A Midwinter Promise

by Lulu Taylor

  Why, Julia wondered, in this huge house did it feel as though there wasn’t room for her when Aunt Victoria was here? That was the mystery. She concentrated on keeping out of her aunt’s way, and observing the artist at work in the drawing room.

  Then Lala arrived, driving up in her red Mini in a whirlwind of luggage and wearing a bright orange coat. She was like a glorious punch of colour in their muted world, and glamorously independent now that she was eighteen and at art school.

  ‘Lala!’ Julia flung herself at her older sister, delighted to see her after what felt like an age. ‘No one said you were coming.’

  ‘Didn’t they? I’ve been summoned,’ Lala said with a laugh, hugging her. ‘Daddy told me I had to get here. Apparently I’m being painted!’

  ‘Yes, come on, you must see. It’s going to be brilliant. Come and look. Monsieur de Pelet has gone out so we can sneak in and take a look.’

  Julia had made friends with Monsieur de Pelet by the simple expedient of moving a little further into the room each day so that he became accustomed to her presence, and now she was allowed to perch on the window seat for as long as she wanted. She had grasped the idea of what he was doing and it fascinated her to watch how he was conjuring what looked like three-dimensional reality out of the flat wall, even though he was just sketching out his scheme for the moment. He was re-creating the room behind the wall on its surface, as if the wall itself had become transparent. The drawing of the library beyond was almost to scale, the perspective perfect so that it extended, completely plausibly, into the distance to the windows on the other side, where the garden outside could be glimpsed. In the room, members of the family would be placed. They were just outlines at the moment, and each would sit in turn for their own portrait.

  Julia was almost jumping on the spot with excitement. ‘Look, isn’t it fabulous?’

  Monsieur de Pelet had completed the under-drawing, with spaces left for the figures, so it was quite possible to get the idea of what he was creating.

  Lala gazed at it, her mouth open. ‘Oh my goodness. You’re right. It is fabulous. How clever, it’s like looking into a real room. And it looks exactly like the library.’

  ‘I’m going here, at the front,’ Julia said proudly. ‘Monsieur de Pelet told me. Look – he’s putting a stone balustrade across here and I’m going to be sitting on it. I’ll have my favourite books next to me, and my sketchbook, and apples, and Hattie is going to be sitting down there by my feet. Isn’t it marvellous?’

  Lala laughed. ‘Yes, it is. How talented he is. Who else is in it?’

  ‘Daddy is going to be there, standing by the fireplace. Mummy is going to be sitting in that chair by the writing desk. Aunt Victoria will be standing by that vase of flowers, pretending to arrange it. Gran is by the window, talking to Violet, and Quentin is inspecting the books.’

  ‘And where will I go?’

  A voice behind them said, ‘You, mademoiselle, will go here, in the middle. That is the best place for you, I think.’

  They turned around to see Monsieur de Pelet had come in, his brown eyes sparkling. He gave a little bow to Lala.

  ‘I’m not sure my aunt will think so,’ Lala replied with a laugh.

  ‘She must defer to youth and beauty. It is the way of things.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Lala said, flushing.

  Julia thought that Lala did look beautiful. She was wearing a denim skirt with a mustard-yellow blouse and her fair hair fell in a swooping fringe over her blue eyes, and she looked fresh and young in the panelled room with its ancient furniture and dusty pictures.

  ‘I want you to wear exactly that. It is just right. In fact, I want to start right now,’ declared Monsieur de Pelet.

  ‘I think I’ll put my coat down and get a cup of tea first,’ Lala said with a laugh.

  ‘Of course.’ He bowed again. ‘You must be comfortable. That is the first rule of being painted. We will start in one hour. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Julia said as they went out into the hall. ‘He likes you.’

  ‘Does he?’ Lala said casually but she seemed pleased. ‘At least I can practise my French while he paints me.’

  ‘Mmm, yes, I suppose you can. French kissing,’ Julia said, and went off into a peal of giggles while Lala swiped at her playfully with her coat sleeve.

