Loretta Proctor Page 9

  Fred looked wistful. ‘Ah, what a picture of bliss! D’you know, I’m tired of being a bachelor. It has its advantages but the fact is I’m a domesticated fellow. I want to be married, feel secure and comfortable, have a lovely, doting woman always there for me, my children about me, glass of whisky by my side and a comfortable bed to retire to with my missus.’

  Henry gave a hearty laugh. ‘You think Miss Farnham would make a good wife? Well, I think she’d rule the roost. She’s a temperamental young woman in my opinion. Don’t you see that flash in her eye? She’s the plate-throwing sort, I’ll wager you,’

  ‘Ah, but I like that flash in her eye. That’s what intrigues me. I need a spirited girl. I confess to being a lazy fellow and she’d wake me up in no time.’

  ‘She’d wake you up all right. And you’re right; you do need a kick up the backside.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. However, I take your point. Opposites attract, they say, and therein lies my hope. But how, in God’s name, to set about it?’

  Fred went over and looked for a long time at Eleanor’s portrait. He wondered what it was that made him feel so fascinated by this one particular human face and form. Eleanor embodied some deep, inner image in his heart and soul. The image was archaic, mediaeval, greater than himself and intangible. It stirred him to his depths. Like some magical garment, the image flowed from his heart and wrapped itself around the woman he loved, making her fit the dream and the fantasy, raising her on some high pedestal of chivalry and beauty. Like an olden day troubadours, he wanted to worship her from afar with an alchemical intensity.

  ‘I wish you would do a copy for me, Henry. Why not paint one for me in watercolours? I’ll pay you well.’

  ‘Much as I need the cash, old fellow, I don’t think that’s the answer to your particular problem. A copy of her face will keep you satisfied, sighing, lusting, and doing absolutely nothing about the real woman. It’s the real woman you need to obtain. Then you will have her portrait forever with you. I’ll do one as a wedding present. That’s a promise.’

  ‘Well, I must go to her then… you are right,’ said Fred, ‘I must break through this barrier.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ Henry said suddenly. ‘I was going to get our man to take the portrait round to Farnham’s place some time later today. But the fellow is doing something for my mother and he won’t be free till tomorrow morning. Why don’t we pack it up, load it into a cab along with you and you take it round and present it yourself? It would be an ideal reason for you to call. You can say you came to see me – which is true – and offered your services as my man wasn’t as yet available, which is also true.’

  ‘A splendid idea!’ said Fred in delight. ‘That is capital! I’ll call a cab now and we’ll load the portrait. Will you make sure it’s well wrapped first?’

  ‘Well, help me do it, that’ll be quicker.’

  The two men fetched the packing required which Henry had heaped in a corner of the room and set to work.

  ‘Make sure the man takes great care unloading it, ‘said Henry, ‘they are so clumsy, you wouldn’t believe it! I’ve had to repair pictures that have been most carefully packed but the idiots treat them as if they were tossing cabers around.’

  The packing was completed to their mutual satisfaction. Fred called a cab, loaded the picture in with care, sat himself opposite, and holding the bulky parcel steady with his hand, set off, half nervous and anxious, half excited, to the Farnham house in Belgrave Square.

  Chapter 9

  Ellie was delighted when she heard that Mr Thorpe awaited her downstairs and that he had brought the famous portrait with him. She longed to see what it was like as Mr Winstone had refused to let her look, saying it should be a surprise. She trusted it would be perfect because her father had such faith in this artist’s work. She herself had seen little of Winstone’s work before this but then few people had. He was as yet an unknown.

  Ellie came slowly down the stairs on silent feet. She stopped in the hallway and found the servants all gathered about the portrait whispering and considering it in hushed tones.

  ‘Oh, go away!’ said the imperious young lady. ‘Let me see my own portrait, for heaven’s sake!’

