by Kirsty Ferry
‘My goodness,’ whispered Daisy. She looked around quickly, and tucked the bottle in her purse. She would have to investigate that later, in the privacy of her own home. But the first thing to do was to make her feet move and hurry back to record this momentous occasion in her special journal.
I visited John at his studio today. He has a wonderful studio in his family home in Gower Street. It is on the ground floor, so it means I never have to impose upon the rest of his family when I visit. John has always commented on my likeness to Lizzie; it is a great privilege to be compared to her. She is, after all, the muse to end all muses …
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ONE YEAR LATER
KENSINGTON, JANUARY, 1852
‘I say,’ said Henry, ‘the art world is going mad for Millais’ latest creation; especially with the idea of Ruskin’s patronage behind it. I hear he has already sold the painting – despite it being unfinished – to the art dealer Henry Farrer.’
He was obviously trying to make polite conversation during the art lesson, but Daisy wasn’t really listening. She was trying to paint a picture based on an Arthurian legend, a style she very much associated with the Brotherhood. However, her horse didn’t look right and her knight’s legs were far too short for his body. She laid her brush down in disgust and folded her arms.
‘Henry, this is wrong. It’s just all wrong. Can you sort it out for me? Please?’
‘I don’t know why you won’t stick to more straightforward things,’ said Henry, coming over to the easel. He pondered the canvas for a minute then shook his head. ‘No. I can’t sort it out for you. Short of making the gentleman stand in a gorse bush, we can’t hide his legs.’
‘Then a gorse bush it shall be!’ she retorted, angrily. She picked up the brush again and rammed it into the black paint. ‘And in this horrible, misshapen fantasy world, the gorse bushes are black.’ She attacked the canvas, jabbing the brush over the picture and smearing paint everywhere. She covered the knight, legs and all, in a thick layer of the stuff and didn’t stop until he was indistinguishable from the black horse he was supposed to be standing next to. Then she continued to cover the black horse and was just about to start on the winsome lady, when Henry grabbed her arm.
‘Enough!’ he said. ‘What did all that achieve?’
‘It made me feel better!’ she shouted. She threw the brush onto the floor, swiftly followed by her apron and stormed out of the French doors into the leafless, unwelcoming garden. ‘The Brotherhood never have this problem!’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘Everything they do is perfect!’
‘The Brotherhood have their share of troubles as well!’ shouted Henry following her.
‘They were born talented!’ replied Daisy. She sat down on a chair, her back towards the house and Henry, her arms folded again, oblivious to the cold.
‘Maybe,’ said Henry, ‘but they draw and paint from real life, remember. They get their proportions from the models and their inspiration from elsewhere. It’s a fine line – if one part breaks down, the other follows.’
‘Nothing breaks down for them,’ complained Daisy.
‘Yes, it does,’ said Henry. He sat next to her. ‘For instance, I hear that Miss Siddal is unwell. The portrait I have just been talking about has been postponed at an extremely awkward point.’
‘What?’ Daisy turned to him, suddenly interested. Her attitude changed instantly. She smiled at him and put her hand on his knee. She knew he always liked that, she could tell by his face; and to be honest, she quite liked the power she had within her to do that to him. At twenty-two, she knew she was the most attractive she’d been in many a year. She’d slimmed down over the last two years or so and made sure she’d protected her skin from the sun as much as possible to keep her complexion pale and clear. Sometimes, she would apply just a hint of rouge to her cheeks and lips and liked the contrast between that and her ivory skin. She was also in the habit of applying henna rinses to her hair. She’d often been teased for its natural redness, but now she adored it and loved the fact the henna emphasised the tints in it. She liked to wear her hair loose as well. It was so much better to feel free of the confines of pins and ribbons, she thought.
Daisy imagined Lizzie having the same power over men as she had over Henry, and it made her feel especially allied to the redheaded muse. Daisy moved her hand and squeezed Henry’s knee. Talking about the Brotherhood always held her interest and she wanted him to talk some more.