  The next week Julia spent sitting on the window seat, watching while the artist drew Lala into her position in the mural. He had created a frame for the painting, a stone surround with a balustrade and a doorway through into the room beyond. Lala was standing just beyond the doorway, almost life-sized, drawing the eye to her elegance. Julia could see that the fairness of her hair and the yellow of her blouse would make a point of light and interest when the colour was added to the painting. Monsieur de Pelet frowned as he drew, smoking constantly and humming along to the music from the radio. Lala tried to speak French to him occasionally but he was too distracted to hold a conversation for long, his concentration elsewhere. Nevertheless, his attention was constantly on her and Julia was sure she could sense some kind of connection between them. She did hope so – it would be lovely for Lala to have a romance, she never seemed to have a boyfriend. At first, Julia had wondered if she, Julia, might fall in love with Monsieur de Pelet and was rather hopeful he might try and seduce her, but he obviously saw her as a little girl and treated her with nothing but amused friendship, so she gave up on that. But if he were to fall in love with Lala, that would also be very satisfying. She hoped to be able to witness the birth of a great love affair but although there was some gentle flirting and Monsieur de Pelet was lavish with his compliments, nothing seemed to kick off between him and Lala, much to Julia’s disappointment.

  Lala’s portrait took over a week to complete. She was the first element to be properly painted, and Julia watched, fascinated, as her sister’s likeness emerged from the flat white of the under-painting, first in a sepia study that caught the proportions, and the light and shade, and then, bewitchingly, in oil paints that glowed with colour and magically bestowed life onto the portrait as skin flushed, eyes became moist, and breath appeared to enter the body.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ she said, when Monsieur de Pelet had declared Lala’s portrait done and allowed them to stand in front of it and look for as long as they liked while he cleaned off his brushes.

  ‘It is,’ Lala agreed, staring at herself in stunned amazement. ‘Look at me, standing there like that!’

  ‘Yes,’ Monsieur de Pelet said, wiping a brush on a rag. ‘I’m pleased with it.’ He smiled at Julia. ‘And you are next, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Julia said happily. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Lala came down with her to see the platform by the lake, and happily climbed up the rope to sit with Julia and gaze out over the water.

  ‘It’s just a relief to be out of that skirt and blouse,’ Lala said, stretching out her legs in her blue jeans. ‘I had no idea when I put them on how long I’d be wearing them for.’

  ‘What shall I wear when I’m painted?’ Julia asked.

  ‘Something you won’t mind looking at forever.’

  ‘Then I’ll wear my cord skirt and the cream jumper I got for Christmas. I’d like to wear my boots but I should think I won’t be allowed, so I suppose it will be my school shoes. Can I borrow some lipstick?’

  ‘You don’t need it. Monsieur de Pelet can paint some on, I suppose. But he probably won’t, even if you wear it.’

  ‘I haven’t got any make-up at all. I’m such a square. Millicent at school has all her sister’s old stuff, masses of mascara and lipstick and blusher. I’ve got nothing.’

  ‘You don’t need it yet. We can go shopping for some when it’s time.’

  ‘I wish I was grown-up like you. You’ll be a proper woman in the painting. Monsieur de Pelet has made you look magnificent. But I’ll be stuck as a girl.’

  ‘Perhaps you won’t mind that so much when you’re older.
You’re only a child for a short time, you’re a grown-up for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Childhood takes forever,’ Julia protested. ‘And I can’t wait for it to be over.’

  ‘Why?’ Lala looked at her. ‘Are you unhappy?’

  Julia stared out across the lake and watched the coot swimming on its surface, sometimes bobbing down under the water. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s lovely when you’re here. But I’m on my own so much.’ She turned to her older sister. ‘Aren’t you ever lonely?’

  ‘Not really,’ Lala said, after a moment. ‘But I have brothers and sisters from my mother’s other marriage. And now I’m at college for three years with lots of friends. But I can see that you are all alone here. Isn’t school fun?’

