A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  Will saw us, waved his hand, and came over to greet us. I introduced him to Sophie.

  As she shook his hand, I thought about what a good match they might make. Maybe I should try to get them together. But then I imagined Will kissing Sophie, pulling her close against his body while her arms wrapped around his neck. I pictured Will combing his fingers through Sophie’s red hair, as he did to mine that day in the alley when my hair came loose. The thought made me want to scratch Sophie’s eyes out, although I knew I had no claim on Will.

  When Will went off to buy tickets, Sophie turned to me. “You fancy this bloke. I can tell. Your face is glowing. Your face doesn’t glow like that when you’re looking at Mr. Carrick-Humphrey.”

  “That’s not true. I’m just a bit warm.” I fanned my hand at my face. “It’s close in here with all the people about.”

  “Does he know you’re engaged?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t like the accusatory look on her face.

  “Why?”

  “It’s none of his business.” And it’s none of yours either!

  She pointed at my hand. “Why don’t you wear your engagement ring?”

  “I don’t like to wear rings when I draw. They get in the way.”

  “You’re not drawing now.”

  “I forgot it,” I said sharply. “Sophie, leave it alone.”

  She looked doubtful. “Well, he fancies you, I can tell.”

  “He doesn’t! We’re only friends.”

  She snorted. “Friends?”

  “Sophie, you overstep yourself!” I hissed. “You’re my lady’s maid, not my confessor!”

  I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. I sounded like some of the girls I knew who bossed their servants about and treated them like they were less than human. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” The hurt look on Sophie’s face made me feel horrible. “Please forgive me.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I had no right to devil you.”

  “Let’s say no more about it,” I said, squeezing her hand. It was my fault Sophie had said those things. I’d made her believe we were friends, so she behaved as though we were. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so familiar with her. It wasn’t fair to her.

  After Will came back with the tickets, Sophie went off to the Underground. I tried to forget my conversation with her, but I couldn’t quite do so. Her question about why I hadn’t told Will about my engagement bothered me. Saying I’m engaged should be as easy as saying when and where we would meet next. I should have told him when he held my hand on the Underground. I had told Harry straightaway when he tried to hold my hand. I had had no compunction there. I should have told Will that the summerhouse belonged to me and to Edmund, my fiancé. That would have been a better time to tell him. But Will was so honorable. If I’d told him, he wouldn’t have been my friend and creative partner like this. Certainly he wouldn’t have ever posed nude for me.

  And then I wondered if Sophie was right. Did Will fancy me? He had given me that book of poetry for my birthday, and now he was taking me to meet his parents. Perhaps he was just being kind, being a friend. On the other hand, maybe his actions meant something more. Either way, I could never return such affections.

  Despite this truth, a little feeling of joy started to flicker inside me.

  Our train was announced, and Will and I headed out onto the platform. I stopped at the first-class carriage and waited for him to open the door. I hadn’t meant to—it was force of habit—but I cursed myself for it all the same. Of course Will wouldn’t be able to afford the cost of such a ticket. In fact, I should have offered to pay my own fare, but it was all too late now.

  Will had continued on up ahead and I couldn’t catch up with him quickly enough. He’d noticed what I had done. The gap between Will’s life and mine yawned wider than a chasm. I felt horrid to have put him in such a position.

  “You don’t mind second-class, do you?” He looked down at the tickets in his hands. “I didn’t think. It’s a long journey, two and a half hours. Perhaps you won’t be comfortable. I should change these for first. Perhaps there’s time. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Not at all, Will! I’m happy with second-class.”

  Will looked unsure.

  “Please, Will. I’m not such a delicate flower. Let’s not spoil the day.”

  This settled, we carried on down the platform and stepped into a second-class carriage. I had never been in such a carriage before. In first class, one traveled in a private wood-paneled compartment with comfortable upholstered seats and a little table. A waiter would come by and serve a five-course luncheon or tea and cakes.

  The second-class carriage was worlds away from that. It rather reminded me of a music hall, with benches grouped in two lines, facing forward. But instead of a stage, the passengers gazed at a wall papered with a map of the railway line. And instead of a porter hanging one’s things up, people simply shoved their belongings onto racks above the seats or carried them in their laps. The carriage was full of people talking and leaning over one another to be heard. One man was eating a sandwich over his knees in broad view of everyone. A crying child sat next to his exasperated mother, who was staring out the window, a grim look on her face.

  We made our way down the noisy aisle and found a place. There was no armrest dividing the seat, so Will and I had to sit very near to each other. I edged as close to the window as I could and pressed my knees together so I wouldn’t brush against him. I looked out the window, pretending to be immensely interested in the scenery. It was a beautiful day with the sky blue and the sun shining down. Soon, the city scene began to turn into a country setting. Cows and horses cropped grass in the fields; houses with thatched roofs dotted the rolling hills, and in the distance a castle loomed.

  “You look like you’re trying to become part of the wall, flattened against it like that,” Will said, breaking the silence. He laughed. “Do I pong or something? Shall I go find another seat?”

  I turned away from the window and smiled. “Don’t be silly. You smell fine.”

