by Carol Hedges
Sissy wears strange unstructured dresses, which she told Isabella were inspired by medieval book illustrations. She makes them herself. Sissy used to work in a haberdashery shop, until she was ‘discovered’ by Henry’s friend. Now she keeps house, and models for her husband's paintings.
Isabella is also modelling for a painting. It is to be called The Princess’s Dream. She is the Princess, of course. The modelling involves sitting as still as she can, in an extremely uncomfortable position, for a long time.
She must not move, or she will destroy the ‘Muse’. Sissy has explained the importance of the Muse to her. She must not speak either. Or breathe too loudly. The Muse is very exacting in its requirements.
But oh, the pre-painting stage makes it all worthwhile, because it involves Henry placing her in the window-seat and draping the flesh-coloured silk shawl about her shoulders. Then she takes the pins out of her hair, and he arranges it to fall in decorative waves upon her shoulders.
Isabella is prepared to endure any hardship for the shiver of sweetness that runs down her spine every time he touches her. He is touching her now.
“You have such beautiful hair, Isabella,” he murmurs, his fingers teasing out her curls.
His mouth is so close to her ear that she can feel his warm breath fan her cheek. Isabella wants to turn her face to his, to feel his lips upon hers, the soft brush of his moustache. She wants to be enfolded in his arms, and held close to him. It is all she can do not to cry out in ecstasy.
“Yes!” Henry exclaims as he steps back. “That is the look I want! Hold the pose!”
He disappears behind the easel, and begins painting furiously while Isabella stares out of the window, wishing she could hold the pose forever.
The Princess’s Dream will involve peacocks and pomegranates and a crystal fountain. Her own dream seems so modest in comparison. Freedom to choose, to live the life she wants with the man she loves. Her head droops, her lips part in a sigh.
“Please hold still, Isabella,” orders the man she loves.
And silently, dutifully, Isabella obeys.
****
While Isabella dreams and longs, and gets a crick in her neck, back in Hampstead her Mama is entertaining Mrs Osborne (mother of George, and wife of Mr Frederick Osborne, owner of the Osborne Private Bank). It is the first time the two ladies have met tête-à-tête. They have progressed through the various stages from leaving cards at each other's houses, to acknowledging the cards. Now they face each other across the walnut tea-table.
Mrs Thorpe plies her guest with tea and small iced cakes. Mrs Osborne accepts gracefully. The rituals are followed rigidly and formally. They chat about the weather, the servant problem, the difficulty of getting chintz muslin at this time of year.
Eventually, when plates have been filled and emptied, Mrs Thorpe sidles cautiously up to the matter in hand.
“Isabella has spoken so often of her visit to your delightful girls!” she gushes.
Mrs Osborne, who is aware that her daughters have many qualities, but that delightfulness is not one of them, accepts the compliment in the spirit in which it is offered.
“They also tell me they were charmed by your daughter Isabella,” she lies.
This is all very positive, so Mrs Thorpe plucks up courage and takes another step along the primrose path towards prospective matrimony.
“We both – and I speak for Mr Thorpe as well as myself – value the positive influence that George has been upon our son Augustus since he entered the Regiment. I think Gussy would be quite lost without his good friend George at his side to guide him.”
Mrs Osborne is no fool. She knows all about her son's heavy drinking, and his reckless betting and gambling. She should do – it is her money that pays his creditors, and stops him from disgracing the family name by appearing in the debtors’ lists.
That is why she and her husband have decided upon this course of action. George must marry, and as soon as possible. Marriage should settle him down, sober him up, and put an end to his rackety life and roistering ways for good and all.
She has made judicious inquiries, from which she has learned that the Thorpes are wealthy. New money, of course, and the family has no social cachet or ton whatsoever, but one has to make do in these straitened times. Sadly, George’s roistering reputation is too well-known amongst her own tight little social set for him to stand a chance with any of her friends' marriageable daughters.
At least it means that the girl will come with a good dowry. Let him run through that for a change, she thinks sourly.
