‘Balderdash!’ snorted Henry. ‘Don’t be fooled by his false modesty, Miss Farnham. He’s a perfectly good artist.’
‘You’re the one who’ll be an RA,’ countered Fred.
‘Well, I hope so. If this portrait of Miss Farnham comes out as I’d like, maybe I’ll enter it in the Summer Exhibition. What do you say, Miss Farnham?’
‘It would be rather special to have my portrait hang in the Royal Academy,’ she replied. ‘I wish you all success with it. If it pleases my father, who is most exacting, then I see no reason why it shouldn’t please the old men at the Academy.’
Henry looked gratified by this remark.
‘You think you will enter this summer?’ asked Fred. ‘You know their attitude to anything even faintly PreRaphaelite in execution? Remember the roasting poor Millais got for that picture of the Holy Family?’
‘I do remember. And it frightened poor Johnny Millais out of what few wits he has.’
‘I saw some of his work,’ said Ellie suddenly, ‘it’s very good, I think. I loved Lorenzo and Isabella. The way he portrayed the people sitting about the table, it felt so real – one almost sensed the hate from the malevolent brothers. But I don’t care for the picture you mention, the one of the Holy Family.’
‘You don’t?’ said Henry, looking at her in surprise.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘It’s most unappealing.’
Fred smiled at this candour. Henry looked mystified.
‘Well, it’s a great painting, it really is, Miss Farnham. You certainly aren’t alone in disliking the subject. I suppose like everyone else you don’t like his realism, his treatment of Mary and Jesus. People can’t stand the idea that Mary might look just like any ordinary mother and Jesus like any little child and that Joseph, who was a carpenter by trade, might have dirty fingernails! Anyway, he’s turned to quite a different style now and swears he is abandoning that PreRaphaelite tag he, Hunt and Rossetti acquired. Just a lot of youthful nonsense on their part, he says.’
‘Personally I agree with Miss Farnham,’ Fred said, ‘I think I prefer Isabella. But then I always prefer poetic subjects –
“Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye!
They could not in the selfsame mansion dwell
Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well
It soothed each to be the other by.”
– a beautiful poem, is it not?’
‘You like Keats?’ Ellie asked, almost turning now to look at him, as if properly aware of him for the first time.
‘Who could not? The best of poets. We all adore him. Is that not so, Henry?’
‘Indeed. But you must stay still, Miss Farnham. I cannot have you jiggling around like this.’
For a while Henry painted on in silence and Elllie dared make no more comments. He went on after a short while, ‘I don’t consider my work is quite in the style of Brown or Millais, though I am in total agreement about the need to paint from Nature and to use the colours which Nature has given us, not some foul, darkbrown chiaroscuro effect. Who knows how those old paintings once looked when fresh from the artist’s hand? Time has dulled the varnishes and paints to those dreary, melancholic shades. When were trees and grass in spring dark brown? It’s nonsense. But I’m not so keen on the moralistic, religious side of their work. I prefer to stick to secular subjects. You can run into no end of trouble with religious stuff. Look how Rossetti had to re-name Ecce Ancilla Domine and make it The Annunciation because he was afraid people would find it too Popish!’
Ellie looked regretful. ‘Sadly, I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing Mr Rossetti’s work as yet.’
‘Ah, I think you would love his work, Miss Farnham,’ said Fred eagerly, ‘it’s full of spiritual romanticism. Perhaps one day we shall have the pleasure of introducing him to you and showing you what he can do.’
‘Is your work very similar to his, Mr Thorpe?’ she inquired.
For a moment, their eyes met and held. Overcome by a sudden inexplicable rush of emotion, he stammered, ‘Good Heavens, no! I’m a poor painter – more of a poet, I like to think. I love Tennyson, Keats, Shakespeare, even Shelley. Beauty and Art are a lost and lovely world I wish to recapture as much as they do. Might this be your opinion also, Miss Farnham?’
‘Indeed, I love their work, Mr Thorpe. I also love that unknowable world you mention, a world that is perhaps of the imagination and never really existed. Maybe we always look back on the past and feel it was golden, mysterious, and special when it was nothing of the sort for those who lived in it. All the same, if Mr Winstone’s work is half as good as that of Hunt or Millais, then I shall love it too. My Papa thinks very well of your work, Mr Winstone.’