‘Dear Henry. I do so enjoy hearing your tales from the art world. I do so love the sound of your voice. Do tell me more about this interesting situation,’ she begged, deliberately making her eyes wide and round.
Henry sat back, smiling at her. She could tell he was pleased and would be more than happy to talk a little longer.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘as I say, I hear Miss Siddal is under the weather. She was posing in a bathtub, believe it or not, and they had lit candles beneath it to keep her warm. Millais continued to paint as the candles died down and Lizzie has developed some kind of illness relating to the freezing water. Add to that the death of her brother and she has left Millais in a dreadful pickle. And as you can see, in defence of her apparent near-pneumonia and rumoured weak heart, it is not exactly warm weather, is it? In fact wouldn’t you like to go inside and talk about this?’ He shivered a little.
Daisy thought for a moment; she thought of Lizzie bravely lying in a tub of freezing water, suffering so John could paint his picture.
She shook her head. ‘No. I want to stay out here,’ she said. ‘Please continue.’
Henry looked at her, surprised. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘As you wish. So, yes, Miss Siddal is unwell. I hear the portrait is at a desperate place to be left. Millais is beside himself, obviously, but he is well aware that the health of his model is of the utmost importance. There are rumours that her family will insist on him paying her medical bill, poor girl.’
‘I say!’ said Daisy, opening her eyes even wider. ‘That’s extremely interesting news. And is John working at his studio?’
‘I’m not sure – I believe he had a studio in Cheam while he was working on the painting,’ said Henry, ‘but I think he may have returned to Gower Street.’
‘Cheam?’ said Daisy, picking up on the new information. ‘In South London?’
‘Yes. I believe also he has painted the background extensively using the Hogsmill River in Tolworth.’
‘Tolworth?’ cried Daisy. ‘Oh, I must remember that name. I would like to visit there someday. Will you take me, Henry?’
‘I suspect it doesn’t really cater for casual tourists,’ replied Henry. ‘It’s simply an interesting area to paint.’
‘Still. I would like to visit,’ said Daisy. She removed her hand from Henry’s knee and looked out over the garden again. ‘I hope the background to the portrait is cheerful. What would you paint on it, should you work on a portrait like that?’
‘Oh, I really couldn’t commit myself,’ said Henry. ‘As it is depicting Shakespeare’s Ophelia, I would want to make it instantly recognisable to the viewer. I’d probably put a variety of flowers in it. ’
‘Hmmm,’ said Daisy. ‘Would you put some daisies in it? Because that’s my name, you know.’ She smiled at him. ‘And daisies are supposed to mean innocence and purity.’
‘And loyalty and beauty,’ said Henry, quietly. ‘I would dust the whole foreground with daisies if it were my work.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Daisies are my favourite flower.’
Daisy sat back in the seat and looked at Henry, fixing her eyes fully on his. ‘“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance,”’ she began. ‘“Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. There’s fennel for you, and columbines.—There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me. We may call it “herb of grace” o’ Sundays.—Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference.—There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end.” Do you thi
nk I make a good Ophelia, Henry?’
‘You make a remarkable Ophelia,’ said Henry, warmly. ‘Bravo. You could easily stand in for Miss Siddal, have no fear about that, Daisy Ashford.’
‘You charm me, Mr Dawson,’ she said, laughing, ‘but I like hearing it. Oh, my.’ She raised her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. ‘Henry, dearest, I’m so sorry, but I think I am coming down with an awful headache. Would you mind at all if we continued our lesson tomorrow?’
Henry sat for a moment, then stood up and bowed slightly. ‘You and your father employ me.’ He sounded crushed. ‘It is therefore your prerogative to ask me to leave or command me to stay.’ He looked rather disappointed and Daisy actually felt a little sorry for him.
‘I would adore you to stay,’ said Daisy, ‘but I am a little chilly out here after all.’ She transferred her hand to her mouth and managed to hack out a cough. ‘Please forgive me. Will you come tomorrow morning instead?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Henry. ‘Whatever you wish, Miss Ashford.’
