The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  The largest bedroom had a cast-iron fireplace with a white-painted surround and was also papered in a country floral. It had honey-coloured wooden floorboards and a built-in cupboard.

  This is more like it, Emily thought, cheered by the comfortable feel of the rooms. They needed a good clean but there were curtains at the windows and beautiful views of the gardens and the fields beyond.

  Next door was another small bedroom where Joe could sleep, and a bathroom with an old enamel bath and loo. No shower. I suppose it can’t have everything. She went to the last door, fastened by a latch like all the others and opened it. This will be the spare, I guess.

  Inside, the room was wonderfully light and not papered like the others but painted white. It felt different to the other rooms somehow and she noticed that the floor was speckled with paint in a rainbow of different shades, in tiny specks or larger blobs, some smeared as though they’d been stepped on when wet. Propped against the wall was a large easel, closed, also smeared with stripes of paint. Apart from the dresser downstairs, it was the only piece of furniture she’d seen.

  It must have been a studio, she thought, intrigued. Of course. Catherine Few was an artist. This must have been where she painted.

  She rubbed her foot along the floor, wondering if she could sand the boards to get the paint off. Carrie tugged at her hand.

  ‘Mummy, let’s go down.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s. I promised the movers some tea.’

  James had the range alight. ‘There,’ he said happily, sitting back on his haunches. He showed her how to use the vent to alter the strength of the fire. ‘You want to turn it down to burn slow during the night. Then turn it up again if you want to bring the ovens up to a high temperature quickly. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

  She examined it, still mystified. ‘How will I know what temperature the oven is?’

  ‘This is the hot one – and look, there’s a dial on the front.’

  ‘It’s in Fahrenheit,’ she said faintly.

  ‘Of course. The bottom oven is a warming one. Just do a bit of experimenting. You’ll be fine.’ He smiled at her and climbed to his feet. He towered over her. ‘Now then. You’ve got plenty to be getting on with, so I’ll leave you to it. But call me if you want anything or have any questions. I’m only over the way.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ she asked, getting out mugs for the tea.

  ‘In the house on the hill. We’re your nearest neighbours. The telephone is in the study and I think it’s still connected.’

  ‘I have a mobile.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if you get much in the way of reception.’ He grinned apologetically. ‘I’m afraid it’s patchy up here. Best to rely on the old-fashioned kind. Have you got our number?’

  ‘I think the solicitors gave it to me.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘What about the internet?’

  James laughed again, his eyes crinkling up. ‘I don’t think Mrs Few ever used it. The telephone people will hook you up, I expect. Now, call any time but I’ll drop by in a day or so and see how you’re getting on. It’s a busy time, you see – there’s still some late lambing.’ He rubbed his large dusty hands on his trousers. ‘Right, I’d better get off. Bye for now.’

  Emily watched him as he headed off down the passage to the front. He seemed a good sort, a kind man. It was comforting to know that there was someone nearby. But now I live in a world where the nearest neighbour is at least a mile away. And there’s no internet. That’s a shocker. I’d better call up about that right away.

  Turning back to the kettle, she started to make the tea.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The portrait progressed and changed, as Ralph finished the cold tones and moved on to the warm. Now his palette was brightened with blobs of yellow, pink and red. Cressie hadn’t thought it could be improved but at the end of each sitting, the woman in the portrait seemed more alive, more vivid, as her skin flushed, her lips reddened and her eyes appeared lit from within.

  Occasionally, Ralph would lift the canvas from the easel and hurry out of the room with it.

  ‘He’s checking it against the mirror,’ Catherine remarked from the sofa, seeing Cressie turn her head to watch him go. ‘Seeing the portrait reflected back helps him to understand it. It’s rather strange but it works.’

  ‘Oh,’ Cressie said, intrigued.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Catherine asked suddenly.

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘It’s his best, there’s no doubt about it.’ Catherine’s gaze went to the portrait of herself that hung on the wall, and then she looked back at Cressie. ‘He’s caught you exactly.’

