by Valerie Wood
‘Naughty boy,’ Walker said to one, tapping him on his hand. ‘This is merely hors d’oeuvres! Do not stuff yourself. There is more. This is what you can expect, Rayner, if you become an artist or writer.’ Walker took two glasses of wine from a tray which a maid brought at his signal, and handed one to him. ‘For half of your existence you will be in a state of delirium because you are close to starvation and long to be invited out so that you can eat; and the other half you will be in the depths of despair because no-one will buy your work.’
‘So what is the answer, sir, if a person only has the passion to create and not to earn?’
Walker smiled and, to James’s discomfort, once more put his arm about his shoulder. ‘We must find someone to take care of you. A patron. Someone who recognizes talent – if you have it.’
As James was silently debating whether it would appear rude if he moved in order to escape Walker’s clasp, a woman appeared in front of them. ‘Jonathon!’ she said. ‘You haven’t introduced me.’ She offered James her hand. She carried no gloves, but held a black feather fan in her left hand; on three fingers she wore diamond rings and around her wrist, several pearl bracelets. Her hair was very dark and sleek and piled into a high chignon with a white flower pinned above her ear.
‘I beg your pardon, my dear. Rayner, may I introduce Madame Mariabella Sinclair.’
‘James Foster-Rayner, ma-am.’ James bowed. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the undue attention from Jonathon Walker and now by the intense scrutiny of this most attractive woman who held his gaze with such beguiling amusement in her dark eyes.
‘Jonathon! I have just left Raymond.’ She rolled her r’s slightly, and there was just a trace of foreign accent to her tongue. ‘He is becoming cross with you. I think he feels terribly neglected.’
Walker looked across the room. A young man in velvet jacket and narrow trousers was leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest and dark hair falling over his lowered eyes, ignoring the conversation going on around him.
Walker gave a deep sigh. ‘I’d better go, he’ll sulk for days otherwise.’ He clasped James’s hand. ‘Don’t go away, my dear. I’ll be back.’
James stared after him. Was this what Peacock had meant, when he said – what was it he had said?
Madame Sinclair smiled at him. ‘Mr Rayner.’ The name rolled off her tongue softly and sensuously. ‘Will you find me a seat, and then we can talk?’ She gently trembled her fan. ‘And then you can tell me how grateful you are for my rescuing you.’ Her silk crinolined gown rustled as she sank into a gilt chair. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ She looked at him from over the rim of the glass of wine which he had brought her. Her eyes were dark, such a dark brown as to be almost black, and he thought that she missed being perfectly beautiful by the fractional – but barely, merely minuscule – by her nose being a shade too long.
‘I would rather know about you,’ he said shyly. ‘I have done nothing as yet with my life. I am just about to start.’
And oh, Madame, how I would love to have you in my life. She was, he guessed, older than him, perhaps six or seven years, or even only four or five, he considered, for it is so difficult to know when ladies are got up so well. But what does it matter? I do not believe that it matters one jot in the affairs of the heart.
‘James? I may call you James?’
‘Oh, please. Please do. I would be delighted.’
‘And when we know each other better, then you may call me Mariabella. But not yet; you see, there are people here who know my husband, and I must be discreet.’
She gave him a tender smile which he felt was so special for him and which almost, but not quite, lessened the dismay he felt when she said that she had a husband.
He swallowed and tried not to let his disappointment show. ‘Is he not here this evening, your husband?’
‘No. We do not attend the same functions.’ She flicked her fan to her mouth and looked at him from over the top. ‘Neither do we share the same house,’ she said softly. ‘We live separate lives.’
‘How can he bear that?’ James whispered back. ‘How can he suffer to live apart from you?’
‘Our marriage was arranged.’ She lowered her fan and her eyes. ‘He needed a wife in order to claim his father’s estate, though he didn’t require a wife in any other sense.’
James felt himself grow hot and he fingered his collar. This life he was entering was undoubtedly quite different from the one he had previously known.
