The Glass Painter's Daughter

by Rachel Hore

  The effect was breathtaking. In the cold light of our northern winter, the window glowed gently. The angel floated above us, blessing us with a raised hand as he looked down on us all.

  ‘I’m so glad we’ve got him in good time for Christmas,’ said the vicar, beaming.

  ‘And for the Gerontius next week,’ I remembered. Our concert would be on the following Sunday evening.

  ‘People will have to come into the Lady Chapel especially to see, of course.’

  ‘We’ll know he’s here. And you can keep the chapel door open,’ I added.

  There was a dedication service for the window scheduled for the evening of 13 December. ‘St Lucy’s Day,’ the vicar said. ‘A festival of light. Most appropriate.’

  Life being so busy, I hadn’t read Laura’s diary for some time. But that evening, my mind full of Raphael, I extracted it from the pile of books I’d brought with me. There were only a few pages left to read. Raphael was finished and my journey with Laura nearly over. I’d miss them both.

  It was a surprise to see that our date for the blessing of the window was exactly the same as the original dedication, albeit more than a century later.

  Chapter 39

  Lead me to the land of angels

  Carmina Gadelica

  LAURA’S STORY

  On a Wednesday at the beginning of December 1880, Philip Russell brought some men from Minster Glass to install the two windows. Laura, who had not heard from Philip since her rebuffing reply to his letter in October, deliberately avoided visiting the church that day. But she knew she could not refuse to attend the dedication service on the following Sunday, St Lucy’s Day. After all, one of the windows was in memory of Caroline, and many of the Brownlows’ friends and family would be there.

  The day after the men had been, however, she slipped into the church to see the windows by herself before morning prayer. How much more beautiful and alive they were, she thought, now they were in place than when propped up in the workshop. They seemed to float above her in the gloomy chapel. It was as though they had spirits; she could almost feel their presence. But she dismissed the idea. Even her father, with his love of the mystical, wouldn’t approve of such nonsense.

  It was the faces, above all, that fascinated her. She had been studying Mary’s joyous gaze, her adoration reflected in the little boy’s expression, for some minutes before it dawned on her how familiar they were. She hadn’t noticed it before. Mary was Laura’s mother. She’d seen that look on her face as she dandled Arthur on her lap, and although the Holy Child looked a little older than Arthur, and Arthur’s features had certainly changed over the last few months, there was something about the tilt of his nose, the shape of his head that made her think Arthur had been in Philip’s mind when he imagined the Christ Child.

  And the angel. Only the eyes might have been Caroline’s, she thought–large, heavy-lashed, languid–but this angel was more solid, squarer-faced than Caroline had ever been. Nor was the angel like Marie–she had been a dark exotic beauty. Well, Philip must have plenty of other model faces to choose from; half the women visiting the Grosvenor Gallery probably.

  As she sat there looking and thinking about Caroline, a sense of peace crept over her. The angel seemed to glow brighter, warming her. Surely she wasn’t imagining it? It gave her an odd feeling. Like being blessed by a very holy and awe-inspiring person.

  On the afternoon of St Lucy’s Day, Laura went to the church full of trepidation, knowing that she would see Philip.

  Her first impression on entering the building with her mother and Mr Bond was that, far from the bright-coloured clothes such an occasion surely demanded, the back rows of pews were full of elderly men dressed in black: friends and associates of the late Mr and Mrs Fotherington, she supposed. One way or another, the church was full. Candles flickered on every window-ledge for the church interior was cast in wintry gloom.

  For the actual moment of dedication all were asked to move to the Lady Chapel, as Laura’s father invoked words of blessing. From every part of the crowd came little gasps of admiration as people took in the lovely serene faces of Mary and the Christ Child above the altar, the grave authority of Raphael, hand lifted in blessing, glowing in the weak and misty light.

  As the congregation crowded in and around the chapel, straining to see the windows, Laura waited politely at the back. It was there she caught sight of Philip, standing at a distance, leaning against the wall of the chapel. Catching her looking at him, he smiled very sweetly.

