The Fire Portrait

by Barbara Mutch

  And then he will surrender his partner gracefully and we will waltz away together and later he will escort me onto the terrace, where he will ask me to marry him and I will say yes.

  Mark raised his hand from the back of the dark-haired beauty to acknowledge us, and swept on. The orchestra changed key from one Strauss waltz to another.

  ‘How strange,’ Jonathan murmured, sensing an opportunity. ‘Have you fallen out?’

  The musicians caressed the opening notes of ‘Wiener Blut’.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  We passed again. I tried to catch Mark’s eye but he kept his attention on his partner. And then I saw him guide her from the dance floor and onto the terrace.

  ‘Young Pringle, you can’t monopolise the prettiest girl in the room!’ Daphne’s father clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. ‘I insist on a dance before she’s all taken!’

  Jonathan released me with a rueful smile and I allowed myself to be clamped to Mr Phillips’s pudgy chest and whisked away. ‘What are you doing with yourself these days? Apart from tormenting every bachelor in the Cape or risking life and limb at sea?’ He chuckled and pulled me a little too close. ‘That was a close call for my Daph.’

  ‘I know, sir.’ I wriggled so that I could breathe. ‘I’m working on my art.’

  ‘Ah, yes. But I suspect you’ll be too busy with a family one of these days!’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘The finest ideal any young woman could aspire to.’ He raised our clasped hands to a balding man dancing nearby with a woman taller than himself. ‘What do you like to paint? The sea?’

  ‘I paint flowers. Sometimes birds.’

  At a table on the far side I spotted Mark, now seated with his parents and another couple.

  ‘Wonderful to have a hobby.’ He steered me into a tight turn. ‘I keep telling Daphne she needs one.’

  ‘It’s not a hobby, Mr Phillips. I’m drawing for the director at Kirstenbosch. It’s my career.’

  Now Mark was looking my way.

  ‘Come, come,’ Mr Phillips exclaimed, ‘a career? Whatever for?’

  I feigned being out of breath.

  ‘Mr Phillips, you’ve exhausted me! Thank you for the dance. Will you excuse me?’

  ‘Of course,’ he boomed. ‘I’ll go find Daph.’ He planted a wet kiss on my hand and wandered off.

  I made my way towards the Charleson table. Mark and his father stood up as I approached. His mother, who always dressed in black, remained seated. She was in delicate health, Mark said.

  ‘I hope you’re well, Mrs Charleson.’ She gave a slight smile.

  ‘Mark!’ I leant forwards, expecting him to kiss me on the cheek as he usually did, but this time he didn’t. Perhaps he felt it was too public a space for such intimacy.

  ‘Frances?’ Mr Charleson glanced over my shoulder. ‘May I introduce Miss Astrid Fairbrother?’

  I turned around.

  The dark-haired beauty, older than myself, and dressed in a sleek blue gown that matched her eyes, looked me up and down. ‘How do you do,’ she said in a strong American accent. She raised an eyebrow at Mark. ‘I thought there were no stylish ladies at the Cape.’

  I could tell Mark was embarrassed.

  ‘Are you here on a scenic tour, Miss Fairbrother?’

  She gave a little smile and a shrug. ‘Mark?’

  There was a moment of silence.

  It was Mr Charleson who broke it. He came around the table and placed a hand on my shoulder. I realised, with a chill, that he was about to console me. ‘We’re delighted to say that Mark and Miss Fairbrother have just announced their engagement.’

  Astrid Fairbrother went over to Mark and stood beside him, close enough to show ownership.

  Mark met my eyes and looked down at the table. His mother stared into the middle distance.

  ‘But—’

  You lied to me! I wanted to shout. You said it would make no difference if I was poor! You said I was loved—

  I was aware that my breath was coming fast and shallow.

  At an adjoining table, Penelope and Mary were whispering together and looking at me.

  Mr Charleson, his hand still resting lightly on my shoulder, guided me away.

  ‘Come, Frances,’ he murmured, ‘I know you were keen on Mark, but Astrid is a good fit for our family.’

