The Girl in the Picture

by Kerry Barrett

  ‘Edwin,’ I gasped. ‘I …’

  ‘Hush, my darling,’ Edwin said. ‘No one need know.’

  In shock I realized Edwin’s strong fingers were busy unbuttoning my dress from the back. He kissed my neck and walked me backwards to the chaise longue where his shirt lay.

  With a practised move, he pulled my gown from my arms and pushed me on to the sofa.

  ‘Edwin,’ I said again. I wanted him to stop, but I didn’t know how. I had started this and now I felt powerless to stop it. A breeze blew across my bare arms and I shivered, feeling horribly exposed.

  With swift hands, Edwin removed my underclothes and stepped out of his own trousers.

  ‘Beautiful girl,’ he said, running his hand down my body. It was just as I’d imagined those nights in my room on my own, only this didn’t seem romantic or loving. It was just frightening. I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to see him seeing me.

  Then suddenly he was on top of me. I could hardly breathe. There was a sharp pain and Edwin groaned as he started to move. I stayed still, paralysed with fear as Edwin pushed into me once more, hard, and then collapsed on top.

  I started to cry, hot tears running into my hair as I lay on the chaise.

  Edwin sat up. ‘Darling V,’ he said. ‘Whatever is wrong?’

  Trying to act like the grown woman I thought I now was, I forced a smile. ‘Nothing is wrong,’ I said.

  I wiped my tears and pulled on my underclothes, stifling a gasp as I saw blood on the upholstery of the chaise. Edwin wiped it with his handkerchief.

  ‘It won’t hurt so much next time,’ he said, putting on his own clothes.

  I had no words. I sat, silent, staring ahead. Another tear rolled down my cheek.

  ‘Dearest,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry it was so quick. Your beauty quite overwhelmed me.’

  He pulled me into him and, bewildered about what had happened, I clung to him. He kissed away my tears, stroked my hair, and murmured calm words of endearment until I stopped crying. Then, carefully, he helped me into my dress, as though I were a child, and kissed me gently once more.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘But I shall return tomorrow – if you still want me?’

  I nodded. My mind was a tangle of love and pain, but I knew I wanted to paint him, still.

  ‘Goodbye, sweet Violet,’ he said, picking up his coat from the chaise. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  Chapter 28

  1855

  Frances

  Frances was reading when Edwin came home. He poked his head round the door to the drawing room and gave her a broad smile.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he said. ‘I have a mind to take a bath. Could you ask Agnes to draw one for me?’

  Frances nodded and put her book to one side. ‘I’ll send her up,’ she said, knowing Agnes would grouse and grump about being asked.

  She heard Edwin singing as he went up the stairs and knew his seduction of young Violet had been successful. He was nothing if not predictable, she thought as she went to find Agnes. His adultery always followed the same pattern. Time was she would have been crushed by his finding someone else he believed worthy of his affection, but it had happened so often during their marriage that she no longer cared.

  This time, indeed, she was almost pleased. While he was wooing Violet he was paying her no attention. She could continue to hide her money and plot her escape. Though, after everything that happened in Brighton, she did have concern for Violet herself. She was very young and, if she had lived her whole life in this quiet village, then Frances feared she would be very unworldly. She may not be able to cope with Edwin, who was ruthless in his assumption that he could simply have anything he wanted.

  Once more she felt an almost maternal protectiveness towards the ungainly girl who lived next door and tried to quash it. She had to think about herself now, herself and her baby, not the teenager seduced by her husband.

  She waited until she heard Agnes stamp down the stairs, and Edwin retreat to his dressing room where his bath was. Then she went into her own room, shut the door, pulled a small table in front of it, and loosened the floorboard. Inside she had a bag of money – a good amount now – a diary and a book.

  The book was about Scotland, which was where she had definitely decided to go. She liked the sound of a small town called North Berwick, close to Edinburgh, but she knew it would take time to get there. She planned to go first to Manchester, then Glasgow, and then make her way east. She’d befriended the stationmaster at Brighton station and, professing an interest in the ever-expanding railways, had asked him the best route.