  The candlelight reflected in his eyes, highlighting his red-gold hair, warming his pale skin, giving him the aura of an angel. An angel in a frockcoat and white wing collar. Then his face dissolved in the fog of her tears and she had to look away.

  Afterwards there were so many people she had to speak to–cousins who had known Caroline, friends of her parents, old schoolfriends of the Brownlow sisters. Eventually Mr Bond came to say goodbye, having need to return to his office. Laura was speaking to Mrs Fotherington’s nephew, Mr Jefferies, a man of strong opinions, forcefully expressed, and his quietly spoken daughter, Prudence. She was glad to have Anthony Bond’s assistance with Mr Jefferies so that she could encourage Prudence to talk.

  ‘A most excellent man, your father, Miss Brownlow,’ Mr Jefferies pronounced. ‘My late aunt always spoke well of him. And our business with the window has been conducted quite satisfactorily. You will find we worship here more frequently.’

  ‘We should be delighted to see you both,’ Anthony assured him.

  ‘We usually attend St Mary’s,’ gentle Prudence whispered to Laura, ‘but I’m afraid Papa has taken exception to the new vicar.’

  ‘Ruins a man’s appetite for his dinner with his damn liberal views,’ Jefferies grumbled. ‘I won’t be lectured on how to spend my hard-earned income.’

  ‘Oh Papa,’ Prudence breathed. She patted his arm. ‘You do your Christian duty. Don’t listen to him,’ she appealed to her audience. ‘My father’s the kindest, most generous of men.’

  ‘I am sure you are right, Miss Jefferies,’ Anthony said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘What should I do without her?’ Jefferies said, his expression tender. ‘Since my wife died, three years past, she has been my comfort and my strength.’

  Prudence blushed becomingly. ‘It is an easy duty.’

  ‘Womanly virtues indeed,’ said Anthony. And he smiled so warmly upon Miss Jefferies that for one tiny moment Laura felt a stab of jealousy.

  Later, she watched him take his leave, stopping to bow stiffly to a gaggle of giggling girls by the door. He was over-serious to the point of dullness, but her affection for him was building. Day by day his good qualities presented themselves to her. She knew how loyal he’d been to her father during his darkest moments; how hard he worked; how solicitous he was of her needs and interests. Sesame and Lilies was only the first of John Ruskin’s works that he gave her. She still hadn’t felt confident of showing him her writing, fearing her wayward women and the challenges they presented to his masculine view of the world might disturb him. Neither had she dared send one to the publisher of the magazine Philip suggested. Her family needed less public interest at the moment, not more.

  What she didn’t like to admit was that, now Anthony had gone she felt, well, less constrained. The Jefferies moved on to speak to George and Harriet, and for a short while she was alone. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Philip, surrounded by admirers, the men shaking his hand enthusiastically, the women confiding.

  ‘Miss Brownlow. I’m glad to have found you.’ Her thoughts were interrupted by Miss Badcoe, now recovered from her illness and as severe as ever. With no word of thanks for Laura’s interventions on her behalf, the woman was breathtakingly unbending. Once or twice, as she endured Miss Badcoe’s rambling complaints about a neighbour at the almshouse who had offended her finer sensibilities with clumsy overtures of friendship, Laura glanced right at Philip and their eyes met. The second time he looked at her, h
e seemed to have worked his way closer, and she forced herself to hold his gaze and smile a little.

  ‘Miss Brownlow?’ Her attention was riveted again on Miss Badcoe. ‘You’re looking peaky, girl. Maybe that colour is wrong for you.’ The woman took her breath away.

  ‘Miss Badcoe, I assure you that I am quite well. Many people compliment me that this gold suits me exactly. Not all of us can look comely in black.’

  ‘Well, really, Miss Brownlow. I meant no offence.’

  ‘And yet you frequently do offend. Miss Badcoe, I hope you will be happy in your new lodgings and learn to like your neighbour. Good afternoon.’ And before Miss Badcoe could draw breath, Laura swept away.

