by Chris James
‘How old do I look, Mr Silver?’ Millie was quite shocked.
‘I would guess way younger than I. Eighteen perhaps?’
Shrewd. Exactly right. How many other eighteen-year-olds had he painted to compare me to, I imagined? And how many had thrown their naked bodies at his feet and demand he capture their innermost secrets for the world to ogle at? The very thought brought a flush to my cheeks. And couldn’t he see from the tremulous condition in which he had put me, unable to conceal my heaving bosom, that I was quite old enough.
‘It’ll be wonderful to paint you. But if I disappoint, you will let me know, won’t you? I won’t leave until I’ve completely satisfied you.’
This was beginning to sound very interesting.
*
Meeting Lizzie Weston was so much a pleasure. The girl, although pale, was positively beautiful. And everything about her was refined to perfection. Underneath the brightest blue eyes I could ever remember seeing, she had fine high cheekbones, providing the opportunity to add depth to what was already a beautiful face, playing with light and shadow. Swathes of finely brushed golden hair, secured at the back with a jewelled comb, hung to her waist. And despite her ailment, she was very amusing.
After I had prepared my tools of trade, Lizzie and her father gave me their views on how best to capture her. Lizzie wanted to wear her mother’s favourite, a glorious white gown. It was a wise choice, complementing her fair hair and complexion. Sir Robert was particularly interested in capturing some of the landscape viewed from their drawing room window – something I had perfected with the prized Emily – a feature I had borrowed from the Mona Lisa. From this opulent room, furnished with the finest Chippendale cabinetry, that view was enchanting; most of London stood below them. After one or two suggestions from me, purely to make the sitting more memorable and interesting, I stepped outside on to the landing with Sir Robert and pulled the door to. I felt I had to ask a burning question.
‘What, pray, ails the child?’
Sir Robert spoke sadly. ‘Consumption. Been to every specialist in London. There’s nothing else–’
I took his arm. ‘My sincere condolences, sir. I can sense the immense love between you. I’ll get started.’
‘And I’ll see you at lunch, Mr Silver. Join me in the conservatory.’
Sir Robert returned downstairs and as I entered the drawing room again I witnessed for the first time how ill his daughter was. Lizzie was coughing her heart up. Her little plump maid, Millie, became quite concerned.
But between her bouts of coughing Lizzie was the perfect artist’s model. I soon had an outline and spent a good deal of time on her magnificent sparkling eyes, bringing them to life. A vivid blue, there appeared to be a touch of oriental in the way they pointed upwards and outwards; they were her main striking feature although everything was perfectly formed over a fine bone structure. A great sadness came over me as I tried to come to terms with the fact that this young beauty before me would never experience love, happiness or romance and all the good things life had to offer, and would likely be snatched away from her dear father before the paint was properly dry. I fought hard to prevent her from sensing my sadness, but somehow, when she spoke, always softly and eloquently, I suspected she was aware of my sorrowful thoughts and was trying to put me at ease.
‘I’ve experienced wonderful things,’ she told me, ‘seen my father at his happiest; and his saddest, after poor Mama. We’ve travelled much of the world together, all the parts Papa thought it worth my seeing. I’ve danced with most of the kings and princes of Europe and enjoyed, or suffered, most of their hangers-on. It’s been a wonderful life. I can’t complain. And now I’ve met you.’ She giggled while elegantly cooling herself with a fan.
Then she began coughing again, a deep retching cough that racked her whole body however much she tried to conceal it. She signalled to Millie to go fetch something. For a while I felt helpless and knew I should do something to ease her pain. Finally, after the coughing caused her so much distress, I made the decision.
A jug of water and a glass stood on a sideboard, close to my easel. Pretending to seek better light I moved my easel nearer the jug, blocking Lizzie’s view of it. Once there, I ensured I was concealed behind the easel and selected a glass vial from the line of medicines secreted inside my jacket. While Lizzie was completely distracted, bent over double with coughing, I dripped two drops of the chosen medication into a glass of water. As Lizzie sat up straight and wiped her mouth I squatted beside her and offered her the glass.