  In her diary she had been practising her new name. She’d decided to call herself Florence after a great aunt she’d had a fondness for. And for a surname she’d chosen Bennett. She felt both names were just unremarkable enough. She picked up her pen and signed her new name with a flourish. She’d also written a life story for herself. She was a widow from Manchester. Her fictional husband – Alfred – had been killed in a factory accident and she’d decided to start a new life with her baby away from the memories of him and closer to her imaginary family who lived somewhere near the border.

  She shifted on her chair and loosened the waistband on her skirt. She was definitely thickening round the middle. Soon she planned to leave off one petticoat, then another, as her baby grew inside. She felt sure that would buy her enough time to make her escape plan perfect.

  ‘Frances?’ Edwin called from the other room, jolting her from her daydreams. She put her diary, papers, money, and the book under the floor once more, replaced the floorboard, and put the small table on top. Then she smoothed down her hair and went to see her husband.

  Chapter 29

  1855

  Violet

  After the first, terrible time, Edwin came to visit me every day. I was in turmoil. I loved painting him; ‘Daniel in the Lions’ Den’ was coming along very nicely and the sheer joy of drawing every single day made me want to sing with happiness.

  About Edwin himself, I was conflicted. He made me feel so precious, calling me darling and dearest, complimenting my painting, my character, and my beauty. But after the drawing, came his heavy kisses, his breath hot on my face, and then inevitably, he would push me back on to the chaise.

  After the first time, I screwed my courage up and tried to talk to him.

  As I washed out my brushes, he came behind me and wrapped his arms around me.

  ‘My darling,’ he said, kissing my neck.

  I froze. I didn’t want this. Not again. ‘Dearest Edwin,’ I said, my voice small and shaky. ‘While I have an enormous fondness for you, I fear we must not forget that you have a wife …’

  ‘Frances is ill,’ said Edwin, tugging at my petticoat. ‘Her nerves are bad. She cannot give me what I need. No one could judge me for wanting you.’

  I tried to move away, but I was trapped between the table where I kept my brushes, and the wall. I felt a chill of fear. ‘But, Edwin,’ I said.

  ‘Hush.’ Edwin squashed his lips on mine so hard I felt sure he would leave a bruise. Beginning to panic, I put my hands on his upper arms.

  ‘Edwin,’ I said. ‘No.’

  I pushed firmly against him but he pushed back so I was against the wall. It felt cold against my back. Edwin towered over me and I was struck once more by how small I was compared to him and felt, again, a flash of utter fright.

  ‘Darling Violet,’ he said and crushed his lips on mine again.

  I thought about the pain of yesterday and how it had felt when he was on top of me. I didn’t want that again, no matter how I felt about Edwin. Summoning every bit of my strength, I braced my arms on his and shoved him hard. He stumbled back and fire flashed in his eyes.

  Seeing a way out, I ducked under his arm. I was close to tears. ‘I am so sorry,’ I said. ‘I just, I can’t …’

  Edwin’s fist flew towards me. Pain flared in my jaw and, confused, I found myself sprawled on the floor. It was a moment before I realized what had happened and I s
tayed slumped on the white floorboards as I tried to make sense of it. Surely it had been a mistake? Edwin couldn’t have meant to hurt me.

  I looked up at him where he stood, and his face softened. He bent down to me, and wrapped his arms around me. Just like last time, I hung on to him, like a drowning woman, sobbing as he stroked my back and spoke soothing nothings into my hair.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he cooed. ‘Violet, my angel. I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry.’

  It was the heat, he explained. And worries at work. And he’d so been looking forward to spending time with me, and to be disappointed, well …

  When my sobs eased, he gently picked me up and led me to the chaise. He sat me down and carefully unbuttoned my dress, still talking.

  ‘Darling girl,’ he said, dropping a kiss on my exposed collarbone. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

  I was trembling. My face ached and my side was raw from where I’d fallen on to the floor. With shaking hands I touched my jaw and winced as I felt tender swelling. And still Edwin was busy, pulling up my petticoats and pushing me back on to the couch. I began to sob once more as he clambered on top of me, turning my face away so Edwin wouldn’t see. After everything that had happened, I still didn’t want to upset him.

