better – another clue in the Hargreaves mystery.

  I scrambled to my feet and took down the self-portrait. Even to my untrained eye, it was obviously drawn by the same artist. So the girl in the picture with the flowery dress and the sweet smile definitely was Violet.

  ‘Hello, Vi,’ I said. The girl in the picture stared back at me.

  Intrigued now, I sat at my desk and typed ‘Mariana by John Everett Millais’ into the search page. Up came a page about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood with the illustration, the same bored woman in the blue dress.

  I pulled the screen closer and gazed at the picture. This one was signed John Everett Millais with the initials PRB beneath the name. Violet Hargreaves had painted a rather good copy.

  Downstairs, the front door slammed and I heard the puppy barking as Stan shouted, ‘Daddy!’

  Ben will be interested in this, I thought. Carefully, I rolled up the pictures again, took the self-portrait from my whiteboard, and picked up my laptop, then I went downstairs to show him.

  Chapter 20

  Ben was wearing a club T-shirt and shorts, leaning against the kitchen sink, and drinking a glass of water. Stan and Oscar were still in the garden, shouting to each other, and Margaret was sitting on the patio, watching them. She waved to me as I came into the kitchen and I waved back.

  Ben raised an eyebrow at me. ‘What have you got there?’ he said.

  ‘How was training?’ I asked, ignoring his question and starting to unroll the pictures on the table.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s fit. Ready for the new season.’

  ‘Nervous?’ I said.

  He waved his hand. ‘Nah.’

  I grinned at him. ‘Truth?’

  ‘Absolutely bloody terrified.’

  I gave him a kiss.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘You’re a brilliant physio and they’re lucky to have you.’

  Ben gave me a weak smile. ‘What’s all this then?’ he said. ‘Trying to distract me with old bits of dirty paper?’

  I made a mock-outraged face. ‘These are not just any old bits of dirty paper,’ I said. ‘I’ve found some more pictures. Violet was definitely an artist and it’s definitely her in the self-portrait.’

  I carried on unrolling the pictures, weighing them down with the salt and pepper cruets and Stan’s plastic beaker. Seeing something interesting happening inside, Oscar and Stan both came into the kitchen and crowded round to see. Margaret lifted Stan up so he could see.

  ‘These are Violet’s sketches – see she’s signed them,’ I explained. ‘And this is a painting she did. It’s a copy of a work by John Everett Millais. The original is here …’

  I opened my laptop and turned it round so everyone could see the picture while Ben peered at the paintings.

  ‘I’m no expert,’ he said. ‘But these are very good, aren’t they?’

  I nodded. I smoothed out Violet’s version of the picture and realized something. ‘Oh look,’ I said, pointing at the face of the woman in the original painting on the screen, and then the one in Violet’s painting. ‘I didn’t notice when I was looking at it upstairs, but she’s different.’

  Ben wrapped his arms around me from behind and looked over my shoulder. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  The woman in the original painting had a long, pale face and neatly tied hair. In Violet’s copy the woman’s face was rounder with apple-like cheeks and untamed curls.

  Oscar hung off Ben’s arm.

  ‘That’s the lady,’ he said, pointing to Violet’s self-portrait. ‘The same lady.’

  ‘Oh he’s right,’ I said, looking from Violet’s portrait to her copy of ‘Mariana’. ‘She’s painted her own face into the picture. Why would she do that?’

  ‘I guess we’ll never know for sure.’

  I gave Ben the look I always gave him when I was disappointed in him. ‘I’m sure there are ways to find out,’ I said, a bit more sharply than I’d intended.

  I read the blurb on the website.

  ‘Mariana’ is an 1851 oil-on-wood painting by John Everett Millais. The painting is based on the lonely Mariana from William Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, and the poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. In the story, Mariana was to marry, but her dowry was lost in a shipwreck and she was spurned. She waited in vain for her lover to come.

  ‘Perhaps she identified with this Mariana,’ Ben said, obviously keen to make amends. ‘Maybe she was waiting for someone.’

