The Girl in the Painting

by Kirsty Ferry

  That Fanny woman had red hair, but Daisy was far more like Lizzie than she was, especially after her own terrible, wasting illness; she had suffered so badly two, three years ago was it now? She couldn’t really remember. But still. If Lizzie was away, then she was obviously the best-placed person to model for Dante. Hadn’t she modelled for John? She smiled, remembering it, remembering how cold she had felt that day and how warming the medicine had been afterwards. She had been out for her medicine today, in fact. She had sent the carriage home half an hour ago, telling the driver she would walk a little. She felt a little faint and wished to clear her head.

  ‘Will I call by on Mr Dawson, miss?’ the driver had asked, expressionless as always. He was, Daisy knew, used to calling on Mr Dawson for strange, unrelated incidents that she suddenly needed Henry for.

  ‘Not today,’ she answered. ‘Today I will be quite all right on my own.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Ashford,’ replied the driver and headed off. So Daisy had put her head down, felt the comforting solidness of the bottle in her hand, and walked.

  Oh, and my goodness me, here she was on Blackfriars Bridge, just a stone’s throw from 14 Chatham Place; Dante’s new home and studio. Well, now, if she just sat here for a few minutes, then maybe Dante would come out and find her.

  Or maybe she would just have to solicit him herself.

  In the end, it was longer than a few minutes. It had been a few hours. But he had come to her eventually.

  It was all a bit of a blur, if she was honest. She had her bottle of tincture with her, of course, just to relax her; but she must have taken a little too much. She hadn’t eaten either, so the effects were much stronger than usual. But she had no appetite and hadn’t been sleeping well, so it was a blessing that she had ended up in such a relaxed, wonderful stupor.

  She remembered singing softly to herself and quoting some of her favourite poems to make the time pass more quickly. Then she had sensed someone bending over her and trying to help her to her feet. She had laughed and murmured something about being just like that painting Dante was working on. The person had touched her hair and whispered something to her, then she had felt them scoop her up in their arms. It felt just like when Henry had rescued her from the lake at her father’s house. She had closed her eyes and rested her head against their chest, feeling once again the calming rocking motion as they walked. She had come round briefly inside a building, but drifted away again after she felt herself laid on a couch.

  And it seemed to be a good while later when she found herself in a carriage, on her way back home. She had practically crawled up the stairs into her bedroom and lain straight down on her bed, where she had drifted off again.

  Her dreams had been incredible. She remembered snatches of conversation, laughing and joking. She remembered soft touches and warm kisses, and she remembered the feeling of near completeness as she kissed him and set off on her way home.

  When her head cleared and she felt stronger, she pulled out her journal and picked up a pen.

  Lizzie has not yet returned from France. None of us have heard from her, yet Dante is convinced she will return. I am not so sure. I have been suffering these last few days, and Dante, being such a good man, has looked after me in his own unique way. Whilst I was staying with him, he painted me; it is not much more than a sketch at the moment but he humoured me. I asked him to make the portrait special, to make it just for me, and he laughed and he did so. I was reluctant to return home, but I could not impose upon him any longer. If only he would write a poem about me as well, I think my life would be quite complete!

  Chapter Forty-Two

  TWO YEARS LATER

  BLACKFRIARS, LONDON, APRIL, 1861

  Lizzie and Dante had been married on the 23rd of May, 1860, in St Clement’s Church, Hastings, of all places. Daisy was extremely annoyed that she had missed it.

  Apparently, it had been a quiet sort of wedding. They had, so the rumour-mongers said, asked a couple of strangers to be their witnesses. The rumour-mongers also had it that Dante had only married Lizzie as he feared she was close to death. Lizzie had been so frail, poor girl, that she had been carried to the church. Well, she had been convalescing at Hastings, Daisy thought. So clearly she was never going to be strong during that period.

  Daisy remembered the stony beaches and the warm seas of the Sussex coast well; that being the area she had spent many, many summers during her girlhood. It was a wonderful place to regain one’s health – she was annoyed she hadn’t thought of convalescing there herself after her ‘Terrible Illness’. Henry could have accompanied her. She and Lizzie could have sat together on the beach, drawing or sewing or simply taking in the air together. They could have kept one another company. But anyway, it was only a hop, skip and a jump from Hastings across the Channel to France, and Dante had taken Lizzie there for a honeymoon. Daisy thought it was wildly romantic. She made a mental note to ask Henry to escort her to Paris at some point as well. He would love to paint the city, she was positive.