‘And I wanted to be married to an Englishman,’ she continued. ‘An Englishman who would give me his name and take care of me. Italian men are excellent lovers but don’t take care of their wives as well as they might.’
‘So – you are Italian, Madame?’
She laughed. ‘Can you not tell?’ She ran her finger provocatively down the length of her slender nose. ‘My nose!’
‘It is a most appealing nose.’ James suddenly became bold. ‘The most beautiful nose I have ever seen.’
‘Why, James! I believe you are flirting with me!’ She leaned closer and he could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her skin. ‘I wonder? I think perhaps you have foreign blood? You have not the manner of an Englishman.’
‘English through and through, Madame. Yorkshire born and bred.’ He felt a quickening of his pulses. I do believe I am falling in love with her.
‘I do not know your Yorkshire, I have never been there. Perhaps you will call on me one day? We will have tea and you can tell me about it.’
‘Oh, yes. I’d be delighted,’ he began, and then glanced up in annoyance as his host appeared beside them.
‘James. Would you be an angel and get me another glass of wine?’ She handed him her empty wine glass and her fingers brushed his.
He took it, feeling heady, though he had had only one glass himself, and he drank another swiftly at the wine table before taking two more. She was laughing merrily as he returned, and Walker gave her a small bow and left them.
‘Do you know why I laugh, James?’ She tapped him playfully on the face with her folded fan, and he felt the whisper softness of the feathers on his cheek.
He shook his head. ‘Walker said something funny?’
‘Yes.’ She took the glass from him and clinked glasses with his. ‘Jonathon Walker said of you, “Who is to have him, Madame, you or I?” And I said that I was.’
‘To have me?’ He felt hot and cold with embarrassment. He was not an item for sale, and for Walker to make the suggestion made it sound very improper indeed. ‘To have me?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t understand, Madame.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why, to be your patron, of course! What else could we possibly mean?’
‘She has not so much influence as Walker,’ Batsford commented when James told him later. ‘Though she is rich. Still, she will not drop you as easily as Walker might. Walker gets consumed with jealousy if his protégés as much as look elsewhere.’
‘I am not of Walker’s, er, persuasion,’ James said stiffly.
Batsford shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t matter. If he liked you and your work, then he would see that you met the right people. But there,’ he dismissed the subject, ‘if you have made the choice, that is all there is to it.’
James called on Madame Sinclair a few days later as she had requested. She, too, lived in Chelsea, in an elegant Georgian house overlooking the Thames, with a small garden at the front and a glass conservatory at the rear which, she said, she had added in order to sit in on hot summer days, amid the ferns and greenery, and pretend that she was in Italy.
‘Do you miss your country, Madame, or your family?’ James sweated under the domed glass and drank a cup of coffee, while she sat looking cool in her white dress and large summer hat, gently fanning herself with a bamboo fan.
‘Sometimes I do,’ she admitted. ‘When they have visited me, I get homesick, though I would not like to return to Italy to live.’ She looked at him from her dark eyes. ‘There is so much more here t
hat I like. And also I must stay, because of my husband. It must not look as if I have abandoned him. But enough of me, James. Tell me of your life in Yorkshire and your family; you miss them too, yes?’
‘Not so much as I thought I would. The same as you, I find there is more here that I like, although I miss my father—’
‘Not your mama?’ she asked in surprise. ‘I thought all Englishmen loved their mamas better than anyone else?’
‘No,’ he said adamantly. ‘We do not get along. I – I don’t think she likes me very much. She much prefers my brother to me. But it is of no consequence.’ He brushed away the inference that he was concerned. ‘We are better apart. But there is someone I quite miss,’ he added. And, he thought, I must write, as I promised.
‘You have a lover, yes?’ Madame Sinclair put her head to one side. ‘I should have known.’
‘Oh no! No, not at all – my cousin – Sammi.’
‘Sammi? A boy, yes?’
‘No. Not a boy. She’s called Sarah Maria, really. Only everyone calls her Sammi. Everybody loves her, including me. She’s my best friend. But my lover! No. Not Sammi!’
