They had stared at each other for a few seconds as Edith realised that Miss Bagshaw must have known all along that she had been dressing for her wedding one who to all intents and purposes was a mere maidservant. Somehow the expression on Miss Bagshaw’s face had been so serious, so solemn, so weighty, her mouth pulled down into such a funereal expression, that the moment had toppled over into charade, and they had both ended up in fits of laughter. And of course it would have been difficult for Edith not to have seen the rough justice in Miss Bagshaw’s accounting, for it was true that she had worked at the Stag and Crown all through her adolescence with no payment beyond a feeling of gratitude that she had a roof over her head.
Now, of course, as she stared at herself in the dressing mirror, Edith was more than grateful to Miss Bagshaw, for she could see that not only must the Countess of A have had great taste when she first ordered the gown in which, with her new personal maid’s help, she herself was now standing, but so must Miss Bagshaw.
The green silk set off Edith’s auburn hair, white skin, and green eyes to perfection, and certainly the overskirt in patterned green and gold velvet did nothing but enhance the general effect, as did the short matching taffeta train. The bodice was cut so as to show exactly the right amount of what Miss Bagshaw would often discreetly refer to as Edith’s décolletage. In other words, there was just enough of Edith’s curves on view to be appealing, but not so much as to be an embarrassment.
Edith turned sideways to view the train and the bustle effect at the back, realising as she did so that she looked not just beautiful, but grand, so of course as she set off from her new bedroom to dine with her new husband her green eyes were sparkling and her head of hair – which Miss Bagshaw had taught her how to pin with a couple of expert twists to the top of her head and the aid of a few combs – looked as lustrous as it had ever done.
‘Madam looks beautiful,’ the maid that Mrs George had sent up to help her murmured, but she turned away from her as if the sight of Edith looking so stunning was more than she could bear.
Edith walked carefully down the highly polished oak stairs to the hall where Mrs George was waiting to show her into the dining room.
Here two maids, dressed in rustic skirts with crisp white aprons over the top, hovered anxiously, waiting to do whatever was asked of them. The food was beautifully produced, and served on a mix of pewter and wooden platters. It was simple but delicious, and quite different from anything to which the servants at the Stag and Crown might have ever been used.
‘Everything from our own soil, dearest, imagine that,’ Napier told her, smiling with satisfaction.
He himself was dressed in an artist’s silk cravat and a black frock-coat, and looking so handsome that Edith could not take her eyes off him. She found little difficulty in hanging on to his every word all through dinner, even if every other sentence seemed to start with the word ‘Ruskin’.
Dinner at last at an end, and Edith having left Napier for the required time with his port, they made their way once more to the upper floor, to the great bedroom that Edith now realised with a rush of joyous excitement they were going to share. Despite the fact that it was a vast oak four-poster, seen through the connecting doors of her dressing room, Edith thought the bed looked most inviting, although the linen drapes on the posts were so strangely patterned that she felt sure they must have been designed by someone like this Ruskin person.
Edith changed into her frilled nightgown in a state of great excitement. She loved Napier so much she knew now that she longed to give herself to him, although what exactly the giving and receiving would entail she had no real idea.
Eventually Napier appeared, carrying a wooden bed stick at the centre of which was a large, chunky, tallow-coloured candle whose light spilled out generously over the rustic furnishings of the room. He trod quietly and discreetly across the rush matting that covered the polished oak floorboards towards the bed where Edith was lying against carefully arranged pillows, her own candle already blown out. With a mounting sense of excitement, eyes open, Edith felt the mattress beside her dip, and then eventually, after some few minutes, the last of the light in the room disappeared as Napier turned and extinguished his vast candle with the aid of a snuffer.
There followed a long silence, before Edith heard Napier murmur, ‘Good night, my dearest dear.’ And then, eventually, came the sound of his gently sleeping breath rising and falling beside her, a sound that seemed strangely magnified owing to the deathly quiet of the countryside, and the dense, unrelieved darkness of the room.
Edith turned on her pillow and stared at the long, masculine back facing her, before turning back to stare once more into the black of the night, her carefully arranged auburn hair still massed behind her on the pillow, the frill of her nightgown touching her small, rounded chin.
After some long time of waiting and listening to Napier’s steady breathing, inevitably Edith felt the cold tears of disappointment begin to slide down her cheeks, and eventually the salt of those same tears on her lips, as they coursed with increasing rapidity down her young face. Yet so silent was her emotion, and so successful her suppression of it, that Napier was able to sleep on, oblivious of his bride’s sorrow.
Chapter Three
Celandine sighed and put down her pencil.
‘Mother dear! Do try to sit still, won’t you?’
Mrs Benyon nodded abruptly. She was finding it increasingly difficult to sit poised with her sewing by the window, and if the truth be told that was not all she was finding difficult. She was finding Celandine a great deal more difficult than she had found her in Munich. The girl was silent at times when her mother would prefer her to be talkative, and talkative at times when her mother would prefer to be allowed some peace.