Henry bowed and smiled at her. ‘Praise from a fair lady,’ he murmured, ‘now I cannot fail but do my best.’
The ‘old dragons’, as Henry irreverently called them, had been looking at one another in alarm over this entire conversation, which Miss Perrin in particular seemed to consider very forward of her charge. Fred saw Eleanor flash them both a look and a frown as if to say, Don’t be so frosty, I’ll do as I please!
Fred smiled to himself. He liked her spirit. She had an imperious strength and there was passion there too. Milk-andwater girls never appealed to him at all. His own soft, easy nature demanded someone to stir him up a little.
He sat down while Henry fell silent again, ever absorbed in the minutiae of his work. The methods he used in which he drew the picture with pencil directly onto the canvas on a prepared white ground meant he had to concentrate fully, working in detail on small areas at a time. Ellie sat in silence, still as a statue; she appeared deep in thought. The two older ladies now nodded drowsily in their corner. Fred, as intense as Henry, watched him work and glanced often and boldly at the object of his own delight. There was no doubt about it; Henry was capturing her likeness well. She was as delicate and beautiful as he portrayed her – no exaggerations, no slight softening or interpretation through the artist’s inner eye. Eleanor on canvas was Eleanor as she sat there before him, her luxurious dark hair like a frame around the marble white pallor of her face.
‘You model well, Miss Farnham, as if you were born to it. Not many young ladies are so adept at sitting still,’ said Fred, breaking the silence.
Her lips curved for a moment in a little smile but she made no reply, nor did she alter her pose. Fred felt full of admiration for her stoicism; a pose that stretched her neck in that fashion could hardly be comfortable and Henry, lost in his work, seldom gave his models much of a rest.
‘Oh, do you want to stop for a few moments?’ asked Henry, looking up as Fred spoke with a sudden sense of realisation that he was dealing with a human being and not a wooden lay figure.
‘No sir. I’m perfectly happy, thank you.’
A slight flash of fire burnt in the young woman’s eyes, as if her thoughts took her to places that made her angry. Henry paused to look keenly at her, sensitive and interested in every nuance of his model’s expression. She composed herself, her gaze once more in the distance, thoughtful and calm again.
Whenever her eyes met those of Fred, his flickered away but she, far bolder, regarded him with an unsmiling, serious face. Henry hummed to himself and dabbed away at his canvas, sometimes exclaiming impatiently, rising to his feet to seize a cloth and rub something out and beginning again, all in a flurry and fervour of doing. There was no more conversation.
When the agreed hour was over, Ellie rose and stretched her limbs and Fred brought her outdoor clothes. His hand brushed against her bare white neck as he helped her on with her cape and it made his heart flutter, his insides churn with longing. He found her utterly fascinating; unlike any other woman he had met. She thanked Fred, her voice like herself, serious and quiet, and gave him a curious look that he couldn’t fathom or begin to understand.
What, he wondered, was she thinking?
Chapter 7
‘You have been mine before –
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall – I knew it all of yore.’ Dante Gabriel Rossetti: Sudden Light
Conversation at the next sitting for Ellie’s portrait was rather desultory and general but Fred lived in hope that he might snatch a moment to converse with a little more intimacy. It seemed impossible when the ‘dragons’ whisked her away so fast, darting suspicious glances at him, resenting his presence. Henry was vastly amused and tried to distract the older ladies but all to no avail.
‘Poor Fred,’ Henry told Rosie, ‘Those two old dragons are like fierce lionesses guarding their young lady’s virtue. I suspect that poor Miss Perrin finds the very air of an artist’s studio in some way tainted with immorality. I can see her shudders of misgiving whenever she enters.’
‘She don’t know the ‘arf of it!’ chuckled Rosie.
‘Just as well, eh? But, oh Rosie…if only you could see how poor Fred stares at his Lady Love! I see no way of his ever getting a chance to speak to the girl. I think his wooing is set to be a nonstarter.’