The very notion that Madame Sinclair assumed he would have a lover astonished him. But I recognize that foreigners have a different view of things, especially Italians. They are not hide-bound by convention as the English are with their prudish upbringing. They are warm-blooded and emotional. And I shall, he determined, throw aside all my preconceived judgements and beliefs. From now on I shall dare to say what I feel, and do what feels right!
‘Madame!’ His voice became husky as a question trembled on his lips. ‘I know that the request that I am about to ask may be a terrible imposition. But, but – would you sit for me? It is not considered derogatory for ladies to do so,’ he added hastily, mindful of the lecture he had been given by Miss Gregory, and despite his new-found liberation. ‘It is quite a proper thing to do.’
A smile flickered over her lips. ‘Yes, James, I am aware of that. Do you wish me to sit naked?’
James was dumbstruck. He shook his head.
‘For I could not do that.’ Her eyes looked into his. ‘My husband – you understand?’
‘Of course,’ he croaked. ‘I had forgotten!’
That night he lay on his bed in his basement room and through the uncurtained window looked up at the steps leading to the street, and thought of how, one day, he would paint Madame Mariabella Sinclair, if ever she would allow him. He would paint her in her conservatory with the pale and dark green foliage surrounding her, and a veil of transparent tulle draped around her.
‘Mariabella.’ He rolled the name around his tongue. ‘Mariabella! My beautiful Mary.’
17
‘So how much is all this going to cost me? I’m not made of brass!’
‘Oh, rubbish, Thomas. You haven’t spent anything on this place in years.’
Ellen stood her ground. She was half-way to winning. Thomas was the most generous of men, but it just didn’t occur to him that life could be made more pleasant with just a little effort and a minor investment of capital. ‘Think how much satisfaction Betsy would have with a new cooking range and a separate room for bathing. And you and the boys wouldn’t have to bathe under the pump or fetch water in if it was piped inside.’
‘Tha’ll have me going soft in my old age, being pampered.’ He glowered at her from under his bushy eyebrows. ‘Go on then – how much?’
‘An extension to the kitchen and another room above, a bathroom and a new kitchen range – how much do you think?’ she hedged.
‘Good heavens! You’ll have me bankrupt, woman!’ He hesitated, then said firmly, ‘I’ll not spend more’n a thousand.’
‘A thousand pounds!’ She had hoped for only half that amount. If he was willing to spend that much, then they could even build on another small room for a maid, and buy some more furnishings.
‘A thousand! Well, all right. I’ll make it eleven hundred, and not a penny more! There’ll be nowt left to bury me when I dee.’
‘Your sons and daughter might as well enjoy the benefits now, Thomas, as spend it on your funeral. But don’t worry,’ she added with a wry twist of her lips, ‘when you die, I assure you we’ll not leave your bones on top.’
Betsy was overjoyed to hear that they were to have a proper bathroom, and although the water would still have to be carried upstairs, the water would be hot from the kitchen range; they wouldn’t have to boil kettles and pans when they wanted a bath.
‘And we’ll see if we can persuade your father to have a live-in maid. Someone young and lively; but you must train her properly,’ Ellen added, ‘or I will.’
Betsy looked downcast. ‘There’s no-one in the village that I would want to ask. Most of the young girls have gone into service in Hull. There’s only the older women, and they wouldn’t live in, and anyway, they don’t listen to what I say, but do things the way they want to.’
Poor Betsy, Ellen thought. She just muddles through. She felt a pang of guilt. I could have done more, but would I have done better? My own daughter is rebelling against my advice. ‘We’ll find someone, Betsy,’ she persuaded. ‘We’ll find someone that you like, someone who’ll be glad to come to this fine place, once you’ve got a bigger kitchen and a new range, and we’ve put on a lick or two of fresh paint.’
Betsy got up and gave her a kiss. ‘Thank you, Aunt Ellen. I’m so grateful.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘Now all I want is a new dress for Gilbert’s wedding. Do you think we can squeeze a little more money out of Da?’