  She had already made Henry visit Hastings with her earlier that month. It had been a warm beginning to April and Henry had agreed to accompany her, then he had surprised her with a picnic at Fairlight Downs. She smiled at the memory. Then she frowned. He had of course made her paint the place before she was allowed to even open the picnic basket. Sometimes, Henry took his role as art tutor too seriously.

  Not that either of their pictures matched the standard of William’s, of course. The critics had complained, Henry told her, that William’s picture had too much contrast in it. So, as if to prove her allegiance to her friends in the Brotherhood, Daisy ensured the grassland in her painting was much, much darker than the sky, which she then washed with the lightest of blues and refused to add anything else to it.

  She had watched in some surprise as the watercolour sky ran messily into the dark grassland beside it and bled into the outlines. It was a dreadful muddle, but she had declared that it was raining that day and her painting, in her opinion, was delightful and revolutionary. Henry had looked at it and agreed. She had wondered if he was teasing her, but his face was terribly innocent and in the end, they’d both ended up laughing.

  It had been a lovely trip.

  But now, nearly a year after the wedding, Daisy had discovered Lizzie was back in London. So day after day, she sat on the rampart of Blackfriars Bridge, dead opposite Chatham Place, where Dante and Lizzie lived. She sometimes thought about the time she had spent in that house and hugged the secret to herself. Dear Henry. He had been beside himself when she reappeared.

  It had been three days, apparently. He was going mad, wondering where she was, and had been walking the streets asking about her. He always showed such concern. She couldn’t tell him where she had been, of course. In the first instance, she wasn’t quite sure herself what had happened; and in the second – well. It was all rather delicious and private, really.

  But today, as with all the other days she’d spent here recently, Daisy had, hidden in her muff, a hip flask full of the tincture. She kept slipping it out and taking a sip, just to calm her nerves while she was waiting for Dante. She cared for Lizzie deeply and this was different to when she had been with him. Good Lord, Lizzie and Dante were married now and marriage vows were sacred. Daisy had to tell him she had heard tales about him and she didn’t know if they were true or not. She hoped they weren’t true; but she wanted to hear it from him.

  The door to their house opened and suddenly Lizzie stepped outside, frail and beautiful as always. Daisy caught her breath. The woman was still elegant, her hair, as always, that silken red waterfall; but her eyes were dead. Her bearing had also changed. She stood awkwardly, Daisy noticed, and looked uncomfortable. One hand brushed against her coat and briefly cradled her stomach. Daisy sat forward and tilted her head to one side. Her own hair, similarly loosened, fell over her shoulders. Surely not? Surely Lizzie wasn’t …?

  She took another large swig from the flask and, unable to help herself,
got to her feet unsteadily. ‘Lizzie! Lizzie! Why didn’t you tell me?’ Daisy shouted. She stumbled across the road. ‘Lizzie!’

  Lizzie snapped her head around and for a moment her eyes remained unfocussed, before they cleared and fixed on Daisy. ‘What in God’s name!?’ ‘What do you want? Why won’t you just leave me alone. asked Lizzie.’ She began to hurry down the street, away from Daisy. ‘Go away!’ she cried. Suddenly she stopped and raised her hand to her mouth, painful-sounding coughs wracking her body as she hung onto a railing to steady herself.

  ‘Lizzie – no. Lizzie, I just wanted you to tell me yourself.’ Daisy caught up with her easily. ‘I’ve heard the rumours, and—’

  ‘Rumours?’ gasped Lizzie, trying to catch her breath. She swung around to face Daisy. ‘What rumours?’ Standing next to her, it was awfully clear Lizzie’s chest was troubling her. Her breathing sounded terrible.

  ‘The rumours that your health is suffering and the fact that Dante—’

  ‘You have no right to talk to me about Dante! You have no right at all,’ shrieked Lizzie. ‘I do not need you to tell me about his lovers.’ She turned abruptly and began to walk back the way she had come, trying in vain, it seemed, to lose Daisy. But Daisy would not be lost.