  ‘Oh, I think he’s flattered me,’ Cressie said with an embarrassed laugh. She was well aware the version of herself in the painting was a romantic one. Her complexion was not so perfect in real life, she knew that.

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ Catherine insisted. ‘But it’s not simply physical – there is an essence of you in the portrait. It’s quite remarkable.’

  Nonetheless, Catherine continued her quiet direction of Ralph’s creation. Cressie was sitting for what Catherine told her would be one of the last sessions when Catherine coughed lightly to draw Ralph’s attention.

  ‘The hair. It’s not right.’

  ‘Not right?’ Ralph tilted his head to one side and examined the painting. Cressie stayed still. She could not see what was on the canvas in any case. ‘What’s wrong with it? It’s fine.’

  ‘No. It’s orange. You’ve used orange there.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Ralph replied shortly.

  ‘Yes.’ Catherine uncurled herself from her place on the sofa and went over to the portrait. She pointed at it. ‘Here. Streaks of orange. What did you use?’

  ‘I mixed the same as before. It’s the same – look. Burnt umber. Sienna.’

  ‘No. You must have used something different.’

  ‘I tell you, I didn’t,’ Ralph said crossly.

  Catherine bent down close to his ear and murmured something Cressie could not make out.

  ‘It’s not orange,’ declared Ralph, his eyes fierce now. ‘It can’t be.’

  Catherine turned to Cressie with a smile. ‘Would you excuse us, please?’

  Ralph stood up and took the portrait down from the easel. The two of them left the room together and Cressie heard their voices coming from the bedroom beyond. She sat alone in the studio, wondering what they were saying.

  It’s so strange that Catherine has so much influence over him. He’s the artist. Surely he knows what to do. Why does he listen to her? She felt vaguely defensive of Ralph. Why couldn’t they be left alone occasionally, so that Ralph could paint without Catherine’s gimlet eye always focused on what he was doing? But ever since that day when they’d been together just the two of them, Catherine had not left them alone for an instant.

  The door to the studio flew open and Ralph burst in with the portrait, his eyes burning a flinty grey-gold and his lips tight. He put the painting back on the easel and sat down in front of it on the stool he sometimes used when he wasn’t pacing about. He looked hard from the painting to Cressie and back.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked timidly. He was evidently in a state of emotion.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Fine,’ he said tersely. ‘I’m a bloody idiot sometimes. Every now and then Catherine has to give me a good talking-to and then I see sense. She’s right, of course. The hair is orange.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll need to find that new box of paints. Excuse me.’ He strode out of the studio.

  A moment later, Catherine came in, still very calm and unruffled by Ralph’s temper, a smile on her lips. She was shaking two tablets from a bottle into her hand, and she put them down on the stool by the easel.

  ‘Is Ralph all right?’ Cressie asked, worried.

  ‘Yes, don’t worry.’

  ‘But those pills . . .’

  ‘Yes. He needs them for his heart condition.’

  ‘What?’ She tried to keep the shock from her vo
ice. He’s ill . . . oh God, no, not Ralph. A tremor passed over her skin. She hoped Catherine had not noticed. But she’s so sharp. Cressie dropped her own gaze to the floor in case she was giving anything away. ‘That’s terrible, I’m so sorry. What’s wrong with his heart?’

  Catherine blinked slowly. ‘Oh . . . occasionally, when he gets excited, he suffers from arrhythmia. Those tablets help him. I make them myself. I’ve researched the condition thoroughly and discovered many ways we can combat it through herbs and so on. Magnesium helps too. I prefer to look after him, rather than trust him to doctors. My mother died after the quacks got their hands on her. Since then, I’ve only trusted remedies I believe have a provenance from the past.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Cressie said, trying to keep her voice steady. She thought of her own mother, confined to her bed, so weak and sickly, with the many doctors who trooped in and out of the bedroom always leaving another bottle of medicine or more pills to be administered. It was awful to think of Ralph, so young and vital, in the grip of the kind of illness that was seeping the life from her mother. ‘Is his condition dangerous?’

