“Togas?” her father had suggested dubiously at the sight. “And Grecian robes for the young ladies? Pink, though? And pistachio…?” His voice had trailed away; at home, he would have gone off to consult his library. Here, amid the pretty thickets and pastures outside the village of Farnham, he could only watch and wonder.
He had commissioned the renowned painter Joshua Ryme to do a commemorative painting for Sarah’s wedding. Naturally, she couldn’t wear her bridal gown before the wedding; it was with the seamstress, having five hundred seed pearls attached to it by the frail, undernourished fingers of a dozen orphans who never saw the light of day. Such was the opinion of Sylvester Newland, who claimed the sibling territory midway between Sarah, seventeen, and Jenny, thirteen. It was a lot of leeway, those four years between child and adult, and he roamed obnoxiously in it, scattering his thoughts at will for no other reason than that he was allowed to have them.
“Men must make their way in the world,” her mother had said gently when Jenny first complained about Sylvester’s rackety ways. “Women must help and encourage them, and provide them with a peaceful haven from their daily struggle to make the world a better place.”
Jenny, who had been struggling with a darning needle and wool and one of Sylvester’s socks, stabbed herself and breathed incredulously, “For this I have left school?”
“Your governess will see that you receive the proper education to provide you with understanding and sympathy for your husband’s work and conversation.” Her mother’s voice was still mild, but she spoke in that firm, sweet manner that would remain unshaken by all argument, like a great stone rising implacably out of buffeting waves, sea life clinging safely to every corner of it. “Besides, women are not strong, as you will find out soon enough. Their bodies are subject to the powerful forces of their natures.” She hesitated; Jenny was silent, having heard rumors of the secret lives of women, and wondering if her mother would go into detail. She did, finally, but in such a delicate fashion that Jenny was left totally bewildered. Women were oysters carrying the pearls of life; their husbands opened them and poured into them the water of life, after which the pearls…turned into babies?
Later, after one of the pearls of life had finally irritated her inner oyster enough to draw blood, and she found herself on a daybed hugging a hot water bag, she began to realize what her mother had meant about powerful forces of nature. Sarah, tactfully quiet and kind, put a cup of tea on the table beside her.
“Thank you,” Jenny said mournfully. “I think the oysters are clamping themselves shut inside me.”
Sarah’s solemn expression quivered away; she sat on the daybed beside Jenny. “Oh, did you get the oyster speech, too?”
She had grown amazingly stately overnight, it seemed to Jenny, with her lovely gowns and her fair hair coiled and scalloped like cream on an éclair. Sarah’s skin was perfect ivory; her own was blotched and dotted with strange eruptions. Her hair, straight as a horse’s tail and so heavy it flopped out of all but the toothiest pins, was neither ruddy chestnut nor true black, but some unromantic shade in between.
Reading Jenny’s mind, which she did often, Sarah patted her hands. “Don’t fret. You’ll grow into yourself. And you have a fine start: your pale gray eyes with that dark hair will become stunning soon enough.”
“For what?” Jenny asked intensely, searching her sister’s face. The sudden luminousness of her beauty must partially be explained by Mr. Everett Woolidge, who had already spoken to Sarah’s father, and was impatiently awaiting Sarah’s eighteenth birthday. “Is love only about oysters and the water of life? What exactly was Mama trying to say?”
Sarah’s smile had gone; she answered slowly, “I’m not sure yet, myself, though I’m very sure it has nothing to do with oysters.”
“When you find out, will you tell me?”
“I promise. I’ll take notes as it happens.” Still a line tugged at her tranquil brows; she was not seeing Jenny, but the shadow of Mr. Woolidge, doing who knew what to her on her wedding bed. Then she added, reading Jenny’s mind again, “There’s nothing to fear, Mama says. You just lie still and think of the garden.”
“The garden?”
“Something pleasant.”
“That’s all it took to make Sylvester? She must have been thinking about the plumbing, or boiled cabbage.”
Sarah’s smile flashed again; she ducked her head, looking guilty for a moment, as though she’d been caught giggling in the schoolroom. “Very likely.” She pushed a strand of hair out of Jenny’s face. “You should drink your tea; it’ll soothe the pain.”