‘Sip this, it’ll help,’ I told her. She smiled down at me with a very brave but exhausted smile. I prayed my efforts would give her some relief. And then Millie returned with her usual medication – a strong painkiller. So had her doctors given up treating the disease itself?
I continued sketching and ensured she finished my potion. Almost instantly she was calmer, coughing less. She smiled more often and I managed to complete an outline without further interruption; the portrait would build from that, nicely.
‘Forgive me if this is upsetting but may I ask Miss Weston’s prognosis, Sir Robert?’ I asked him in the conservatory over lunch. Lizzie had asked for her lunch to be served in her room.
‘Six months ago they hoped for a year or so, God willing. But she deteriorated in a way I didn’t think possible. I’ve been watching my darling die…’ Sir Robert struggled to continue, ‘I fear we have only a month or two. She’s in so much pain between the opiates.’
Opiates – painkillers. I had heard nothing positive about the treatment she could have been receiving and so desperately needed.
‘This is so sad, sir. She has immense love for you.’ He remained still, staring into nowhere, and I broke the silence, ‘Does Lizzie–’
‘Know?’ he interrupted, ‘No, no. I thought it best she didn’t. One wonders what lengths one would go to in order to save a dearly loved one such pain. I have surprised myself, Mr Silver. I must have visited every quack, faith and psychic healer within a hundred miles. And with my credentials you would have thought I’d have known better. Right now, I would willingly trade my soul with the devil, were a cure possible. Meanwhile, I hope my denying her the knowledge of precisely what ails her, spares her some of the pain.’ He sipped some wine and looked at an empty chair at the other end of the table. ‘Her mother passed just three years since. We both miss her so dearly.’ He paused, a tear made its way down his cheek. ‘I’m not sure how I will…’ he tried, dabbing his wet cheek dry.
Millie, the young maid, interrupted and whispered into Sir Robert’s ear, giggling. Sir Robert cheered and stood up, throwing down his napkin.
‘Apparently, there’s something we must observe upstairs, Mr Silver,’ he said, standing and beckoning for me to follow him.
At the top of the grand staircase I could hear singing, a delightful voice. As we approached, I realised it was coming from Lizzie in the drawing room. Sir Robert and I looked at each other, smiling. He eased the door open an inch or two to glimpse inside and then bade me look, too. Lizzie, oblivious to everything about her, had the sketched outline in her hands and danced joyfully around the room holding it out at arm’s length, singing at the top of her voice. Sir Robert pushed the door wide open and we both stood there, gaping and bemused. We stepped inside and Sir Robert clapped to her rhythm, as she sang and danced.
‘Papa! Papa, isn’t it wonderful? Mr Silver, you’ve made me soooo happy.’ She put the sketch back on the easel and dragged Sir Robert into dancing with her. Soon the pair pranced round the room like it were a debutante’s ball. Sir Robert stopped in front of me, introduced us formally, and I bowed deeply, taking Lizzie’s hand before she pulled me into a lively polka. Lizzie provided the music, vocally, but I was as sure as she that there was a full orchestra present for such a glorious occasion.
After two more sittings to complete the under-painting, each as enjoyable as the first but not quite so energetic, I took Lizzie’s portrait away to finish it in my studio. I
had continued to ply Lizzie with my most special tonic surreptitiously, fearing I would never be comfortable explaining my unprofessional behaviour to her father regardless of how much relief it brought Lizzie.
When I arrived in Hampstead to deliver the completed portrait the butler took my cape and top hat and I was shown into a huge library downstairs. Lizzie, more effervescent than I had ever seen her, ran to me and kissed me on both cheeks. I was rather taken aback, and then her father joined us. I placed a large bag with the portrait inside on a chair and prepared to remove the cover.
‘Shall I?’ They both nodded enthusiastically. I whipped off the bag and stood back.
