Mrs Whistler

by Matthew Plampin

  ‘We will win,’ she said. ‘Never fear. They’ll find in Jimmy’s favour. How could they do otherwise? He’ll have his damages, the whole thousand. And a stand will have been taken, Maud, on behalf of art. A blow will have been struck.’

  Maud nodded; she’d heard this a hundred times over the course of the trial. She’d still to catch her breath properly, and her knees were aching worse than ever. The walk back from the coffee house had all but finished her off. She worked her hands free. ‘Owl’s not coming then,’ she said.

  Rosa couldn’t deny it. She supplied the standard regretful explanation concerning his case, the preparations it required, and the fortune that was at stake. Maud had expected this but was disappointed nonetheless, not least because of the upset it would surely cause Jimmy. Rosa went back to her talk of the coming victory, and how it would deliver a sound rebuke to these critics, these hollow men who thought they could sling any ignorant muck they chose, from Mr high-and-mighty Ruskin to the grubs on the penny papers. Then, rather abruptly, she stopped.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ she said.

  Maud followed her stare. The lady was standing beneath a pointed arch, perhaps twenty feet away. She could only be glimpsed between the hats and heads, and the clouds of tobacco smoke, but it was Mrs Leyland. There could be no doubt of that. She was flanked by her elder daughters, the three of them refined and faultlessly fashionable, grouped together as if in conference. They were attended by an older, rather grave-looking gentleman Maud took to be Fanny Leyland’s fiancé.

  ‘This is your chance.’ Rosa’s voice was cold and controlled; her eyes were alive with excitement. ‘Maud, this is your chance to speak with Frances Leyland. To tell her what you think of her, and that wretched husband of hers as well.’

  Maud’s arm drew instinctively around the curve of her stomach. ‘I really don’t think—’

  Rosa had her by the elbow and was attempting to steer her in the direction of the unsuspecting Leylands. ‘You can tell her that you know. You know why she tracked you down that day. And you can tell her that she failed.’

  ‘No.’ Maud anchored herself to the patterned tiles, leaning like a reluctant mule. ‘Rosa.’

  After a short tug-of-war she broke away, retreating to a side passage. It was darker in there and nearly empty, her footsteps echoing against the stone.

  Rosa was close behind. ‘I don’t understand. It’s the ideal moment. Just before Jimmy’s final triumph. Why, it’s positively poetic.’

  Eldon appeared at the top of the passage. He glanced from one woman to the other, visibly debating whether or not to get involved.

  ‘Look at me,’ Maud panted. ‘Heavens, Rosa, even if I wanted to, even if it would be of the least help or use, I could hardly – I couldn’t just—’

  She gave up. The child was stirring, as if hearing itself referred to. She slipped her hand between the buttons of her coat. A bony part pressed against her palm, and there was a sense, very briefly, of the curled body and the head, of the angle at which it lay. Out in the main corridor a bell rang, signalling the imminent return of the jury. The murmuring of the crowd redoubled; it started to shift, funnelling into the courtroom.

  ‘We should get back,’ said Eldon. ‘This minute, really.’

  As they left the passageway, Maud peered over at the Leyland ladies; they were moving, heading for the courtroom doors along with everybody else. The three women were occupied wholly by their own conversation – which was of a different character than Maud had first assumed. The two daughters actually appeared to be giving their mother a proper earful, their pretty faces pinched with ire. Mrs Leyland remained impassive, plainly too tired, too beaten about already, to mount any kind of defence.

