Loretta Proctor Read online

  ‘I do, that is the colour. It was my mother’s favourite colour, too. We have an heirloom – a bed with coverings of this shade and when I think of her, I think of this bed. Our crimson bed.’

  ‘In my case I love the vibrant emerald green,’ said Henry, taking another jar from the windowsill and showing it to her. ‘This green is special, made from oxide of chrome by a secret process and it’s a costly colour, not so much so as ultramarine, but near enough. So you see how precious it is.’

  He paused, held the jar up to the light, and waxed lyrical all of a sudden. ‘But that’s not why I love it. I love it because it represents the green of nature; fresh leaves and grass in the sunlight or the most precious of stones, rare, fragile and exquisite in its depths of beauty. It soothes me to the core of my soul to look into this colour and try to reproduce it. I would have liked to see you in this green. But I also adore the ruby-red. It’s the feminine colour, the colour of passion, of the womb… and blood. Not your scarlet common-or-garden blood. It is the feminine blood with its intimations of birth and death… or arterial blood, deep hidden blood, the blue blood of the kings and queens.’

  Ellie stared at him. ‘Passionate… the blood of kings and queens,’ she murmured. ‘I like that notion very much. Don’t you, Papa?’

  ‘It’s a pretty fancy,’ smiled her father. ‘Mr Winstone is a poet as well as an artist, I perceive.’

  ‘Not at all, sir. I just become excited and entranced by light and colour. That’s why I turned to art.’

  Ellie, listening, was stirred by her encounter with Henry Winstone and felt a part of herself brought to life by the new experience. She wanted to see more and more of this fascinating way of life and the people who lived it, so different to those she had mixed with all her life. She yearned to listen to all they had to teach her about art and poetry.

  So out came the rich red dress that Maria Farnham had worn in her youth complete with the garnet necklace and earrings and which Ellie now wore to the sittings for her portrait. When she returned from her first sitting, her father was delighted that she was his bright laughing Ellie again. He was pleased with his ruse. He had hoped that her natural vanity and an arousal of her artistic interests would be just what his daughter needed to awake her from the deep unhappiness she had fallen into since Maria’s death. He had no suspicion that her grief was also over the faithless Alfred Dillinger. How could he? That was a well-kept secret.

  ‘It is going to look very well, Papa,’ she said gleefully. ‘How clever of you to find this Mr Winstone. Why have I never heard of him before? How did you discover him?’

  ‘It was while I was at MacCracken’s place in Belfast,’ her father replied. ‘There was a most beautiful picture on his dining room wall which he told me he had just purchased from a new young artist, a pupil of Ford Madox Brown. Winstone has some connection with a young, rather muddle-headed group of artists who have been making quite a stir with the Royal Academy – but certainly not because the RA like their efforts. Far from it, they are horrified by what they see as unfit subjects, violent colouring and over attention to the minutia of detail to the point of ludicrousness.’

  ‘Are you talking about these PreRaphaelites, as they call themselves?’

  ‘Aha, so you’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she replied. ‘In fact, Mr Winstone was discussing the fact that Mr Millais had a work at the Academy which seemed to bring down a great deal of insult upon that poor young man’s head.’

  ‘Yes, I recall it. The Carpenter’s Shop,’ Joshua chuckled a little, ‘and you are right, it brought down a storm of criticism amongst the narrow-minded, bigoted old fools. The picture MacCracken bought from Winstone was quite different. He also had a picture by that young Italian fellow, Rossetti but I feel his work to be a trifle peculiar.’

  He took up a small cigar and with his eyes asked Ellie’s permission to smoke. She nodded with a smile for she rather liked the smell of a Havana in the air, mingling with the small glass of port she had just poured out for him. She loved these moments after dinner with her father.

  ‘What is the subject of this picture, Papa?’

  ‘Which one, my dear?’

  ‘The one you regretted parting with to Mr MacCracken.’