  Afterwards, Edwin kissed my tears as they fell and told me again how much I meant to him. He didn’t help me dress this time, though. Instead, he left me dishevelled and bruised, on the sofa, watching in silence as he pulled on his trousers and straightened his hair.

  ‘I have a mind to go to London at the end of the week,’ he said, as he picked up his jacket.

  I tried to smile, but my swollen cheek prevented me. ‘Will you be seeing Mr Millais?’ I asked, my voice shrill as I fought more tears. Would this all be worthwhile in the end?

  ‘I will certainly try,’ Edwin said. ‘Will you be ready?’

  At that moment, I thought I might never paint again, but I nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Edwin. ‘Until tomorrow, sweet Violet.’

  I heard him whistling as he went down the stairs. Still I sat, half-dressed, wondering what was happening. Was this love? Was it being an adult? And was it the price I would have to pay to be an artist?

  As the sun set over the sea and the room darkened, I finally pulled myself to my feet and buttoned my blouse. I was sore. My face was swollen and my hip stiff. Slowly, I walked downstairs to the kitchen to find Mabel.

  She gasped when she saw my face and fussed around me.

  ‘Oh, Miss Violet,’ she said, bustling me on to a stool and pushing me down. ‘What happened?’

  My eyes burned at her kindness. ‘I slipped,’ I lied. ‘Upstairs.’

  Mabel looked at me closely, but she didn’t question me further. ‘You need something cool on that,’ she said. She fetched a rag and soaked it in cold water. Then she folded it up and held it against my painful face.

  The icy water ran down my neck and I rested my head against Mabel’s chest, feeling safe for the first time since it had happened.

  Mabel stroked my hair, mothering me though we were almost the same age.

  ‘There, there,’ she said. ‘It’ll be better in a few days.’

  ‘How did you slip?’ I hadn’t noticed Philips in the corner of the kitchen, mending a cupboard door.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I stammered.

  Philips stood in front of me and for a frightening moment I was reminded of how Edwin had loomed over me. I felt myself cower backwards and wished I hadn’t.

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  Mabel lifted the cloth away from my cheek and Philips winced.

  ‘Painful,’ he said. ‘Reminds me of when that lad from down the way had too much ale and started on me.’

  ‘I slipped,’ I said again. I took the cloth from Mabel and put it on my cheek myself.

  Philips gently pushed back the stray lock of hair that had fallen over my face as usual and studied my face for a moment.

  ‘You be careful, Miss Violet,’ he said. ‘You just be careful.’

  And after that, I didn’t fight Edwin any more. Each day he would come and I would paint him. And then, when he grew tired of standing or sitting, he would get up and walk to the window, shaking out his limbs, and I knew what was coming.

  I would put down my pencil, or my brush, and go to the sofa. Then I would unhook my dress, and slip off my petticoat. I’d taken to wearing fewer layers, just so it would be over more quickly and I found I could shut my mind away from what was happening. I would close my eyes and imagine myself looking at my own painting hanging in the Royal Academy. And I found I could ignore Edwin’s breath, hot against my cheek, his heavy limbs, and the pain as he thrust inside me.

  Afterwards Edwin would go down the stairs, whistling to himself, and I would watch out of the landing window until I saw him disappear through his front gate. Then I would go down to the privy with a basin of water and clean myself up. I took a sort of grim comfort in this restorative routine; bringing myself back after Edwin had taken me away.

  I felt completely alone. Father was still away, and Philips, who had long been my confidant, kept his distance. I couldn’t have confided in him anyway. This was too base, too raw, to be talked of. A thousand miles from chatting about my artistic ambitions, or the plans Philips had for his own market garden and shop.

  For a few days after Edwin hit me, I stayed indoors. The village was small and the locals too enthusiastic in their gossip for me to feel comfortable outside. But eventually, after a week had passed, I stood in front of the mirror and examined my injuries.

