The Girl in the Painting

by Kirsty Ferry

  ‘What?’ He looked up sharply. Her eyes looked huge and quite scared. He felt a rush of love for her and a vital need to protect her at all costs.

  ‘I want you to come. I want you to look after me when I’m there. Goodness only knows what he has planned for me. And I don’t think I can cope without … well. Without certain things.’

  Henry didn’t dare think that she actually meant him – but he didn’t know what she did mean.

  ‘And besides.’ And there it was; one of her sudden and inexplicable shifts of emotion. She was smiling now, her voice bright and cheerful. ‘I am to be Ophelia. I need you to come with me into town so I can get the costume made up. I want to look exactly like her.’ Then a flirtatious note crept in. She tilted her head to one side and twisted a curl around her finger. Her hair looked very red today and she suited it loose, thought Henry, momentarily distracted. ‘I’ll be a beautiful Ophelia, won’t I, Henry? You know I’ll make the perfect Ophelia. You just have to help me. You will, won’t you? You’ll help me, Henry, won’t you? I need to do a little shopping in town as well, just to get stocked up on essentials for my trip. Are you busy now?’

  Henry shook his head, robbed of speech and excuses as he looked at her. She was as excited as a child at Christmas.

  ‘Good. Wait for me one minute. We’ll go now.’ She leaned into him again and put her hands either side of his face. He couldn’t breathe, thinking of the fact her lips were only inches away from his. It would be the work of a moment – all it would take would be … ‘I’ll be a beautiful Ophelia. The best Ophelia ever. Just wait and see,’ she said, breaking the spell. She dropped her hands from his face and clasped them together instead. Her eyes were sparkling now, the thoughts and fantasies of the dress clearly whirling around her head. ‘Let’s go right now,’ she finished and stood up.

  She was true to her word. She took barely a minute to call a maid, get her outdoor cloak ready and prepare to leave.

  ‘Come on, Henry!’ she called from the front door. ‘Let’s go and get provisions for this wonderful party!’

  Henry had no choice but to follow her.

  Chapter Forty

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  SUSSEX, JUNE, 1856

  Daisy stood in the corner of the ballroom watching the guests whirl by her in all sorts of ridiculous costumes. Despite the masks, she could tell who almost each and every person was.

  Her father lorded it over them all, moving around the floor, enjoying the attention being bestowed upon him. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. He hadn’t come near her, of course, but that didn’t stop her wondering who he had decided to foist upon her as a potential mate.

  A highwayman went past with a giggling milkmaid, followed by Henry VIII and one of his many wives. She didn’t know which wife the woman was supposed to be portraying but she still had her head attached to her body, so that was something at least.

  Daisy sighed loudly and turned her attention to the drinks tray, which was being proffered by a footman. She took a large glass of wine and pressed herself further into the shadows as she added a few drops of tincture from a bottle she had hidden in her purse. Her hand shook a little as she tipped the bottle up and more liquid than she anticipated went into the glass. She shrugged her shoulders, not really caring, and, turning back to face the ballroom, took a dainty sip.

  ‘Miss Ashford.’ She looked up at Mozart or Beethoven or some musician she didn’t recognise and blinked.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you not know me?’ asked the musician.

  She looked at his ridiculous wig and his pale blue and silver breeches and her eyes settled on the pocket watch at his waistcoat.

  Then she looked at his hands. ‘Give me your hand, sir,’ she said, leaning forwards and holding her own hand out. The man gave her his hand and she took it. She held it in her own for a moment and ran her fingers up and down his long, slim ones. She pressed her thumb into the soft pad at the base of his thumb and turned his hand over so it was palm up. She leaned forward again and, keeping hold of his hand, she led him over to a large candelabra. She examined his hand some more in the pool of flickering light. ‘Ha!’ She gave a shout of glee and squeezed his hand. ‘You, my friend, are an artist. I know this type of hand well. Now, let me see.’ She let go of his hand and pressed her fingertip to her chin, tilting her head to one side and looking at him coyly. ‘Are you Mr Rossetti?’

  The man laughed quietly. ‘I wish. No, I am not Mr Rossetti.’