  ‘It’s a picture of a girl on a vast expanse of sands by the seashore, bending to pick shells or pebbles. But such a different, new treatment! The colours are vibrant –vivid even – yet at the same time there is a delicacy about the treatment of the subject. There is a freshness, a sense of movement that is lacking in some of the other modern painters whose subjects look rigid and transfixed. One can almost feel the wind blowing along the seashore, and the girl, though somewhat ample in figure, has sweetness about her. I was very taken by it.’

  ‘Perhaps it was that girl that we passed on the stairs the first day we went to Mr Winstone’s.’

  ‘Come to mention it, I do believe it was. Artists all tend towards a favourite model.’

  Ellie rose and taking the matches that lay beside his cigar box, waited for her father to bite off the end and then lit his cigar for him. He inhaled and a look of intense pleasure came to his face as, turning aside, he blew forth a streamy cloud of smoke. She put the matches down and seated herself again while Joshua stood up and contemplated his collection of artworks with a certain satisfaction.

  ‘Speaking of modern artists, I’ve been pipped at the post by John Ruskin yet again. He has collected nearly all of Turner’s works and refuses to sell any on, damn him. Ruskin’s not even the sort of fellow you can get drunk one night and wheedle a picture away from him while he’s hiccupping in his cups. Yet, by sheer luck, I caught him on a good day and managed to wrestle that little fellow from him,’ he indicated a small smoky picture of barges on the Thames hanging over the mantelpiece, ‘and he’s never forgiven me since,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘nor will he get it back!’

  ‘Oh, Papa, you art collectors! It’s like a battle to see who’ll get the best things.’ Glancing up at her father, she said warmly, ‘You know, Papa, I feel most honoured that you have hung my own feeble little rendering of Oreton Woods up with all these masterpieces. I hope the contrast isn’t too laughable?’

  ‘Not in the least. You show great talent already, my dear,’ said Joshua, regarding the little watercolour in question. It was a small picture Ellie had painted a year or so ago and he had greatly admired it. She did indeed have talent and he knew that painting gave her great pleasure as well as an escape from her sadness. Joshua considered asking this Winstone fellow to give her lessons some day. Now her design hung along with all the others and was to his fond mind as good as anything Turner might do.

  ‘And where will you hang my splendid portrait, Pa?’

  ‘Oh, naturally that will have pride of place. What – my beautiful girl? I want the world to see her. It will be a comfort to me in my old age to have your youthful portrait near me.’

  ‘I’m not so sure it will be a comfort to me if I get old and fat, Papa. I may wonder what happened to all that charming youth then!’

  ‘But at least you will remember how you were. And if you’re anything at all like your dear mother, you will always look beautiful. Always.’

  ‘Oh, Papa, darling. I do so love you!’ said his daughter, rising and putting her arms about his neck. He smiled and kissed her cheek and as she turned, looking far lighter of heart than he had seen in a while, he felt his own spirits lift a little. But sadness still weighed upon him to think that it wouldn’t be long before she also left him and how very alone he would be then.

  He thought with sudden fierceness that if he had his way, he would keep her at his side forever. No man would ever be good enough for his dear little girl.

  Chapter 6

  Fred could not remember when he had last felt such impatience for anything. Generally, he took life slow and sweet – some might say in idleness. That face, though! It was like a siren song. It lured him back to Henry Winstone’s studio despite his u
sual languor.

  He finished some commissions for his father, which had taken him to Threadneedle Street. Seen in the morning light, the whole area had become alive with frantic people hurrying to and fro, dodging carts, cabs and omnibuses that rattled and bumped along in all directions according to the driver’s whim. A flock of sheep was being driven amongst all this rush and madness through Leadenhall Street to Smithfields. Their noisy and unrelenting disapproval at being prodded and pushed along streets full of ironshod vehicles and neighing, rearing horses added to the din and confusion. It was as if the poor creatures knew that they were being driven on to their deaths and their final re-appearance as cold, sliced mutton on a Sunday dinner plate. Usually, Fred found this noise and commotion horrendous. Today, his mind was so filled with the idea of meeting the lovely girl in Henry’s drawing that he let the noise roll over him unheeded, untroubled by any of it.

