The Glass Painter's Daughter

by Rachel Hore

  ‘Zac,’ I said later, when Amber had left, a suncatcher we’d given her stowed carefully in her bag, ‘what would you say if I told Amber she could come and help out here occasionally?’

  ‘Work here, you mean? What could she do?’ he answered, wary.

  ‘Look after the shop when we’re out, unpack stuff, answer the telephone, that sort of thing. It would free us up to do more. And we can show her simple creative tasks. Finding patterns, making easy things.’

  ‘Train her up a bit, you mean? Aye, it’s important to train new people. Let’s think about it.’

  ‘Yes. And after all, you’re right, Dad won’t…’

  ‘I know.’ There was sympathy in his eyes, and I had to look away. It felt like a betrayal to admit that Dad was unlikely to be able to work again.

  ‘Fran, there’s something we need to talk about. Did your father ever draw up one of those Power of Attorney things? It’s just…there are unpaid bills. And I’m not a signatory for the business.’

  ‘I don’t know, Zac,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to speak to the bank. And Dad’s lawyer.’

  After I’d shut up shop I remembered the message from Jessica. She was usually still in the office at this hour, so I went to find my address book.

  ‘Fran!’ she exclaimed on hearing my voice. ‘I think I’ve rung all the numbers you ever gave me. I was getting worried–thought you’d been kidnapped or something. How are you?’

  I apologised and explained to her about Dad’s illness and how I needed to be here, to keep everything going. It occurred to me, as I talked, that my previous life, touring the world with orchestras, staying in a different hotel every few days, already seemed an age away. All my energies, my priorities, were becoming focused here.

  ‘So I don’t think I’ll be available for anything for a bit. Except maybe in London,’ I finished lamely.

  ‘That’s a shame, because I had something exciting lined up for you in New York. The Halliwell are touring, and one of their tuba players has gone down with pleurisy. But I quite understand. If something comes up locally, I’ll call, but otherwise I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  ‘Thanks, Jess.’

  ‘Don’t leave it too long, will you?’ she added lightly, but I picked up the veiled warning.

  ‘No, I’m sure I won’t,’ I said. It was all too easy to be forgotten in the music business.

  I put the phone down with a mixture of regret and relief. Regret because I still wanted to be a part of that world. Relief because I was coming to accept that, for the moment, I was a part of this one.

  That evening, I was toasting a cheese sandwich for supper, when the vicar rang.

  ‘My wife Sarah has spent most of the last couple of days going through all the boxes and filing cabinets in the church vestry and the parish office,’ he told me.

  ‘That’s very good of her,’ I said. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘She’s found a history of the church dated 1927, but it only describes the windows. There are no photographs, I’m afraid. So I’ve asked a chap I know at the diocesan archives to see if he has anything but, as I thought, he says it might take him a while.’

  ‘What does the description say?’ I asked.

  ‘Hang on a moment. Ah. “The Lady Chapel. Fine late-nineteenth-century richly coloured glass by Minster Glass in the Virgin and Child Enthroned, E. window of chapel, donor Mrs Sarah Fotherington…Angel in S. window, also by Minster Glass, donor Reverend Jas. Brownlow, in memory of his daughter Caroline.” That’s it.’

  ‘OK.’

  I must have sighed, because he added, ‘Sorry. Not very helpful, is it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll have another look through Dad’s stuff later.’

  I had been searching for about an hour when I struck lucky. What I found is called in the trade a vidimus, meaning ‘let us look’. It was a small colour sketch for the Virgin and Child window, which the artist would have showed his patron to give an early idea of how the window would look. It was beautifully executed and the colours sang.