Jenny stared up at her, fingers clenched, her whole body clenched, something tight and hot behind her eyes. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered. “Oh, I will miss you so. Sylvester just talks at me, and Mama—Mama cares only about him and Papa. You are the only one I can laugh with.”
“I know.” Sarah’s voice, too, sounded husky, ragged. “Everett—he is kind and good, and of course ardent. But I’ve known you all your life. I can say things to you that I could never say to Mama—or even to Everett—” She paused, that faraway look again in her eyes, as though she were trying to see her own future. “I hope he and I will learn to talk to one another…Mama would say it’s childish of me to want what I think to be in any way important to him; that’s something I must grow out of, when I’m married.”
“Talk to me,” Jenny begged her. “Anytime. About anything.”
Sarah nodded, caressing Jenny’s hair again. “I’ll send for you.”
“Why must he take you so far away? Why?”
“It’s only a half day on the train. And very pretty, Farnham is. We’ll have long rides together, you and I, and walks, and country fairs. You’ll see.”
And Jenny did: the village where Mr. Woolidge had inherited his country home was charming, full of centuries-old cottages with thick stone walls, and hairy thatched roofs, and tiny windows set, with no order whatsoever, all anyhow in the walls. The artist, Mr. Ryme, had a summer house there as well. Jenny could see it on a distant knoll from where she sat under the chestnut tree. It was of butter-yellow stone with white trim, and the windows were where you expected them to be. But still it looked old, with its dark, crumbling garden wall, and the ancient twisted apple trees inside, and the wooden gate, open for so long it had grown into the earth. The artist’s daughter Alexa was under the tree as well, along with four comely village children and Jenny. The village children with their rough voices and unkempt hair would have horrified Mama. Fortunately she had not come, due to undisclosed circumstances that Jenny suspected had to do with oysters and pearls. Sylvester was away at school; Mr. Ryme would add their faces to the painting later. The governess, Miss Lake, had accompanied Jenny, with some staunch idea of keeping up with her lessons. But in the mellow country air, she had relaxed and grown vague. She sat knitting under a willow, light and shadow dappling her thin, freckled face and angular body as the willow leaves swayed around her in the breeze.
The artist had positioned Jenny’s father on one side of the little rocky brook winding through the grass. The wedding guests, mostly portrayed by villagers and friends of the painter, were arranged behind him. The wedding party itself would be painted advancing toward him on the other side of the water. A tiny bridge arching above some picturesque stones and green moss would signify the place where the lovers Cupid and Psyche would become man and wife. Papa wore a long tunic that covered all but one arm, over which a swag of purple was discreetly draped. He looked, with his long gold mustaches and full beard, more like a druid, Jenny thought, than a Grecian nobleman. He was smiling, enjoying himself, his eyes on Sarah as the artist fussed with the lilies in her hands. She wore an ivory robe; Mr. Woolidge, a very hairy Cupid, wore gold with a purple veil over his head. At the foot of the bridge, the artist’s younger daughter, golden-haired and plump, just old enough to know how to stand still, carried a basket of violets, from which she would fling a handful of posies onto the bridge to ornament the coup
le’s path.
Finally, the older children were summoned into position behind the pair. Mr. Ryme, having placed them, stood gazing narrowly at them, one finger rasping over his whiskers. He moved his hand finally and spoke.
“A lantern. We must have a lantern.”
“Exactly!” Papa exclaimed, enlightened.
“Why, Father?” the artist’s daughter Alexa asked, daring to voice the question in Jenny’s head. She thought Mr. Ryme would ignore his daughter, or rebuke her for breaking her pose. But he took the question seriously, gazing at all of the children behind the bridal pair.
“Because Cupid made Psyche promise not to look upon him, even after they married. He came to her only at night. Psyche’s sisters told her that she must have married some dreadful monster instead of a man. Such things happened routinely, it seems, in antiquity.”
“He’s visible enough now,” one of the village boys commented diffidently, but inarguably, of Mr. Woolidge.
