The Girl in the Painting

by Kirsty Ferry

  ‘Dear, sweet, Henry. I know I’m naughty, I know I can be a terrible trial to you but … I can’t help it.’ She lifted her hand and flicked a swathe of hair over her shoulder. She stood, framed in the doorway, her eyes glittering, looking at him. She plucked a flower out of a display on a small hallway table and held it between her thumb and forefinger, twisting it thoughtfully. ‘Rossetti painted a portrait of Lizzie standing like this, you know,’ she said. ‘He called it Regina Cordium. And he did it just after they were married last year. Isn’t that beautiful? It means “Queen of Hearts”. Only Lizzie is holding a pansy.’ She looked down at the flower in her hand and frowned. ‘A pansy means “thought”, and it means Dante was thinking about Lizzie and she was simply occupying his mind. All the time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Henry, not really seeing at all.

  ‘Henry, do you think you could paint a picture of me?’

  Henry wanted to tell her that he already had dozens of small books filled with pictures of her; from her being a petulant adolescent, through to a young lady, right up until the present – when she was a self-assured, sensual woman.

  Instead, he pressed the palms of his hands against his thighs and took a moment to collect himself. ‘I would very much like to paint a picture of you,’ he replied. ‘You know you only have to say the word and I would do it.’

  ‘I think I would love being a model again.’ A frown flitted across her face, as if she was remembering something painful. ‘Only this time it would be different.’

  ‘When have you modelled before?’ Henry’s voice was sharper than he meant it to be. What was it to him, whether she modelled or not? And why should it matter to him, a person in paid employment to her, whoever the hell she modelled for anyway?

  ‘Oh! Yes. I’ve done it before. One of my little adventures; the sort that nobody ever gets to hear about.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘No matter. It was an experience.’ She smiled again and tucked the flower behind her ear. She held her hand out. ‘Come. See what I have prepared. You’ve distracted me long enough.’

  Henry paused for a moment and took her hand, knowing that on some level this was far too familiar. But what Daisy wanted, Daisy usually got. And she clearly wanted to hold his hand.

  Daisy led him into the dining room and stood back to let him see what she had concocted. The table was laid for two people, with a candelabrum in the middle of it; shooting crystal sparks off the wine glasses. The cutlery was silver, polished so it reflected the candlelight a thousand fold and another fire was blazing in the hearth.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked.

  ‘Daisy! This is … this is wrong. I’m your tutor. Your father pays me. I teach you to draw.’

  ‘No, Henry, you’re more than that,’ said Daisy. ‘You’re a good friend. You look after me. You do not judge me. Why, I could almost love you.’ Again, she tilted her head and smiled. ‘Take a seat, Henry.’

  Speechless, Henry held out a chair for Daisy, then walked to the other one himself. A maid materialised and ladled some soup into his bowl.

  He watched the maid disappear, and eventually he found his voice. ‘I don’t understand, Daisy,’ he said. ‘This is—’

  ‘Sssssh. Shush.’ Daisy put her fingertip to her lip. ‘Don’t spoil it. Come now. Eat.’

  Henry ate the soup mechanically, but he didn’t taste it. He was too busy looking at Daisy through the shadows.

  Daisy toyed with a few spoonfuls, but didn’t seem to eat any. ‘Is it good, Henry?’ she asked. ‘Here – pour the wine. Soup always tastes better with wine.’

  Henry stood up quickly, leaning over the table and pouring her some wine. His own glass was half full, but soon hers was empty. Her eyes were soft in the candlelight, her lips rosy and inviting. Henry’s hand shook a little as he filled her glass again and he spilled some on the linen.

  Daisy laughed. ‘No matter,’ she said. She dipped the tip of her finger in the ruby red pool and held it out to him. ‘It’s a shame to waste it,’ she said. ‘Take it. No?’ She laughed. ‘Then I will have it.’ She popped her finger in her mouth and sucked the liquid off it, never taking her eyes off him. Henry didn’t know where to look, so he looked at her.

