The Girl in the Painting

by Kirsty Ferry

  ‘No! No.’ Things started shifting in Cori’s head. ‘No.’ She looked at the river before her and the willows that still trailed their fronds in the water. She imagined the portrait back at the Tate and the classic figure of Lizzie Siddal floating down that very same river.

  It was okay, she had the car keys. She could go. As soon as she worked out where she’d left the car.

  ‘Corisande? Talk to me. You believe me, don’t you?’ Daisy’s voice sounded small and fretful.

  ‘I want to believe you,’ said Cori, turning slowly in a circle, trying to work out where she was. Jeez, she was talking to herself. Truly talking to herself! As well as suffering from phantom laudanum overdoses and hallucinations and … Oh God.

  ‘What happened to you, Daisy?’ Cori asked. She’d never found out, had she? Lissy hadn’t come back to her yet. ‘Where did you go after Lizzie died?’

  Trying to quell the idea that was forming in her head, she turned away from the river and looked back across the field to the gate. She would start walking there. It was fine. Daisy had just wanted to show her Tolworth. It was fine …

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said the girl suddenly. ‘It wasn’t like it should have been.’

  The sharpness of the words was like an arrow, stopping Cori in her tracks. She tried to ignore the voice and fought against turning around to look at that river again. She had a bad feeling about that river and she didn’t like the images that were flitting into her mind.

  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 but the stars and the moon were smiling down on her.

  She took a step towards the gate, trying to fight off the nausea and dizziness that was pressing in all around her. One foot in front of the other, that’s all it would take to get away.

  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…

  One foot in front of the other, back to the gate. Back to the car.

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

  Back to Simon.

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’ said the voice. Cori faltered. It seemed to be coming from right in front of her

  ‘No,’ hissed Cori. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘But you’re not leaving me. You’re coming with me,’ said the voice. ‘I want to show you how it felt. I promised you I’d do that, didn’t I? And I have done. But you need to feel this as well.’

  There was that funny glow again and Cori’s heart started beating faster. There was something rectangular on the ground in front of her. It was the diary, lying open with the pages lifting in the breeze. Cori was pretty certain she hadn’t brought the thing with her – but then again, she couldn’t even recall stealing the car.

  The shape of a girl started to form in the light and Cori had to squint against the brightness. It had to be Daisy. She was wearing that silvery-white dress again and it glowed. Her pale, beautiful face was framed by long, fiery hair, tumbling past her waist.

  ‘Corisande, we both know it’s all true!’ said Daisy. ‘You shouldn’t distrust me. I modelled for them. And I fell in love. And then it all went wrong.’

  The apparition exploded into a ball of light, then the light got sucked away as if a huge black hole was forming in the field by the river.

  The black fog started descending on Cori. She buckled at the knees as the cramps came over her body and the disorientation set in. She could feel herself slipping away and Daisy’s mind taking over again.

  Of course it was all true. It had happened. It was all real. And this was how it was all going to end.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  THE ASHFORD RESIDENCE, KENSINGTON,

  FEBRUARY, 1862

  Cori woke up, her head spinning and her body aching all over. She opened her eyes and squinted at her surroundings.

  It took a moment for her to realise she was in a darkened room with vague shapes of furniture looking even blacker against the gloom. Somehow, she had been found and they had taken her home. That was good.

  She turned her head painfully in the direction of her window, remembering the dress she had hung there on the curtain rail a few nights ago. She really ought to get it put in her wardrobe. There was a scratchy sensation beneath her cheek and she wrinkled her nose as she recognised the pungent scent of rosemary coming from whatever she had lain on.

  As her eyes focussed, the dress shape moved and she closed her eyes again, remembering also the draught that had blown through the other night. But it was funny; because she was warm and she could hear a faint crackling, like flames somewhere nearby. Then she realised she could smell woodsmoke too – the unmistakeable smell of an open fire, something she was used to from her granny’s big old rambling house up in Northumbria.