“Yes, he is,” Mr. Ryme answered briskly. “We can’t very well leave the groom out of his own wedding portrait, can we? That’s why he is wearing that veil. He’ll hold it out between himself and his bride, and turn his head so that only those viewing the painting will see his face.”
“Oh, brilliant,” Papa was heard to murmur across the bridge.
“Thank you. But let me continue with the lantern. One night, Psyche lit a lantern to see exactly what she had taken into her marriage bed. She was overjoyed to find the beautiful face of the son of Venus. But—profoundly moved by his godhood, perhaps—she trembled and spilled a drop of hot oil on him, waking him. In sorrow and anger with her for breaking her promise, he vanished out of her life. The lantern among the wedding party will remind the viewer of the rest of Psyche’s story.”
“What was the rest, Mr. Ryme?” a village girl demanded.
“She was forced to face her mother-in-law,” Alexa answered instead, “who made Psyche complete various impossible tasks, including a trip to the Underworld, before the couple were united again. Isn’t that right, Father?”
“Very good, Alexa,” Mr. Ryme said, smiling at her. Jenny’s eyes widened. She knew the tale as well as anyone, but if she had spoken, Papa would have scolded her for showing off her knowledge. And here was Alexa, with her curly red-gold hair and green eyes, not only lovely, but encouraged to reveal her education. Mr. Ryme held up his hand before anyone else could speak, his eyes, leaf green as his daughter’s beneath his dark, shaggy brows, moving over them again.
“Who…” he murmured. “Ah. Of course, Jenny must hold it. Why you, Jenny?”
Behind him, Papa, prepared to answer, closed his mouth, composed his expression. Jenny gazed at Mr. Ryme, gathering courage, and answered finally, shyly, “Because I am the bride’s sister. And I’m part of Psyche’s story, as well, like the lantern.”
“Good!” Mr. Ryme exclaimed. His daughter caught Jenny’s eyes, smiled, and Jenny felt herself flush richly. The artist shifted her to the forefront of the scene and crooked her arm at her waist. “Pretend this is your lantern,” he said, handing her a tin cup that smelled strongly of linseed oil from his paint box. “I’m sure there’s something more appropriate in my studio. For now, I just need to sketch you all in position.” He gestured to the dozen or so villagers and friends behind Mr. Newland. “Poses, please, everyone. Try to keep still. This won’t take as long as you might think. When I’ve gotten you all down where I want you, we’ll have a rest and explore the contents of the picnic baskets Mr. Woolidge and Mr. Newland so thoughtfully provided. I’ll work with small groups after we eat; the rest of you can relax unless I need you, but don’t vanish. Remember that you are all invited to supper at my cottage at the end of the day.”
Jenny spent her breaks under the willow tree, practicing historical dates and French irregular verbs with Miss Lake, who seemed to have been recalled to her duties by the references to the classics. At the end of the day, Jenny was more than ready for the slow walk through the meadows in the long, tranquil dusk to the artist’s cottage. There, everyone changed into their proper clothes, and partook of the hot meat pastries, bread and cheese and cold beef, fresh milk, ale, and great fruit-and-cream tarts arrayed on the long tables set up in the artist’s garden.
Jenny took a place at the table with Sarah and Mr. Woolidge. Across from them sat Papa and Mr. Ryme, working through laden plates and frothy cups of ale.
“An energetic business, painting,” Papa commented approvingly. “I hadn’t realized how much wildlife is involved.”
“It’s always more challenging, working out of doors, and with large groups. It went very well today, I thought.”
Jenny looked at the artist, a question hovering inside her. At home, she was expected to eat her meals silently and gracefully, speaking only when asked, and then as simply as possible. But her question wasn’t simple; she barely knew how to phrase it. And this was more like a picnic, informal and friendly, everyone talking at once, and half the gathering sitting on the grass.
“Mr. Ryme,” she said impulsively, “I have a question.”
Her father stared at her with surprise. “Jenny,” he chided, “you interrupted Mr. Ryme.”