“So where is dear Isabella this afternoon?” she asks. “I was so looking forward to making her acquaintance.”
“Oh, she is probably shopping somewhere,” Mrs Thorpe says, laughing lightly. “You know what these girlies are like.”
She glances at her watch. She had given Isabella strict instructions to be back by three. It is now nearly a quarter to four. Though maybe, upon reflection, it is better this way. She doesn't want Mrs Osborne to encounter any of Isabella’s strange behaviour. Once it gets out that her daughter faints, barely eats, and is currently turning herself into a bluestocking, her chances of making a good match are practically negligible.
That is why she has made up her mind that Isabella must marry as soon as possible. She hopes that Mrs Osborne, who moves in a totally different set, has not heard any of these damaging rumours.
“Not that she is an extravagant girl,” she adds hastily. “Her time in the French convent school we sent her to has taught her the value of thrift and economy. Nuns, you know,” she adds, lowering her voice and leaving her visitor to draw her own conclusions about the parsimonious habits of nuns.
“Ah. Nuns. Quite.”
Mrs Osborne accepts another small cup of tea, but no cake. Actually, she isn’t bothered by Isabella's non-appearance. According to Hattie, the girl is a niminy-piminy little thing, with no figure, and absolutely nothing to say for herself.
All the better, as far as Mrs Osborne is concerned. The last thing she wants in a daughter-in-law is one of those spirited modern misses, constantly complaining and carping about her son’s treatment of her.
“We shall be glad to welcome dear George into our house whenever he cares to call,” Mrs Thorpe says carefully.
“And of course, the same is true for us with regards to dear Isabella,” Mrs Osborne replies, equally carefully.
There is no more to be said. Accord has been reached. Both ladies understand each other perfectly. After a small diplomatic pause, Mrs Osborne rises, bids her charming hostess farewell, and is shown out by the parlour-maid.
****
It is just a short distance away from these proceedings to the bustle that is Hampstead High Street, and the Lily Lounge tea-rooms. At this time in the afternoon, it is heaving with customers, the air steamy and bright with light chatter.
The young waitresses barely have a second to catch their breath in between taking and serving orders. The richly-spiced fruit cake, white-iced and renamed Christmas cake in honour of the upcoming season, is proving a great hit. Lilith makes a mental note to make several more for next week, while she prepares and then serves another afternoon tea to a couple sitting at a discreet table at the rear of the tea-room.
A balding, high-foreheaded elderly gentleman, impeccably dressed in a dark three-piece suit and spotless white cravat, is entertaining a fine lady, enveloped in rich velvets and laces. Frederick Hartington, Lilith thinks. Old Harty-Tarty. Large as life and still as snooty.
He accepts a cup of Indian tea from her hand with the barest of nods, and not even a flicker of a smile. Clearly, he doesn’t recognise her with her clothes on. So much for their past relationship, she thinks. Though it was never her face that he was interested in. One of the ‘backdoor boys’, as she remembers it.
So it’s true what they say, Lilith muses. If you remain in one place long enough, everybody you know will pass by eventually. Though in the case of Harty-Tarty, now tucking into a sco
ne laden with jam, the word ‘know’ has rather more of a Biblical than a social meaning.
Lilith observes the couple from a distance. The lady is not his wife. They are having far too enjoyable a time for that to be the case. Judging by her clothes, she is clearly high-class. Her maroon velvet gown can be priced in guineas, and she has diamond earrings that look real, not paste. Through her discreetly-lowered veil, Lilith can see that her skin is very smooth and porcelain-white.
Lilith frowns. Something about the lady’s demeanour strikes a chord in her memory. She is sure she has seen her before. She racks her brains. Yes, she remembers now: it is the same woman who took tea with Ikey Solomon. The one who purchased the stolen emerald bracelet.
But what, Lilith wonders, is she doing here now? Buying more jewels? Intrigued, she watches from a distance. But this time it appears to be a totally the innocent tea date, if anything connected with Harty-Tarty can ever be designated innocent.