  Winter was testing its grip upon London that afternoon, and the Court of Exchequer already had a theatre-like murk; a charge of anticipation was also gathering, as if the curtain was about to go up. Candles had been brought in, but the tiny flames seemed to deepen the darkness rather than reduce it. The chamber was kept a little too hot, as it had been throughout the trial. They went left, to their place on the rearmost pew – selected both for its discreet location and its proximity to the exit, should a rapid departure be necessary. Maud edged in after Rosa, surveying the courtroom as she did so. She saw the Leyland women halfway down, settling themselves with stately grace; the Grosvenor pictures, the portraits and Nocturnes which had endured such indignities during the trial, were propped behind the bench, rubbed down to blank rectangles by the gloom; and Jimmy, the plaintiff, was camped out with his allies in the pew beside the witness stand. He appeared attentive but supremely at ease, idly polishing his eyeglass on a lapel. The black suit was immaculate; the white forelock was arranged precisely atop his oiled black curls, like the feather in a soldier’s cap. It was a well-practised pose: the worldly genius, surprised by nothing, who met fraught moments like this with no more than a dry smile and a quick remark, before sauntering off into the evening. One of the lawyers made an observation, gesturing towards the pews opposite, where the enemy was seated. Jimmy looked pained, momentarily, some years older and even a touch anxious; then the eyeglass was twisted back in and a rejoinder fired out, and the men around him shook with mirth.

  Maud landed upon the pew rather more abruptly than she’d intended. Her lower back protested, prompting a gasped curse; there was pressure on her bladder also, so sudden and intense it felt like someone was sitting on it. Which of course they were. The child twitched, very slightly – was it hiccupping? She kept still, beginning to smile; and there was another tiny start, and another a few seconds later, to a slow rhythm. It really was the queerest sensation.

  Rosa was giving her a curious look, as if fearing she’d lost her wits. ‘You mustn’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘They will find in his favour. All will be well.’

  Maud didn’t respond. Her smile dropped away; she shifted about, biting hard on her lip, nausea fluttering close to her hiccupping child. Down by the table, the jury had emerged and was entering its box. She thought of a dozen different things she needed to ask, to ask urgently, but before she could speak everybody rose in a great rumble of boots. She could hear official voices over at the bench, heralding the beak. Just as she’d mustered the energy to stand, the courtroom was seated again. One of the jurors had remained on his feet, a nervous-looking fellow in a plain brown suit – the foreman, she supposed.

  ‘Are you all agreed?’ asked the beak from his chair; he sounded impatient, keen to be finished.

  The court was perfectly silent, the universe hanging in suspension. The light seemed to dim yet further; the figure of the foreman grew dark and distant. Maud slipped dizzily to the edge of the pew. She reached for Rosa’s hand, getting a good firm hold, and she squeezed it with everything she had.

  The foreman cleared his throat. ‘We find a verdict for the plaintiff,’ he announced. ‘With one farthing damages.’

  A lively murmur spread through the court. There were a couple of shouts of – amusement, was it? Satisfaction? The bewigged swells down at the front both began talking at once, Ruskin’s fellow asserting something, while Jimmy’s attempted to interject.

  ‘There,’ said Rosa. ‘I told you. What did I tell you?’

  Maud’s voice, when she managed to speak, sounded to her like that of someone else altogether. ‘One farthing,’ she said. ‘One farthing damages.’

  ‘A blow – yes, a blow has been struck.’

  The drawl of the beak could be heard, silencing the bickering lawyers before him. ‘Considering the view the jury has taken of the matter,’ he declared, ‘I enter judgement for one farthing for the plaintiff, without costs.’

  The gavel sounded, a full stop on the trial. Immediately people began to stand, blocking their view with a dense barrier of millinery. Maud thought of the windows in the White House, the frames already starting to warp on the river-facing side. The studio stacked with unsold works, their numbers reduced only by Owl’s endeavours at the pawn shop. The diminished larder, the em
ptying cellar and the writs heaping up on the Chinese-style bureau in the hall. This surely spelled the end.

  ‘A blow for artists everywhere,’ Rosa said. ‘A blow for us all.’

  Maud turned to her, so elegant and unburdened – so very pleased with this moment and ignorant of what it would actually entail – and was nearly overwhelmed by anger. ‘A blow’s been struck all right, Rosa,’ she spat. ‘A – a blow to the bloody temple of Jimmy and me – of our—’ The metaphor ran away from her. ‘Jimmy was due a thousand pounds from that old ghoul, that Mr Ruskin, who can’t even be bothered to come in here and – and—’ Sweat was everywhere, it seemed, welling from every inch of skin. Her breath was quite gone. She wanted to scream. ‘A thousand pounds. And we’ve got a blasted farthing. And no costs. That’s another bill right there, and a fat one to boot.’