  It wasn’t long before another maid brought the next course. And then the next course came. And then Henry realised that it was time for dessert and all he had done was stare at Daisy and eat very little. Daisy had eaten even less; but there were three empty wine bottles on the table and he really didn’t think he had had more than two small glassfuls of the stuff. But he must have done.

  Later on as they sat on the sofa with more wine, Henry looked at the woman he – yes – the woman he loved. ‘Daisy, I have to thank you for this,’ he said, formally. Too formally. He didn’t want the evening to end, but he knew it had to. It was probably a decent time to make his excuses and go. ‘I’ve never been entertained like this before and I appreciate it. Thank you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Tomorrow, if I may, I will call on you and instead of us concentrating on your art, I would very much like to do some sketches of you. Some proper sketches.’ His face coloured as he thought of all the small books at home, filled with her image. ‘And then, once we have agreed on the structure, I would like to paint your portrait.’

  Daisy laughed. ‘Of course you may do some sketches. It will be my pleasure. But I have to ask you, Henry, why you feel you need permission to call on me?’

  Henry stood up. If he sat next to her any longer, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Unfortunately, Daisy stood up as well. And damn, she was close to him.

  She swayed slightly and giggled. Henry put his hand out to catch her arm and she leaned towards him, pressing her weight against him so his chin was level with the top of her head. Her hair tickled him and she was warm and smelled oh, so sweet and enticing. She reached up and steadied herself by holding onto his shoulder. Then her hand crept around to his back, and she pulled him closer.

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ she said, nuzzling into his neck, her hand now tugging gently at his collar. ‘Make love to me, Henry.’

  ‘Daisy! I can’t – your father employs me.’ Dear Lord! Her closeness to him, her soft hands playing with his hair, the feeling of her next to his skin …

  ‘My father will never find out,’ she whispered. ‘This is my house. I can do what I like.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a faint hint of alcohol on her breath as she moved closer and pressed her lips onto his. He resisted at first, but she drew him closer and her kisses became more urgent.

  Henry was lost; he could do nothing but respond. He pulled her to him and covered her face, her neck, and her shoulders with kisses. So long! For so long, he had been desperate to do this. Instinct took over from reason and he swept her up in his arms.

  Daisy giggled, a delicious, musical sound, and latched her arms around his neck. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked.

  He didn’t need to think twice about the double entendre. ‘Wherever I can,’ he said, roughly.

  ‘Upstairs. Take me to my room. We won’t be disturbed in there.’ She laughed. ‘But take me there quickly.’

  ‘As fast as I can, my love,’ said Henry, his heart thumping in his chest. He shouldered the door and carried her upstairs. She was so light in his arms. Layers and layers of her petticoats crushed against his body and hampered his movements, but he didn’t care.

  ‘Here it is. This is my room,’ she said as he paused outside a huge white door with a Greek cornice above it.

  ‘I know. God, how well I know that!’ he said, and they both laughed.

  ‘Oh, Henry. I’m so naughty,’ she said. ‘Please forgive me.’

  ‘You can do nothing wrong, my love,’ he said. He somehow managed to open the door and stepped inside the room. He kicked his foot back, slamming the door shut and carried her over to the bed. He laid her gently on it like a prize, smoothing her skirts out around her. ‘Let me look at you,’ he said. ‘Just let me look at you.’

  She
tilted her head back and carefully bent her arms, flinging them out to the sides, her hands curling into loose fists. She closed her eyes and her hair flowed over the white pillowcase like lava.

  Henry heard a groan and he realised it was coming from him. ‘You are beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘Am I a stunner?’ she asked, teasingly. ‘Am I?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Am I as beautiful as Lizzie Siddal?’ she asked.

  ‘More so.’

  ‘You’re not my first, Henry. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t care tuppence.’

  ‘That’s good. Neither do I,’ she replied.

  Then Daisy opened her eyes and stared right at him. It was like a current vibrated through him. She raised her arms and linked them around his neck. Then, in one sudden movement, she pulled him towards her. He was surprised at her strength, at her urgency.

