Endless Time

by Frances Burke

  ‘Chloe, what are you doing here?’

  The child said nothing. Her eyes darted sideways, measuring the distance between Karen and the door.

  ‘I asked you a question, Chloe. Please answer.’

  ‘I wanted to see the pretty room.’ The words came reluctantly, but with a note of recalled pleasure.

  Karen took her chance. She held out her hand. ‘Then come with me and look.’

  For a long thirty seconds the child hesitated, then she came forward and allowed Karen to lead her into the next room. She stood at the foot of the bed and slowly turned her head, taking in everything.

  ‘What is it you like most, Chloe?’

  ‘The light. It’s so white and light. I feel like I am standing in the middle of a white flower.’ The pixie face glowed with animation. It was almost pretty.

  ‘Ah, yes. All those old dark colors were too heavy. They absorbed the light. A bedroom should be airy and soothing to the senses.’

  Chloe slid her free hand over the bedcover. ‘I should like to have a pretty bed.’

  ‘Should you, my dear? Perhaps we might do something with your room. Would you like to show me where you sleep?’

  It took some cajolery, but Karen’s gentle approach, plus Chloe’s obvious longing to have a room like this, eventually won her over.

  They scurried up the extra two flights of stairs to the nursery floor, startling a housemaid into dropping a pile of linen and creeping past Nanny asleep in her rocker in the day nursery. Chloe slept in a dark brown cavern, its oilcloth floor worn patternless, and its cupboards and timber surrounds bearing the marks of generations of kicks and thumps. The sight of the little iron cot pushed into a corner created a lump in Karen’s throat.

  She dropped down, bringing her face on a level with Chloe’s. ‘What is your favorite color, pet?’

  ‘Pink. Pink like a rose petal.’

  ‘Then you shall have the prettiest, pinkest bedroom this side of Harrods – if it existed. Come along with me. I have pattern cards and colors to show you in my room.’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘We shall creep back past Nanny on mice feet and tell no one what we are up to. It will be our secret.’

  That day was the turning point. With the transformation of her night nursery under way, and Nanny necessarily let into the plot, Chloe clearly welcomed her afternoon visits to the small parlor where, to the chagrin of the other two ladies, she now attached herself to Karen. They looked at picture books bought at the Pantheon Bazaar, and studied patterns and ells of pretty muslins and velvets to be made up by a local seamstress into a new wardrobe for Chloe.

  Lady Oriel’s snide comments on silk purses and sow’s ears made no impression. Karen had managed to convince Chloe that she was pretty, and as her confidence grew, so her surly attitude melted away. Karen viewed the transformation with satisfaction, Sybilla with a frown.

  ‘You will turn the child’s head. She is paid far too much attention as it is. I dare not think what Antony will have to say when he returns to discover his daughter grown into a malapert miss.’

  Karen decided that her first favorable impression of Sybilla had been an error of judgment. Chloe’s allegiance had changed and, understandably, Sybilla was hurt by this. But if she’d had any true affection for the child she’d have been happy to see her emerging from her moody shell.

  ‘Antony? I imagine he will continue to look through her, as usual,’ she answered, although not in Chloe’s hearing. Antony’s lack of fatherly interest was unpardonable. The child was lonely and had other needs that were not even recognized, let alone fulfilled. Karen intended to approach him about at least one of these needs as soon as she could corner him.

  Her opportunity soon came. One morning, a week later, she left for her studio early, unaware that Antony had arrived home at dawn. Her latest work inspired her and she wanted to finish it.

  The studio had been made comfortable with a square of carpet and two braziers, one at either end of the long room. The light was excellent, pouring in through the sloping skylight directly onto her work space. She’d put in a couple of tables and chairs so that Amanda might visit with her, and for the use of her model; but apart from these she had surrounded herself with clear space – wonderful space with no heavy furnishings, ornaments or non-essentials of any kind. The walls stayed bare – no gilding, no pictures, no drapes. She felt comfortable in her eyrie and more secure than at any time since her translation from the future.