  They scattered to their various places like leaves in the wind, ashamed to be caught in their curiosity. Ellie went forward to look at the picture. She stood for a long while, enraptured by the colour, the sheer luminous brilliance of the canvas. How wonderful to see a portrait shine like this, not dingy brown with age and severe of countenance like some of those ancestral horrors that lined the stairs. Was she as beautiful as this? A truthful girl, she was inclined to think that she was not half as lovely as the damsel in the picture. Still, it would be good to look on when she was old and grey and might then convince herself that maybe, after all, she had once been so luminous a goddess.

  It was time to go in and greet Mr Thorpe. She paused at the door and collected herself for a few moments. He had been rather wild when she had last met him and now here he was turning up, obviously determined to see her again. She smiled to herself a little. Thank God, both Papa and her companion, Miss Adelaide Perrin, were out visiting that afternoon. Was Mr Thorpe likely to begin again with all that nonsense? He had looked the last person on earth to come out with such astonishing and passionate declarations. Frederic Ashton Thorpe seemed the epitome of the fussy, conventional Englishman, feelings held well in check and yet he had declared his love in such a desperate fashion. He was sincere, she felt certain of that.

  She could not deny it was very exciting. Oh, these mad artists! No wonder they had such a reputation. She secretly liked this kind of intense passion, this circumvention of the rules. Who cared about rules when it came to love? It was very delightful to meet men like this. The only other man who had never cared for society and its conventions had been Alfie.

  She thought briefly of Alfie and her heart now felt stony towards him. He had not written or bothered with her in all this time. He was faithless and she hated him. Maybe she wanted more of those deep-feeling declarations from Mr Ashton Thorpe; it did her heart good. All her other suitors so far had been boring or after her money; too slow, too stupid, too ugly.

  Opening the doors, she went into the drawing room with a peculiar feeling of nervous anticipation. Frederic Thorpe was standing and looking at the Turner over the mantelpiece. He turned to greet her and bowed. Taking her proffered hand, he brushed it lightly with his lips.

  He looked very handsome today, standing in the light of the window, his fair hair shining almost like a halo. He was so unlike the dark, roguish-looking Alfie. Frederic Thorpe’s face was gentle, relaxed, his beautiful grey eyes eloquent with feeling and a peculiar tenderness that stirred her heart.

  No, she really did not want to be in love again! It wasn’t love she felt, just curiosity. That was all. Playing with fire, with a young man’s heart. Let him be hurt as she had been hurt. She didn’t care.

  ‘That’s a beautiful picture,’ said Fred, indicating the one he had just been studying. ‘A Turner, I believe?’

  ‘You are right, it is a Turner. My father is very fond of that artist and bought this picture from Mr John Ruskin who owed him a favour over some matter or other. It was really surprising as I believe Mr Ruskin doesn’t like to part with his Turner collection.’

  ‘I know that! I’ve often admired his collection when dining with him at Denmark Hill but he would never sell one to me. I believe Turner will be considered in due time as one of our greatest artists.’

  ‘More than Mr Millais or Mr Winstone… or Mr Ashton Thorpe even?’ she said with a coquettish little laugh.

  ‘Certainly more than Mr Ashton Thorpe,’ he said ruefully, ‘he will never even be exhibited, I fear. Millais already has his place in the hall of fame. And Henry Winstone… who knows? Henry has the making of a great artist. I think we shall see that in time. Do you want your portrait brought in?’

  ‘I’ve already seen it and it is absolutely wonderful. It’s too beautiful fo
r words. I suspect Papa will hang it in place of the Turner and believe me that is an honour.’

  ‘Not at all. Your portrait will grace this room as nothing else. Except your physical presence, nothing could be more graceful than that.’

  ‘You’re too kind, sir. And bent on flattering me.’

  ‘Truth could never be seen as flattery.’

  He looked steadfastly at her. She felt a slight flush arise and turned away a little, waving her hand at a chair opposite.

  ‘Sit down, sir, please do,’ she said and took a chair herself. He followed suit and for a brief moment they stared at one another in silence.

  It was odd but a barrier had been broken with their last meeting. Words that had been uttered and not rejected hung in the air and they both knew full well what the other was thinking. Yet they both waited, as in a game of chess, wondering what should be the next move.