  ‘Lizzie, I know what will make you feel better,’ she said, desperately. ‘I know what you need. You’re going out to buy some right now, aren’t you? It’s the tincture, Lizzie. Look! I have some. I have some right here.’ She put her hand out and closed it around the top of Lizzie’s arm. Her arm beneath the fabric of her coat felt no sturdier than a green stick. Lizzie tried to shake her off, but Daisy clung more tightly. ‘Here. Look.’ With a flourish she pulled the flask out of her muff, still holding onto Lizzie. ‘There’s no need for you to go and get any. Just let me come inside with you and we can—’

  ‘No!’ Lizzie stopped, but Daisy saw her eyes slide towards the flask. ‘No.’ Her refusal was less emphatic this time. She gave one last little shake of her arm, but Daisy knew she didn’t mean it any more. The strength had all but seeped out of her.

  Daisy smiled at Lizzie and snaked her arm around the woman’s waist. God, the width of her back was tiny! Daisy made a mental note to reduce her food intake even more. She had to aspire to be like Lizzie at all costs.

  ‘Come on. Take some, it’s good for you. And good for the baby as well.’ She had no idea whether it was or not, but it made her feel very happy sometimes, so why wouldn’t it make Lizzie’s baby happy? Oh, how glorious! Dante and Lizzie were to have a child! Daisy smiled at Lizzie.

  ‘I can’t. I shouldn’t,’ said Lizzie, eyeing the bottle. She reached out a hand, then just as suddenly her eyes briefly flashed back to life and she pulled it away. ‘No. Please, go away. I’ve seen you sitting there day after day on the bridge and I’m sick of it.’ Lizzie’s face was beginning to flush and that horrible angry note that Daisy disliked so much was lending a nasty edge to her voice.

  ‘But Lizzie …’ They had stopped outside the house again, Daisy noticed. She felt tears well up in her eyes. ‘I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘You’re not! You’re not helping at all,’ shouted Lizzie. ‘Go away!’ She began to haul herself up the steps back into the house when the door swung open and there he was: Dante, filling the doorframe and glaring at Daisy with those eyes.

  ‘Dante!’ Daisy cried. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased to see you. I was just—’

  ‘For God’s sake, woman!’ shouted the man. He reached out and pulled Lizzie roughly inside. ‘Can’t you see she’s pregnant? And ill?’

  ‘Oh!’ Daisy’s eyes widened and she stood with her hands on her hips. She felt she was swaying a little, but was too angry to care. ‘And that makes it all right for you to have other lovers, does it?’ she challenged him. There! That would show him. She knew all about the stunners; all about Fanny Cornforth and … and … all the others. ‘Dante, even I gave you up when I realised what you felt for Lizzie.’

  ‘Look here …’ Dante appeared to be furious. Daisy should have quailed under his glare, but she found herself staring at him, her mouth slightly open, thinking how magnificent he was and it did something funny to her insides. Lizzie’s head appeared around the corner, her mouth set in a straight line, her eyes looking longingly at the flask Daisy still clutched.

  ‘Let me pass, Dante,’ said Lizzie. She squeezed out of the door and made to head back down towards the street. Daisy knew there was a pharmacist along there who would provide her with the wonderful tincture. But all she could see was Lizzie defying Dante, who had always known what was best for his women.

  So Daisy turned her attention to Lizzie again. ‘Lizzie, darling, I don’t think it’s wise, do you?’ she said, gently. ‘See how upset your poor husband is? I think you should go inside and maybe rest a while.’

  ‘You don’t know my husband. You don’t know anything about any of us,’ said Lizzie. The words were like a knife in Daisy’s heart.

  ‘But, Lizzie. I know your husband almost as well as you do. I modelled for him when you were away, and he said—’

  ‘Dante!’ Lizzie turned to him. ‘Is that right? Is she telling the truth?’ She flung out her arm, pointing at Daisy. ‘Her?’

  ‘I’m sure I cannot recall …’ began Dante.