  Philip worked his way nearer and nearer to Laura until, as the crowd began to thin, they found themselves standing together. Now she saw the signs of grief etched in his face; the tired pouches under his eyes; the angles in his face that were sharper now, and she was moved. He took her hand and held it in both of his.

  ‘Miss Brownlow,’ he said. ‘Laura. At last. How are you?’ His eyes raked her face, studying her, she felt, more searchingly than ever before. It was as though he were trying to commit her features to heart.

  ‘Mr Russell, it’s been a splendid occasion,’ Laura’s mother broke in, appearing suddenly at her side. Philip released Laura’s hand. The spell was broken. ‘We are entirely happy with our window. It means so much to us.’ As she spoke, Laura’s mama grasped her daughter’s arm proprietorially.

  ‘Indeed,’ Laura murmured. She knew her mother meant only to protect her. How silly she had been, to yearn still to speak with Philip. Now they wouldn’t ever be alone together again. He’d go on his way and their paths would never again need to cross. Maybe she’d glimpse him on the other side of the Square, visiting Minster Glass. But that would be all.

  Her mother was enquiring after his father’s health. She looked a little happier these days, Laura thought. The troubled atmosphere in the church had lifted, too. People still spoke about the disturbances. Many now confessed shame at the divisions the matter had caused in the congregation, with neighbour suspecting neighbour, the poor resenting the rich, the rich condemning the poor out of hand. A few weeks before, the Bishop had visited to rededicate the church and its altars and to pray for unity and the mission of the parish. Slowly, life was returning to normal.

  Her father’s spirits, too, had improved notably after word arrived from her brother Tom. He had found work as a schoolteacher in New York. It was in one of the poorer areas of the city and he wasn’t earning much, but he was strong in his belief that he was contributing to the well-being of his fellow men. He had recently become engaged, he wrote, to the daughter of one of his teaching colleagues. He asked for his parents’ blessing. Laura’s father immediately arranged for money to be sent towards their expenses and expressed regret that they wouldn’t be able to attend the wedding.

  ‘Yes, we have much to thank God for,’ her mother was telling Philip. ‘My son Tom is doing well in America, settled and happy now. Our little grandson Arthur is a lusty child and we have hopes of another happy event at Christmas. Don’t we, Laura?’ she said, her calm eyes fixed steadily on her daughter’s. ‘I think you know Anthony Bond, my husband’s churchwarden?’

  ‘Mama.’ Laura breathed in sharply. The matter of her impending engagement was not public knowledge.

  Philip, looking from Mrs Brownlow’s triumphant expression to Laura’s embarrassed one, needed no further explanation. He said, ‘I will look forward to hearing more of that.’ There was a short frozen silence during which Laura wished the ground would swallow her. But her mother was pulling her away.

  ‘Now Laura, we must speak to Cousin Clarice. She hardly knows anyone and she’s so deaf now, poor soul, it must be very lonely. Goodbye, Mr Russell.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Laura whispered to him. Philip’s expression was strange–as though he’d realised he’d forgotten something desperately important.

  The following day she received a letter from him.

  Dear Laura, it said. It’s no good, I’ve lain unvisited by sleep. I must speak with you alone on an urgent matter. Where can I meet you? Name a place, anywhere, anytime. Laura, do this for my sake. Yours, Philip.

  Her first thought was that she should refuse his request. Her second was that she would see him alone one last time. Her third was a question: where could they meet that was private yet seemly?

  Dear Philip, she wrote back. I will meet you in the church porch at three.

  She slipped out of the house while her mother was resting, her feet sure of their way through the hushed semi-darkness.

  As the pillars of the church porch reared up through the foggy gloom she suddenly regretted coming without Polly. Would he be there? Who else might be lurking? But there was only the tall shadowy figure of Philip. He reached out his hand and pulled her into the porch. ‘The door’s locked,’ he said, his voice warm in her ear.