  “You’ve been so quiet. Did I say something?”

  “I’m sorry, Will.” I shook my head. “I don’t mean to be distant. I just have a lot on my mind. It’s nothing, really. Tell me about your sister. She’s older than you?”

  “Yes. She was married, but her husband was a soldier and he died in the Second Boer War seven years ago.”

  “How sad.”

  “She was only seventeen, and Jamie was just a baby. So she moved back in with my parents. She’s lived there ever since.”

  “Are you very close to her?”

  “I am. She likes to boss me about, and I like to pretend to let her.” He grinned.

  I laughed. “My brother, Freddy, whom you met, is much the same.”

  “I got the feeling that was true. He seemed very exasperated when you pitched up that day. I’ve seen that look on Jane.”

  Will went on about some of the things Jane did when they were young. While I listened to Will talk, the train’s rocking began to make me feel sleepy. In anticipation of being invited to sit the exam, I was continuing my early-morning drawing sessions in order to work on my final presentation, and they were beginning to take their toll. I tried to concentrate as Will told me about his father. I yawned and leaned my head back against the seat. I would just close my eyes and listen.

  “. . . village constable . . . for . . .”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “He said I should . . . London . . .”

  I nodded. It was so warm, sitting there in a shaft of sunshine next to Will. So warm and comfortable that I fell asleep. And I began to dream. I dreamt I was walking with Will, hand in hand, in a meadow filled with wildflowers so beautiful I could almost smell their sweet scent. Bees buzzed and butterflies floated all around us. And then Will turned to me and pulled me so close again
st him that I could feel his heart beating. He felt so lovely, so solid and strong. He felt like a place I had never been to before, a place I never wanted to leave.

  “Vicky,” he whispered in my ear; his breath fluttered across my face.

  I cuddled closer, pressing my cheek against his coat.

  “Wake up, Vicky,” he said louder.

  My eyes popped open. Will’s face was only an inch away from mine, an amused look in his eyes. I had fallen asleep on his chest, my hand in his. I sat back. “Oh.”

  “We’re here.” He smiled. “I don’t think they’ll let us stay for much longer.”

  The conductor stood in the aisle. “Final stop, lad. Or are you heading straight back to London?”

  I stood up and followed Will off the train, embarrassed beyond measure and blasting my traitorous heart.

  WILL AND I walked along the harbor past people hawking their wares and toward a cobblestone street that led up a hill. I felt even more awkward around him now. Thankfully he didn’t tease me about falling asleep on him. Instead he pointed out sights as we walked.

  “I’ve been mad to show you this street for ages,” Will said. “It’s called Mermaid Street. Not sure why, but there’s an old hostel here named the Mermaid Inn, too. Just up the way there.”

  Mermaid Street was lined with medieval, Tudor, and Georgian houses all crowded together higgledy-

  piggledy along the cobbled street. They had peculiar names like The House Opposite and The House with the Seat. It was like walking into a Turner landscape painting, it was that picturesque. Its old-fashioned charm reminded me of the French village of Trouville, where I’d attended finishing school. I wondered if Bertram had ever visited Rye. I could see why many artists wanted to live and work here. The light was beautiful, and there was a harmonious feeling to the place that beckoned to an artist’s spirit.

  After a bit, we turned down a narrow alley and through a shaded garden. We heard a shout, and then a young boy came blazing through a small vegetable patch, dirt flying, and threw himself at Will. The breath left Will with an “oof,” and he staggered.

  “What the devil, Jamie? You nearly knocked the stuffing out of me!”

  The boy untangled himself from Will and grinned up at him. “I’ve been watching for you all morning!” The boy was very young, maybe seven or so, and he had a mischievous look about him, with freckles spattered across his upturned nose and a rooster tail of hair poking up on the back of his head.

  “Jamie, this is my friend Vicky. Vicky, this is my nephew, Jamie.”

  Jamie stared at me. “She’s prettier than Eliza.”

  “Jamie!” Will warned. “Hush now.”

  Jamie slid his hand into mine. “You’re prettier than Eliza,” he repeated. “She had a pig’s face with a nose like this!” He pushed the tip of his nose upward with his thumb. “She even had pinky-red hair. And she snorted when she laughed, just like a pig.” He demonstrated loudly. I was beginning to like Will’s nephew.

  “Jamie, that’s not nice,” Will said, trying not to laugh.

  Jamie eyed him. “It’s true,” he said, his voice rising indignantly.

  “Who is Eliza, Will?” I asked.

  Will shrugged.

  “Well, this must be the artist we’ve heard so much about,” I heard a feminine voice say.

  A young woman stood in the garden gate, arms folded, watching us.

  “She’s my friend first, Mumma!” Jamie clutched my hand with both of his so hard I winced.

  “I can well see that from the state of my runner beans.” She smiled wryly. “Trampled to bits, nearly. Well, give us a kiss, then, Will.”