  ‘Or something,’ I said. I touched the woman’s face in the picture. ‘Poor Violet.’

  ‘What about the other drawings?’ Ben said.

  Oscar had climbed on to a chair and leaned over the sketch of a man sitting on a stool, surrounded by what looked liked big cats. ‘It’s Daniel,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s Daniel?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Daniel in the lions’ den,’ Oscar said. ‘Look, he should be scared because of all the lions, but they’ve all sat down. They’re not going to eat him, because of God.’

  Ben and I, who only went to church for weddings, exchanged a look over his head. Oscar sighed, obviously exasperated at how slow his dense parents were being.

  ‘This is Daniel,’ he said with exaggerated patience, pointing at the man. ‘And these are the lions.’

  Ben looked closer. ‘I think he’s right,’ he said. ‘It’s a Bible story but it looks very real.’

  I nodded, understanding. ‘I read about the Pre-Raphaelites in one of the newspapers I found,’ I said. ‘They often painted Biblical subjects but from real models. Caused quite a stir at the time, apparently.’

  Oscar had lost interest. ‘It would be better if the lions ate Daniel,’ he said. ‘Raaaarrr.’ He pretended to eat Stan’s feet and Stan squealed in delight. Margaret herded the children out of the back door, laughing along with them.

  Ben looked at the pictures again. ‘So does this mean Violet was a Pre-Raphaelite?’ he asked. ‘Do you know anything about them?’

  I wrinkled my nose up. ‘Only what I remember from A Level, and from George telling me bits and pieces at uni,’ I said. ‘Which is enough to know they’re not my cup of tea. But I can’t imagine that Violet was part of that gang – a middle-class woman would never have been able to pursue a career in art in those days. I think they were a bunch of young men, drinking and having their pick of gorgeous models.’

  ‘Sounds like a good life,’ Ben said. I gave him a disapproving look and he grinned at me.

  ‘Maybe Violet wanted to be an artist,’ he pointed out. ‘She seems to have been good enough.’

  ‘It’s sad, isn’t it,’ I said. ‘She had the talent, but she couldn’t do it because she was a
woman. So unfair.’

  I picked up the drawing of the man wearing a shirt and trousers. ‘I wonder who her model was. She must have known him well to paint him without clothes. But it can’t be her husband, because she was still called Hargreaves. And she would only have been about eighteen in that self-portrait.’

  ‘Perhaps there was a scandal,’ said Ben with glee. ‘Perhaps she was cast out of the community and that’s why she went missing.’

  ‘I’m going to find out,’ I said, making my mind up. ‘I’m going to find out what happened to Violet.’

  ‘Well, surely it can’t be that hard to discover more about her,’ Ben said. ‘Maybe even track down a photograph?’

  I shook my head. ‘Too early for photos, I think,’ I said, thinking of the newspapers, which were all illustrated with sketches. ‘But I bet there’s a portrait of her somewhere.’

  I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him.

  ‘I’m going to find her,’ I said again.

  Chapter 21

  In these days of Google and information at your fingertips, I’d sort of forgotten how labour-intensive research could be. And after more than an hour in the central library in Brighton a few days later, I was beginning to regret my decision to track down Violet Hargreaves.

  My mistake – I thought, as I sat on the library carpet, surrounded by books – was trying to combine school-uniform shopping and research. The boys and I were all hot, tired, and bored. I’d thought spending time in the air-conditioned library would be a nice break from the crowded shops, but it had turned out to be a bit of a thankless task.

  I’d found a pile of local history textbooks and I was busy leafing through, looking for any reference to Marcus Hargreaves or Violet. So far, I’d found nothing relevant though I’d read quite a lot about Victorian Sussex and way too much about how they brought the railways to Brighton. I was, if I was completely honest, bored out of my mind. The kids were listless and Stan’s eyes were drooping and I knew if I didn’t want a nightmare at bedtime I had to make sure he didn’t go to sleep.