  She drew her eyes away with difficulty and said, ‘Would you care for some tea, Mr Thorpe?’

  ‘I thank you, no. Just allow me your company for as long as you can spare.’

  Ellie fell silent at this and lowered her eyes. ‘You are very kind to bring the portrait over yourself. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble for you.’

  ‘Not at all. I was – just passing Winstone’s studio and dropped in and he asked if I’d be so kind as to deliver it. I hope it’s no imposition.’

  A slight flush came to his cheeks as he said this. She smiled to herself and felt a good-humoured desire to tease him a little. The man simply could not hide his feelings; she saw him struggle to keep his usual composure.

  Alfie had never been like this. Alfie had joked and laughed, teased and tormented and then he had been hungry to make love whenever they could. Once they had begun their lovemaking, it was as if they both flung caution to the winds. He used to touch her hand under the table or with dangerous daring would fleetingly move his hands over her breasts when he passed her by. A tangible flow of sexual energy would always pass between them even when he stood by her at the piano and turned the pages for her. He was thrilling, he was exciting.

  She felt Thorpe’s flow of sexual energy but no response in herself. Perhaps she would never ever feel it again for any other man but Alfie. Yet – this Frederic Ashton Thorpe was an artist, a poet and had all the romantic attributes she required in a lover. His passion was deep like some underground spring suddenly gushing forth into a torrent that might just as suddenly flow back down into the depths again and remain hidden and unknown by any other but herself. He gave out a sense of peace, trustfulness, and strength that she now craved.

  She knew something strange, silent and secret drew her towards him. It was true that he did not appeal to her physically but she felt a longing for something else he had to offer her, his deepest soul. That was what she saw in his eyes. His soul. She loved his ardour, his adoration and warmth. It wrapped about her like a warm blanket. That she did need. She loved his loving her so desperately.

  Looking back on her feelings for Alfie, it seemed now a youthful passion, an infatuation, an inevitable consequence of knowing each other so long and so well. Alfie had always been careless, sure of his good looks, his charm and gracefulness. He simply assumed she loved him and she had done so foolishly and unwisely. Now the memory made her feel shame. She had been imprudent once… she would not allow herself to be hurt again.

  Fred leant forward towards her. His tone was quiet but urgent, ‘There’s so little time… so little time to tell you my feelings. I keep thinking someone might walk in at any minute and I won’t have had a chance to tell you what I feel. I know how presumptuous I must seem and I know that my behaviour is anything but gentlemanly – but I can’t help it! I think you understand why I am here, I cannot fool you. You’re a person of great perception. I do not try to flatter you but am totally sincere.’

  She lowered her eyes. ‘I ought not to be listening to you, sir, not without my father present. I feel you are taking great liberties with me.’

  ‘I can’t explain what it is,’ he said, ‘just that you are a part of me that has been haunting my dreams all my life and suddenly taken form before my eyes. I’m not making much sense. But you do believe my sincerity?’

  ‘I do believe that, sir,’ she replied. ‘All the same, we’re barely acquainted,’ she added with a sigh and moved back in her chair. It seemed to break a spell.

  ‘Do you wish to know me? Could you feel anything for me in time?’

  Her eyes slid suddenly away. ‘I’m not sure. We have only just met, scarcely spoken. I can’t possibly say such a thing. I can’t promise anything.’

  ‘But you must,’ he insisted.

  ‘Must I? You are so precipitate.’

  ‘I know I am,’ he said humbly, ‘suddenly you have turned me into an impatient man who hates the whole idea of long courtships that stretch on for years. I feel it would be soul-destroying.’

  ‘It is soul-destroying,’ she said.

  ‘You see, you think so too! I’m in a position to marry when I please. I can afford to take my time learning to paint and write poetry while so many other artists cannot. I’m lucky, I know, and pity poor fellows like Winstone who struggle to make ends meet and thus find it impossible or hard to commit themselves to marriage.’

  ‘Does he mean to marry Miss Gamm?’

