I divulged all. She sat beside me on the bed and listened as I told her of Mr. Taylor’s invitation, our meeting at the Botanic Garden, my attendance at his studio. Finally, as I related the circumstances leading to his kissing me—or my kissing him, or some mutual kiss, I remain uncertain as to which—I could no longer retain the air of a mere factual explication and I began to cry. Diana placed her arm around me and comforted me with kind words, assuring me that women are destined to succumb to certain approaches, and that I should see myself as the victim of the piece, not the villain. She had heard stories of Mr. Taylor, she said, and described his wife as “long-suffering”. Yet I am not convinced that she is correct in her insistence on my blamelessness.
The rest of my confession, undertaken after I had recomposed myself, pertained to Mr. Taylor’s invitation to join him once more at his studio. It is an invitation to which I have not responded, as yet unsure of my response, which should unquestionably be to decline politely were I really blameless. Diana wished to know why I might not attend in the company of Miss Ashdown, as I had intended to do on my first visit. I explained that Elizabeth is well suited to the role of chaperone but that I fear she may be too free with the confidences of others. I did not say—but I shall admit here on these pages—that I do not wish to attend in her company precisely because she would be a most effective chaperone. Diana nodded and remarked that she might have a plan but could not be sure of its worth without first seeing the latest letter from Mr. Taylor. She read the letter through, twice, rubbing her neck with her free hand as I saw her do when she had fallen into thought at the Galleries. She asked me if I was sure I wanted to see him again, to which I responded honestly: I am not sure, but I am equally unsure of not wanting to see him again. In that case, she said, the only course of action is for me to meet him to clarify my thoughts. The letter, she reminded me, doubtless hides the possibility of future trysts in an offer to paint my image. I should, then, play Mr. Taylor at his own game, and agree to meet him to discuss the painting. She will be my chaperone and, should Mr. Taylor choose to proceed to paint a canvas, the two of us will pose together. She assured me—somehow in language which did not carry undertones of the separation of class between us—that the appearance in the painting of an Earl’s daughter will serve to remove the stain of impropriety which might otherwise besmirch the undertaking.
So our plans were left when Diana departed. I have started to write a reply to Mr. Taylor and intend to rise early tomorrow, to complete it before breakfast and post it on the way to the first lecture of the day. I shall be in the company of Elizabeth, to whom I shall give the impression that I have written to an aged aunt of mine who lacks for company. I wonder whether this Machiavellian behaviour is born of recent necessity or constitutes an opportune manifestation of some innate talent.
Monday, 7th November, 1887
Lady Diana’s carriage is due to drop her at college in a little under an hour. She has been occupied with social engagements and, I hope, some academic work since we last met. I have seen her only briefly, after one or two lectures, but I have read and re-read her letter of Thursday last, in which she expresses her excitement for today’s “diversions”. I draw from her words—from the assurance of her companionship—a heartening resolve.
I suspect Mr. Taylor disliked my insistence that Diana act as a chaperone: he was gracious but terribly formal in his acceptance of what he called “my terms”. I fear there may be some tension in his first meeting with her. She must, after all, adjudge that her role includes the affording of certain protections to her charge. Under normal circumstances I might resent the impingement on my independence, but these are not normal circumstances.
I must get ready for her arrival.
I am back in my room. I can still hear Diana’s carriage departing along the driveway. I am to dine with Elizabeth, who will want to hear news of my aged aunt, I’m sure.
As though in Cupid’s college she had spent
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.
I shall see him again on Friday.
Tuesday, 8th November, 1887
“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold.” That is what Lady Diana said to me yesterday, as we rode back from Mr. Taylor’s studio and I told her of my desire to see him again, alone. I know what she meant, of course, but her tone also spoke of some element of her character. Her concern for my well-being seems married to an increasing, if still understated, hostility towards Matthew, his feelings for me, and mine for him.
Earlier in the day, when we left college, the world was softly paled by a frost which persisted in those nooks where the low sun cast long shadows. Diana seemed pleased to be engaged in “such an adventure”, as she had it. She dismissed the carriage and we walked out together. I had supposed that effecting an introduction between Mr. Taylor and Lady Diana would be an awkward affair, but Diana took command of the situation with an ease born of her breeding and the confidence of one aware of her own charms. This she wears not, as one might imagine, with any sign of arrogance, but rather with the comfortable familiarity of a well-loved coat or pair of boots. She and Mr. Taylor were polite but somewhat studied: they appeared to be taking the measure of one another, as though preparing for some coming game of wits. As far as his attitude to me, Matthew seemed genuinely delighted to be in my company and I readily wove into his welcome those affections which he chose not express in the presence of others.