  Daisy felt a little prick of disappointment, then she quickly rallied. ‘Mr Millais? Really! You’ve come here to see me dress as Ophelia? To echo your wonderful painting?’

  ‘Nor am I Mr Millais,’ said the man, laughing again. ‘Miss Ashford, you’re teasing me. Don’t you recognise me?’ He made as if to take his mask off and Daisy flapped her hand in front of him.

  ‘No – no, don’t remove it yet. Let me have one more guess. Just one more guess.’ She held up her forefinger and waggled it. ‘One more. Please.’

  ‘Very well. One more guess,’ said the man. There was an amused note to his voice. ‘Then that is your last chance.’

  Daisy pouted. ‘Spoilsport,’ she said. ‘However, I shall guess correctly this time. Hmmm – let me think …’

  ‘Don’t think too long,’ said the man.

  ‘Do not hurry me!’ said Daisy. ‘Ha! I have it. I know you … it’s Mr Madox Brown. No! Mr Hunt. No! Mr Hughes … No!’ She laughed. ‘Oh, very well. Mr Dawson. It’s you.’

  ‘The very same,’ said Henry. He lifted his hand to take his mask off and this time Daisy did not stop him. She sighed a little, wishing it really had been one of the Brotherhood. How perfect that would have been. Still. She perked up a little. Now Henry was here, he could keep her company; and maybe get her another drink. She realised with an element of surprise that her glass was empty. She looked at it for a second then held it out to Henry.

  ‘Would you?’ she asked. ‘Please?’

  ‘Oh. Certainly.’ Henry frowned as he took the glass. ‘I’ll have to find a footman. Will you wait here while I go on my quest, fair lady?’ He bowed, theatrically.

  Daisy laughed. ‘Now you are the tease. Henry, does my father know you are here? Amongst the guests?’

  ‘I expect so,’ replied Henry, sounding a little surprised. ‘He knows I came here to look after you. Although I don’t think he knows what my costume was going to be. Still,’ he said with a sigh, looking at the men waltzing their partners around, ‘we are all of an equal rank when we are dressed as we are tonight. I too could be a lord or a sir or someone of importance.’ He smiled. ‘Never mind, I am perfectly happy just to be here and to chaperone you. Not that I think you need it.’

  ‘That’s good. I don’t want you to leave my side, Henry, do you understand? I cannot be bothered with all of these people and if you are near me …’ she paced her fingers up his waistcoat and fiddled with the chain of the pocket watch, ‘then nobody will approach me. You are the best chaperone I could hope for. But, no, I shan’t be waiting here. I shall be outside, I think. I need some air.’

  ‘Yes, your cheeks are a little red,’ said Henry, with concern. ‘Are you quite well?’

  ‘I’m perfectly well,’ said Daisy; although Henry was starting to blur a little around the edges and suddenly the music was coming from very far away. ‘I just need a little fresh air. I will see you on the terrace.’

  She felt herself stumble and Henry reached out to hold her elbow and steady her. She knew it wasn’t just fresh air she needed. Some of her tincture would take those feelings away, just like it always did. It would calm her breathing and settle her nerves. But she didn’t have time to wait for another glass of wine; it would have to come from the bottle.

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the door. ‘On the terrace. Just hurry, will you?’

  ‘I’ll be as fast as I can. Are you sure you don’t want me to escort you outside first?’

  ‘No!’ She r
ealised, as Henry looked shocked and involuntarily stepped away from her, that she had been rather loud. ‘No.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m sorry. It’s the heat. I will see you outside.’ She turned and weaved her way out of the ballroom, banging into several couples and making a few more falter in their steps to avoid her as she headed, single-mindedly to the door.

  She didn’t care what they thought of her. She never had. But she needed that tincture and she needed it now. Thank God she still had some left in the bottle; and several more bottles secreted away upstairs for the rest of the interminable stay at the ancestral home.

  Henry managed to collect two crystal glasses full of wine and followed Daisy outside. He, however, walked carefully around the edge of the dance floor, holding the glasses a sensible distance away from the guests.