Both pairs of eyes widened. They were silent, but I noticed their pupils dilating. Then Lizzie squealed with delight, thrusting her hands to her mouth. She ran to the portrait and knelt in front of it, gushing with admiration. I could see that Sir Robert was in tears and saved him any embarrassment by keeping my eyes upon Lizzie. She kept squealing. The little plump maid, Millie, whom Lizzie appeared to treat like a sister, curtsied and gave Sir Robert a look of: may I?
Lizzie jumped up off the floor and grabbed the maid by the shoulders, pushing her in front of the portrait. The maid’s face was a pleasure to watch, and she happily joined Lizzie dancing and prancing around the room.
‘Extraordinary! Most extraordinary!’ Sir Robert said as he shook my hand robustly. ‘The Dalmatian at her feet is exactly like her Spot. She loved him so dearly. It’ll bring her many joyous memories.’ He finally let go of my hand and took something from his wallet. ‘The happiness you’ve brought my daughter will surely stay with me for the rest of my life. I doubt I could ever reward you enough, my boy.’ He passed me his folded cheque, quietly. ‘If ever anything troubles you and you feel you need a friend to confide in, do please consider me that friend. I would deem it an honour, sir.’
I felt quite humble. A knight of the realm, an advisor to Her Majesty, had called me sir.
By now, Lizzie had grabbed the butler and stood him in front of her portrait; the elderly gentleman stood dabbing his face with a handkerchief as tears rolled down his cheeks. Then the maid appeared with Cook, still in her pinafore and flour in her hair, and ran out again. A moment later, a coachman and gardener were shown in to join the celebration and Sir Robert poured them all a glass of sherry as they stood admiring firstly, the portrait, but more importantly, Lizzie’s joyous antics and newfound zest for life. To witness such affection from household staff towards the master and his family was a joy indeed. Their house brimmed with love. And to think I had something to do with the happiness they exuded that night made me extremely proud. At the same time, I felt immensely sad. How would this loving household deal with the loss of the master’s daughter, when the time came? The very thought cast a dark shadow over me.
As Sir Robert chatted with them all, I felt it an opportune moment to leave, and quietly collected my cape and hat from the lobby, leaving by the front door and closing it quietly behind me.
Before I reached my carriage, the black thoughts of a change of fortune about to befall this house still very much on my mind, I heard the door open and turned to see possibly the most heart-wrenching sight I had witnessed since the loss of my Emily – Lizzie running after me in her mother’s billowing white gown.
She jumped in front of me, her delightful bosom heaving.
‘When will I see you again?’ Perplexed, she screwed both her hands tightly.
‘My work here is done, Lizzie. I hope it meets your satisfa–’
She lurched forward and kissed me, hard on the mouth, wrapping her arms around my neck. I was startled and strained to keep an eye on the front door for fear of being discovered. How would I explain? She kissed me again and again, all over my face. I managed to hold her off.
‘You can’t go. I won’t let you. I’ll die without you.’ She lurched forward again. ‘I’ll kill myself!’ In tears now, she began pounding on my chest.
‘Tonight. I’ll kill myself, tonight, if you leave me.’
I struggled to hold her still, and thankfully, she calmed a little. I caught a tear on her cheek with my finger and felt honoured that such a beautiful creature should have such feelings for me, her portrait painter. But I needed to tell her why I couldn’t respond in the way she so desperately desired.
‘Lizzie. Lizzie, my dear, sweet thing. These past weeks working on your portrait so endeared me to you, too.’ I passed her a handkerchief. ‘I’ve helped repair your broken wing and now you’re a bird ready to soar once again into the skies.’ I took a deep breath; I had to tell her. She had to know that it was not that I wasn’t attracted to her – that would have been completely untrue. ‘But another has my heart, Lizzie.’
She stood back abruptly. ‘How will I survive without you?’ she said, wiping her tears. ‘And without your tonics?’
‘I don’t–’
‘Father would not be best pleased if I–’
‘I did it for you,’ I sighed, squeezing her hands gently.
‘Are they legal? These potions that make me feel this way?’ I couldn’t answer that. ‘I’m sure not. It’s prison or me. You must choose, Jacob Silver.’ She turned but didn’t let go of my hand. Turning back, she pressed her face right into mine. ‘You have a day to think about it. Then I’ll tell my–’
The front door opened. My heart sank.