Mrs Benyon was beginning to find traipsing round Europe after her painter daughter somewhat of a trial. She would only just have made friends in some new neighbourhood – settled down to a delicious set of interesting and lively relationships – when, at Celandine’s say-so, they would have to up sticks and go somewhere else. She was hoping that she could now settle down to life in an easy-to-run apartment in Paris, but she could not help fearing that her hope would soon be shattered.
‘Hold the sewing nearer to your face, if you would, Mother.’
Celandine, enlarging spectacles poised on her nose, leaned forward, frowned and then began once more to apply her pencil.
‘How ever many of these preparatory sketches do you have to do, dear?’
‘A great many, Mother.’
There was a long silence during which Mrs Benyon silently bemoaned the fact that she was not actually allowed to stitch, but only to look as if she was stitching. She felt it would be less of a strain if she could actually sew, instead of just posing with a needle and thread held up to her face. She wondered if she could say as much to Celandine, and then realised that such was Celandine’s utterly selfish artistic resolve, it would make very little difference if she did pluck up the courage to complain. She resolved instead to speak about something else.
‘Your sister is coming to Paris next week, Celandine. Do you think you will be able to spare some time to take her shopping, and to the opera?’
Inwardly Celandine sighed sharply. She wanted to tell her mother not to speak about anything, but above all not to bring up the subject of her married half-sister, for just the thought of her half-sister made Celandine’s heart sink to her boots.
‘Of course I will be pleased to take Agnes shopping and to the opera, Mother,’ she lied, none the less managing to sound as pleasant as possible. ‘But I’m sure she would probably be far happier going with you.’
Agnes, the sole product of Jacques Delors Benyon’s unhappily short first marriage to a beautiful young French girl from Avignon, was a great deal older than Celandine. She had married a provincial doctor at a very young age and borne him two children. Celandine, the product of her father’s second marriage, had finally had to concede that, despite all her effor
ts, she could not find favour with Agnes. Aside from being violently possessive of their joint father’s memory, Agnes tended, for some illogical reason, to be just as possessive over her stepmother as she was sentimental about the mother she could hardly remember.
‘I am sure Agnes would like you to take her shopping, Celandine.’
‘I hate to disagree with you, Mother, but I am quite sure that she would not. I am quite sure that she would prefer to go with you.’
Mrs Benyon put down her sewing. She was tired. She was tired of posing for Celandine. She was also tired of trying to reconcile Celandine and Agnes.
‘I must go and see if Marie is doing what she should,’ she said, rising, putting her sewing aside, and thankfully removing her spectacles.
Celandine was left staring moodily at her drawing. It was better than it had been, but not as good as it should be. She stood up and went to the salon window.
Outside, Paris was busying itself in its usual way, horses, carriages, and beautifully dressed women hurrying through the street below, enjoying the warm weather, their lighter clothes, the idea that soon they would be leaving Paris for their country houses. Why did Agnes have to do the reverse of what everyone else did? Why could she not go to the country in June? Why did she have to come to Paris? Paris was always empty of everyone except the concierges by the end of June.
After lunch Celandine would go to the Louvre, if only to get away from her mother, and the thought of Agnes arriving from Avignon. If only Celandine did not know exactly how she would be, exactly how the visit would progress, exactly what Agnes would say and do.
First of all Agnes would look Celandine up and down, and no matter what she was wearing would make it plain from her look that she did not in any way approve. No one ever wore anything that Agnes liked, it was just a fact. Next she would bustle towards Mrs Benyon and throwing her arms round her would kiss her as if she had not expected to see her ever, ever again.
The next victim would be Marie. Agnes loved to flatter the maid with her attentions, her enquiries after her health. She would ask tenderly after Marie’s parents, her nephews, even her godchildren, before exclaiming over the arrangements in the guest bedroom. The apartment, the flowers, the food, everything would be commented on and praised, causing everyone to sigh inwardly with relief, for Agnes pleased was always a very pretty sight. Unhappily, however, as Celandine well knew, this would be the calm before the storm, for as the days of her visit progressed, Agnes would gradually make it quite plain to one and all that there were things that were not right, things that she, Agnes, could make right.
Her eyes would seize on a cushion which it would turn out was definitely not the right colour to go with the curtains. Next it would be a casserole that was always made much better at her house. After which it would transpire that a wine was far too heavy to go with the casserole and Marie too slow serving at table. She would then discover that really Mother had taken to wearing fabrics that were too drab for her colouring, and Celandine a street dress that was by far too ordinary.
All in all, whether she had been staying with them in Europe or America, once Agnes had departed back to Avignon Celandine and her mother would always be left with the realisation that their life, which they had only days before found pleasant and well ordered, was in fact chaotic and in bad taste, something which could, of course, not be said of Agnes’s own dear home life. For, as all of Avignon must know by now, Agnes’s children were perfect, her husband was perfect, her house was beautifully run, and as far as taste was concerned – well, taste actually began with Agnes.
‘Where to now, dearest?’
Now that lunch was over Mrs Benyon found herself looking Celandine’s street dress up and down, as she waited for the inevitable reply.