  He had seen Daisy’s less than elegant exit and heard the tuts and comments made as she left the room. Remembering his usual station, he had bitten down his retorts with great difficulty, especially when he heard Mr Ashford – the worst offender – call his daughter ‘a disgusting, drunken, trollop’. Daisy might be a lot of things, but as far as Henry was concerned, she had done nothing to warrant any of those titles.

  She was anything but drunk. She was tired and hot and probably very stressed. And to be honest, if Mr Ashford was trying to introduce her to a man to make her ‘respectable’, as Daisy had told him, the last thing Mr Ashford should be doing was to call his daughter those sorts of names in polite society. He was labelling the girl as damaged goods before she’d even had the chance to shine. And she would have shone, Henry knew that. She was what, twenty-six now? A woman in her prime. Henry, on the other side of thirty, found her captivating; even more so here, when she was clearly in need of rescuing from the horrific Mr Ashford and his stuffy, self-obsessed crowd of hangers-on.

  Henry felt himself colour; he shouldn’t really think such thoughts, he knew that, but what else could he do? If it was up to him, he would sweep Daisy off her feet and take her back to London. They would live out their days happily together and …

  Henry stopped suddenly. He was on the terrace now, and, laid out before him in the formal gardens was the grand lake. There was a small jetty and a boathouse at the shore, and the full moon reflected starkly in the black water. Tiny, glittering pinpricks studded the lake surface, identical twins of the stars up above. And on the lakeside, was a ghostly figure, shimmering in the moonlight as it walked amongst the reeds.

  ‘Daisy?’ Henry recognised, even from this distance, the flowing hair and the silvery Ophelia dress. Her hands held up the heavy skirts delicately and she was now picking her way out towards the water, pushing her way through the foliage. ‘Daisy!’ Henry shouted her name and the girl stopped for a second, looking around her. Then she pressed forwards again.

  Henry swore and, slamming the glasses onto the stone balustrade that edged the terrace, he started running towards the apparition. ‘Daisy!’ He saw her step into the water and hesitate a moment, before dropping the skirts. They billowed up around her ankles and then her calves, then her thighs – she was going in deeper, walking steadily and determinedly into the centre of the lake. ‘Daisy!’

  Now he was on the grassy bank himself – not too far until he reached her, not too far until he managed to grab her and stop her from going out any further. Surely the heat hadn’t been that bad? So bad she needed cooling down so completely by wandering into the lake?

  The dress was slowing her down, thank God. She had stopped and was looking around her. Henry was in the reeds, feeling the ground give beneath him between tussocks of boggy grass. He called out her name once more, throwing off the wig and the heavy brocade waistcoat – as if that would make it easier to swim.

  Then – but for months afterwards, he could never swear that what he had seen actually happened – she turned to her right, threw her arms into the air and seemingly launched herself backwards into the black water.

  Daisy fell back into the water, closing her eyes. It was freezing; bitterly cold, and she was soaked through. The weight of the dress was dragging her down and there was a current of sorts. It was pulling her downstream, she was floating away.

  She could feel her body shutting down bit by bit. Her toes were frozen, her hands were numb. Her neck felt as if icy fingers were crawling up it, spreading out to the roots of her hair, which was itself being slapped around by the water and floating outwards like a halo. She opened her eyes as the shock permeated her skull and saw the stars and the moon above her, smiling down on her.

  She was Ophelia. She was Lizzie. She was invincible.

  There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts. There’s fennel for you, and columbines …

  ‘Daisy!’

  No. That was wrong. Daisies didn’t come into it until much later …

  There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me.

  ‘I’m coming for you, Daisy. Hold on. I’ll save you.’

  We may call it ‘herb of grace’ o’ Sundays.—Oh, you must wear your rue with a difference.

  ‘Daisy!’

  That’s right. Now it’s a daisy. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all …

  Strong hands grabbed her under her armpits and she gasped, flailing against the arms and kicking uselessly as the fabric of the dress wrapped around her ankles and tried to drag her down into the water.

  ‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You waded out too far. I’ve got you.’