The couple chat animatedly. At one point, Harty-Tarty even leans across and pats the lady’s hand in a consoling manner. Eventually, they finish their tea and he signals for the bill. Lilith directs one of the waitresses to attend to him, while she continues to watch from behind the counter.
She sees the lady wrap a warm woollen shawl around her shoulders, then fasten it with a beautiful and rather unusual brooch. The brooch is made of lapis lazuli and marcasite.
Lilith grips the side of the counter, suddenly feeling her breath leave her body. She recognises the brooch at once. It is hers. A present from her dead lover, Herbert King. “L & M – your initials,” he’d joked. “As soon as I saw it in Garrard’s window, I thought of you.”
She is quite sure that it is hers, because one of the tiny chips of blue stone is missing. It had fallen out shortly after he'd given it to her. She recalls that he called round unexpectedly one evening, and she had asked him to get the brooch repaired. He’d put it in his pocket, then walked out into the night.
A few hours later, he was dead. Attacked and left to perish in a gutter. And now here is her brooch, still apparently missing its stone, being pinned to the shawl of a stranger, who is even now getting up and heading for the door.
Lilith hastens into the back room, where two newly-hired waitresses are resting their weary feet.
“Sorry, ladies. Tea-break is over,” she says. “I need you to serve. I must go out on important business.”
She crams on her bonnet and mantle and follows the lady into the street, where she sees her bid a cordial farewell to Harty-Tarty then climb into a closed carriage.
Frantically, Lilith waves down a passing hansom.
“Follow that carriage!” she commands.
The cabman whips up the horse, and the cab sets off in hot pursuit. Down the High Street they bowl, the cab swaying and jolting over the rutted road, the horse slipping and sliding on the slimy surface.
Lilith clings on for dear life. She is not a religious person, but she finds herself praying: Oh God please. Please God, over and over again, as the cab lurches down Haverstock Hill at a terrifyingly fast pace.
As they rattle along the setted stone surface of Chalk Farm Road, Lilith levers open the sash window, and thrusts out her head. The carriage is still just in sight, though moving quickly away through the traffic.
She curses under her breath. The two sleek carriage-horses are much faster than the cabman's nag, which is already beginning to jerk its head and froth at the mouth with the exertions it is being made to perform.
“Please don’t lose them now!” Lilith shouts.
“Matter of life and death is it, lady?” the cabby responds, never taking his eyes off the road ahead.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
He pulls sharply upon the right-hand rein, and the cab turns crazily on two wheels. They speed towards King’s Cross. Lilith clutches the sides, her eyes wide. Her bonnet has fallen to the floor, her hair is unpinned and streaming back in the wind, and she is attracting some unwelcome stares and comments from passers-by, but she barely notices. Her gaze is fixed upon the black outline of the carriage as it moves further and further away, until suddenly it disappears completely.
Lilith throws herself back into the seat with a groan of despair.
The driver eases back on the reins, and the sweating, panting horse slows to a trot.
“I’m sorry, lady. They turned off up ahead. Did my best for you, but we've lost ’em.”
Of course they have lost them. What was she thinking of? Lilith clenches her fingers into tight fists. This was a mad enterprise from the start. She gets down from the cab and pays off the driver, giving him a generous tip for his efforts on her behalf. Then she crosses the road, and picks up another ride back to the Lily Lounge.
The return journey gives her time to calm down and reflect. Perhaps all is not lost. She does not know the identity of the lady wearing her brooch, nor where she lives, but she does have the means at her disposal to find out.
She will employ a little sexual blackmail. Somewhere in the collection of letters she has recently had returned to her by Herbert’s niece is a very interesting one from Harty-Tarty that she is sure he would not like his wife to read.
The cab drops her at the end of Flask Walk. She clambers out, surprised at how shaky her legs feel. Seeing the brooch again has brought so many memories flooding back. All of them good.