  Rosa’s expression was sympathetic, yet wholly uncomprehending. She began to stroke Maud’s hand. It was promptly snatched away.

  ‘We’re done for, Rosa, don’t you see? We’re wrecked, Jimmy and me. We’re at the bottom of the bloody ocean.’

  Maud had more to say, a good deal more, but the straining of her bladder was now unbearable – the feeling somehow both hot and cold, and prickling torturously. She batted Rosa back and struggled to her feet. Jimmy could be seen across the room, still seated on his pew. He appeared puzzled, and was asking a question of those around him. Dear God, thought Maud as she pushed past Eldon into the aisle, he doesn’t know if he’s won or not. He honestly can’t tell. ‘I suppose a verdict is a verdict,’ she heard him declare as she heaved herself through the doors, and his friends laughed; it sounded forced this time, however, as if coming more from loyalty than actual amusement.

  There was a scattering of people along the passage – the first out, young gentlemen mostly. Maud’s haste, her condition and her wild look attracted immediate interest. She glared around her and considered bellowing something indecorous. But there was no time even for this. The stark fact of it was that if she didn’t continue on her way that instant she would surely release her water right there, in the principal corridor of the Royal Courts of Justice. She went left, continuing at speed along the well-trodden route to the conveniences.

  Crashing into the first stall in the row, she fumbled frantically with skirts and undergarments and slung her ungainly frame onto the seat, her thighs sticking clammily to the varnished wood. The stream commenced, hesitantly to begin with but soon picking up. She exhaled hard, closing her eyes; her forehead came to rest against the partition. It was still going strong when Rosa’s boots – ripe ox-blood, and so pointed they didn’t look like they could hold a human foot – appeared in the gap at the bottom of the stall door. Maud leaned forward to snap the latch across. For a few seconds the only sound was the sharp hiss of urine, then the flow dwindled to drips and Rosa spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry, truly I am. I do understand how this outcome might alarm you. Especially at present, with all you have to endure. But you must remember that Jimmy has friends. Important friends. And he has genius. The principle of this ruling, of the jury finding in his favour, will ensure—’

  ‘Money. That’s what you said.’ Maud stared at her black-stockinged knees; at the acanthus pattern on the floor tiles below. ‘Money throws the world open. And now there’s to be no money at all.’ She thought of Portugal. Of a garden crowded with blooms, stirring in a warm, clean breeze. Of Ione, at five years old or thereabouts, her long auburn hair unfurling against the blueness of the ocean. ‘Dear God, I am such a fool.’

  ‘Please do not despair. It will attract custom. It will serve as an advertisement, do you hear? A great invitation for patronage. Jimmy will be earning like never before.’

  Maud wasn’t listening. She sat upright, fingers splayed across her stomach, and looked around for paper.

  *

  They emerged to find the main corridor almost full. Maud made to cut through the middle to the nearest set of doors, not really caring any longer who she might bump into or be seen by. Barely a step had been taken, however, when the plaintiff himself streaked past, perhaps three yards in front. The calm perplexity with which he’d greeted the verdict was quite gone; his brow was thunderous in fact, and his pace determined. He was homing in on a target.

  Maud ducked back, watching as he made for another side passage further along and the small, slight man who stood there. She recognised this person from the courtroom that morning, when he’d climbed up into the box and given evidence as Ruskin’s chief witness: Edward Burne-Jones, star of the Grosvenor, creator of all those identical angels and doe-eyed maidens. There was something of a mismatch between this otherworldly, tranquil art and the man who had made it. Mr Burne-Jones was a creature fashioned by worry. His thin, lank hair was plastered to his head; his grey beard was worn long, four inches past his collar, like that of an anxious little wizard. The evidence he’d given had been less than convincing. Rosa had snorted disdainfully throughout, remarking that the fellow hadn’t even had the courage of his philistinism. Despite the bold things he was reported to have said beforehand, at various tables about town – talk of defending the great Ruskin and seeing off the ridiculous Whistler, who scarcely anyone took seriously – he’d been toothless and weak, stammering out a series of blatant contradictions, almost as if he’d been trying to serve both sides of the conflict at once.