  Will stepped forward and kissed his sister’s cheek. He pulled me over and introduced me. She shook my hand briefly and then folded her arms again. Jane’s brown hair was caught into a bun, and she wore a long apron over a navy-blue serge skirt and brown linen blouse. It was a no-nonsense outfit, and I had a feeling Jane was not the kind of woman who would tolerate silliness.

  “Mum and Dad are waiting inside. Dad’s just got home from his beat, and Mum is getting lunch ready.”

  We followed Jane around the house and through a small yard where chickens pecked at corn strewn on the ground. I hung back, eyeing the cockerel warily.

  Jane looked bemused. “You’re not frightened, are you? Have you never seen chickens before?”

  “Um . . . not like this, no.” I sheltered behind Will as one of the chickens came over to investigate, pecking at the silver buckle of my boot. Jamie thought that was hilarious and bent in half with laughter.

  “Vicky lives in the city, Jane,” Will said. “No chickens in London houses.”

  Several other hens ran over with wings flapping to see what had interested their sister. Just as I was playing with the idea of bolting out of the yard, a short, round woman came out of the house and shooed the chickens away. She smiled broadly.

  “Now, Jane, you should have brought Will and his sweetheart to the front door, not round the back. She’ll think we’re not civilized with all these biddies about.”

  Will glanced at me quickly, his face reddened. “Vicky’s not my sweetheart, Mum, I told you. We’re working together, remember?”

  “So you said,” she replied, patting Will’s cheek and grinning. Jane, who didn’t seem to find her mother’s comment to her liking, scowled at the chickens. Will’s mother then put her hands on her hips and eyed Will. “Now, let me take a look at you.” She tutted. “I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil!”

  “I’m fine, Mum!” Will said. “I eat plenty.”

  We followed Mrs. Fletcher into the cottage. It was dark inside, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. But there wasn’t much to see; it was the tiniest house I had ever been in. The entire first floor was no bigger that my mother’s sitting room. The room was divided in half by a staircase. One side held a table set with china for lunch. The other side served as a makeshift sitting room. A settee and two battered upholstered chairs were grouped in front of a blazing coal fire. A man slept in one of the chairs with a newspaper on his lap, his stocking feet on a little stool close to the fire.

  “Up you get, sleepyhead!” Mrs. Fletcher said in the direction of the man. He stirred and blinked at us. “Will and his friend are here.”

  “Well, now. PC Fletcher come home to visit! That’s grand!” He got to his feet and we went over so that he could greet his son. He shook Will by the hand, at the same time patting him on the shoulder affectionately. Will was taller than his father, but the resemblance was uncanny. They shared the same kind eyes and floppy hair that refused to be tamed.

  I was overcome by shyness, but I made myself shake Mr. Fletcher’s hand. Will and I sat on the settee together. Jane sat on one of the chairs, pulling Jamie onto her lap. Mr. Fletcher settled back down, and his wife perched on the stool at his feet. It was a very close fit, but it looked as though all of them were quite used to being this near to one another.

  “What’s in there?” Jamie asked, and pointed at my art satchel, which I had placed at my feet.

  “Jamie, don’t be rude!” Jane said, folding his small finger back down. Jamie glared at her.

  “I keep my art materials in there, but I’ve also brought some things from London.” I had splurged and bought presents for Will’s family from my grandmother’s ring money. I had enjoyed buying the gifts, browsing through the shops in Mayfair, looking for the perfect choices with Sophie’s help.

  Jamie immediately slid off his protesting mother’s lap and came over to lean on my knee.

  “Did you bring something for me?” Jamie asked. Will and his parents laughed, and Jane spluttered.

  “I did, indeed!” I took up the satchel and drew out a bag of sweets, which held a mixture of bull’s-eyes, humbugs, and licorice allsorts, as well as a small box of painted wooden policemen I found at Hamley’s Toy Shop o
n Regent Street.

  Jamie’s eyes grew round with amazement. He stared at the packages I held out as if he didn’t know what to look at first. Finally he took the bag, opened it, and stuffed his mouth with a peppermint humbug. Then he tore the lid off the box of policemen and drew one out.

  “See, Mumma!” Jamie hopped over to his mum to show her one of the policemen. “It’s Uncle Will!”

  We all laughed. It was fun to make Jamie happy. I smiled and watched him go through the box and show his mum every figurine. I glanced at Will and found he was not looking at Jamie, as everyone else was, but at me.

  “I have something for you too, Jane.” I pulled out the foil-wrapped box of rose and violet creams I had chosen at the confectioner’s in the Royal Arcade. “I hope you like Charbonnel et Walker. I hear the king adores them.” I realized I sounded like a snob just then. As if Jane was used to eating luxury chocolates. My face burned hot. I’d even said Charbonnel et Walker in a French accent.

  Jane took the box. “I’ve never et them,” she said with a short smile. “But I suppose the king’s favorites must trump good old Cadbury Dairy Milk any day of the week.”

  I thought I heard a note of sarkiness in her voice, but I acted as if I hadn’t noticed and finished handing out the other presents, which I had purchased at Liberty: a decanter of port for Mr. Fletcher and a little casket of bath items for Mrs. Fletcher. But my pleasure in the gift giving had faded.