  Catherine smiled comfortingly as she sat down. ‘You mustn’t be concerned. It’s something he was born with. They don’t think it will kill him, don’t be afraid of that. But it isn’t pleasant for him when the arrhythmia starts; it feels quite nasty. I usually send him to bed with a very dull book and strict instructions to be as bored as possible. No painting is allowed when it happens. It’s too intense for him.’

  Cressie stared at her. Catherine, she thought, was very mysterious: this calm presence, capable and nurturing and yet steely too. She seemed in complete control of Ralph, and of his art. ‘So there won’t be any more painting today?’

  ‘No. I’ve told him that we must stop the session.’

  ‘Oh.’ Cressie was bewildered. When had Catherine been intending to tell her that the session was over? She started to get up. ‘I’d better go . . . My clothes are in your bedroom . . .’

  ‘I’ll get them for you in a moment,’ Catherine said. She held up a hand. ‘Please, don’t go immediately. I want to talk to you.’

  Guilt washed over Cressie and blood rushed to her face; she knew her cheeks were stained scarlet. She’s going to confront me. She knows how I feel about him. She stiffened, desperately uncomfortable, but she looked to Catherine. To her surprise, there was a kind of amusement in the other woman’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t look so frightened. You don’t need to be. I just wanted to explain that little scene about the colour of your hair.’

  Cressie blinked at her, unable to read Catherine’s attitude to her. ‘There’s no need,’ she said in a stumbling voice. ‘Really . . .’

  ‘No, you should understand what’s happening, how Ralph and I work together. Because although it might not always look like it, that’s what we’re doing. He’s the genius, of course, but he needs me.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Cressie said quietly.

  ‘No – he really needs me. I’m his eyes, you see.’

  ‘His eyes?’ She was puzzled.

  ‘Yes.’ There was a pause, then Catherine smiled her secretive smile again. ‘You see, Ralph is almost completely colour-blind. He sees in tones and he gets a few colours quite clearly – orange is one – but the rest are a murky mystery to him.’

  Cressie stared at her, astonished. ‘Colour-blind? But . . .’ She tried to absorb this idea. A colour-blind artist? How on earth was that possible?

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘So now you understand. I’m his eyes, I see his colours. That’s why I’m always here, watching over his creations. And the blue he puts into all his portraits? That’s my blue. My special colour. I mix it for him and he puts it into every painting.’ She gave Cressie a keen look. ‘He hasn’t put it into your portrait yet. But don’t worry. He will.’ The faint light of a challenge entered her eyes. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

  Lying in bed that night, Cressie found she could think of nothing but Ralph and Catherine. They had become more intriguing, more fascinating than ever. They were so closely, intensely entwined, like two halves of the same person. She had never seen a relationship like it. They didn’t seem to be out of each other’s company for longer than a few hours at a time, and they lived and worked entirely together.

  But I know there’s something in his eyes when he looks at me.

  She felt a shiver of delight as she remembered him staring down at her with that intense gaze of his, telling her she was beautiful. She could feel him reaching out to her, a yearning for her that matched hers for him.

  But I must be imagining it. There’s no other way it can be. Unless . . . She didn’t want to think of it, but she couldn’t help it. Unless he’s a cad. The kind of man who pretended to fall in love with girls even though he was married. Or perhaps just the sort who had room in his heart for more than one love at a time.

  She saw in her mind’s eye a different kind of Ralph, one who enjoyed flirtations with his models and exerted his power over them. And Catherine, his devoted wife, who let him. Perhaps she was even complicit.

  ‘Do you think this one will let me seduce her?’ Ralph was saying idly to Catherine. Her imagination put Catherine in the white shirt, and placed her in the chair by the window. Catherine was sitting in Cressie’s position, occasionally touching the string of pearls around her neck – Cressie’s pearls.

  ‘I should think so,’ Catherine remarked. ‘She’s clearly enamoured of you and trying to hide it. I’ve seen her looking at you. Cow eyes. Rather sweet.’

