A Mad, Wicked Folly

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by Sharon Biggs Waller

I placed my work on the table and watched, hands folded in front of me, as each examiner looked at the drawings and the mermaid brooch and passed them to the next man in line. One of the men looked at the nude drawing of Will and then at me with an expression of surprise on his face, but he said nothing.

  “It appears you have a fascination with the Pre-Raphaelites, Miss Darling,” the man with the monocle said as he studied the pastel drawing.

  “I do, sir,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. I tried to keep the nervousness out of my voice, but I could hear it quaver just a little bit.

  “The subject is Lancelot?” the younger man in the colorful waistcoat said when it was his turn to look at my work. I saw him studying my William Morris tie.

  “Yes. When Rossetti portrayed him, the subject was really Guinevere and her emotions. I feel that the subject of men in myth has never been fully explored. We’ve seen gods and knights and the like, but few show how they’ve felt as they’ve suffered loss, only triumph.”

  I hoped he would agree, but “hmmm” was all he said as handed my work to the next man.

  Moments later the clerk collected my work and handed it back to me. I was confused. I looked at the clerk. “Is that it? Do they not want to ask me anything else?”

  He inclined his head toward the door. “That’s all.”

  I looked once more at the panel. I had been in the room two minutes. Three months of hard work, and they had given my art little regard. One of the men yawned. I pushed the door open and walked out.

  “What was it like?” a woman sitting in the hallway whispered.

  I shook my head. A lump was in my throat and I couldn’t speak, but the look on my face must have been enough for her. She stared down at her sketchbook.

  The exam was held in one of the classrooms. The adjudicator explained how much time we had and what the rules were as he handed out the booklets. We all picked up our pencils and began.

  I sailed through the art history questions and the practical exam, and my confidence began to build. At least the panel would see that I knew my basics well. But when I turned the final page, I saw the paper was full of arithmetic problems; a good many of them were geometry.

  Dumbly, I turned the test over as if I would find the answers on the back or something. I glanced around the room. Everyone else was studiously writing away, head bent over the exam.

  I bit the end of my pencil and looked at the test again. Isosceles triangle? Pythagorean theorem? What did those words even mean? I had no idea. I was never taught such things in finishing school, nor was I taught them at the day school I had attended in London when I was younger. Instead I, like most girls, was taught comportment, music, religion, French, and only the very basics of geography, arithmetic, and science. I could add and subtract and work simple sums, but that was about it.

  How stupid I was to think I could make the panel change their minds about women. I couldn’t even get through the test. This realization, and the looks on the men’s faces when I presented my work, had made that horrible whisper inside me start afresh. But this time my father’s words joined it: Why educate a girl as a boy? Advanced study makes girls discontent and unfit for the lives of wives and mothers. And here it was in black and white, the proof that I was not qualified to be anything other than a wife and mother.

  A prickle of a headache began to grow behind my eyes. I put my head in my hands and stared blankly at the test, the numbers seeming to run together in a blur. I felt as though I had rolled a huge boulder to the very top of a mountain, only to have it pushed right back in my face.

  Then I thought of my little niece, Charlotte. If she wanted to become something other than a wife and mother, would she encounter the same obstacles as I had in twelve years’ time, when she was my age? I hoped with all my heart that it would not be so; I wouldn’t wish this humiliation on her or any other young girl.

  I closed the exam book, gathered my things, and handed my test in to the clerk.

  Maybe, just maybe, my artwork would be enough. It had to be enough.

  I LEFT THE school in utter despair. As I trudged down the steps, I planned to go home, hide in my room, and lick my wounds. Then I caught sight of a familiar figure standing by the railing. It was Will. He was dressed in the same tattered herringbone jacket and cheesecutter cap. A rush of relief filled me. Will was exactly the person who would understand. I started to run to him and tell him what had happened with the exam, but then I caught myself. Instead I looked away, pretending not to see him, and headed off in the opposite direction, even though it wasn’t where I wanted to go.

  “Vicky!” I heard him call out.

  I hunched my shoulders and kept walking.

  He caught up, grabbed my arm. “Will you stop? I know you saw me.”

  I stopped but I did not turn around. “Let me go.”

  “What are you doing? What is all this about? Acting like you don’t know me? I know you saw me that day when I was on my beat.”

  I turned around, but I couldn’t look at him. I stared at his boots.

  “How did the exam go?” His voice was guarded.

  “Well enough.” We stood there in uncomfortable silence for a moment. “What are you doing here?” I finally said.

  “It was the only place where I knew you’d be. I’ve been waiting for ages, watching the door.”

  “I sent a letter. Did you not receive it?”

  “I received it. You said you couldn’t get away from your parents. I don’t see anyone holding you back now, so why won’t you talk to me?” Will looked upset.

  “I thought I explained in my letter.”

  “You didn’t, actually. You’re trying to act as if nothing ever happened between us. That kiss didn’t matter to you?”

  “It was a mistake.”

  Will stared at me. “A mistake?”

  “Sometimes artists feel things for their muses, and that’s what I felt for you. It was a . . .” My breath jerked. “A passing fancy. That’s all it was.”