  The musicians paused; the dancers on the floor seemed to slow in their tracks and turn, as one, towards me. So, they seemed to be asking, what will you do now?

  ‘She’s wealthy?’

  He hesitated, and that hesitation told me all I needed to know. Money, and a lot of it, was the only currency in the post-Crash world. It had been true in England with Brian, and it was true here with Mark.

  ‘It’s more about a fresh approach,’ he said. ‘An American angle. Good for Mark’s business.’

  The orchestra resumed, this time with a jazz swing.

  The noise level in the room rose. A dominion girl fluttered her fingers at me and turned around to giggle with her partner, a boy whom I’d ignored a while ago in favour of Mark.

  ‘I see your aunt,’ Mr Charleson gestured. ‘What a delightful evening this is. Such wonderful music. I wish you well, Frances. Do stay in touch.’

  He bowed slightly and turned away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aunt was watching.

  She saw Mark ignore me, she saw Mr Charleson escort me away.

  She realises that the match would have given me both love and creative freedom.

  ‘What news from the director?’ Aunt asked over breakfast a few days later.

  ‘He’s promised to refer authors who are looking for illustrators to me. But nothing so far.’

  Aunt spread marmalade carefully on her toast.

  ‘We will hold a viewing!’ She laid down her knife and clapped her hands. ‘In the spring. I shall invite all my friends on the understanding that they will be expected to buy an artwork. Now, Frances, you’ll need to draw and paint at speed! And what price shall we set? Nothing extreme, but sufficient to be taken seriously. Violet?’ She rang a small bell at her side. ‘Bring me my diary, please.’

  Though the invitation list would be all female, husbands and partners were welcome. Aunt believes in marketing by stealth: win over the women, and you will get the men in due course.

  At no point did we discuss my abandonment by Mark.

  Violet baked lemon cake and I helped her to make shortbread biscuits. We dug out the spare silver tea set and I borrowed easels from a local school on which to display my work.

  Pencil and watercolour sketches of Table Mountain, as seen from the Edinburgh Castle. A sunbird on a crimson hibiscus. Cloud over Fernwood Buttress. And for those after nostalgia, a painting of yellow gorse and purple thistles.

  ‘Where did you study?’ asked one of the dominion wives. ‘At the Royal Academy?’

  ‘I see the Lord in your work, Frances,’ said Father Ben, pointing to the sunbird. ‘He is your inspiration.’

  ‘It’s all about technique, Father,’ I countered lightly. ‘I was well taught. And I practise.’

  ‘Indeed! There’s no substitute! Whether it is in paint or prayer!’

  ‘Well done, Frances.’ Julian McDonald hovered. ‘I shall write to your Father telling of your success.’

  ‘It’s a start, sir.’ I glanced about at the chattering guests. They would buy, but for most it was about the social occasion. ‘Will you excuse me?’

  ‘Miss Fran should draw people,’ Violet hissed from behind the teapot. ‘Show what they think.’

  ‘I’ll take the hibiscus, Frances. I have one just like it in my garden.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Radisson. I believe you’ve just returned from India?’ I’d learnt the guest list off by heart, along with family details provided by Aunt. ‘Do you find the colours here different?’

  ‘India has more orange,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s everywhere. Quite tiresome. Marigolds, for example. They make garlands of them. Do you
draw pets, Frances?’

  I’ve no idea whether the knowledge of my penury – apart from a tiny salary – has swept through the Cape in the months since my public rejection. There must have been speculation. Why would Mark Charleson spend eight months courting Frances Whittington only to throw her over for a visitor in the space of a week or so? There must be more to it than a lover’s tiff …

  It’s a question I’ve continued to ask myself. Yet Mark said it would never be about money.

  I received a letter from him in the wake of the events at the Kelvin Grove in which he apologised for his behaviour. Circumstances had arisen, he wrote, that were beyond his control and which he deeply regretted he was unable to reveal. I would hold a place in his heart, he ended, for ever.

  It’s not an answer I understand.

  We loved one another. If money was not the issue, what could possibly have arisen to keep us apart?