  Amazingly, there was a note clipped to it that directed me to a large cupboard at the back of the room. In this were folded and filed hundreds of much larger drawings called cartoons. Twenty minutes later, with a cry of satisfaction, I extracted one labelled ‘Virgin and Child in Glory, St Martin’s Church’, unfolded it and spread it onto the floor. It was a larger version of the vidimus I’d found just now, the size of the actual window, but drawn in outline, without the colour. Its purpose was to be a pattern for the window. It showed clearly the shape of each piece of glass to be cut, the details of features and drapery, and where the saddle crossbars to support the whole structure should go. Looking from the coloured vidimus to the huge cartoon, I wondered if they weren’t, most unusually, drawn by the same hand. Most of the time an artist would be commissioned only to create the original colour design and this would then be handed over to craftsmen who would enlarge it and make the window. Unless the artist was sufficiently interested, he might not see what happened to his design until the window was finished.

  I studied the faces on the cartoon, the carefully drawn features, the attention paid to details of light and shadow. The joyful light in the Virgin’s eyes was reflected in her child’s, and I marvelled at the artist’s ability to recreate emotion. Carefully I folded up both drawings and replaced them in their respective files. Then I continued my search for the angel. In the foolscap file where I’d found the Virgin and Child vidimus there were several letters, bills and lists of materials relating to that window, but nothing for the angel. It was frustrating. Still, these would help illuminate the artist’s processes with the angel, which we would need to follow.

  I took Laura Brownlow’s journal down to the living room. There I foraged in the bureau for Dad’s magnifying glass and sat down to read once more. Laura wrote so vividly it was hard to remember that everything had happened over a hundred years before. I could almost imagine I was there…

  Sunday, 15 February 1880

  Oh, that you were here, Caroline. We would have shared such confidences, for I have received my first proposal of marriage! But, Caro, I’ve said him nay, for I cannot love him nor indeed feel any affection towards him at all. He is Mr Anthony Bond–Papa’s lawyer, you might remember–a gentleman of distinction and property with, Mama assures me, distant connections to the Dukes of Norfolk! (So distant, it seems I require opera glasses to see them!)

  I shall explain exactly how it came about. Such a surprise, for Mr Bond had passed no hint of his intentions towards me. He took luncheon with us on Friday and that same evening Papa told me the man intended to take tea with us on Sunday, that he wished particularly to speak to me and I should think most seriously about his purpose.

  It never crossed my mind that his frequent excuses to visit our house should have anything to do with me. His countenance rarely betrays any emotion except embarrassment. Believe me when I say I imagined he merely wished to discuss a book I’d lent him.

  After he arrived, Mama excused herself and we were left alone together in the drawing room. He seemed quite agitated, spilling his tea in his saucer. I reached to take the cup from him, but instead he clasped my outstretched hand and growled, ‘Oh, Miss Brownlow, Laura,’ in such a strange, squeaky voice that I was frightened and snatched away my hand. We both sat staring at one another in horror. Then he cleared his throat in that nervous way he has and whispered, ‘Did your father not give you any intimation of my intentions?’ and I shook my head, suddenly realising what he meant.

  Blood rushed to his face. ‘I had hoped…’ he said, but I read terror in his features.

  ‘No, Mr Bond, pray say no more. It cannot be!’ I cried out in my panic. I was furious with Papa and Mama for not preparing me, and so it was worse for poor Mr Bond than it might have been.

  I thought I would feel elated to have had my first proposal–do you remember how we talked about how it might be? Instead I feel sad. I have caused Mr Bond misery, though the fault is not m
ine. I never sought his attentions.

  Monday, 16 February

  I have finally begun the new tale. The young woman is an orphan and marries a young man for love–he believing, it turns out falsely, that she is independently wealthy. When he learns that her estate is entailed and he may not touch the money, he abandons her and she loses her position in society. I have yet to establish how matters should proceed, but I wish her to fashion her own life in the face of public condemnation.

  Wednesday, 18 February

  We returned from dinner with George and Harriet last evening to discover a terrible scene. Mrs Jorkins was disputing with a drunken man who, it transpired, was the mysterious Mr Cooper. Do you recall that I told you about the Coopers? It’s so sad. The baby has died and the doctor has despatched poor Molly Cooper to the hospital.