  “A passing fancy?”

  And then I launched in with the one word I knew would sever any remaining connection we had. “I’m engaged. I’m getting married. Next month.”

  Will flinched as though I had thrown cold water in his face. “Engaged?” It seemed as though an eternity passed before he spoke again. “To who?”

  “It doesn’t matter who. You don’t know him.”

  “You love him?”

  “No!” His question had caught me off guard. “I mean, yes. I don’t know.”

  “So then why are you marrying him?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” I couldn’t explain to Will that the reason I was marrying Edmund was for money. He couldn’t understand.

  “Let me help you then.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “It’s because your family wants you to and his family wants him to.” Will took a step closer to me. “Just like all upper-class families.” He shook his head. “I thought you were different. I guess I was wrong.”

  “Why are you being so beastly?”

  “Why didn’t your fiancé pose for you? What did you need with me?”

  “He hasn’t the time. He was at university during the week; besides, he’s a gentleman and—” I broke off. I had said the wrong thing.

  “And a gentleman doesn’t pose for artists, right?” He nodded. “Well, good thing I’m just a copper then.”

  “That’s not what I meant. . . .” I felt sick inside, my feelings jumbled into a snarl. Tears filled my throat, hot and thick. I was desperate for Will to understand. “You know I don’t believe that. You’re more than a copper, Will. You’re talented and wonderful.”

  Will’s face was white. He stared over my head, his hands clasped behind him.

  “You want to know the real reason why I don’t draw my fiancé,” I said. “The truth is that he doesn�
��t inspire me.”

  “So I inspire you?”

  “Yes.”

  He made a little noise, shook his head.

  “You think me spoiled and snobbish, Will, but the one thing I want most in the world, my art, I can’t have in my own home. As long as we’re being honest, that’s the truth of why I’ve agreed to this marriage: to get out from under my father’s thumb and into a life of my own where I am free, where I can draw and paint as I like. And I’ll do anything I can to have that. I should have told you about the engagement, but I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “You’re quite right,” he said then. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. I’m the one who is sorry. I should never have presumed we had more than an artistic partnership. It’s my fault. I let myself . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “You let yourself what?”

  Something seemed to change in Will then. I could see him transforming in front of me: his happy-go-lucky expression hardening, the look in his eye turning aloof. “It’s nothing. Let’s forget this ever happened.”

  I didn’t like the way his voice sounded, formal, not at all like the Will I knew. I would rather he shouted at me. This reversal, his change in attitude, back to the William Fletcher I had known months ago, hurt me more. I’d forced myself not to think of that day, that kiss, those desires he awakened in me. Now I knew he did the same, and right in front of me. I saw a door slamming shut in his eyes, and that day on his bed was locked behind it. He’d never open that door again.

  I closed my hand around Will’s, but he gently pulled it free of my grasp. I made to take it again, but he backed away and bowed a little. “I wish you the best of luck, Miss Darling.” And then he turned around and left without another word.

  Thirty-One

  The Royal College of Art,

  Friday, thirtieth of July

  THE DAY AFTER the exam, the verdict came in on Lucy and the thirteen other women who had been arrested for throwing stones the evening of the June deputation. They were convicted and sent to Holloway Prison in the second division, in with the prison population, instead of in first division with the other political prisoners, who were allowed to wear their own clothes, write letters, and live in less stringent conditions.

  A week later, Sophie had bought a Votes for Women, and the two of us hovered over it, reading about their ordeal. The women, including Lucy, had protested by refusing to eat. They hunger-struck for six days until they were too unwell to continue their sentences. The prison officials released them because they were concerned they would die, and the government did not want the deaths of the women on its hands.

  In the same edition, Emmeline Pankhurst wrote an article on hunger-striking. She said that the government had closed the door on peaceful protest and she believed the WSPU had now found a weapon with which to defeat the government. Retaining control of one’s own body had become a political statement. Hunger-striking was a way to passively resist the injustices women endured because they were not treated as equals to men. It was now WSPU policy, and if any woman or man wanted to go to prison, they were to hunger-strike or not go at all.

  To endure six whole days without food in that noisome prison: I shuddered to think of it. Lucy was the bravest woman I knew.

  WHILE I WAITED for the exam results, I tried to take my mind off of things. I attended several balls with Edmund and helped with the rest of the wedding details. The work in the Chelsea house was completed, the new furniture in place. Wedding gifts had begun to arrive. The Wedgwood china, the Elkington silverware, and the Waterford crystal took pride of place on the dining room table, where they would be displayed to visitors during my first at-home. Edmund and I organized our honeymoon, a week in Scotland, and met with the vicar at St. George’s Hanover Square in Mayfair, where we would be

  married.

  I went to Clement’s Inn with Sophie to see Lucy in her flat after she’d been released from prison. I brought her some grapes and a book on jewelry I found in a shop on Charing Cross Road. Lucy was in good spirits and seemed even more determined to fight after her ordeal.

  Finally, at the end of July, the day of the exam results arrived. I very nearly didn’t bother to go back to the RCA for the results, but I had to see it through to the end. If Lucy could endure hunger for so long in a horrid prison, I could face my disastrous exam results.