  Fred looked a little shocked at the directness of this question. ‘Well, yes… yes .. . I’m sure he means to. I mean, I believe they are engaged.’

  She smiled at his discomfiture. ‘It doesn’t bother me a bit, Mr Thorpe, whether he’s engaged to her or not. I certainly think he is in love with her. Do you think she loves him?’

  ‘I have no idea. She’s not a very biddable sort of girl. However, I think she tries to please him and she certainly knows when she’s well off.’

  ‘Men like “biddable”, don’t they? D’you think I’m such a girl? Do you hope I will be “biddable”, as you put it?’

  ‘I sense you are a girl with spirit and a sense of your own individuality,’ said Fred, ‘and that is what I like about you. I saw it immediately, even in that first sketch. Winstone captured something in your face that made me understand at once that you were not a meek, passive creature at all.’

  ‘I’m glad of that, Mr Thorpe, because it’s true and certainly observant of you. I’m impressed by your ability to read me so well. Would you like a wife who wants a biddable husband?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘I feel sure you would not. Neither would I want such a meek husband. But tell me, why must a woman be expected always to be submissive and passive and a man not so on occasions? To my mind marriage should be a friendship; a giving and taking that is mutual and loving. Things should be discussed as amongst equals and a man should listen to a wife’s wisdom, should he not?’

  ‘Most certainly – but how many wives are truly wise?’

  ‘Ah, you have me there!’ she admitted. ‘For that matter, how many husbands are truly wise? I am spoilt by my parent’s marriage, which was a true, equal and loving friendship. I can settle for nothing else.’

  ‘Our marriage would be just that!’ he said earnestly. ‘That would be my sincere desire also. You echo my own thoughts.’

  ‘Ah well…’ she sighed and looked down for a moment. ‘But you’re racing ahead, you know. You are going too fast for me. You tell me, for instance, that you have an income that enables you to marry when you like and presumably, that’s something in your favour. Is that what you are trying to tell me? You can tell my father about it, he would be delighted to hear it. As for myself, why should I care? You know I too have an income and wait on no man. Marriage isn’t always such a good thing, is it? Not for an independent person like myself. ‘

  Fred looked dashed by her determined reply. He looked down at the floor for a while.

  ‘Why are we speaking of these mean mundanities?’ he said at last. ‘I don’t even want to think of such things at this moment. It’s our souls, our hearts that matter. Fo
rgive me! In my impatience, in my ardour, I rush ahead. I assure you I am not normally so precipitate. Don’t be alarmed into thinking me some callow youth without any sense of proportion. Allow me to call on you again, allow me to talk with you and then you may feel you want to know me more.’

  She hesitated. There was a sound at the front door and bustling in the hallway and she knew her father had arrived home. Fred saw the alarm on her face.

  ‘Yes, call again… but you will have to go now, sir,’ she said hastily, ‘better still, why not write what you think. Let us correspond and get to know one another that way, perhaps. To begin with at least.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ he said and taking her hand, kissed it again. She snatched her hand away, half afraid, half irritated, and led the way to the door just as her father opened it and came in saying jovially, ‘Eleanor, have you seen your portrait! Isn’t it wonderful?’

  He stopped and looked at Fred in surprise. Ellie introduced him and Fred bowed while Joshua inclined his head.

  ‘This is Mr Frederic Ashton Thorpe, Papa. He is a friend of Mr Winstone and he kindly delivered the picture for us. ‘

  ‘Winstone was unable to get his fellow to bring it over tonight, so I took the liberty of calling myself, ‘said Fred, looking like a rabbit caught in a snare.

  Joshua looked at the young man narrowly.

  ‘I believe I know your father, sir,’ he said, ‘Are you not the eldest son?’

  ‘I am, sir. My younger brother is Walter Thorpe.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Joshua looked at Fred with a frown. ‘I thank you, sir, for bringing over the portrait. Very good of you,’ he replied. His words were polite but his manner frosty. ‘Very good of you indeed. You may tell Mr. Winstone I am delighted with his work. I may even sit for a portrait myself some day but doubt I would ever present as charming a study as my daughter.’