Lilith pushes open the door to her place, and surveys the busy scene. Cakes are being consumed, tea is being drunk. Money is being made. She has come a long, long way from those dark days in Bethnal Green.
And she owes it all to one lovely man who saw something in her that nobody else saw, and was prepared to give her a chance to fulfil her dream. For his sake, and his alone, she will endeavour to discover the name of the lady. She will find out how she got hold of the brooch. Then she will go to the police.
Lilith moves to the back kitchen, and picks up the steaming kettle. A cup of hot sweet tea to calm her down, that is what she needs right now. After which, she has to make an important call.
****
There are no cups of tea on offer at number 17 Red Lion Square. No cake either. Art needs only itself for nourishment; it is not slave to food and drink. Thus, Isabella goes on modelling, and Henry goes on painting, until suddenly she realises that she has stayed far longer than she should have done, and that James the coachman will be waiting for her in Montague Street.
Slipping the rosy, flesh-coloured silk shawl from her shoulders, Isabella scrambles to her feet and looks around frantically for her mantle and thick woollen shawl. She is late. Very late. Oh dear. What if James has not waited for her? She has no money. How will she get home? What will her Mama say?
It is one of those afternoons when the sun shines hot but the wind blows cold. Clutching her mantle to her, bonnet tied askew and hair falling around her face, Isabella hurries as fast as she can towards the British Museum.
Henry does not accompany her – she cannot risk being seen alone with him again. Though truth to tell, he has barely registered her departure, being still in thrall to the Muse.
At last she spies the familiar barouche, and hastens towards it. With the briefest of apologies to James and instruction to drive as fast as he can, she mounts the steps and sinks back against the butter-soft leather upholstery.
Stars dance in front of her eyes, and her breath comes in great heaving gasps. As the coach jerks into motion, she leans forward, trying to fight off the tidal waves of giddiness that threaten to overwhelm her.
Isabella has had nothing since a cup of weak tea at breakfast, and now it is nearly five o'clock. But she cannot succumb to the giddiness. She must not be ill again. She has to be well, or how will Henry finish the painting?
She is his Princess; he needs her. The thought is sustaining. She holds on to it, and to the side of the carriage, and prays that when they arrive home she will be able to sneak in without anybody noticing how late she is.
At last the barouche draws up in front of th
e Hampstead house, and Isabella is handed down. She enters the hallway as noiselessly as she can, and tiptoes towards the stairs.
If only she can rest for twenty minutes, with her eyes closed, she is sure she will feel so much better, and then she will go downstairs and try to eat her dinner, and nobody will be any the wiser about her little escapade.
She pushes herself to reach the first floor landing, pausing for a few seconds while her head spins and black shapes dance and pivot in front of her eyes. Then, with a sigh of relief, she opens the door to her room.
And freezes on the threshold with horror.
For there stands her Mama, arms folded, and an expression as black as a thundercloud upon her face.
“Isabella!” she exclaims angrily. “Where on earth have you been? And what has happened to your hair?”
****
While Isabella is being put to the torture of the maternal Inquisition, Josephine is sitting on edge of her bed, unlacing her boots. It is good to be out of the nipping December cold. She throws herself back with a sigh of contentment.
Who would ever have thought her life would turn out like this? Certainly not Miss Fox, who taught Divinity and Bible Reading at the Bertha Helstone School. She can still feel Miss Fox’s sharp bony fingers biting into the flesh of her forearm, hear Miss Fox’s shrill voice screaming “Josephine King, you are a vile little heathen, and one day you will burn in the flames of Hell.”
This alarming statement would usually be followed by Miss Fox locking her in the classroom cupboard. Sometimes she stayed in the cupboard all day.
And yet here she is, no longer reviled and apparently unflamed. She has money in the bank to spend, a priceless diamond, a house, and a business to run. She has prospects.
And now she also has a job to do. One that she has been putting off for far too long. It is the time to pack up and dispose of her uncle’s clothes. Winter is here, and there are many poor and destitute people who'd be grateful for a warm coat, or a woollen muffler, to keep out the cold.