  Again, with the excuse of a stroll, John took Sophie and me to Kensington Gardens. Sophie waited in the RCA’s vestibule while I went in to join the other prospective students. I found a place in the back.

  The woman who’d gone in to meet the panel after me was sitting on a bench. “How did you get on?” she asked as I sat down beside her.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “The arithmetic section quite eluded me. And I don’t think the examiners were much impressed.”

  She winced. “I found the same to be true. I couldn’t get my head round those figures. I left them blank. I hope they don’t grade too harshly on that. I need a scholarship to go here; I can’t go without it. If I’m accepted,” she whispered this last bit, as if she daren’t speak it out loud.

  I realized then that if I hadn’t agreed to marry Edmund, I’d be in the same place as the woman.

  The clerk came out of his office and pinned a paper to the notice board. He was nearly swallowed up as the students bustled about it, crying out in happiness or dismay. I hung back, wanting to wait until they had all gone. The woman waited at the back of the queue. When her turn came, she stared at the list and then pushed her way out of the crowd, I saw that her eyes were red and she was blinking back tears. She said nothing to me. She hurried from the hall, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the floor.

  I stood up and then sat back down. My life began or ended now. If my name was on the list, I would take that as a sign that the path I had chosen for myself was the right one. And if it wasn’t? I closed my eyes. If it isn’t? What will you do then? the voices whispered. That will prove that you aren’t an artist after all. That you’re preposterous for even trying.

  Finally the room emptied, and I approached the list for the RCA School of Painting. The names were written neatly on lines. First the scholarships. My name was not there.

  The main class list followed. I found my name among the Ds and slid my finger over.

  Victoria Darling. Accepted.

  I had to read it again.

  Accepted.

  I ran my finger back to my name just to make sure I had read the line correctly.

  It was true. I was going to the RCA.

  I had done it.

  I stepped back from the list. My dream of attending the RCA would become a reality. All of the hard work had been worth it.

  On the way home in the carriage, I held Sophie’s hand tightly. I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. I must have looked insane sitting there with a mad grin on my face. But I couldn’t help it. I was in. I had made it into art school. I was an artist. A real artist. I wanted to shout it to the whole world. I wanted to tell Will, the one person I couldn’t tell. And yet even this didn’t drown out my happiness. Today, nothing could.

  Thirty-Two

  Dyrham, Gloucestershire, Carrick-Humphrey country manor,

  Friday, thirteenth of August

  MY PARENTS WERE getting ready to spend a fortnight in August on the continent, as they did every year. This year, however, I would not be joining them. Instead, I would stay home with Sophie to finish preparing the house and my wardrobe, and see to wedding details with Lady Carrick-Humphrey. My mother wanted to stay but felt a spa in Germany would be good for my father.

  Although I was busy with India and Lady Carrick-Humphrey over the course of that fortnight, I didn’t see much of Edmund. He had gone to Cowes Week on the Isle of Wight in the beginning of August to crew on a friend’s cutter.
My parents were nearly due back when an invitation arrived for a Friday-to-Monday party at his family manor house in Gloucestershire.

  Sophie and I took the train to Gloucestershire, and India and Edmund met us in his motorcar. The Carrick-Humphrey country home was near the village of Dyrham in an ancient deer park in a lovely old baroque-style mansion. Sir Henry had recently purchased it from a newly impoverished earl. The house was a jewel in a setting of acres of woodland and parkland. The inside was decorated in the Dutch style with Delft pottery and tile. But no feeling of warmth lingered in the hushed rooms and hallways. It felt like a museum: a place to visit and look at but never to touch.

  Luncheon was ready when we arrived. Jonty’s wife, Millicent, spent most of the time in her room, suffering from “delicate nerves,” as Jonty put it. Jonty’s friend, Alfred, a balding man in his thirties, seemed glued to his side. Edmund’s mother had left to take the waters in Bath, but his father remained, hanging on Jonty’s every word and virtually ignoring Edmund altogether.

  I was bored beyond redemption. I had forgotten how oppressing these noble country houses could be. Snobbery was right under the surface, bleeding through the shiny politeness like speckles on an antique looking glass. We all sat through lunch as if enchanted, listening to Jonty and his father talk about shooting grouse as though they were great white hunters bagging a man-eating lion in the Congo instead of Englishmen dressed in Norfolk suits shooting at birds that were raised in a cage and then enticed to fly by men whacking at the undergrowth with sticks.

  The ladies withdrew for drinks on the veranda after luncheon, leaving the men in the library to their brandies and cigars. The day was growing chilly, and, remembering I had left my wrap in the sitting room, I went to collect it. Sir Henry was coming out of the library just then and he saw me.

  “Ah, Miss Darling. I was just coming to collect you. I’d like a word,” he said. He held out his hand. “Shall we go into my study?”

  I was a little taken aback but I went with him. He gestured for me to sit in a large leather chair by the fire and sat opposite me. He crossed one leg over the other and settled back as if we were going to have a nice chat, future loving father-in-law to future dutiful daughter-in-law.

 

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