  Meggy, her model came tripping in, divesting herself of wraps and feathered bonnet, and chatting like the gaudy parakeet she resembled. Karen listened with half an ear, already immersed in her work, her fingers itching for the knife and palette.

  With her lips working like a mill bobbin, Meggy took up her pose in one of the chairs. She’d been a serving maid in a nearby ale house, and Karen had found her by the simple expedient of picking her up out of the gutter where she’d been thrown by her former employer. Bruised and raging, Meggy permitted herself to be brushed down and persuaded to accompany Karen back to the studio, and thus into an altogether different line of work.

  Dark and voluptuous, she proved to be just what Karen needed for her experiment in semi-cubist techniques, and a welcome relief as a conversationalist. No rounded periods and clipped consonants were needed with Meggy, who spoke an argot as foreign to Karen as Esperanto, but infinitely less taxing, since she was not under any compulsion to copy it.

  ‘Shut up, Meggy. You disturb my concentration.’

  Meggy grinned and complied. A half-hour passed, and Karen was about to suggest a break when thunderous footsteps on the stairs made her look up. The door went back with a crash that shook the building. Dust sifted down from the bare rafters and coated the still wet canvas.

  Antony, the man of icy composure, charged in like a maddened bull.

  Karen looked at him in astonishment; but before she could speak he forestalled her. In a voice thick with rage, he lashed out. ‘Bitch! Faithless, whoring strumpet! I have but to turn my back and you plunge straight into the mire.’

  His driving fury was a frightening force in the room. For an instant Karen thought he might actually throw himself at her and do her an injury. Apparently Meggy thought so, too. Veteran of many bar-room brawls, she wasted no time considering the situation. Skirts hitched, she grasped the chair she’d been sitting on and lifted it high over Antony’s head.

  ‘No, Meggy!’ Karen screamed.

  Antony looked up, and threw himself aside, but not in time to avoid the chair entirely. One leg grazed his head, knocking him against the wall, where he slumped and slid to the floor, blood running from his scalp.

  Meggy looked at handiwork and spat on it. ‘That for the bleater! Attack a woman, would ye? I’ve a mind to darken yer daylights while I’m here.’

  Karen came out of her daze and went down on her knees beside the half-conscious man. ‘Oh, no. You’ve done quite enough already. Thank you for your help, but I really am capable of looking after myself. Now we must revive him.’

  ‘What for? Give ‘im the chance and he’ll like as not have at ye.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The first thrust of his rage is past. Besides, he’s in no condition to attack anyone. Do you think you could run out and get him a brandy?’ She looked up from wiping at the rather heavy flow of blood. Meggy’s disgusted face made her laugh.

  But the girl nodded. ‘Flash o’lightning’d be the thing. I’ll fetch it right enough; but ‘tis a waste pouring it down the bolt o’the likes o’him.’

  ‘All the same, I think we should. Take some money from my reticule there on the table. And, Meggy, hurry!’

  Antony’s color was bad and she couldn’t seem to stop the bleeding. Using a fresh paint cloth she made a pad and bound it to his temple with her handkerchief, hoping for the best.

  It was while she was loosening his neck cloth to make his breathing easier that he opened his eyes and said in a shaken voice, ‘I crave pardon for my behavior. I must have been crazed.’
/>
  ‘I think you must. Now sit still, for pity’s sake, and let me help you. I do not think that you are concussed. You are bleeding rather heavily, but the cut is not so deep. Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘I have no doubt you are correct in your diagnosis. But permit me to remark that I do not share your satisfaction.’ Now she heard the faint tremor of laughter in his tone.

  She stood up and eyed him with growing annoyance. ‘You may find it amusing, but there was nothing funny about the fright you gave us. You deserved everything you got. In fact, you might have had your skull cracked open if you hadn’t been so quick.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Your delightful companion. Where is the termagant?’

  ‘Gone to fetch you a drink. And I’d advise you to be more civil when she gets back. Meggy’s come up in a hard school. She can take care of herself.’

  ‘As I see, and feel.’ He touched the pad to his temple. ‘I didn’t intend to hurt you, Caro. I really cannot explain my loss of control.’ His hand went out as if to take hers, then was quickly withdrawn.