  But he let himself be taken down and then he thanked his lucky stars that fortuitous night that he was Henry Dawson and nobody else.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  TEN MONTHS LATER

  KENSINGTON, FEBRUARY 11th, 1862

  Daisy sat in front of her dressing table mirror, staring at herself, trying to take in the news. A sea of flickering candles reflected in the glass, creating shadows in the room that seemed to mock her. It was all over London already; the fact that Lizzie was dead. The official story was that she had died, early this morning, as a result of an accidental overdose of laudanum. Daisy wasn’t so sure; there had also been talk of a suicide note.

  Henry had told her the news and she had cried. Then Henry had to leave her to do a silly commission, and he had hated leaving her – he really had. But he told her he would come straight back afterwards. He would be here at three. He had promised her he would back.

  The last time Daisy had seen her, Lizzie had been miserable. She had looked dreadful; she was thinner than ever and her whole body seemed wracked with pain. She knew she had lost the baby she was carrying just after they had that awful argument and she kept trying to find ways to help her and support her. Lizzie was so horribly depressed; she could barely leave the house at times. Daisy knew this, because stories spread like wildfire in the wonderful artistic circles she moved in with Henry.

  And she herself had waited for Lizzie to come outside and talk to her; she had waited ever so long until one day she eventually spotted Lizzie, trailing along the street looking rather haggard, clutching a paper-wrapped package in her hand. Poor Lizzie! She had taken it out on Daisy when she showed her concern; Lizzie had shrieked at her and accused her of being obsessive. She had called her a monomaniac and told her that she deserved to be in a sanatorium.

  Painfully remembering all this, Daisy took a huge, shuddering sob and picked up her pen. Slowly, she began to write, the nib forming the words, but Daisy herself barely aware of what she was even writing.

  Lizzie is dead. That is all. I cannot bring myself to comment further. Dante is broken-hearted. I went to him, of course, and tried to offer my condolences, but he was inconsolable. Oh, Lizzie, what have you done? What have you done to both of us? To all of us? There is nothing further I can do and the path I must take is now quite clear. I have always aspired to be like you, Lizzie, you know that. I looked up to you like a sister. We have been through so much together. I have accompanied you on your journey, and now your journey has ended. I hope it was peaceful. I know you left Dante a letter, I know he is still protecting you. He always will. He is a good man. And Lizzie – I pray to God that He shall rest your soul. We will meet again, I am sure, and we will once again be the great friends we were. Goodbye, my love, my sister. Goodbye.

  Daisy put down the pen and looked around the room. She had cried until she could cry no more. And Dante – he hadn’t wanted her sympathy. He hadn’t wanted her. She had gone there, gone to Chatham Place after Henry had told her. The others had left. She knew – she had been waiting until they drifted away. And then she had hammered on the door. He hadn’t even answered. She had pressed her face against the windowpane, calling his name, trying to find a gap in the curtains; trying to see something. But there was nothing. The curtains were firmly closed, shutting her out. Well. Lizzie had really done it this time. Daisy sat up straighter.

  Already more stories were filtering through about the Rossetti’s – the fact they had been out for the evening with the Swinburne’s, the fact Lizzie had been drowsy whilst she was there. They’d gone home, he’d gone out, and he returned to find Lizzie beyond help. Despite four physicians being called, Lizzie had died. Daisy rammed her knuckles into her mouth to stop the screams that threatened to erupt. She bit down onto her hand until she broke the skin and tasted blood, but it didn’t make her feel any better. And there was due to be an inquest tomorrow. They all had to relive it again.

  ‘Henry,’ she whispered, taking her fist away from her mouth. ‘Oh, Henry. What would you do, if it were me?’ Her eyes filled with tears again. Would he be able to continue? Would he fight to save her life? The thoughts were exquisite, her imaginings beyond romantic.

  He would, she was sure, do everything in his power to save her and if he couldn’t; oh, he would mourn her. He would mourn her so very much. Yet it was so, so frustrating that she hadn’t even been able to conceive and really experience Lizzie’s emotions – and it was not for want of trying. Dear Henry. These past few months had been delightful. She glanced over to the portrait he had finished a little while ago, and, to her mind, she looked an awful lot like Lizzie. As she stared at the painting, a different picture began to form in her own mind.