  ‘Mmm, I’ve noticed it too.’ Ralph held his brush still, glanced over at his wife and smiled with satisfaction, then he dipped the end of his brush into the fat blob of white paint on his palette. ‘She’s an open book, this one, isn’t she?’

  ‘Delightfully so,’ agreed Catherine.

  ‘Do you think she’s a virgin?’

  ‘I would say it’s a certainty.’

  Ralph breathed deeply. ‘I would certainly relish unburdening her of that.’

  ‘After the portrait is done. After we’ve secured more commissions. We have to keep her sweet until then.’

  ‘And you don’t think my seduction of her would make her even sweeter?’ He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘You don’t think much of my prowess.’

  ‘Quite the opposite, my love – I’m sure she’d adore you more than ever afterwards. It’s the fact that you’d have to cast her off that would make her bitter. And a broken heart might give that little kitten some claws.’

  Ralph smirked. ‘How can you be so sure I would cast her off?’

  Catherine turned her head to look at him. ‘Because I know you, my darling. The thrill of the chase is what you enjoy.’

  ‘And the thrill of the chaste.’ Ralph looked pleased with his own witticism.

  ‘Precisely. Once you’d had her, you’d grow tired of her. It would be the next fresh little miss who enraptured you. And anyway, you’ve got something more important that I know you’d never risk losing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ralph put down his brush and palette and went over to Catherine. He took her hand and stroked it gently, brushing her hair tenderly with the other. ‘My eyes,’ he said softly. ‘I could never live without you. You know that.’

  He bent down and pressed his mouth to hers, as she reached up to pull him closer and they sank into each other’s kiss.

  Cressie moaned as the scene faded from her mind. It made sense, a terrible shaming sense. She was an open book, a virgin tormented by her desire for a man she couldn’t have. She’d been kissed a few times, by young men at dances, some she had wanted to kiss and others she hadn’t, but only Adam had touched her in the ways she knew men wanted to touch women. She had allowed it because she was curious and because his sudden panting desire had possessed him, turning his face dark red and his eyes glassy in a way that it seemed almost rude to interrupt. He’d fumbled under her jum
per, pressing his fingers under the cup of her bra and rubbing them over her nipples, pinching them lightly, as his tongue had rolled and flickered in her mouth. His breath whistled through his nose as he clutched at her. She’d wondered if it was normal to feel nothing at all. Now she imagined Ralph’s mouth on hers, his tongue venturing between her lips and a great shudder of longing went through her. It was too much to imagine what the touch of his fingers on her breasts might be like, but at the thought, her insides clenched hard, burning with what she knew was desire.

  So that’s what it’s like, she thought miserably. I’m a desperate little virgin, fired up for someone else’s husband. It’s . . . it’s humiliating.

  She screwed her eyes shut against the pictures in her mind.

  But I won’t believe it. He’s not that philanderer, I’m sure of it. Not Ralph.

  She called him to mind as he had been in the studio: handsome, intense, his eyes burning fiercely as he concentrated. She remembered with a pang that he was ill, with his heart condition. And those beautiful gold-speckled grey eyes were blind to nearly all the colours in the world. Knowing his frailty made her yearn for him even more, if that was possible.

  But he doesn’t need me. Why can’t I get it through my stupid head? He has a wife to be his companion, to nurse him and be his eyes. Perhaps it’s best if I don’t see him again. I won’t go back. The portrait is as good as done anyway. They can finish it without me.

  Her mood was low for days afterwards. When she couldn’t sleep, she would tiptoe into her mother’s room and hold her hand as she slept, not quite sure who was comforting who. She wanted to confide in her about Ralph, and about how miserable her desires were making her. She wanted to explain that she hated herself for how she felt about another woman’s husband, and ask her mother what she should do to kill her desires and be good again. But in the dimness of the bedroom, her mother’s skin paper-white against the pillows, she stayed silent, afraid that she might draw too much on the last reserves of her mother’s strength.

  I must solve this on my own. I have to be strong. I know what’s right.