  She rose, her concern now completely turned to hostility.

  ‘Judging from experience, men don’t commonly feel the need to explain. They let themselves go and try to pick up the pieces later. And they get away with it, every time.’

  His face darkened with more than pain as he edged himself to his feet. She didn’t help him. Picking up the overturned chair she set it with the other, then sat down. After a moment’s hesitation Antony joined her. He looked at her with dislike.

  ‘Well, Madam, what is your explanation.’

  ‘My explanation!’

  ‘You have surprised me, Caro. I believed I had your measure, that my recriminations had brought you to a new understanding. Foolishly I allowed myself to be taken in by an unfounded hope that past misbehavior was at an end. Since the accident you have exhibited a different, I must say, a more mature nature. I believed I could place my trust in you.’

  The bitter emphasis on the word ‘trust’ brought a flush to her face. Her hands clenched in her lap, but she waited for him to finish.

  ‘Instead, you have merely delayed until my absence freed you from constraint, then hastened to resume your former loose practices. Where is your paramour? Or are you in the expectation of receiving him? I shall remain to greet the blackguard who fouls my honor.’

  Karen shook with bottled rage, but her voice remained admirably calm. ‘How like you, and all the men of your time. You are so hypocritical. You all have your little cheres amies set up in suitable establishments, and you all visit the likes of Harriet Wilson, expecting your wives to turn a blind eye. Then at the first hint of a woman reciprocating, you begin to rant about that figment of the imagination, honor. It seems to me that indiscretion is a parlor game for society in general, but only men are licensed to go public.’

  She paused, but he seemed too thunderstruck to reply. She continued.

  ‘Let us be specific. You accuse me of setting up a meeting place for my lover, or perhaps a string of them. By the way, how did you know where to find me? Oh, never mind. I can guess. Sybilla or Basil, one of the two household spies.’ She felt chilled. Anger was supposed to be a hot emotion, but her fury was more like an ice-cold wind blowing about her shaking body.

  He would have spoken, but she swept on. ‘Without any reason to think that I would be indulging in sexual romps, let alone proof, you burst in here and start throwing accusations about like a man insane with jealousy. Since this is plainly not the case, I can only assume that someone has been feeding you a line – I mean, making up lies about me, and your pride is pricked. Good God! Look about you. Does this look like a love-nest? There’s not even a couch in the place.’ She threw her arms wide, derisively.

  Antony got up and began pacing the room, regardless of his wounded head. ‘What other reason can there be for such deliberate secrecy? Why else do you inform my aunt and cousin that you are driving out with Miss Crayle or doing the grand strut in the park?’

  ‘Because I don’t want them to know what I am doing, of course’

  ‘What are you doing? What possible explanation can there be?’

  Karen walked over to the easel and turned it around to display the almost finished painting.

  Antony took out his eye-glass and bent over the work, scrutinizing the odd wedges of paint seemingly applied at random. Then he stepped back with a curious expression on his face. ‘You try to paint?’

  Despite her rage, she laughed. It was the reaction she’d expected. ‘Try moving back a few feet and half-closing the eyes. Can you see what it represents?’

  ‘No, I regret that it remains a meaningless jumble. Can that be an eye in the top left-hand corner?’

  ‘Never mind. Probably my attempt at analytic Cubism isn’t all that successful. Perhaps this will convince you.’

  With an effort she reversed the large canvas leaning on the end wall, and stood back. It was a full-length portrait in the Romantic style – a girl in a plain flowing gown, rather in the manner of Lawrence’s Pinky. The background, a mere wash of dark blue, threw up the child’s exquisite complexion and enhanced the lustrous eyes. She smiled shyly out of the picture, her little slipper angled as if she were about to step forward and greet the viewer.

  ‘Chloe!’

  ‘It’s a good likeness, I think.’

  He swung around on her. ‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that this is your work?’

  ‘I don’t really care what you believe. It’s my private affair, and no one need know about it. You would not have known if you hadn’t been too ready to listen to poisonous whispers.