‘Back to the Louvre, Mother. I really have to set myself to work longer hours these coming days, you know. The term is finishing, and all the studios will soon be closing down for the summer, so I must take advantage of the remaining time.’
Mrs Benyon nodded before deciding to take ruthless advantage of Celandine’s departing figure. As the door to the street started to close behind her daughter, she said, ‘You know, I have just received another letter from Agnes, while you were changing, Celandine. It appears that not only is she coming to stay, but she is also bringing the boys with her. For a fortnight.’
The door opened again, very, very slowly.
‘Both the children? For a fortnight?’
Mrs Benyon nodded slowly. ‘Yes, both of them,’ she agreed, trying not to sound as depressed as she felt.
‘Will that not be a trifle tiring for you, Mother?’
They both knew from Celandine’s tone that as far as the prospective visit of her half-sister was concerned she was already counting herself out. She could just about tolerate Agnes, but her two sons were, to put it bluntly, almost unbearable.
‘I am sure that Agnes will want to take them out and about – to the Bois de Bologne, the Bastille, the . . . Louvre. You could take them to the Louvre, Celandine.’
‘Oh, I do not think that they would at all enjoy the Louvre, Mother,’ Celandine said, far too hastily, even for her own ears. ‘It would be very . . .’ She paused. ‘It would be all too confining for them, really it would. What I cannot understand is why Agnes would want to come to Paris in the summer, least of all bringing two boys, at a time when everyone else, with the single exception of ourselves and the mice, is fleeing the place.’
‘It seems,’ Mrs Benyon held up her latest letter and stared at it a little hopelessly, ‘it seems that she longs to see us all.’
Celandine frowned. It did not sound in the least like Agnes, but if Celandine was to get any drawing done at all it would be best to seem to accept this notion.
‘I dare say you can get her to see reason, and not stay for a full two weeks, Mother. We are after all hoping to rent somewhere in the country, despite its being so difficult at this time of year, with everything taken.’
Mrs Benyon nodded. The door closed. She stared at it for a few seconds. She never could understand why Agnes, who was her husband’s daughter, was so attached to her. After all, she was only Agnes’s stepmother. It was, well, almost unnatural.
Celandine was about to burst through the doors of the revered Drawing Room at the Louvre museum before she remembered, just in time, to tiptoe into the still, silent atmosphere. She was so preoccupied by the ghastly thought of Agnes and her boys coming to stay that she hardly noticed who was in the room, but crept to her familiar station feeling as if she had been pursued all the way from the apartment by the Furies, which in a way she had been, for she was sure that the Furies of thought could be as destructive as the wretched creatures themselves.
Before starting work she always sat quite still, calming herself, trying to find her spiritual centre. Only after this did she pick up her pencil and start work. On this occasion she had only just finished praying for inspiration, and had not yet picked up her pencil, when she became aware that someone was staring at her. She turned slowly to see the tall, dark young man who had only the day before been guilty of the same behaviour drawing her again.
She frowned at him. He smiled. She dropped her eyes and picked up her own pencil. Really, it was too much to find, yet again, that she was acting as some stranger’s model. She turned back to her drawing, frowning, at the same time realising that she was powerless to do anything about it. After all, anyone could draw anyone, or anything, for that matter; permission was not needed. It was a fact that so long as she was seated at her work she could find herself acting as an involuntary model for anyone else in the room and would be powerless to do anything about it. Her frown lightened as a novel thought occurred to her. It was an idea that should have come to her long before, and, when all was said and done, hardly original. She moved her drawing stool slightly, and directing her gaze across the room at the young man she smiled openly at him before picking up her own pencil and starting to draw him. After all, two could play at th
is lark.
As she turned to face him, and started to sketch what she saw, Celandine quickly discovered that the face was actually quite worth a study. First of all it had that all-important mark of intelligence, a high forehead, from which the thick dark hair was swept back, and the nose, though large, was straight and set above a nicely shaped mouth. But what dominated the whole was the eyes, bright and humorous, but at the same time questioning as if the owner had seen something on the horizon to which he was quite determined to draw near before too long.
After half an hour during which Celandine finally found herself concentrating less on her subject than on the vase beside which he had been sitting, she heard a voice behind her whispering, ‘That’s far too flattering.’
‘Forgive me, but this is private.’
‘Nothing is private about my face, made-moiselle. My face is for the world to see, I do assure you.’
‘Tit for tat then, sir. I have been subjected to your pencil for far too long. It is only fair that you, in your turn, should become my victim.’
They were both whispering, but Celandine’s whisper was as indignant in tone as her model’s was quietly humorous.
‘Yes, I do see that, but nevertheless your depiction is far too flattering.’
‘Shsh.’ A tall, well-dressed man with black hair seated nearby raised a mocking eyebrow in their direction before turning back to his drawing.
‘Sorry, Alfred – I forgot you have such poor concentration that even a leaf stirring can break it.’ The young man executed a small, equally mocking bow, before turning back to Celandine. ‘Come and have an ice cream or coffee with me, please? We can argue better in a café.’
Friday's Girl Page 7