  He found Henry in the brightly lit studio, preparing his pigments and inspecting his brushes. He greeted Fred with his usual warmth and enthusiasm.

  ‘Come to see your Blessed Damsel, have you?’ he joked and proceeded to declaim:

  ‘The blessed damsel leaned against The silver bar of heaven.

  Her eyes knew more of rest and shade Than a deep water, even.

  She had three lilies in her hand And the stars in her hair were seven.’

  ‘By Jove, your memory’s good!’ Fred said admiringly. ‘That’s decidedly one of Rossetti’s better poems. Some of his grinds are really rubbish. I still recall the evening round at Chatham Place, sitting out on his balcony and watching the sun go down and then everyone retiring indoors to recite our poetry to one another.

  ‘Oh, my memory’s not that good,’ said Henry. ‘I wrote the poem down at the time. But you’re right, it was a splendid evening. Gabriel knows how to have a good soiree. Strange though, don’t you think – strange his not smoking or drinking or even whoring as far as I can tell. He actually sat and watched us quaff his wine and then drank water at the end of it. I’ve seen him sit smiling to himself in a cigar divan, tapping the table with his fingers, looking as detached about the gals parading before him as you please. The fellow’s odd, worse than you. At least you’ll enjoy a glass or two of bubbly. And I mean, he’s an Italian, you’d think he’d be a bit of a libertine.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, not everyone has their brains in their bollocks.’

  Henry roared with laughter. ‘Meaning I have, perchance? You know I love women. I can’t help it. It’s natural enough. And what’s more, I have a feeling the fair Eleanor is going to turn your head and stiffen your cock and you’ll get back to your normal self again. Hallelujah!’

  He now studied his palette with some dismay. ‘Good God, I’d better clean this up or the tints will get muddied with the dried paint. Pass me the turps over there, Fred. It really is time I got myself one of those white porcelain jobs that Roberson’s do if I want my colours to be pristine, which they must be. I want them to be like jewels.’

  ‘I thought you had a porcelain palette.’

  ‘Erm – yes. Well, it got broken. Rosie chucked it at me in a fit of jealousy over one of my new models.’

  Fred laughed, ‘What a pair you are! How can you live like that? It would drive me mad. I want a quiet life when I’m married.’

  ‘A quiet life – what an ambition for a young fellow. Who but you wants a quiet life?’

  ‘Henry, you would want it too if you had a mother like mine.’

  ‘There’s some truth in that,’ Henry conceded.

  He scraped diligently at the wooden palette until it looked a good deal more immaculate and then began to fill a syringe with the paint he had prepared earlier that day.

  ‘Damned good invention, these,’ he said.

  ‘They are a good idea,’ agreed Fred, ‘but last time I used my syringe it was so jammed up I couldn’t get the damned paint out. They’re bringing in metal tubes now, far easier. Time you invested in a few.’

  ‘But I like to mix my own paints,’ Henry objected, ‘then I can get the tints I want, not the muddy ones some colourman has invented. No, I’ll stick to the syringe which is a damn sight better than those old bladders.’

  He fell silent, absorbed now in preparing his painting tools. Fred looked into the fire and seemed lost in thought.

  ‘I’m thinking of that poem you recited,’ he said after a while, ‘I suppose I am searching for my Blessed Damsel, just as I suspect Rossetti always does. Look at that girl, Lizzie, he’s so mad about now! She appears in all his designs, she obsesses him – and frankly, she’s not much to look at. She does have lovely hair and a slender, elegant figure, I’ll grant him that.’

  He turned with sudden eagerness towards his friend, ‘I have the queerest feeling Eleanor is my “Blessed Damsel”… but, Henry, isn’t the damsel of that poem meant to be in Heaven?’

  ‘When Gabriel read it out to us, he said it was to be a contrast to Poe’s sainted maiden who grieves on earth for her lost love. His damsel is in heaven and yearning for her lover to join her there.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no wish to join this maiden in heaven. I want her now while we’re all here on earth. I know nothing about heaven and am deeply suspicious of it.’

  ‘Is heaven necessarily a state that only comes with death?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘They also say there are seven heavens and we can find one of them on earth as easily as we can find the seventh hell down here.’