  ‘We always keep it so now.’ She pressed a large key into his hand. As the door swung open and the pungent smell of incense floated around them, she was reminded of that very first afternoon, so many months ago, when he’d first surprised her by materialising like a stone saint stepping down from his niche.

  The door clicked shut behind them and they moved together through the echoey stillness. In the Lady Chapel, two fat candles burned. The vandalised wooden statue of Mary had been relegated to a side table now, the mend clear on her poor broken neck. The figures in the windows were eerie glowing presences today. Philip studied them for a moment, seemingly in a reverie.

  ‘Forgive me, I haven’t seen them in this light before. It’s strange to think they came into being under my hand. They appear to have achieved a life of their own quite apart from anything I’ve done. It’s as though God has breathed life into the glass, if that’s not a blasphemy.’

  ‘I think I see your meaning. Remember what you said about the ancient belief that God’s glory cascades through translucent objects in the form of light?’

  They were silent. Laura waited quietly for him to speak his purpose.

  Eventually he turned to face her, took both of her hands in his.

  ‘Are you to marry Mr Bond?’

  He spoke so passionately, she was struck. She snatched her hands away.

  ‘That is a private matter. But as Mama intimated, I am to give him my answer at Christmas.’

  ‘Laura. Don’t. Please. I can’t bear…He’s not right…’

  ‘It isn’t your business whom I marry, Mr Russell.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘Now you do overstep all boundaries. I am very fond of him.’

  ‘Fond? What basis is that for a marriage?’

  Anger flared in her. ‘It’s a more solid one than passionate adoration, I would say, from your experience.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I deserved that,’ Philip muttered, pushing a hand roughly through his hair. ‘I’m going about this wrongly. I…I’m confused.’

  ‘Confused?’

  ‘You once told me I should forget my wife,’ he said.

  The clatter of hooves sounded in her head, that eerie scream of pain going on for ever and ever. Laura closed her eyes to shut out the picture of Marie falling.

  ‘It was a callous thing to say,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t know what would come to pass.’

  ‘I will learn to do it,’ he said calmly. ‘I know I must, in order to get on with my life. I must forget her.’

  ‘But what of John?’

  ‘John lives mostly with his grandparents now. It’s easier that way. I see him often. His grandmother’s teaching him Italian, you know. There’s a palazzo he’ll inherit one day, near Verona. He’s growing away from me, I fear.’

  ‘But he’s still your son–a little boy missing his mother. He must need you.’

  ‘Yes, he does miss her, but there’s nothing I can do to stop that. Nothing. Yet, though it’s a dreadful thing to say, her death has freed me. I can see light in the darknes
s sometimes now. It’s a long way ahead, that light. But at least I know it’s there.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said softly.

  ‘And there lies the heart of the matter, Laura. I need you with me. I didn’t know it until yesterday when I saw you again. You can’t marry Anthony Bond. Please don’t.’

  ‘Philip, too much has changed. He loves me. He’s a good man and it pleases my parents I marry him.’

  ‘But you, you’re only fond of him. You don’t speak of love.’

  ‘There are many kinds of love.’

  ‘Could you not find a kind with which to…love me?’

  ‘Philip…’ Every word he said now was a blow, smashing up the carapace she’d built around herself since Marie’s death. And yet he had not told her the most important thing of all. He had not said that he loved her.

  ‘What would I be to you,’ she said, ‘after Marie? What could I possibly be? A companion. A mere shadow of a love.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, alarm spreading across his face. At that moment, the fog outside must have momentarily cleared because the light from the angel window grew brighter; it poured in a golden pool on the tiles.

  And now she felt strong, brave and merciless. ‘I want no competitor where I choose to love. There must be only me.’

  She stepped into the pool of golden light, so it cascaded down over her body like a gentle fire sent straight from God and felt Raphael’s healing warmth stream through her.

  He stared at this transformation. Laura was bathed in light, transfigured by it, and at last the scales fell from his eyes. He breathed, ‘Laura. My darling.’

  And as she stood there, strong and golden and beautiful, she knew that the power to decide was hers.

  And now I came to the final page of Laura’s journal.