‘Oh, don’t! Do not call me Miss Ashford!’ she said, pulling a face. ‘It’s so formal. And we are closer than that, are we not?’
‘Well, I would like to think so,’ murmured Henry. Daisy saw that he blushed a rosy pink colour, right to the roots of his fair hair.
She smiled. ‘Of course we are. Dear Henry. I shall see you tomorrow. And, like the Arthurian lady in my terribly ruined painting, I shall allow you, my glorious knight, to kiss my hand.’ She held it out and Henry blushed an even darker shade of pink.
‘Daisy!’ he said.
‘Oh, humour me, just this once!’ she said. ‘I don’t ask a lot of you, do I?’
‘Well, I beg to differ on that, at times,’ he replied, suddenly smiling at her.
Daisy laughed, then she drew back her hand and buried it within her skirts. ‘I shan’t torture you any more. I think I shall have a little medicine after you leave, and that will cure my headache.’
‘I hope it isn’t a bad headache,’ said Henry, ‘but if there’s anything you want, you must let me know.’
‘I most certainly will,’ replied Daisy. She coughed again and closed her eyes briefly. She hoped her cheeks looked fevered, as she imagined Lizzie’s would at the minute. Lizzie really was very pale, and a fever might give her a little colour. ‘Goodbye, Henry,’ she whispered. ‘I will see you tomorrow if I am well.’ She pressed a hand to her breast and winced as if it pained her deep inside somewhere.
‘Indeed, Miss Ashford,’ he replied. ‘I will see myself out, but first I will escort you to the drawing room and you can sit before the fire to warm yourself.’
She smiled, she hoped bravely, and allowed herself to be escorted by the hand into the drawing room and laid on a chaise longue.
Daisy waited until she heard the door shut and then sat right back up. She locked the door to keep the servants out, then rummaged through a bureau drawer until she found the bottle she was searching for. Damn! It was almost empty. Fortunately, she had some more upstairs. She drained the last few drops of liquid and closed her eyes as the blessed calm stole over her and the taste of the alcohol numbed her tongue. One moment more and she was lying down in a deliciously drowsy half-sleep, promising herself she would recover from her illness quickly – she so didn’t want to impose on dear Henry. Or was it Dante? No. It was John, wasn’t it? It was dear John she needed to help … oh, she would be such a good help. He would be pleased he had approached her. She would be such a boon to him …
In her semi-drugged state, in her own mind, she took the fantasy to its logical conclusion; then she fell asleep for several hours.
And when she woke up, she wrote it all down, because it had all happened, hadn’t it? Of course it had. She couldn’t possibly have dreamt it – it had all been so real.
I hear Lizzie is indisposed. I offered to help poor John out. He is at a most difficult part of the portrait, in which he represents Ophelia. I can see the background is already perfectly painted and, joy of joys, I see he has added some daisies to the foreground! Oh, how we laughed when I pointed them out to him. He was unaware of the meaning of the daisy. As it is my name, it is something I have considered deeply. It actually means purity, innocence, loyal love, beauty, patience and simplicity.
These are, without exception, qualities I believe I have. I quoted the famous speech from Hamlet to John, and I ensured I gave the true, wistful voice to those simple words: ‘There’s a daisy.’ Poor Ophelia. I believe, in some ways, a daisy also reflects unhappy love, and this was I feel the crux of the matter between Hamlet and she. John suggested I take the place of Lizzie for the time being, just until she regains her health. Of course, I agreed. I would do anything to help my friends.
I do so wish I were as talented as Dante and John and the rest of the Brotherhood. Dante was absent for most of the day, I have to say. He was with Lizzie, so I understand. I can confess this to you, Dear Diary, but to nobody else – I do believe Lizzie keeps him on a terribly short leash. Poor Dante, he is trapped by her, yet I am reluctant to raise the matter with him just yet. She is not the most stable of characters and I fear for both their sanity at times. I asked John where he painted the background and he told me it was Tolworth, of all places. I must remember that. If ever I am asked about it at one of our gatherings or at an exhibition, I can say, with great confidence, ‘Tolworth! The background was painted in Tolworth! But Lizzie and I were painted in his new studio in Cheam. Now, fancy that!’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
FOUR YEARS LATER
KENSINGTON, APRIL, 1856
Henry knocked at the front door and waited for someone to let him in. They had no art lesson booked today, but he had received an urgent message, demanding he come to Daisy’s house immediately.