  Granny would sort her out. She was glad she was back home; she …

  ‘What the …?’ Cori sat up, her brain suddenly clicking into gear. If she was in her room and the dress was there, what the hell was her granny doing burning logs in her room?

  ‘It’s all right.’ The voice was soft and horribly familiar. Cori’s heart leapt and she snapped herself fully awake; Daisy. Somewhere in the corner of the room, a candle burst into life and the girl was illuminated in the soft light.

  And Cori realised she wasn’t in the mews house and she wasn’t in her granny’s house either.

  Daisy stood with her arms folded around her middle and a slight smile hovering around her lips. Her face was so pale, the pink blush on her cheek stood out like roses against the snow. Her hair hung in loose, red-gold waves down to her hips, and she was still wearing that silver dress – the fancy one with all the brocade and embroidery on it; the one that looked exactly like Ophelia’s dress in the Millais painting.

  Cori felt sick. It was as if, she realised, she was staring at herself, only a more beautiful version of herself. Daisy had the same teal-coloured eyes; the same shaped mouth, even. But it all just seemed more perfect on Daisy.

  ‘No. I’m dreaming. I have to be,’ said Cori, scrabbling to her feet.

  In one swift movement, Daisy was in front of her. ‘No you’re not. It’s all real, I’ve told you.’ Cori was speechless. She pinched herself hard on the arm and winced as she felt the little nip of localised pain.

  ‘You’ll have bruises there tomorrow,’ said Daisy. She came closer and Cori backed away, her heel bumping into something on the ground. ‘Careful, Corisande,’ said Daisy.

  Cori’s heart was definitely pounding now. In fact, she was willing to bet it was echoing around this whole … she looked around and swore. It was a bedroom. Definitely a bedroom, but not one she recognised.

  Daisy followed her gaze and sighed, the breath coming out of her like a little icy wind that gave Cori goose bumps where it touched her flesh.

  ‘I miss it,’ said Daisy, ‘very much.’ Her eyes rested on the bed and she sighed again. Then another candle lit up, this time in front of a mirror. Then another one; this time on a bedside table. And another, on the mantelpiece. Soon, the whole room was bathed in flickering, golden light and Cori found herself hypnotised by it. The candle by the mirror arrested her attention, and she looked in the glass, trying to take in the weird, backwards room that greeted her there.

  And then she saw it.

  Reflected in the mirror, just behind Cori and situated on the floor, was a heap of what looked like old clothing; that, then, was what she had caught her heel on.

  ‘It’s not clothing,’ whispered Daisy.

  ‘Get out of my head!’ hissed Cori. She turned around and looked at the heap. It was crumpled and part of it was smothered in red-gold and … ‘Oh God!’ Cori rammed her fist in her mouth and choked back the bile that rose into her throat.

  The heap was a woman – a woman lying collapsed and immobile on the floor, her features ghastly white and a terrified expression in her eyes. She lay ha
lf on her side, curled up with one arm outstretched as if she was trying to reach the door.

  ‘It’s you!’ said Cori, looking quickly at the figure and then at Daisy.

  Daisy had turned her head away, looking revolted and, if possible, even paler than she had done before. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’

  The woman on the floor’s eyelids fluttered briefly and closed. Knowing it was fairly useless and probably crazy; Cori rushed over to her and dropped to her knees. She took the cold, outstretched hand, not even thinking about how she was able to touch it. The fingers twitched as Cori grasped it, curling weakly around Cori’s. The woman’s eyes opened again briefly and met Cori’s for a split second. A tiny jolt of life and recognition came into them, before they closed again. Cori didn’t know if that made her feel sicker or not.

  ‘Daisy,’ she said, trying to rub some life back into the hand, ‘Daisy …’ Cori turned her head to the Ghost-Daisy and shouted at her. ‘What can I do? What the hell can I do?’ She felt tears spring to her eyes and the image blurred for a second.

  Daisy shook her head, still not looking at them. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I died alone. And at the very end, I thought Lizzie had come to save me. But it wasn’t her, was it? It was you. Henry didn’t make it in time, and I thought Lizzie had come back and I would just sleep and when I woke up he would be there. But nobody saved me at all and I died instead.’