She blushed, mortified. “I’m so sorry—”
“It must be important, then,” Mr. Ryme said gently. “What is it?”
“Psyche’s sisters—when they told her she must have wedded a monster…” Her voice trailed. Papa was blinking at her. Mr. Ryme only nodded encouragingly. “Wouldn’t she have known if that were so? Even in the dark, if something less than human were in bed with her—couldn’t she tell? Without a lantern?”
She heard Mr. Woolidge cough on his beer, felt Sarah’s quick tremor of emotion.
“Jenny,” Papa said decisively, “that is a subject more fit for the schoolroom than the dinner table, and hardly suitable even there. I’m surprised you should have such thoughts, let alone express them.”
“It is an interesting question, though,” Mr. Ryme said quite seriously. “Don’t you think? It goes to the heart of the story, which is not about whether Psyche married a monster—and, I think, Jenny is correct in assuming that she would have soon realized it—but about a broken promise. A betrayal of love. Don’t you think so, Mr. Newland?”
But his eyes remained on Jenny as he diverted the conversation away from her; they smiled faintly, kindly. Papa began a lengthy answer, citing sources. Jenny felt Sarah’s fingers close on her hand.
“I was wondering that, myself,” she breathed.
Mr. Woolidge overheard.
“What?” he queried softly. “If you will find a monster in your wedding bed?”
“No, of course not,” Sarah said with another tremor—of laughter, or surprise, or fear, Jenny couldn’t tell. “What Jenny asked. Why Psyche could not tell, even in the dark, if her husband was not human.”
“I assure you, you will find me entirely human,” Mr. Woolidge promised. “You will not have to guess.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” Sarah answered faintly.
Mr. Woolidge took a great bite out of his meat pie, his eyes on Sarah as he chewed. Jenny, disregarded, rose and slipped away from her father’s critical eyes. She glimpsed Miss Lake watching her from the next table, beginning to gesture, but Jenny pretended not to see. Wandering through the apple trees with a meat pie in her hand, free to explore her own thoughts, she came across the artist’s daughter under a tree with one of the village boys.
Jenny stopped uncertainly. Mama would have considered the boy unsuitable company, even for an artist’s daughter, and would have instructed Jenny to greet them kindly and politely as she moved away. But she didn’t move, and Alexa waved to her.
“Come and sit with us. Will’s been telling me country stories.”
Jenny glanced around; Miss Lake was safely hidden behind the apple leaves. She edged under the tree and sat, looking curiously at Will. Something about him reminded her of a bird. He was very thin, with flighty golden hair and long, fine bones too n
ear the surface of his skin. His eyes looked golden, like his hair. They seemed secretive, looking back at her, but not showing what they thought. He was perhaps her age, she guessed, though something subtle in his expression made him seem older.
He was chewing an apple from the tree; a napkin with crumbs of bread and cheese on it lay near him on the grass. Politely, he swallowed his bite and waited for Jenny to speak to him first. Jenny glanced questioningly at Alexa, whose own mouth was full.
She said finally, tentatively, “Country tales?”
“It was the lantern, miss.” His voice was deep yet soft, with a faint country burr in it, like a bee buzzing in his throat, that was not unpleasant. “It reminded me of Jack.”
“Jack?”
“O’Lantern. He carries a light across the marshes at night and teases you into following it, thinking it will lead you to fairyland, or treasure, or just safely across the ground. Then he puts the light out, and there you are, stranded in the dark in the middle of a marsh. Some call it elf fire, or fox fire.”
“Or—?” Alexa prompted, with a sudden, teasing smile. The golden eyes slid to her, answering the smile.
“Will,” he said. “Will o’ the Wisp.”
He bit into the apple again; Jenny sat motionless, listening to the crisp, solid crunch, almost tasting the sweet, cool juices. But these apples were half-wild, her eye told her, misshapen and probably wormy; you shouldn’t just pick them out of the long grass or off the branch and eat them…
“My father painted a picture of us following the marsh fire,” Alexa said. “Will held a lantern in the dark; I was with him as his sister. My father called the painting Jack O’Lantern.”
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