  ‘You’re lying! You’re lying!’ Lizzie curled her fists into balls and began beating them against his chest. ‘Why do you lie?’ Her body was taken by another wave of lung shattering coughing; instinctively, she stopped pounding Dante’s chest and instead gripped onto his shoulders, choking horribly for her next breath.

  ‘Lizzie!’ Daisy said. She took a step towards her. ‘Please, stop! Can’t you see what you are doing to him? To us all?’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, Lizzie. Here, take this.’ She held the flask out and Lizzie managed to let go of Dante. She turned her eyes to Daisy and made a grab for the flask. Dante’s hand came out of nowhere; he slapped Lizzie’s hand away and knocked the flask out of Daisy’s hand. The flask rolled into the gutter and both women made to dive after it. Dante restrained Lizzie who cried out angrily and began coughing again.

  ‘In! Now!’ the man commanded. This time, he pushed Lizzie into the house and strode in after her, slamming the door shut. Daisy stood up from the gutter, the flask filthy and muddy but safely in her hand.

  Her mouth made a small, indignant ‘O’ shape and she stared at the house a moment longer. ‘Well, now. Fancy that,’ she said. She looked at the flask and wondered for a moment what she was doing with it. Then she opened it up, took a long draught, and staggered away towards home. She knew exactly what was going in her diary when she got into the privacy of her bedroom.

  Dante tells me Lizzie is with child. I am very, very concerned about her. Her recent behaviour towards me has left much to be desired, and I have always, always strived to be friends with her, for Dante’s sake. I do feel, Dear Diary, that she is not entirely stable. I have tried to speak to her about it, to tell her how sad it makes Dante, how sad it makes all of us, and she refuses to listen. What am I to do? I have always aspired to be like Lizzie, to be as wonderful and to be as talented and to be as loved as she is. Why can she not see that she is destroying everything I have built for us? She is not the same girl as she was. We have all changed, myself included, and it breaks my heart to see her like this.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  KENSINGTON, APRIL, 1861

  Henry had been summoned by Daisy that evening. She was sitting in the drawing room, a sketchbook on her knee, filling the page with rows and rows of tiny daisies when he arrived.

  Her hair hung in titian waves, brushed until it shone in the candlelight. The crackling fire brought out all the shades of autumn in it and she wore a pale, silvery-white gown, which reflected in her greenish-blue eyes like moonlight. It looked a lot like that Ophelia dress from that awful masked ball, but God, she was beautiful.

  ‘Henry!’ she said, looking up as he was shown in. ‘How wonderful to see you.’ She laid the book down and stood up, coming tow
ards him with her arms outstretched. ‘I hope you don’t think this is presumptuous, but I wanted to repay you for everything you’ve done for me. Look.’ She indicated the sketchbook. ‘See how my art has improved under all those years of your tuition.’

  Henry dutifully looked at it. The sketches were not executed very well, but then again she had never been the most talented of pupils. ‘Well done, Daisy,’ he said. He knew better than to try and correct her artistic endeavours too much. She thrived more on encouragement. ‘Perhaps next time we can concentrate on the shading of the petals.’

  ‘The shading. Yes. That would be good. I like daisies. They’re my favourite flowers. Are they yours, Henry? Is a daisy your most favourite flower ever?’ She tilted her head coquettishly onto one side and smiled at him.

  Henry swallowed. ‘The daisy is indeed my favourite flower,’ he replied, not quite sure if he was interpreting the context correctly or whether it was simply wishful thinking on his part. ‘You know that. I’ve told you before.’

  ‘Excellent. That’s good to hear.’ She smiled and indicated the door. ‘I’ve prepared a little feast for us. I hope you don’t mind. You’ve been so good to me, and never mentioned any of my little adventures to Papa. For which I am eternally grateful.’ She shook her head, genuinely surprised. ‘I’m so sorry I disappeared that time. You must have been very worried. And I’m sorry I almost died at father’s birthday party. Thank you for rescuing me.’

  ‘Oh, please. You’re safe now and anyway, it isn’t my place to say anything uncomplimentary about you to anybody,’ said Henry. ‘It’s the last thing I would want to do. I mean, not that there is ever anything uncomplimentary to say about you.’ He cursed himself inwardly. He was doing his usual trick of speaking without thinking; but Daisy simply laughed.