  ‘Daisy …’ Cori turned her attention back to the girl on the floor. With a great effort, her eyes opened again and the sweetest smile brushed her lips, before she gave one tiny breath and the life left her body.

  Cori felt the hot tears running down her face. She had never seen anything like that before.

  She caught sight of a small bottle on the floor, as if it had been dropped and rolled a little away across the rug and the horrible realisation came to her. ‘Did – did you do it yourself?’ she whispered.

  ‘I did.’ Daisy’s voice was small and flat. ‘And I expected Henry would find me. He was supposed to find me, but he didn’t come back in time. I always wanted to be like Lizzie and I couldn’t help imagining how it would have felt to be her; how it would have been to be rescued, like Dante tried to rescue her. She was my soul sister. I don’t think she knew it, but I did.’

  ‘Was Henry your lover?’ Cori asked, quietly. She smoothed the glorious red hair down, brushed it away from the dead Daisy’s ravaged face; because it was ravaged. That girl on the floor had a face that was all hollow valleys and jutting cheekbones. There were huge dark circles under her eyes and she was painfully, painfully thin. The Ghost-Daisy was, in contrast, a beauty; a ‘stunner’, as the PRB used to call them.

  There was a little laugh and Daisy was beside Cori in a swish of brocade. ‘A “stunner”. You compliment me,’ she said.

  Cori opened her mouth to protest at Daisy reading her mind again, but shut it. What was the point? ‘And you ask about Henry. If Lizzie was my soul sister, Henry was my soulmate; my one true love. Dante was a passing infatuation. It was beautiful while it lasted, but it should always have been Henry. I just wish I’d realised sooner. And I wish we’d had longer. If I hadn’t been so silly … Look. You’ll see him in a minute.’

  Daisy raised a hand and pointed at a clock. The hands spun around and the fire in the grate jumped and settled as if time had, literally, speeded up. Nothing else changed. Cori remained kneeling, but the next time she touched the woman on the floor, she knew the irreversible chill of death had overtaken her and felt unutterably sad.

  A knock on the door startled her, and she looked up.

  ‘He’s here. Now you’ll see him,’ murmured Daisy.

  There was another knock and a shout; a man’s voice calling, as if nothing was untoward and he was just trying to establish where somebody was in the building.

  ‘Daisy! Daisy! My love – are you in there? Daisy?’ The man waited a second, then the door burst open. There was a beat – and he stood in the doorway.

  To Cori, that was worse even than watching Daisy die; watching the man who loved her rush into the room; watching as he threw himself down on the floor beside her. Listening, as he called her name over and over again.

  ‘Daisy … Daisy. Wake up. Wake up, my love. Come on …’ He became more and more agitated, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her uselessly. He checked her wrist; leaned over and put his ear to her mouth. Pressed his hand against her heart. ‘My love … No.’ His voice cracked and he leaned forward, his head on her chest now, great sobs wracking his body.

  Henry was kneeling right next to Cori. The light from the fire illuminated him as he sat up and raised his face heavenwards, closing his eyes and whispering prayers. In that moment, with his fair hair and his handsome profile, he looked a hell of a lot like Simon.

  And all of a sudden, Cori felt as if someone had knifed her in the heart. She stared at the man, a whisper away from him yet invisible to him. She felt his pain and understood, suddenly, what a mess this whole thing was.

  Who cared if Daisy had been the model for Ophelia or not? Who cared if she had floated around on the edges of the PRB, dropping away into insignificance like the willow fronds Millais had painted? Who cared if her damned diary was real, or a made up part of some delusional life a Victorian woman had created for herself?

  All that mattered, really, was that she hadn’t meant to kill herself. She hadn’t meant to put the man she loved through such anguish. She hadn’t meant to commit suicide. It was an accident; a horrible accident and somebody needed to know that. The rest was incidental.

  And she should have had help; professional help to deal with her mental health. But what hope did she have? The answers came to Cori with a frightening clarity, as if the images were flowing from Daisy’s mind right into her own. Her father had disowned her, she had no friends to speak of, the servants did what they had to do – and her lover could see no wrong in her. Again – what a mess.