  ‘Oh yes, it’s fun, I like it. And I love it here, of course, there’s nowhere like Tawray. But there’s no one to share it with.’

  ‘What about Cousin Violet?’

  ‘She’s a lump, like Quentin. And Aunt Victoria keeps her away from me in any case. She hates me and thinks I’ll be a bad influence.’

  Lala said nothing but Julia could see she knew that was true.

  Julia said wistfully, ‘I loved it when you were here and we could play Morotania.’

  Lala took her hand. ‘I know. But we’re too old for Morotania now.’

  ‘That makes me awfully sad. Nothing was so real as that. I want to grow up, but I also wish we didn’t have to.’

  Lala squeezed her hand comfortingly. ‘We have to. But there are consolations in getting older. And you’ll always have me, I promise.’

  Once Lala had gone, it was Julia’s turn to sit for Monsieur de Pelet, and she enjoyed the whole process of being painted. Observing him at work was absorbing, and she didn’t mind sitting still and listening to the music while he looked at her, painted, looked again, painted again. He stopped to mix paints or change brushes, and to look for his matches, which he was constantly losing. Julia collected as many boxes as she could and put them around the room so that he could find some wherever he was. At first he thought he kept finding the same box, but then realised what she had done and laughed.

  Then he began to talk to her, asking her questions about the house and her family and her time at school. She chattered away, full of stories and conversation, and he turned off the radio to listen to her. He occasionally asked her to stop talking and stay still, but most of the time he was content to let her chat while he concentrated on painting other elements.

  ‘Tell me about your mother,’ he said. ‘She has come in a few times, and she is so full of sorrow. I’m not sure how I’m going to paint her without making her sad.’

  ‘She lost a baby the summer before last,’ Julia told him. ‘And it wasn’t the first one. But it was the worst.’

  He whistled softly under his breath. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. A terrible thing.’

  ‘She’s not like my mother anymore,’ Julia said, finding she could say these things to this man, things that she couldn’t even say to Lala. ‘The baby sort of killed her. She used to laugh and be interested in me. Now she can hardly manage anything.’

  ‘Ah, now, she will get better, won’t she? Perhaps she needs to have another baby to replace the one she lost.’

  Julia felt a stab of cold fear at the thought. ‘No. No! Not another one.’

  Monsieur de Pelet looked up from his palette, surprised by her vehemence. ‘But a new baby is a good thing. It might make her stop mourning the lost ones.’

  ‘No.’ Julia shook her head. ‘I don’t believe she is supposed to have any more. Or it wouldn’t be this hard. I don’t want her to. I just want her to be the way she was.’

  ‘I see.’ Monsieur de Pelet considered as he swirled a dot of red paint into the skin tone he was mixing. ‘You are very sad about this, I can tell. Your smiles have gone, and you smile all the time.’

  ‘I wish I was enough for her, that’s all. But I’m not.’

  ‘I’m sure she loves you.’

  ‘Yes. But I’m a girl. If I was a boy, she wouldn’t have to have more babies. She knows Daddy doesn’t want Quentin to have the house, that’s why she feels she must keep on.’

  ‘Boys are overrated,’ Monsieur de Pelet said with a smile. ‘Girls are much better. But the answer is simple: you must have the house. Why not?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She blinked at him. It seemed impossible. Easy enough for him to say, but something that could never really happen. Imagine if Tawray were mine.

  Aunt Victoria would be sent away, and Mummy would be happy again, once the burden of providing an heir had been lifted. Quentin could go and be a lump somewhere else. He didn’t deserve this place; he would never get the joy from it that Julia would.

  ‘I’m painting Quentin next week,’ Monsieur de Pelet said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I do not think he will be quite as much fun to paint as you are.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re destined for boredom with Quentin. You’d better make sure you have lots of batteries for your radio.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about him?’ suggested Monsieur de Pelet.

  She knew he was moving her away from the subject of her mother and she didn’t mind. ‘Glad to, and about Violet too. I’m not allowed to play with her because I’m a bad influence. Shall I tell you all about it?’