A maid opened the door and stood back, curtseying at him as he walked into the house. He was a regular enough visitor for the household to recognise him, and he did actually have enough of a social standing, being a tutor and an unofficial guardian, to warrant a curtsey.
‘I’ll go and announce you, Mr Dawson,’ said the maid.
‘Thank you. Miss Ashford is expecting me,’ replied Henry, taking off his hat. The maid bobbed another curtsey and hurried into the drawing room along the corridor. Henry stood on the marble inlaid floor of the entrance hall, enjoying how the sunlight dappled the black and white tiles with colours from the stained-glass crescent window above the door. Little things like that, he thought, made him appreciate his life.
‘She’ll see you now, Mr Dawson,’ said the maid, hurrying back along the corridor. ‘May I take your coat and hat, sir?’
Henry was about to reply when Daisy appeared at the door of the drawing room. ‘Leave him be, Ellen,’ she snapped. ‘I need to see him right away.’
‘As you wish,’ said the maid. She curtseyed again and hurried away towards the back of the house.
‘Henry! Dear Henry!’ Daisy’s tone of voice changed like the wind. She held her arms out and Henry took that as an invitation to walk into the drawing room. It was stuffy and warm in the room, and the sofa cushions showed a definite imprint of a body. She’d obviously been having a little nap while she waited for him. There was an empty glass on a small table next to the sofa and Daisy glanced at it as she waved Henry inside.
‘I’ll ring for some tea or something,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was. I must have drunk all my water.’ She smiled and sat down on the sofa. She patted the cushions next to her and Henry hesitated, hovering near a single chair opposite it. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, I think we know each other well enough for you to sit next to me,’ she grumbled. ‘Nobody is going to criticise your manners in here today. Sit. I need to show you something.’ Again she patted the sofa and Henry sat down.
Daisy leaned over him and he caught the unmistakeable scent of her perfume as she took hold of a bell. ‘Do you want anything?’ she asked.
Henry shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I’m only interested in knowin
g why you felt the need to summon me so urgently.’
Daisy stared at the bell in her hand for a moment, and then put it down without ringing it. ‘I don’t think I need tea, actually,’ she said. ‘I’ll have some more water later. So, Henry.’ She moved a little so she was facing him more fully. ‘I want you to see this.’ She reached over to the table in front of them and shifted position again. Her hands were trembling ever so slightly as she picked up an envelope and then tried and failed to open it and extract the contents.
‘Forgive me, Daisy, but you seem on edge,’ said Henry, full of concern for her. She was flushed and there was a slight sheen of perspiration on her face.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she said. She stared at the envelope as if willing it to open itself, then she tried to open it again. ‘It’s just this letter. Well, it’s not really a letter. It’s an invitation. My father’s birthday is next month and it appears I am invited to a masked ball to celebrate.’
‘What? But your father …’ Henry stopped himself before he said too much; before he added hates you, to the end of the sentence.
Daisy laughed bitterly. ‘Yes. You’re correct. He won’t usually tolerate me anywhere near his presence. I can only think he has a plan afoot to find me a man and make me respectable.’
Henry’s world shifted. This was something he had never considered happening before. Daisy had, in his mind always been his responsibility and always would be. He had refused to contemplate anything else.
‘No,’ he said, without thinking. ‘I can’t …’ He stopped again and looked down at his hat. His knuckles were white as he crushed the brim of it, trying to stop himself telling Daisy what he thought, what he felt.
‘I know, Henry.’ Her voice was soft and she put her hand on his wrist. ‘That’s why I want you to come with me.’