  This was why she needed Cori. This was why she had found her. From wherever she was, Daisy had seen the connection; she had seen Simon and seen Cori and fixated on them as she had fixated on her connection to Lizzie. And the truth was all that Cori needed to take back with her. Perhaps it’ll be enough for just one person to know the truth. Or maybe two. Wasn’t that what Becky had said once?

  Yes, somebody had to know the truth. And Cori did.

  ‘She didn’t mean to do it, Henry,’ Cori said, quietly, as the man by her side dropped his head and covered his face with his hands. He jerked his head up and stared out into the room, and Cori wondered if, on some level, he had heard her. Then he stood up and with shaking hands took a blanket from the bed. He knelt down again and placed the blanket carefully over the Daisy on the floor, tucking it up around her chin. Then he smoothed her hair back, just as Cori had done.

  ‘I’ll get help, Daisy,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a doctor. We’ll save you.’ Then he stood up and strode over to the door. He threw the door open and shouted as loudly as he could for help. He kept shouting and shouting, until footsteps hurried along the corridors and people began to crowd into the bedroom.

  Cori stood up and turned away, walking into the far corner of the room and being careful not to catch sight of anything in the mirror – she didn’t need to see any of that; any of the aftermath.

  ‘They’re all shadows,’ said Daisy. ‘You don’t have to look. We can’t do anything about any of it. It happened. I hate it. I hate what I did, what I became. What do you call it in your time? A statistic? That’s all I was. That’s all I was to them. I deserved to die alone.’ Her voice rose hysterically and she began to pace around the floor, the ghostly swish of the dress brushing against cabinets and the bedstead and the fire-set by the now guttering flames. ‘I deserved it. My poor Henry … it hurts seeing it all again, but I had to show you. I deserved to die alone, I …’

  ‘You didn’t!’ Cori cut in. ‘You didn’t deserve that. And you didn’t die alone. I was there.’

  Daisy stopped moving and
turned quickly to Cori. ‘Say that again?’ she asked. ‘Again. Say that again.’

  ‘I was there,’ replied Cori. ‘I was with you. Remember? We both saw it again, just now. You saw me when it happened. You weren’t alone, Daisy.’

  Daisy blinked, wide greenish-blue eyes that, Cori realised again, were the identical colour to her own. It gave her a nasty little chill up her spine.

  ‘I wasn’t? I wasn’t alone? Oh, my … no. I wasn’t.’ Then she smiled, the sea change in her mood palpable. If this was what she had been like in life, Cori thought, God bless her. Even Daisy herself mustn’t have known how to deal with the see-saw of emotions. But then, it must have just been normal to her. Unless that was why she started taking the laudanum in the first place – to calm herself down? She didn’t think she’d ever know the reason behind it.

  Cori blushed, remembering Daisy’s uncanny knack of getting into her head; but fortunately the woman was preoccupied, moving around again, touching everything in the room as if she was rediscovering it all or maybe saying goodbye to it again.

  She lingered by a portrait of herself and touched that last. Cori didn’t recognise the individual style, but it was similar to a Waterhouse or a Millais, all beautiful detail and rich colours. It must have taken someone a long time and a lot of love and dedication to paint that. Cori thought of the painting Simon had done of her, the one she had discovered in his second bedroom. The other Ophelia.

  The man who had painted Daisy’s portrait had poured as much love and energy into it as Simon had poured into his portrait of Cori. ‘I never thought I’d need that sort of studio space again,’ he’d told her. ‘What I’ve got here seemed enough. But it’s not. Not any more.’

  ‘I need to go back,’ Cori said, suddenly, her voice surprisingly strong.

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Daisy. Her butterfly mind had moved somewhere else and that smile was back again. ‘I’ll take you, shall I?’

  ‘Yes. Please,’ replied Cori, desperately. ‘Daisy?’ She took a deep breath. ‘What do you want me to do with your diary? When we get back?’