  Mr Cooper cursed and shouted, like you never heard, and demanded money. Papa sensibly wouldn’t give him any, determining he’d only spend it on liquor; instead, he hustled us all inside and threatened to fetch a Constable. Fortunately the man went away but we could hear him banging railings and shouting all down the street. Mama was quite shaken, but you may guess how she set her mind then. ‘The children will be all on their own, James,’ she cried, and she wouldn’t go to bed and was all for changing her clothes and setting out to see the abandoned family at once until Papa forbade her. ‘They’ll come to no harm before morning,’ he said. ‘What can you do for them now? You’ll catch your own death if that man doesn’t murder us first.’

  So we were up early this morning and visiting the Cooper children. Such distress. No sign of their dissolute papa and, while Ida had done her best with keeping the young ones’ spirits up, they’d not eaten since the doctor came the previous day. Mama made me stay and help while she took Ida with her to the hospital, but tonight the news is as bad as it can be. Molly Cooper died of her fever this evening and, for all the use their father seems to be, the children are in effect orphans, their fate to be decided by the authorities tomorrow.

  Friday, 20 February

  Another dreadful day, the five youngest Coopers taken to the orphanage and Ida come to be kitchen maid until we can think where else she must go. She can only sit in the kitchen and cry, poor dear. Mrs Jorkins is kindly enough and will take her in hand.

  Saturday, 21 February

  That rogue Cooper’s been back with his shouting, demanding to see his daughter, cursing Mama and Papa for taking away his family when all they’ve done is make good his negligence. He even accused Mama of killing his wife–the man’s demented. Eventually two Constables came to arrest him and who knows what’ll happen to him now. Ida wouldn’t appear to speak to him, she was so terrified. She’s told Mama he used to hit their mother when he was under the influence of drink. Mama is holding herself together magnificently, as she does in times like these, but she wears the same expression on her face as the Blessed Virgin in the Crucifixion window; one of anguished self-sacrifice. Am I cruel to notice this? I don’t know how long it will be before her health suffers.

  After this, there was a gap in the journal of a couple of months. The next entry was 15 April 1880. I read on…

  Chapter 10

  We should pray to the angels for they are given to us as guardians.

  St Ambrose, De Viduis

  LAURA’S STORY

  The handle turned smoothly, the door swung open with a sigh and Laura stepped into the church. The air, pungent with lilies and incense, was cool after the spring sunshine and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She stood, listening to the ringing silence–‘It’s the presence of God,’ her mother had once whispered to her. Sounds from the street, the rhythmic scraping of a broom, the impatient trot and rattle of a passing horse and carriage, the bark of some tethered dog, barely rippled the stillness.

  Laura tiptoed down the aisle, her skirt swishing on the flags. She bowed her head to the altar, with its new gold cloth, crossed herself, then knelt down awkwardly in the front pew. Gazing up at the frozen agony of the Crucifixion scene she tried to still her troubled mind enough to pray.

  Two months after his first proposal, Mr Bond had again asked to see her on her own, had begged her hand in marriage. This time he’d been more forthright, had declared his love for her with a passion she’d not suspected in him. How had she stirred such hot feeling in this dry, serious man, she who was always plainly, even dowdily dressed, unadorned, lacking Harriet’s pretty flirtatiousness or Caroline’s pale-gold fragility? ‘You’re beautiful,’ her mother always told her beloved eldest daughter, but Laura’s tiny mirror gave a more honest verdict. She had the glow of youth and good health glossy chestnut hair, bright eyes and a mercifully clear complexion. Less happily, her mouth was too wide, her nose had a bump in it, she knew her movements were gawky, without grace.

  ‘Think carefully, my dear,’ her father had said when he warned her of Mr Bond’s intention to renew his suit. ‘He’s a good man and well situated. Your mama and I would be happy were you to accept him. Hear him out, is all we ask, but we will not press you.’

  ‘I do not have any feelings for him…’

  ‘Love can grow, my dear. Love can grow with God’s help. We judge the marriage to be advantageous. He is of sound character. I rely on him in the parish.’ Still, Laura could sense her father’s heavy mood. He put out a hand to pat her shoulder as though comforting her. She felt bewildered.