As she stepped towards the house, I blurted out: ‘I choose you! I will come. I promise. If you’ll wait a while. Until I–’
Lizzie squealed. Threw her arms around my neck then reached inside my jacket, fumbled and located the glass vials there. She took two and clutched them close to her breast. I was startled. Until then I had had no idea she was aware I was administering potions to her.
‘I’ll wait, then. You promise you’ll come back for me?’
I nodded.
‘Lizzie, you’ll catch your death,’ Sir Robert called out from the door. ‘This is most unsatis–’
‘Coming, Papa,’ she called out to him. She turned, smiled, and mouthed me a kiss.
‘Three drops. Twice a day. And each week, reduce them by one drop a day. No more, Lizzie,’ I whispered. ‘Understand? No more.’
She ran back towards the house. I climbed aboard the carriage Sir Robert had kindly put at my disposal and, as it pulled away, watched her white gown flowing in the wind behind her like the wings of an angel.
I would never forget that image of Lizzie. I felt so sad that I would never see her again.
The Trial: Day 3
Sergeant Beck was finishing his evidence.
‘So the accused admitted to you that having found Emily dead, they didn’t go to the authorities to report it.’
‘Correct, sir. Silver feared that since his father had been found dead there, unnecessary suspicion would fall upon them – him – with a second body.’
‘So they sought to revive her, instead?’
‘Yes, sir, with this Elixir 32 that Silver had perfected.’
‘But it needed other ingredients, is that right? To work properly, they said.’
‘I wrote it down,’ the sergeant said, reading from his notes. ‘Essential ingredients. A catalyst, he said. Souls. They hadn’t got any souls yet. He left that side of things to this professor.’
‘And on the twenty-eighth of September, Silver miraculously, without any prior knowledge, found the souls had not only been acquired but had been administered. Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did the accused say he had tested the elixir – Elixir 32 that is – on some other body? Brought it back to life?’
‘Not a body, sir, no. He used it on someone living, sir. Slipped it into her drink, surreptitiously, he told me.’
‘And who was this, did he say?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘M’lud!’ Mr Ecclestone called out, getting up on his feet. ‘The prosecution and the defence agree that it is not necessary for the person’s name to be announced in open court.’ He passe
d a note to the judge, who passed it back to Mr Ponsonby, who, in turn, passed it to the sergeant in the witness box.
‘Sergeant, is this the name of the person the accused plied with Elixir 32, against their will?’
The sergeant looked down at the note and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Ponsonby passed the note to the jury. ‘May I enquire how he came to slip it into her drink?’
‘Her father had commissioned a portrait of her. She posed at her home in West Hampstead.’
My goodness! I looked about me for support. They are referring to me. It can only be me. My God! That is what it was! I drank his wretched potion? I clutched my chest, feeling quite ill.
‘And what was her reaction to this potion?’
‘The accused said it relieved her symptoms; brought her a new zest for life. He actually admitted he became quite fond of the lady,’ the sergeant continued, blinking rapidly from what looked like a tear in his eye as he added: ‘But she was dying, sir. He only wanted her last days to pass without pain.’
‘Did the accused see her after her portrait was complete?’
‘I asked him if he had, sir. He replied: “I’m ashamed to say, I did not. She would have passed soon after, I fear, as I heard nothing more. I just hoped that I made her last days easier.” ’
My heart was pounding; my temperature rising. The courtroom below turned to a blur. But echoing in my head were those last words. Passed? Jacob thinks I’m dead? Gone from him? Was that why I never heard from him? I felt a little better and strained to hear every word.
‘I asked him: Are we going to find this is another girl you’ve killed with your concoctions?’ Sergeant Beck said. ‘He replied:
“Get it into your bony head, sergeant, I haven’t killed any of my girls. No man alive could have prevented the consumption from killing her at that advanced stage. And as for the others, I cared for them all. I had no control over what the professor did with them.’