Ellen smiled. ‘Go out to the trap and fetch me in the parcel that’s on the seat. When I went into Hull last, I went shopping at the draper’s. I bought a rose silk for you and a pale green silk for Sammi. It’s a present. Go on, go and fetch it in.
‘Will you come home?’ she asked Sammi when Betsy was out of the room. ‘We want you to come back so that we can discuss the child. Things are not what they seem, Sammi – and people will be talking.’
Sammi set her mouth stubbornly, then relented, her mother looked unhappy. ‘Soon, Mama. I have something in mind,’ she said before Betsy burst back into the room with the parcel.
They spent the next hour choosing the designs they would like, for Ellen had also brought a catalogue of the latest fashions. Betsy finally decided on a wide crinoline with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a contrasting darker rose basque and overskirt in muslin. On her head she would wear a small toque with a rose in the centre.
‘I can’t decide. I can’t decide,’ Sammi wailed. ‘Oh, which shall I have?’
‘This!’ said her mother. ‘This would suit you perfectly.’
The design was of a simple crinoline and over it, a lace mantle with a matching cape and full sleeves.
‘Yes,’ Betsy agreed. ‘And a spoon bonnet in the same green silk and an insert of the lace to frame your face and hair. Oh,’ she clasped her hands together, ‘I just can’t wait.’
And I am dreading the day, Ellen thought. Gilbert will be too embarrassed to speak to me, afraid I will give him away, and Mildred has completely closed up and won’t even discuss the child or James.
Later, after supper, Uncle Thomas said that he wouldn’t go to the wedding; someone had to stay at home to work the sails, and George said that he hadn’t a mind to go either. ‘I’m not one for weddings and such-like fancy parties,’ he said. ‘So I’ll stay behind with Da.’
‘You’re just like Richard,’ Sammi complained. ‘He’s made the excuse that one of the cows will be ready to calf.’
‘Well, count me out.’ Mark had come in in the middle of the discussion. ‘I don’t fancy hobnobbing with all them toffs.’
‘But someone will have to escort Sammi and me,’ Betsy wailed. ‘Uncle William has ordered a chaise because there won’t be room for all of us in theirs, not without crushing our gowns.’
‘Riding in a carriage now, are we?’ Mark mocked. ‘Not content with having ’house pulled apart, eh? By – folk’s ’ll think Fosters are
made of brass!’
Tom remained silent, though he glanced at Sammi and then at his father.
‘Tha’ll be willing to go, Tom? We can’t disappoint Betsy and Sammi,’ his father asked. ‘If not, then I shall. I’ll not have ’young ladies going alone.’
‘No, I’ll go, Da,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t mind.’
Sammi smiled across at him, she had been hoping that it would be Tom who would accompany them. He was much better company than Mark, who was such a cross-patch, though Tom had been rather quiet lately, not at all his usual self, and she wondered why, when she had smiled her gratitude, he turned away and didn’t give her an answering smile.
Betsy crept from her bed at five o’clock, tiptoed downstairs and out of the door. She slipped through the hedge and onto the path. Luke was there again as he’d said he would be; he took her hand and they sped towards the copse.
She had returned to him the last time as he had asked her to, and she’d realized that, even without the threat of exposure which she only half believed he meant, she would still have wanted to come to him. Their love-making, as he had so tenderly reassured her, was not painful at all, and though she had cried, it wasn’t with pain, but because her body had throbbed so much with wanting him so badly.
This morning the sky was overcast and as she lay with her head cradled beneath his arm, their desire fulfilled, they felt a few drops of rain pattering through the trees and she whispered that she had to go.
‘Not yet, Betsy.’ He gazed at her with sensual demanding eyes. ‘Not yet.’ He ran his big hands over her smooth bare legs. ‘Don’t go. Wait a few more minutes. Please.’ He groaned and pulled her towards him, his strong legs around her hips. ‘Betsy Foster, I hadn’t planned for this. You’re driving me crazy.’