  Edwin had caught me across the jaw and a smear of yellowing bruise showed down the bone and up towards my cheek. But the worst had passed and I felt sure no one would notice. In any case, if any villagers were too interested I would simply say I had slipped and change the subject.

  Since the rainstorm the day I’d met Edwin on the beach – oh how long ago that seemed now, back when I was still a child – summer had all but given up and was slinking into autumn without much of a fight. I pinned on my hat and wrapped a shawl across my shoulders to guard against the chill, put my chin in the air, and left the house.

  It was good to be out after so much time stuck inside. I strolled into the village and looked in the windows of the shops. I stopped and chatted with a friend of my father’s, and I felt more like myself than I’d felt for a week.

  I had promised Mabel I would collect the clean linen – not much of a bundle now I was alone in the house – and so I went to the laundry. As I went into the shop, Frances Forrest was coming out.

  Feeling my heart pound against my breastbone, I held the door open and dropped my eyes, fearing Frances could tell what I had been doing with her husband.

  ‘Good day, Miss Hargreaves,’ Frances said.

  I nodded, worried any response at all would give me away.

  But it seemed even that simple nod had been my undoing because when I came out again, Frances was waiting. I felt sick. Was Frances waiting to question me about where Edwin had been every day?

  I put my head down and went to scurry by, but Frances fell into step next to me.

  ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ she said. ‘Violet.’

  I walked on. I was consumed with guilt and I didn’t know how to react, what to feel, or what to say.

  ‘Stop.’ Frances pulled my arm and I stopped walking.

  Cautiously, I raised my eyes to Frances’s and was astonished to see only concern – not the hatred or confrontation I was expecting.

  Gently Frances reached out and cupped her hand around my jaw, where Edwin’s fist had left the bruise.

  ‘Oh, my dear girl,’ she said. ‘My dear girl.’

  I winced away from her fingers. The bruise no longer hurt too badly, but the worry in Frances’s sweet face was too much. For days I’d forced myself to shut my feelings away, but suddenly I was flooded with emotions. At once I felt horribly guilty, but also I had a strange longing to throw myself into Frances’s arms, to let her look after me with the gentl
e concern she’d shown as she touched my aching face.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.

  Frances shook her head. ‘No matter,’ she said. ‘It is nearly over for me. But you must look after yourself.’

  I was confused and nervous about what she knew. Did she realize what Edwin had been doing when he wasn’t with her? And I was scared. So scared that she knew everything and would confront Edwin. Would he be angry? Would he never speak to me again? At a loss as to what to say, I decided to play ignorant.

  ‘Are you well, Mrs Forrest?’ I said. She didn’t seem ill, but she never had in the time I’d known her, and Edwin had spoken often of her illness.

  ‘I am indeed,’ Frances said. ‘It is your health I am concerned for. Violet, you must …’

  I fought the desire to run away. An image of Edwin, trousers off, panting and red-faced on top of me, crossed my mind and I felt I would die with shame. Why, why, was Edwin’s wife being so nice?

  ‘I do feel weak,’ I said, interrupting Frances’s talk. ‘I must go.’

  I hoisted the laundry bundle into my arms, turned on my heel, and fled.

  Chapter 30

  1855

  Frances

  Frances felt completely helpless. She knew Edwin’s marks when she saw them; she’d been on the receiving end of that fist too many times. But it had happened so soon for young Violet. Normally he wooed them for months before showing his true colours.

  Frances walked slowly in Violet’s footsteps back towards the house, wondering if the younger woman had resisted Edwin’s advances. Perhaps that’s why he had struck her. That was good, she thought. The girl’s spirit could keep her safe. If only Frances had had an ounce of her wilfulness, perhaps she’d never have fallen so hard for Edwin’s charms.

  And yet, Frances had a shadow of doubt. She wasn’t sure Violet had completely understood what Frances was trying to tell her. It was a difficult situation. Should she come straight out and say: ‘I know you are having relations with my husband. He is dangerous. Leave him.’?

  If by any small chance she was wrong about Violet and Edwin, she would have smeared the young woman’s character terribly.