  He set his teeth. ‘When did the child sit for this? I am unable to credit that Nanny would bring her without protest to such a place as this.’

  ‘I did sketches at home and worked from those.’ Karen pointed to a batch of drawings in a folder on her painting table.

  He riffled through them, pausing now and then to look more closely. ‘Chloe posed for you? She permitted you to watch her at play, dancing? You?’

  ‘Chloe and I have become friends,’ said Karen, serenely, enjoying his loss of poise.

  ‘’Tis past belief! Yet I have the evidence before me. Unless…’ Suspicion loaded his voice. ‘You will permit me to show this portrait to a friend, a member of the Royal Academy?’

  Karen shrugged. ‘Check it out if you must. Just don’t keep it too long. I promised it to Chloe for her birthday next week.’

  He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I had forgot. You must indeed be companions to be aware of the date. You never before marked the occasion with a gift.’

  ‘Yes. Well. As you have noted, I’ve changed.’ She took a shawl from a peg behind the door. ‘We can wrap this around the painting to protect it. Is your carriage below?’

  ‘I brought my curricle. It was quicker.’

  She curled her lip, and he flushed.

  ‘My tiger is walking the horses, and I may not delay any further. Permit me to escort you home.’ He looked about for her coat.

  ‘No, thank you. I have not finished working. Bates expects me back for lunch, and that,’ she consulted her watch, hanging on a chain at her waist, ‘that is not for another hour.’

  ‘Caro…’ He took a hasty step towards her, then stopped at the look on her face. She had made it a blank, but too much seethed behind to be quite hidden.

  Stiffly he bowed. ‘As you wish. I have not yet offered my apology for the unfortunate error – ’

  ‘Is that what yer calls it?’ Meggy’s strident voice came from the doorway. In her vivid red gown she wore for the session, hair awry and tumbling down from the haste with which she had left on her mission, she was an arresting sight. One hand rested on the doorjamb; the other clutched an open bottle. She had screwed up her face into a look of disdain as she thrust the bottle at Antony.

  ‘’Ere. I hopes it chokes yer.

  She touched Karen’s arm. ‘Are ye well enough, lady? ‘Tis a strange matter for the
likes o’me to take up wi’ a gentry mort; but ye were kind and I always pays me shot.’ She darted a venomous look at Antony. ‘What’s to do wi’ this petticoat squire, eh?’

  ‘He’s leaving, aren’t you, Antony?’

  Swallowing the implication that he was a pimp, Antony bowed ironically to both women, put down the bottle and picked up the painting. ‘Good day to you, ladies. Caro, I look to see you at lunch.’

  He made a good exit, but Karen followed, to see him using the stair rail as assistance on the way down, and he staggered, rather than walked.

  She turned a smiling face to Meggy. ‘I enjoyed that. At long last I had the chance to say what I think on a few matters. Next, I think I’ll tackle him on his treatment of Chloe. That child needs a kind governess.’

  ‘Ye’ll never be seeing that hedge-creeper again! There’s no telling what he might do when he flies into the boughs.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I must take my chances there. You see, he’s my husband.’ All the same, the prospect didn’t really daunt her. In fact, the thought of coming clashes made her feel positively exhilarated. She grinned at the other girl. ‘Come along. I want to finish this morning. Take up the pose, my girl. I believe I might do a cartoon-type thing next, something along the lines of Hogarth’s social comment. I might even get it published as a broadsheet. Can’t you just see Antony’s face?’

  Bates opened the door and bowed her inside with the news that Sir Antony would be in for lunch. Karen grimaced. She was hungry, but the atmosphere around her table would be sure to bring on indigestion.

  ‘Do you know what bicarbonate of soda is, Bates?’

  ‘I regret, my lady, I do not.’

  ‘Then would you please ask Mrs. Bates if there is any in the house? Cook would know.’

  He bowed himself off to the back regions and Karen moved towards the stairs slowly, tugging off her tight-fitting gloves. The voices in the library were not loud, but the doors had failed to catch. Karen was halted by Charles Hastings’ exclamation.

  ‘You are wounded! They suspected you after all. It grows too dangerous, Antony.’