Rosie was not at all fond of Fred, who made his dislike of her evident, and yet she was a sentimental creature. The lover’s plight was like a story in a book and her heart was stirred. ”E’s a pretty feeble cove, ain’t ‘e, your pal? Still, that’s the way it is with all these perishin’ smart gentlemen. They’re all a bit gulpy. Can’t we ‘elp ‘im some’ow? D’you think she likes ‘im?’
‘I think she does like him but is as helpless against foolish convention as he is. I have to agree with you, Rosie, Fred’s likely to bolt if the girl gives him any encouragement. He seems terrified of women these days. Don’t know what’s come over the man. He used to be a regular rake in the old days.’
‘Can’t imagine that!’ snorted Rosie.
She had been a little jealous of the darkly beautiful Eleanor at first but now she realised the situation was not what she had thought.
‘Maybe I’ll be there next time,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘maybe I can give them lovebirds an ‘and, eh?’
Henry laughed and patted her hand, ‘You’re a good sort, Rosie. You can damn well give it a try!’
When Fred arrived at the studio that afternoon, he was in a state of deep dejection. Only one more sitting, Henry had said, and Fred felt desperate, his prize seemingly unattainable and about to slip away from his grasp.
‘Come in, Mr. Thorpe, my dear,’ said Rosie, smiling at the young man as he stood at the door.
‘Why, Rosie! Erm – yes…how are you?’ said Fred, flummoxed by her presence.
‘Very well, I thank you,’ she replied primly as she ushered him in.
He was surprised that she was there, surprised at her sudden show of amiability. He was alarmed that Eleanor might be offended by the presence of this brash common girl. How had Henry allowed this to happen? Had he taken leave of his senses? One could hardly mistake Rosie Gamm for a servant. Her familiarity with Henry was far too obvious and neither of them troubled to hide it. He had no wish to be tarred with the same brush. Eleanor might assume that he also was capable of having a mistress like Rosie. God forbid!
Fred set his hat down the wrong way for a brief moment, so great was his state of agitation. This was his last chance. If he had no way of speaking to Eleanor when might he ever see her again? Standing at the door to the studio, he paused and composed himself before entering.
She was there already, reclining in her customary pose. The work on the face, arms and hands was progressing well, almost to the point of being finished. Soon Henry would no longer need her to come to the studio but could finish the rest of the portrait using a lay figure on which he would drape the dress.
On hearing Henry greet Fred, Ellie broke the spell of her posture and turned round, looking at him with such undisguised pleasure that Fred’s usual equanimity deserted him; he felt weakkneed with delight.
Today, as luck would have it, there was only one duenna there, the meek lady’s maid, Lottie Mullhall. The formidable Miss Adelaide Perrin was indisposed, obliged to stay in bed and abandon her young charge. This seemed a good omen to all the interested parties present and a situation that might surely be turned to their advantage.
‘Why, Miss Farnham, how lovely to see you!’ said Fred, unable to prevent his joy showing.
‘Well, by Jove, I knew you’d sooner see Miss Farnham than me!’ responded Henry.
‘Good Heavens, I should think so! She’s ten times prettier than you.’
The two men laughed and Ellie smiled at their banter. She said roguishly, ‘Well, I’m glad to see both of you. I so enjoy coming here, Mr Winstone. I shall be sad when the portrait’s finished – though, of course, I long to see it hanging at home and so does Papa. He thinks you’re taking a very long time about it, you know, but I don’t mind. Take as long as you like. I’ll miss my visits to an artist’s studio. It’s a fascinating experience.’ She sniffed the air and said with a laugh, ‘I love the smell of the oil paints and the spirits and the clothes… ‘
‘And the Thames?’ laughed Henry. ‘I’ve shut the windows on your behalf, ma’am. It’s hardly fresh air round here. As regards the speed of my execution, I confess to slowness because the methods I use are painstaking. I hope that your father realises that I have other commissions as well as this one,’ he added, ‘but I understand his desire to see it finished as soon as possible. I’m quite keen to finish it myself.’
Fred looked at him and smiled. He knew his friend’s reasons were of a more pecuniary nature.