  ‘Mr – Mr Whistler’s paintings are beautiful – they are bew-w-wildering – they are masterly in c-c-colour – they are formless, incomplete – there is g-g-great labour and skill here – they lack f-finish …’

  What in heaven was anyone supposed to make of that?

  Stepping forward, Maud saw that another of Ruskin’s fellows stood alongside Burne-Jones. Tom Taylor the newspaperman was a more solid figure than the painter, with cheeks of fiery plum atop a thick raw-cotton beard. Now his evidence had just been lazy. He’d merely read aloud from notices he’d written for The Times, so-called criticism that once again cited incompleteness and sketchiness as justifications for what Ruskin had written, and which had likened Jimmy’s paintings to the gradated tints on a length of wallpaper. Maud had fumed to hear it; and now, as Jimmy closed in, she found herself hoping that he would dish out a sound dressing-down to these two rather wretched characters. Yet at the point of contact, when the assault should rightly have begun, Jimmy pulled up. He swerved from his enemies, feigning a kind of detachment, making a correction to the eyeglass.

  Rosa had moved past her. ‘Frederick Leyland is with them,’ she said.

  Sure enough, a tall, black-clad figure was positioned a short distance back from the others. Maud had assumed that Jimmy’s great enemy was keeping away, either through animosity or as a show of unconcern; that his wife had decided to attend at least partly in defiance of him. But the moment of the verdict, the delivery of Jimmy’s certain doom, had plainly been too much for the shipbroker to resist.

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ Rosa turned to her, filled with grim satisfaction. ‘Didn’t I say that there was an alliance here – that Ned Jones was the link?’

  Jimmy was trying hard to appear casual, darkly amused, but even from across the corridor Maud could see that his anger would soon be beyond restraint. Around them, people were realising that something was up – that there was to be an encore, of sorts, to the day’s entertainment. She started towards him, pushing through the crowd. What could she do to stop this, to convince him to break off? Hang on his sleeve, whisper an appeal into his ear? She came within a few yards of them. Leyland was telling Jimmy mockingly that the trial must have been a dreadful distraction, taking him from works that were surely of the most important and experimental kind.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Jimmy replied, ‘there is much on the stocks at present, over at the White House. You would have little sense of its aims, of course. Or its worth.’

  Leyland had become quite terrifying in his inexpressiveness. ‘The White House,’ he said. ‘Yes, I heard something of the fuss over there. The Board o
f Works and I have had our dealings in the past. Too plain, they thought it. Too simple. Hardly a difficulty you encountered in my dining room.’

  ‘Different undertakings,’ Jimmy shot back. ‘Utterly different. Bon Dieu, they are quite past comparison.’ He hesitated. ‘What do you mean by dealings?’

  This was ignored. ‘Still, it must have been disruptive. Your life always seems to be filled with upheaval. With accidents and misadventures. We should not be surprised, quite frankly, that you barely ever manage to put brush to canvas.’

  Here Leyland turned from his opponent and cast a look directly at Maud. She’d been slowing down, her nerve faltering. Now she stopped completely, held in place; and Eldon was there, rushing ahead, laying a hand against Jimmy’s back. Godwin arrived as well – returned from exile, it seemed, to attend the hearing – and was telling Jimmy that there was a cab waiting, and a party of guests already making their way towards his home. They led him off, warden-like almost, to the nearest set of doors. Her power to move restored, Maud returned to where she’d left Rosa, but could find no sign of the tricorn hat or butterfly coat anywhere in the corridor. This was puzzling; she did not pause to ponder it, however, heading instead through another doorway, keeping as far from Leyland as possible.

  The square outside was sunk in a cold, deadening fog. Jimmy was at the kerb, talking with his rescuers – with whom he was furious, predictably enough, for intervening. Hands trembling, he was trying without success to light a cigarette. He glanced at Maud as she approached, but barely seemed to see her.