  He will find me here, in my bed. The room is dark and the patterns on the wallpaper do not show in this February dusk. And I am so, so sorry that he has to find me. He shouts and I hear him thundering up the staircase.

  He calls for me: ‘Daisy! Daisy!’ I cannot move. My body is weak and frail beneath the weight of the blankets. My breathing is shallow.

  ‘Please, let me sleep,’ I want to tell him. No more pain. Let me sleep, my love, let me sleep… The door into the room slams. I know it is him, but I cannot bear to open my eyes. I am so tired. So very tired. He calls my name again.

  Then he screams ‘No!’ over and over again. Hands seize me; he shakes me, he pulls me out of the bed, hoisting me upwards, calling to me all the time. I flop around like a rag doll, my head lolls to one side. I don’t want to open my eyes. I can’t open my eyes. He slips away from me and all is silent…

  It would be so beautiful.

  Daisy stared at her reflection again. Henry would. He would try and save her. He would be here at three. He had promised her. He had never let her down; never.

  Carefully, deliberately, she loosened the pins in her hair. She watched it fall down past her shoulders, in rippling waves like Lizzie’s had done. Oh, Lizzie. Her eye caught the small phial on the dressing table next to her.

  It was almost time. He would be here soon and he would save her.

  She would be like Lizzie once again; almost identically like Lizzie. Henry would come. He would come and find her and it would be so beautiful.

  Does one refer to this as a tisane or a tincture? I do not know. The names and the meanings escape me now. I believe tisanes are made with natural, herbal ingredients, but then so is this. Does it truly matter?

  She slowly untied the ribbons of her robe, slipping it off her shoulders and exposing the creamy white of her skin. The shadows were dark in the hollows where her collarbone jutted out and she smiled. Her arms, oh so slender, were just as Lizzie’s had been. Her face, she was pleased to notice, had developed that wonderful cheekbone structure Lizzie had. Her nose, however, disappointed her. It was nothing like Lizzie’s. Lizzie’s was aquiline and elegant. Hers, though, was small and turned up slightly at the end.

  She let the robe fall to the floor and reached out for the bottle, pleased to see how her wrists were so defined and that the skin which was pulled tight across her hands was almost translucent. The whiteness
of her bones and the blue of her veins showed clearly through the flesh.

  Oh, Lizzie.

  She took the bottle and uncorked it, putting it to her mouth.

  Oh, Henry.

  She drank.

  Oh, Dante.

  Yes. It would be so beautiful …

  Part Three

  Chapter Forty-Five

  TOLWORTH, LONDON, MAY

  It almost felt as if someone was holding her hand and guiding her down towards the river.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to do it this way. I need you to be here.’

  Cori heard the voice but there was nobody with her. She was standing in a field with the riverbank a little way in front of her. She had no recollection of getting here, but she was aware she was holding something in her hand. She looked down and saw a set of car keys, with a Tate Britain key ring attached to them. Her stomach heaved as she realised who they must belong to.

  Oh God, I’ve turned into a car thief now as well!. Her granny would be absolutely mortified, she thought.

  ‘Corisande!’ The voice was curt. She recognised it now; it was Daisy. ‘What are you waiting for?’ Daisy continued. ‘Before anyone else comes, I want to show you where John painted the background. It was all done “en plein air”. He told me that he was in danger of being blown by the wind into the water, and becoming intimate with the feelings of Ophelia.’ She laughed again. ‘Dear John, he was such a joker, he …’

  Something tugged at the back of Cori’s mind. She had heard those words before. Hadn’t Simon told her there was a letter? Hadn’t Millais written to someone? A lady? A lady who was married to one of his patrons …

  Then she remembered. ‘Martha. Martha Combe,’ said Cori. ‘She got that letter.’

  ‘No!’ said Daisy. ‘I knew all about it before she did. He wrote to me as well. But it was her copy everybody talks about. I don’t know what happened to mine. Such a lot of things got lost.’