  ‘We would miss you, my love,’ said her mother. ‘But you must consider your happiness and we must be thankful that we will have both you and Harriet living nearby.’

  Laura considered the face of Mary, glowing ghostly white in the window before her. Mary, who accepted everything that happened to her. Which life should she choose? To marry a man for whom she felt no warmth, and hope love might flow, or stay with her parents, comforting them in their troubles, sharing their work.

  ‘Is there no one you have ever liked, dear?’ Harriet had asked her, exasperated, the last time Laura visited. Harriet left the house rarely now that the child had dropped in her womb.

  ‘Not so very much,’ Laura answered. But there had been Papa’s young curate, Gilbert Osborn, who had left two years before. For a short while he had seemed to seek her out, but then suddenly it was announced he was to be married to his second cousin in Hampshire, and was raised to a living in the patronage of the girl’s father. Wasn’t it obvious, Harriet had remarked–being wise in the ways of the world–that the two events were related? Laura supposed her sister was right, but could think no ill of him. She remembered his fine dark eyes, his teasing manner, the way he could make her forget her dragging fears for Caroline. The news of his engagement caused her to weep silently into her pillow every night for a week.

  From the shadows of the Lady Chapel she heard a sigh, the creak of wood on stone. Someone was there. She pushed herself to her feet and straightened her skirts, thinking it must be the verger. But the figure outlined in the doorway to the chapel was not stooping old Mr Perkins but someone taller, straighter and much younger.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I didn’t realise there was anyone here,’ the man said, his voice gentle, the T-sounds slightly sibilant. He bowed slightly. In one hand he clutched his hat, in the other a large book. He made to walk past her and his hair glinted gold in a sudden shaft of light, like a revelation. She gave a sharp intake of breath and lowered her gaze. The book, she saw now, was a sketchbook.

  Curiosity caused her to burst out, ‘Oh no, you’re not disturbing me at all. You have been drawing the church? Do let me see.’

  He stopped, turned and looked at her hesitantly, then down at the book, weighing something up. Finally he said, ‘A few ideas for a commission. Only early sketches.’

  He stepped fully into the light and she almost gasped at the beauty of him. His skin was pale against his gold-brown hair and moustache. When their eyes met, his were hazel, flecked with green. He opened the book and she peered down at the page he showed her. A pencilled arched window contai
ning the outline of a figure was criss-crossed with scribbled notes.

  ‘Goodness, you must be Mr…Russell,’ she said, remembering the name her father had mentioned. ‘The artist for our windows.’

  ‘I am indeed he,’ he said. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Reverend Brownlow’s daughter,’ she rushed on. ‘Miss Laura Brownlow.’

  ‘Well, this is a most felicitous meeting then, Miss Brownlow,’ he said. His hand momentarily enveloped hers. Even through her glove she felt its warmth.

  ‘It’s my first visit to the church,’ said Mr Russell. ‘I like to wait, to watch and listen, immerse myself in the atmosphere of a building before I begin work.’

  She thought of him sitting still as a stone saint in the semi-darkness, unseen, watching and listening.

  Since she didn’t speak, he went on, ‘It’s important to view the church at different times of day, I find. To see how the light strikes the windows.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said.

  ‘And to gauge the particular tones of the church, to imagine what will suit it best–rich rubies maybe, or silvery whites.’

  ‘And what do you see here?’

  ‘The limestone requires soft colour tones. Nothing too hot, too strident.’

  ‘You must study the other windows, too, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. This is a fine one, this altar light. By Mr Kempe. Do you see his sign, the wheatsheaves, almost hidden in the corner there, to the left of the Magdalen?’

  He moved forward and now red light and blue and green fell across him from the window, like a blessing.

  Laura too stepped into the shower of colour, followed the line of his pointing finger and nodded. ‘I’d not noticed before.’ The sleeve of his coat, she saw, had slid back slightly, and she was strangely touched by the fact that his shirt cuff was frayed, though the dappled light transformed the threads into something fine.

  ‘Do you have a sign, Mr Russell?’ she said, looking up at him with a steady gaze.