  I’m not angry with him, oddly enough. I feel only confusion and waste, an empty heart – and the disquieting sense that I have now attracted and failed to land two young men.

  ‘A triumph, my dear!’ Aunt bustled over at the end. ‘You’ve arrived as an artist!’

  ‘Thank you.’ I kissed her powdered cheek. ‘You made it happen, Aunt Mary.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense! Here are your earnings!’ She handed over a brass container. ‘Not excessive, but you’re on your way!’

  My dear Frances

  I am replying by return post because I sense you require clarity.

  The news out of Kew is mixed. While they are impressed by your treatment of Erica multumbellifera and would like to see more, they cannot commit to an arrangement as yet. I have urged them to offer you payment for a series of illustrations but it will take time to be settled. I suggest you pursue the director at Kirstenbosch with all vigour.

  Your work is magnificent, my dear. Have courage!

  Yours most sincerely

  Raymond Cadwaller

  ‘Miss Fran! Miss Fran, wake up!’

  I opened my eyes blearily. I hadn’t been sleeping well lately. It started after the viewing, when Daph and Trevor talked of the new pictures I would paint and how eligible young men would surely be queuing up to court the promising artist. The letter from Mr Cadwaller had arrived at the same time.

  ‘What is it, Violet?’

  Sun was breaking through the curtains. I can’t have voile here because the light is too bright. Even the moon is brighter—

  ‘It’s the madam. Come, miss!’

  I swung myself out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown and ran after her.

  Violet had opened Aunt’s curtains. She was lying on her back in bed, her silver hair spread freely on the pillow. A tea tray sat on the bedside table, brought by Violet as she did every morning.

  ‘Let her sleep,’ I whispered. ‘She’s weary.’

  ‘No, Miss Fran.’ Violet’s voice broke. ‘Feel her, ma’am.’

  I put out a hand and touched her cheek, her neck, and her age-freckled hands. They were ice cold. I leant down and put an ear to her mouth but there was no stir of breath.

  ‘Call the ambulance, Violet. Quick!’

  I held Aunt’s hands, massaging them, trying to warm her flesh with mine.

  I rubbed her chest, willing it to rise and fall, but it remained still beneath my fingers.

  Violet returned and stood on the other side of the bed, tears flowing silently down her brown cheeks.

  The clang of the ambulance broke the early morning silence and I found myself wondering if their bell was the same pitch as that on the ambulance that came for me.

  ‘Miss, step aside please.’

  The ambulanceman leant over Aunt, tried for a pulse, listened to her chest, performed resuscitation, but Aunt’s wiry body lay unresponsive. He lifted his hands away.

  ‘She has gone, miss.’

  I took her cold hand in mine. We’d only had a year. I never told her how much she meant to me.

  ‘Just a moment—’ I stared into her eyes, milky and unfocussed when they’d always been bright.

  I reached down and closed them gently with my fingers.

  Aunt Mary passed away, I telegrammed Father.

  Funeral next week Stop Love Fran

  ‘Come stay with us,’ rumbled Mr Phillips. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’

  ‘I want to be at Protea Rise, sir. It’s my home.’

  And I had to reply to the cards, scores of them, arriving each day: Deepest condolences … a wonderful person … a woman of courage … she will be missed.

  Beloved Fran, Father telegrammed back. Be brave Stop Letter follows Stop Love Father

  At night I see Aunt’s face in the darkness. I see the boy, head lolling, being carried from the sea at Muizenberg. I see my brother peering in through the sash window.

  Aunt Mary’s funeral service was held at St John’s, followed by tea at Protea Rise.

  ‘Seek refuge in the Lord,’ intoned the reverend, clasping my hand as the coffin was taken away.

  Another tea, so soon after my successful viewing. More shortbread, more lemon cake, more people shaking my hand because I am Aunt’s closest relative present. And so many donations: the Chisholms brought a stew, Jonathan Pringle’s mother baked a ham to be eaten cold, strangers left cake and baskets of fruit as if Violet and I had been seized by uncontrollable hunger. I gave some of it to Alfius and Samuel, both of whom came to the funeral. I insisted Violet sit alongside me.