Upstairs, Matthew withdrew to the kitchen and left Diana and me to sit on the couch where—I am a little ashamed to admit, given what I hope was the seriousness of the situation—we whispered to each other. We fell quiet only when he returned with tea and a motley service of cups and saucers, making apologies for his chinaware. Lady Diana opened the conversation by saying that she was “led to believe he was a Pre-Raphaelite of sorts.” Did he know Mr. Ruskin? If Mr. Taylor was affronted by this turn of phrase, or taken aback by the question, it could be discerned only in an almost imperceptible furrowing of the brow as he offered milk and sugar. Lady Diana was not to be deterred from her course and persisted in her line of inquiry, asking after his connections to the “highly respected artists” Mr. Jones—“Or is it Mr. Burne-Jones now?”—and Mr. Morris, “both old Exeter College men.” Again, though, Matthew remained calm and dismissive, saying that, whilst he is indeed in some form of correspondence with these gentlemen, he is concentrating his efforts on his own painting, and his social interactions have been quite deliberately curtailed. So they continued for the next few minutes, with Diana getting thinly hidden digs at Matthew and his artistic status. Did he feel that Mr. Whistler was successfully challenging the more traditional styles of painting? Was he influenced by the thrilling developments occurring in France? How had he been affected by the lowering of prices paid for art over recent years? Had he shown at the Royal Academy, or at the Grosvenor, “amongst the greenery-yallery”? Would he be showing at the New Gallery?
Mr. Taylor bore these questions with a diffident charm. As we drained our cups, I found that it was I who felt the need to end this inquisition. I did so by a swift but stern glance in the direction of Lady Diana, and by changing the subject to our posing for Matthew. What did he envisage for the piece? His eyes lingered upon me, and then his gaze moved across to Diana. He let out the slightest of sighs. His intention, as he informed us, had been to paint me as Warber’s Olivia, looking out of a window, high in a tower, waiting for my love to return from some campaign. He allowed that it might not be prudent to title the piece as a scene from Warber, but that was, he felt, a decision for another day: the subject of the painting lent itself to many interpretations in keeping with other romances and idylls. Diana suggested that the confining walls of a stone tower might detract somewhat from the pastoral quality of an idyll, to which Matthew, ever-smiling, remarked that it was now a detail which would remain unresolved, as any composition clearly required the presence of both of the beaut
iful women before him. At that, even Lady Diana could not hide a subtle upturning of the corners of her mouth.
Matthew is a handsome man. I see, looking back, that I described him as “poetic” and “romantic”. These observations are not without merit, but they do not get to the heart of the thing: Mr. Taylor, whether in features, carriage or character, is a handsome man. I saw something of it in the air with which Diana now regarded him as he spoke of his intentions for the painting. She gave a tilt to her head which I had seen previously only once, in her discussions with the younger men who attended that otherwise dreary college event at the beginning of term. Yet there was something in the stiffness of her posture—a degree of formality which I had not previously observed in her—that gave the impression of her warming to Mr. Taylor despite herself, rather than with the ease which I found in myself. Whatever the case, as he continued to speak she lessened her questioning and chiding, and listened with all the appearance of gentle fascination.
Mr. Taylor has yet to choose a suitable episode in which to stage our portrayal, but he does not want to abandon his idea of some scene taken from Warber. He cannot imagine my being anyone other than Olivia, as this is the image which has fixed itself in his mind, and with which his creative thoughts have been occupied these past weeks. All this he told us as his blue eyes locked with mine. Lady Diana let out a delicate cough and Matthew turned to face her, his expression unchanged. He asked her if she knew the story to which he was referring, to which Diana replied that yes, I had given her the book to read. She and I shared everything, she added, imbuing “everything” with a meaning which eluded Matthew, or which he chose to ignore. He continued by inquiring if Diana thought she would make a believable Thomas. Rather than rail at the idea of being portrayed in this masculine role, she exclaimed that it sounded “delightful fun”.
Matthew gestured to a dresser close to the old piano, on which sat a brush and various clips and pins. He asked if I should be so kind as to fasten Diana’s hair in some fashion which would, from front and side views, give it the appearance of being short. I endeavoured to do so whilst Matthew busied himself in gathering paper and sharpening pencils with which to sketch our portraits. The proceedings—our preparation and sitting—cannot have taken more than an hour. Matthew worked swiftly, his hand darting over the paper in arcs and curlicues as he captured first a likeness of Lady Diana in front and profile views, and then the same of my own face. Whilst he sketched Diana he asked me—when I attempted to stand and watch over his shoulder—to remain seated and quiet, and he required the same of Diana when I was the object of his gaze. The portraits he produced were accurate only in so far as their lack of detail enabled them to be a fair representation of our features. Sensing, I am sure, that we had been expecting a result which was—how shall I say?—a little more “polished”, he explained that he prefers to adopt some elements of the approach taken by Sir John Millais and his followers, with few preparatory studies. These sketches, he averred, will serve as an aide-mémoire during his initial contemplation of the subject. Any more detailed outline is to be saved for the canvas itself, after a suitable layer of bright, white paint—called a “ground”—has been prepared upon it, prior to painting.