  ‘Excellent. This I will enjoy.’ Monsieur de Pelet looked around. ‘Now, where are my matches?’

  Her portrait was done but the painting was not finished when Julia went back to school. It wasn’t until she returned at half-term that she was finally able to see it completed, with all the protagonists painted in. Monsieur de Pelet had just put the last touches to it and was preparing to clear up his ladders and equipment when Julia came dashing in to see it.

  She gasped. ‘Oh my goodness! It’s amazing! It’s completely transformed since I last saw it.’

  The effect was so startlingly realistic, it was as though her family really were standing in the library, just through the stone doorway, above which busts of her parents seemed to sit in little alcoves on either side of the family coat of arms. The huge painting glowed with colour and was dazzlingly rich in detail. At first Julia could only look at the amazing portraits – Lala in the middle drew the attention, but there they all were: Quentin frowning over a book he had taken from the library shelf, Violet sitting primly next to her grandmother, Aunt Victoria with a pair of scissors in her hand, about to snip the end off a lily stem with an air of formidable authority. Lovely Mummy, wistful in black, sitting at the writing desk, a pen in her hand, staring into the fire, where Daddy stood, leaning against the chimney piece. And here she was – Julia, exactly life-sized. She was sitting on the balustrade, her legs crossed at the ankle, Hattie just below her gazing up with adoration. On her lap was an open book – ‘My favourite book, it’s Treasure Island!’ And beside her some more of her favourites in a haphazard pile. Her sketchbook lay open, weighted down by a glass of lemonade. A glossy apple sat next to her on the balustrade, and a discarded core lay on the ground near the edge of the painting. She was gazing out, straight at the onlooker, her tawny hair spilling over her shoulders, a smile playing on her lips. Of all of them, she seemed to be the only one who knew they were being painted, the only one who was in on the prank.

  ‘Do you like it?’ asked Monsieur de Pelet, smiling at her dazzled expression.

  ‘I love it. I adore it.’ And then she began to see all the jokes that Monsieur de Pelet had put into the painting. Throughout the library were boxes of matches – on the chimney piece, on the table, on the bookshelf, even up high on the stone surround. There was a small green parrot sitting on the curtain pole at the back of the room, and Julia remembered she had told him the story of Swallows and Amazons while they were sitting there, so he must be Captain Flint’s parrot. The more she looked, the more she saw: tiny flourishes that would be invisible to most but were little messages to her. Quentin was reading a book called Great Personalities
of Today. Violet was wearing a charm bracelet with little objects hanging off it, all connected to stories Julia had told him. Mice were nibbling at the corners of books, and scuttling to a hole in the wainscot. A butterfly wearing a tiny crown sat on a petal in the vase of flowers. One of the pictures on the wall was a tiny facsimile of Elizabeth I’s coronation portrait. In the bookshelf was a history of Morotania. The more she looked, the more she saw.

  She started laughing.

  ‘You see, I do listen,’ Monsieur de Pelet said. ‘Even when I appear to be distracted, I’m listening.’

  ‘You’re wonderful,’ she said sincerely.

  He went to pick up a case of paints. ‘I’m told so. And your father is happy, that is the main thing. It has worked rather well. I’m having it photographed next month so it can be recorded for my portfolio and a magazine wants to publish it, if your father allows.’

  Julia said nothing. She was looking at her mother’s portrait. She had just seen that her mother was writing a letter and it was addressed to My darling Julia. Beneath that it said You are my joy, before the writing was concealed by the fold of the paper.

  ‘Oh,’ she said weakly. Tears sprang suddenly into her eyes. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ On an impulse, she rushed to him and took his hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, gazing into his candid brown eyes. ‘Thank you. It’s just right. It’s just as it should be.’

  ‘I know truth when I hear it,’ he replied softly. ‘This is your vision, my dear Julia. It is the true story of life here.’

  ‘Yes. I know. You’ve got it.’ She smiled.

  ‘It will be our secret.’ He put his finger to his lips. ‘And now I must put my tools away. I need to do something other than paint for a while.’