  Daisy wanted to shout at the top of her lungs: No! No! I didn’t. I’m Ophelia. Look at me! But her voice just wouldn’t work. Suddenly, she became aware of the fact that her teeth were chattering and her nose was running and her eyes were stinging. And she was cold. So cold. So very cold.

  She found her voice. ‘C-c-c-cold … so c-c-c-c-cold …’

  ‘I know, I know. I’ve got you now. You slipped. You tried to cool down and you slipped. It’s all right. You’re safe now.’

  The voice was Henry’s – forever reassuring her, always there to catch her when she fell. Dear Henry. Dear, dear Henry.

  ‘Henry? Help m-m-me. I’m c-c-c-c-old.’

  ‘Come on, now, let’s get you to the side.’

  She opened her eyes and focussed on him. The silly wig was gone, and it was truly Henry she saw there; Henry with his fair hair plastered darkly to his head and his white shirt clinging to his body. She gave herself up to him and closed her eyes again. It was Henry who had rescued her, nobody else. She allowed herself to be stood upright and half-guided, half-dragged to the shore, where she collapsed in the reeds, coughing and spluttering and shaking.

  ‘We’ll get you into the house. Can you walk? Are you steady, Daisy? Daisy?’

  She couldn’t answer him, so she didn’t. She lay on the ground and let the world dissolve around her again. It was black and calm and peaceful and … a jolt as she was lifted up and hoisted into his arms. She nestled into him and he carried her away from the water and towards the house. She felt the gentle rocking motion as he walked and he murmured nonsense to her, telling her to stay awake and telling her they’d be safe soon.

  Her mind slipped away before they reached the house and much after that was a blur. She didn’t know how long she’d stayed at the house; she knew they’d taken a carriage home to London even before she could bear her own weight. But the strangest thing was, she had heard a voice, exactly like her father’s, saying he would have to add ‘insane’ to her list of character traits.

  She didn’t really care. He had said something about ‘no longer my daughter’ and ‘staying away from me’ as well. And, actually, that made her very happy.

  But she’d heard another voice too; one that whispered to her urgently in her darkest moments and one she couldn’t quite place.

  I won’t leave you, Daisy. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again, I promise. I want to look after you for the rest of your life. And I swear
to you, on my life, that I never break my promises.

  She wondered if it was Dante.

  Chapter Forty-One

  THREE YEARS LATER

  BLACKFRIARS, LONDON, 1859

  To Daisy’s eternal disgust, she recovered remarkably well from the incident at her father’s party. Initially, she languished in her bedroom in her London home, feeling truly like Lizzie.

  However, when she ran out of her tincture, she did seem to make a speedy recovery and manage to travel alone, in her carriage, to the pharmacists, to top up her supplies.

  There was also initial concern that her heart had been weakened by the exposure, but that was proven to be a false concern. Her lungs in the end were also discovered to be healthy; there was no disease at all. Henry, of course, was a constant visitor throughout those weeks of malady – and beyond. He was relieved his actions had saved her life – even if they had not saved her reputation, her family name and potentially her inheritance.

  It was also through Henry that Daisy discovered, quite a long while after that unfortunate lakeside incident, that Lizzie had left the country.

  Daisy often wondered, rather obsessively, when Lizzie would be coming back. She had heard that Lizzie and Dante had argued extensively, and that, combined with Lizzie’s own ill-health, had necessitated a trip to the continent. Oh, how she identified with the redheaded muse now! Illness would certainly put a strain on one’s temperament, as well as one’s companion’s temperament – although Henry, the closest thing she had to a companion, had been so patient with her and she was awfully grateful. Daisy had also heard that a woman called Fanny Cornforth, a woman of a lower class and even lower morals, had solicited poor Dante on the street and he was finding solace in her. That was simply unacceptable. He was engaged to Lizzie and should act accordingly.

  Henry, that wonderful font of information, had also told her that Mr James Leathart had commissioned Dante to finish a painting and that Fanny woman had been depicted in it as a prostitute. Daisy sniffed. She was obviously well matched for that picture, then; but she knew in her heart of hearts that she, Daisy, would be a far better model for him. She really wasn’t a prostitute herself, but didn’t she have red hair?