‘I don’t care how long it takes!’ exclaimed Ellie.
‘You’ll have to have another portrait painted,’ said Henry with a shrewd look in his eye, ‘or send your father for one and accompany him.’
‘Well, that’s an idea. Papa has already said he would like to buy more of your work.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d allow me to attempt your portrait, also?’ asked Fred wistfully.
She looked at him and considered the idea.
‘Oh, of course, I am so sorry… I forgot that you are an artist also, Mr Thorpe. Please, sir, don’t think I wouldn’t like to have you paint my portrait but Papa would never allow it. You see, he knows Mr Winstone through Mr MacCracken who has had business dealings with him and knows of his reputation, of course, which is why he chose him.’
Fred looked downcast for a moment but then a bold idea came to him.
‘Might I be allowed to call some time with my mother and see the portrait in its place? I know she would be interested as much as I should. She was considering having a portrait of herself painted by Mr. Winstone.’
Ellie hesitated briefly. A subterfuge if ever there was one! However, she relented and said, ‘You may indeed, sir. I shall be very pleased to see you and your mother.’
At this point, Rosie poked her head around the door, and asked, ‘Could you spare your maid for a moment or so, Miss Farnham? I need ‘elp with somethin’. A personal matter – what needs a woman’s assistance.’
Fred felt her cockney accent still grated, despite Rosie’s efforts to ‘talk nice’ but Eleanor gave a cheerful smile and said, ‘But, of course! Off you go, Mulhall, go and help Miss Gamm in whatever way she requires.’
Obedient and meek, Lottie Mulhall trotted out after Rosie. She had nothing of Miss Perrin’s suspicious mind and considered it was none of her business. Everyone seemed very polite and proper and she had no reason to think anything untoward would happen while she was out of the room for a moment or two. If she felt any resentment at being asked to help a woman like Rosie Gamm, a personage considerably inferior in manners and propriety to herself, she did not show it.
After a few more minutes that went by in tense silence, Henry suddenly said he had to be briefly excused and the two young people were finally alone.
Fred knew he had to seize his moment, for there might n
ever be another.
He crossed the room swiftly to Eleanor’s side. She dropped her languid pose and sat up, looking at him with a mixture of alarm and excitement. Backing away from him, she put out a defensive hand.
Fred sank on his knee beside her and seizing that hand, kissed it feverishly, again and again.
‘What are you doing?’ she said in an agitated whisper, snatching her hand away and half rising from her seat. ‘Please don’t! Please stop! If someone should come in…’
‘Let them come in, I don’t care.’
Normally a cautious man, he had flung caution to the proverbial winds.
‘Well, I do,’ was the firm reply. ‘I have not come here to be insulted, sir. Please stand up.’
He rose and they both stood, staring at one another with a certain tense, animal fierceness. Eleanor had not screamed or called for help and Fred had a sense that she was rather enjoying herself. He wanted to pick her up and carry her off somewhere, anywhere, never let her out of his sight. Oh God, how he wanted to do that!
He swallowed hard. There was so much to say and no time for playing games. Convention required weeks, months, and years of wooing. He had always believed in convention, thought it the bulwark of civilisation. Now the primitive man in him declared it all so much rubbish. Put your lady over your shoulder and carry her off, that voice whispered.
He would not dare do so; the primitive man was put to one side.
‘You are so very beautiful,’ was all he could say as he stared at her. He had never been this close to her and now he saw how unusual her eyes were. They were light green, with the left eye shading into hazel in the centre. Just now, they were bright and angry with him, the pale lips half-parted.
She flushed a little at the frank expression of desire on his face and turned her head away. Sitting down again, she primly gathered her skirts about her. Having recovered her equilibrium, she looked at him with an attempt at cold hauteur.
‘Thank you, but I don’t need to be told that by a stranger.’
Fred’s cheeks flushed with anger and frustration. ‘Why do you keep using that word? We’ve scarcely met, that’s true. However, dear lady, the fact is that I don’t feel we are strangers. I feel we have always known one another. I feel I know you deep inside myself.’
Loretta Proctor Page 7