Diana makes a perfect Thomas in my opinion, and Mr. Taylor agrees with me. He said as much as he placed his sketches on an easel and stepped back to appreciate them. I am surprised that a change in the style of her hair can do so much to lend those delicate features an appearance which is both passably rugged and beautifully refined. There is within her some ability to tighten the jawline and lower the brow, which adds to the illusion of masculinity without removing an ambiguity which is much to be desired.
Matthew seemed distracted whilst we prepared ourselves for the return to college. He stood by the tall, north windows with his back to us. When we were ready to depart he followed us down the narrow stairs before passing us in the hall to hold open the front door. Here, as Diana stepped outside, he gently placed a hand on my arm and asked if he might speak to me in private. I turned to Lady Diana and lifted my head a fraction upwards and to the left, through which I conveyed to her my desire that she wait close by, but at enough remove to afford me a modicum of privacy. She, returning my gaze with what I took to be apprehension, departed to the boundary of the driveway and stared out, over the river. The sun was bathing the fields in ambered light. She might have been Ophelia, lost by the banks. Could beauty have better commerce than with honesty?
Standing by the door, whispering into my ear, Matthew asked if I should return on Friday, alone. He made no mention of an artistic requirement for my attendance, for which I am grateful as, otherwise, I think I should drown in a cup brimming over with the wine of duplicity. I am not proud to write that I almost agreed to the meeting with an acceptance of his terms, but a voice within me—a voice all the louder for the presence of Diana a few yards distant—gave me the strength to insist that I attend only in her company. Yet, I am not so strong as I should like to suppose: I am to arrange with Diana that I arrive a little earlier than she, or depart a little later. I fear that she will judge this arrangement imprudent in the extreme, but my true weakness is that I fear yet more the absence of another opportunity to be alone with Matthew.
“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold.”
CHAPTER NINE
I sat in the car as we drove through the morning fog, trying and failing to formulate questions for Gerald. An old, round biscuit tin, tucked down by my feet, held the finished sponge cake. On its lid J.M.W. Turner’s Fighting Temeraire glowed in the last light of the day. It seemed an odd choice for a tin of biscuits, the final hours of a warship as it is pulled up the Thames by a tugboat, all funnel and smoke. The painting had been cropped to fit on the circular lid, robbing it of context: no more setting sun, no more waiting breaker’s yard for the Temeraire, just a biscuit-tin-lid story. Once, there were two boats, a big boat and a little boat. The big boat had sails, and was proud of its history. “I was at Trafalgar in 1805,” it would say. The little boat was much younger, and did not have any sails, just a tall smokestack that puffed out black clouds as it chuffed along over the waves. Sometimes, when the wind was low, and because they were best friends, the little boat would help the big boat, pulling it along over the calm waters of the Thames. Sometimes they would float and eat biscuits together. Then, one day, the little boat would not tell the big boat where they were going.
Emily had decided that it would be better for us if we stopped in London on our way to the coast, rather than on our return, to remove the risk of hitting the evening rush-hour. There had seemed little point in arguing. It was late morning when we arrived at our flat. I could have waited in the car but then she would have gone alone and left me there, and I did not want to be left alone with the Victoria sponge and the duplicitous tugboat.
Everything seemed familiar but unwelcoming, as though a stranger had moved into the place in my absence, silently, without changing a thing, and was lurking under a bed or in a wardrobe, resenting my presence. The flat, in size and location, was a testament to the earning power of a reasonably successful, reasonably senior solicitor. In decoration it was, with the exception of Emily’s office, a visual pæan to the availability of cheap, junk-shop art and a manifestation of my dislike of modern reproductions. Where shelves of books did not intrude, prints and paintings hung from picture rails in columns of three or four.
“I’ll be about ten minutes. Grab anything you need.” Emily’s voice came through the office doorway, followed by Emily. She continued, more quietly, “I think there’s a suitcase on the bed. I was going to put some of your stuff in it but didn’t need to in the end.”
I had enough clothes at the cottage already: I was not there to be seen and, even if I were, the village was certainly not a hotbed of high-fashion sensibilities. Not that I myself possessed any high-fashion sensibilities beyond those bestowed by Emily’s choices on my behalf. Books, though, were always a welcome and soothing addit
ion to a room: a printed shipping forecast, hot chocolate with an evocative cover. I grabbed a few volumes on British Victorian paintings and painters, stacked them on the dining table and headed to the bedroom. The place was still a mess. I had expected Emily to have tidied a month ago, as soon as she had disposed of me at the hospital and driven back to London. I stepped over the larger portion of a smashed, pottery lamp-base and knelt before a short, wide bookcase of fiction, running methodically through the titles, left to right, top to bottom. I took out a slim volume in French, flipped through it and read aloud:
“‘Les infinies et fabuleuses montagnes où les chères petites adultères, toujours aimées, se pâment sans repos aux impérieuses caresses des anges pervers.’”
“The fabulous mountains where the little adulterers, always loved, something without repose under the imperious caresses of the something?” Emily was still at the door. “Don’t look so astonished, Anna. I’m not an idiot.”
All the Perverse Angels Page 10