  ‘I should be at the back, ma’am.’

  Violet has started calling me ma’am instead of miss.

  ‘If you sit at the back, I shall come and sit next to you.’

  I didn’t have a black dress so Violet’s sister, a seamstress, quickly ran up a plain black shift.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Julian McDonald said, handing over a small bunch of flowers. ‘If there’s anything I can do?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Call upon us, Frances,’ said Father Ben as the last mourners left. ‘And hold on to your faith.’

  But I don’t really have faith, Father Ben. Not like yours.

  My faith – my God – lives outside, stirring the leaves on the trees, painting the feathers of birds. Saving me when I fell, but taking Aunt from me without compunction?

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Miss Whittington? Good morning. I’m Alan Field, of Field and Sons.’

  He followed me into the lounge, nodded at the gracious furniture, the verdant garden beyond the sash windows. ‘Do accept my deepest sympathy upon the passing of your aunt.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. May I offer you tea?’

  ‘Please.’ He opened his briefcase. ‘It falls to me to present your aunt’s will.’

  He waited as Violet delivered the tea tray and closed the door behind her. It’s surprising how little our routines have altered. I still change for dinner. But now I dine alone, though I’ve persuaded Violet to eat with me on Sunday evenings. I hope we can extend that practice to other days, but I don’t yet know the boundaries of mistress–maid relations here on the southern tip.

  ‘Mrs Donnelly altered her will soon after you arrived in Cape Town last year.’

  ‘Really?’ I never expected any help from Aunt other than what she paid me as her companion.

  ‘Here is a copy, Miss Whittington. This,’ he pointed to a paragraph, ‘is the relevant section.’

  I fingered the sheet filled with Aunt’s slanted writing in the sapphire-blue ink she favoured.

  Once all expenses have been settled, I wish to leave the remainder of my estate to my niece, Frances Grace Whittington. I was not blessed with children but Frances has become the daughter I never had, and a singular young woman. I hope that her inheritance will give her a measure of independence.

  God bless you, Frances. You have brightened my days.

  I haven’t wept for Aunt in public. She wouldn’t have approved of noisy displays of mourning but under the lawyer’s sympathetic gaze, I found myself crying f
or her loss, and the loss of a separate, fledgling love that had promised so much.

  Mark had written from America, where he’d travelled to marry Astrid Fairbrother. I am so sorry, Frances. You are in my thoughts.

  But not in your heart, I wanted to reply.

  Alan Field removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to me.

  ‘I was very fond of her,’ I choked, wiping my eyes.

  ‘Quite understandable. Mrs Donnelly was a remarkable woman.’

  ‘What does it all mean, sir?’ I handed him back the handkerchief.

  ‘You may remain in Protea Rise while the estate is wound up. The proceeds from the sale of the property will be directed towards the borrowings that Mrs Donnelly made for maintenance, repairs and upkeep over the years. Once those have been settled, and provision made for Violet, the housemaid, any remaining monies will revert to you.’

  For a moment it seemed that the chorus of birdsong from outside had abated.

  ‘Protea Rise must be sold?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Mrs Donnelly only had a small pension from her husband. She was obliged to take out loans against the property for expenses such as her motor car, rethatching of the roof and general running costs.’

  ‘I’ll have to leave?’ Suddenly I was back in England, with Father. I’m so sorry, my dear …

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Field hesitated. ‘In due course.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’ I struggled not to shout out the words. ‘This is my home—’

  I want the patter of rain on the thatch, I want every bird call, every rampant bloom. I don’t need to imagine exotic macaws or jungle orchids any more, my inspiration lives and breathes here—

  ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’

  ‘How soon? How soon will it be sold?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say. The housing market is depressed due to the ongoing effects of the Crash.’

  The Crash, again. Will I ever be free of its malevolence?

  He came over to where I was sitting and bent down. It was good of him to try to understand how I could possibly form an attachment to a place I’d only known for a year.