  ‘Maybe, then, maybe heaven on earth could be found in sweet Eleanor’s arms. She is coming?’

  ‘Oh, she’s coming. Her father sent word earlier. Pass me that rag over there, old fellow.’

  Fred obliged and began to pace around the studio. He came back to study the portrait, now sketched in and the flesh parts already filled out in detail.

  ‘Is there no mother alive?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘I think her mother died a year or so ago. I’m not sure. Her father, it strikes me, dotes on the girl, nothing seems to be too good for her – bit spoilt, you understand. But let’s see what you make of her.’

  ‘My God, she’s beautiful, if your drawing is anything to go by.’ Fred felt a sudden sense of fear. Would she disappoint him? ‘If only beauty lasted,’ he sighed.

  ‘Oh, beauty… it doesn’t last, Fred. You set too much store by it. Better to find a girl who is good inside, like my Rosie.’

  ‘I see you’ve hidden Rosie away.’

  ‘I have to, haven’t I? Such is the hypocrisy of the world,’ said Henry with a shrug, ‘but I mean to educate my Rosie and then she’ll be fit to sit with a duchess, you wait and see.’

  They heard the bell ring. Fred was sent to open the door, which he did with alacrity.

  There stood a tall young woman, well muffled in a cape and bonnet, though it was not a cold day. Two older ladies with very sour expressions stood behind her. Eleanor Farnham scarcely gave Fred a look but deposited her street garments upon him, as if assuming he was a servant, and made her way straight to the studio. The other ladies did the same and followed on behind her like the carriages of a train.

  He stared at the capes and bonnets heaped into his arms and then smiled and shrugged. Folding and draping them with his usual care and neatness, he put them all on a chair in the hallway and followed the ladies into the studio.

  Henry had rushed around trying to tidy up the chaos that always reigned in his studio. He managed to find seats beneath a pile of exotic clothes which he kept for his models to use, all flung to the floor now in a muddled heap of satins and velvets. He had also produced two straight-backed chairs and the older ladies sat primly upon them, their hands, in what looked like identical black cotton mittens, folded in their laps.

  Eleanor Farnham was seated on a sofa, Henry arranging her as he wanted her to look, turning her head sideways so that her neck was slightly elongated, resting her arm upon the back of the sofa and relaxing her hands in an artless, elegant pose. She wore a remarkable
oldfashioned dress of ruby-red velvet tied under the bust with a girdle, which then fell in loose, soft folds about her figure. She looked exquisite in Fred’s eyes; everything he had hoped and longed for her to be. She was straight from the pages of Le Morte D’Arthur, a vision of his inner dream world, yet also a real woman of flesh and blood who looked infinitely more desirable and lovely than the one on paper.

  ‘Where is that garnet necklace you had last time?’ asked Henry in a stern voice.

  Ellie put her hand to her throat and exclaimed in annoyance, ‘Oh, Mulhall, you forgot to remind me, silly thing!’

  The lady thus addressed looked flustered at this. ‘I laid them out for you, Miss Ellie,’ she said, ‘laid them on the dressing table and told you so.’

  ‘I missed them then. I’m so sorry, Mr Winstone. Will it make much difference at this stage?’

  Henry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not for today, no. I’m concentrating on the face and hands today. Don’t dare to forget next week, will you?’ He smiled as he said this, his eyes looking deeply into her own, and Eleanor smiled back at him. Henry could never resist flirting with a young and pretty woman and Fred watched this by-play with some discomfort and jealousy.

  ‘This gentleman, by the way,’ said Henry, now recovering his manners as Fred shifted impatiently behind him and coughed, ‘is Mr. Frederic Ashton Thorpe. He is a very promising artist and a poet. A man of talent! Mr. Thorpe, Miss Eleanor Farnham.’

  Fred bowed in her direction.

  ‘I hope you have no objection, Miss Farnham,’ the young man said, ‘to my being here, I mean. I always learn so much from watching Mr Winstone at work. I consider myself an amateur in comparison.’