Friday's Girl Read online

  ‘I dare say that might fit me,’ she said, a little hopelessly, and started to remove her bonnet.

  The truth was that she had started not to care less what she looked like on her wedding day. So far from home, so far from anything familiar, with none of her family present, what did it matter now?

  ‘Ah, now that is beautiful on ye, and doesn’t it fit like a glove, wouldn’t you say?’

  Celandine stared helplessly at her reflection in the dressing mirror. It was really very little wonder that the gown fitted, since Mrs McGregor was standing behind her holding in the waist with both scrawny hands.

  ‘I think it’s a little big, wouldn’t you say?’ Celandine turned back to the older woman. ‘Besides, I haven’t managed a hoop in such a long while. I would not want to be embarrassed as one so often remembers ladies who could not manage their hoops were, or could be. The way they used to tip up unexpectedly was so mortifying for them. Without wishing to offend you, Mrs McGregor, I think I will just wear something of my own. I have a nice grey evening dress which I am sure will serve perfectly well . . .’

  Mrs McGregor looked round the room in desperation. ‘A bride in grey! What will folk say? It will be terrible for my business, real terrible.’

  Her eyes alighted on a large box, newly opened, the dress not yet hung out.

  ‘Well, now, this is quite new, arrived this very morning. It came from a jilted bride; I bought it from her poor wee mother. She is a foreigner, from Northumberland, but it could be just what ye would be wanting, it could indeed.’

  She held up a white silk dress, pristine, un-worn. Celandine stared at it, wanting to know only one thing.

  ‘It does not depend on a crinoline hoop, does it, Mrs McGregor?’

  Mrs McGregor smiled for the first time. ‘It does not, nae shall it!’ she replied stoutly.

  Not much later the two women, with Celandine’s day dress safely boxed, hurried back towards the hotel, the future Mrs Montague Robertson dressed in white under her dark green cloak, with a pretty white rose-trimmed hat set on her dark hair, and a bouquet of white flowers plucked from Mrs McGregor’s garden in her hand.

  Sheridan was pacing up and down the cobbled yard in the usual state to be expected of a bridegroom, but when he saw Celandine he stopped pacing and stared. He had packed off a downcast young woman only an hour before, only to find her replaced by a beautiful bride.

  ‘I must buy that dress for you, so I can paint you like that,’ he cried over the wind and the rain as they hurried into the building where they were to be married at last.

  The ceremony was quickly over, and they both bolted the wedding breakfast as fast as they could, anxious only to return to Cornwall, where Sheridan had once more rented his house at Newbourne.

  ‘But what about Aunt Biddy? Didn’t she say we were to return to her house, for a wedding party?’

  ‘And so we shall, for a wedding party that will make the roof rafters shake with the sounds of our celebrations, but first we must honeymoon, my darling. A train is no place to celebrate a marriage.’

  Sheridan kissed Celandine with passion. It was a long kiss, and the first of what proved to be hundreds, for, as his bride soon discovered, not only did Sheridan like to make love, but when he was not actually making love he was thinking of making love, and when he was not thinking of love in those first weeks of their marriage, he was painting it.

  One languorous afternoon he climbed out of the bed, and painted her as she lay asleep, her long hair spread across a white pillow, her body relaxed and sensual – so sensual that it was all too obvious to the onlooker that the painting must have been modelled from real life, and there was no doubting that what had just taken place had been so fulfilling that the young woman whose body was only a little less white than the sheets upon which she lay would not be moving for some hours.

  Unable to contain her curiosity about the progress of the painting Edith decided to confront Napier as they walked together to the studio.

  ‘How is the painting going along, Napier?’ she asked tentatively. Since he made no reply, she went on, ‘I suppose I may not see it, even after all this time, may I?’

  As he turned towards her the look in Napier’s eyes confirmed her supposition, and Edith, who on this particular day, despite the cool early morning air, had felt unnaturally hot, realised that she was not going to be rewarded with an answer, and dropped her eyes.

  Perhaps because of Napier’s refusal to talk to her, the ensuing sitting seemed twice as long as usual. Edith, confused by her own feelings of curiosity and isolation, of loneliness and depression, not to mention a pounding head and a racing pulse, finally found she had to move her hand from the wretched harp. She was rewarded with the sound of a heavy sigh and the inevitable sight of Napier putting down his palette and walking away from his easel.

  ‘Can you not sit still!’ He turned away, throwing his brush into a corner, and folding his arms across his chest. ‘Do you not know what it does to my concentration when you move like that? It does not just disturb the pose, it disturbs the muse.’

  Edith had never quite grasped the idea of ‘the muse’ to which Napier had often referred, but seeing his fury she felt compelled to apologise.

  ‘I am so sorry, Napier, truly I am. I would not disturb your concentration for anything. It is only that—’

  She stopped, realising all at once that her pulse was beating far too fast and that her vision of the studio was definitely becoming blurred.

  Napier, oblivious of anything but his own cares, walked off down to the other end of the studio and threw himself into an old, much worn library chair, staring into the fire that Mrs George always lit for her mistress’s benefit.

  ‘The painting has been going quite magnificently, up until now, that is,’ he stated bleakly, a sulky look on his face. ‘If only you would not move. I have told you time and time again that if you move it breaks my concentration.’

  He himself stayed motionless in front of the fire, while Edith, for reasons she could not quite understand, went on sitting pointlessly still. Eventually she managed to run a quick hand across her eyes, blinking in desperation as she did so, trying to comprehend why the studio, normally so icy away from the benefit of the small coal fire, now seemed so airless.

  Finally he stood up. ‘Very well, let us try to go back to where we were, shall we?’ He turned, a resigned expression on his face, a patronising tone to his voice. ‘That is what we will do. We will assume there has been no break. We will go back to where we were and, if you have no objection, we will try to keep still for just a little longer; we will try to hold our pose and not break my concentration.’

  He walked back towards his easel, frowning, and it was some few seconds before he glanced towards his model, only to find her collapsed on the floor.

  Napier was in terrible trouble with Mrs George, and for once she was quite certain that he knew it, for as Edith’s temperature soared and the doctor from the village arrived in his pony and trap to pronounce on her state of health, swiftly followed by the rector in his pony and trap, she was glad to see that Mr Todd’s self-preoccupation faltered at last as he began to realise just how serious was his wife’s condition.

  ‘Not the rector as well?’ Napier paled as he watched the dark figure with his Bible and bag walk solemnly up the elegant wooden stairs to Edith’s bedroom.

  ‘Dr Bennington recommended it, her condition is that serious, sir,’ Mrs George told him, tight-lipped with suppressed anger. ‘Sitting day after day in those freezing conditions in the studio, with hardly a stitch on – what on earth else did you expect to happen, Mr Todd, sir?’

  The way Mrs George said ‘sir’ was as if she was boxing Napier’s ears with the word.

  ‘It is still summer, Mrs George. I never thought that Mrs Todd would feel cold in the summer.’

  ‘It is never summer in your studio, sir. It is never summer in a vast stone edifice with only a small coal fire burning, and wearing a flimsy dress such as wou
ld be too little if you were going to your bed wearing it, sir.’

  The rector, having visited the bedside and said prayers over Edith, shook his head sadly as he looked down at her feverish state before slowly descending the stairs once more, and proceeding with funeral tread to pay a call on the servants and the workers who were trying to enjoy their tea in the hall off the kitchens.

  ‘I must ask for your prayers for the life of your poor young mistress,’ he announced, having lightly banged the table in front of him. ‘Mrs Todd’s condition is so serious that we are now fearing for her life. As you go about your manual labour, praising God for His abundance, make sure that you include this virtuous young woman in your orisons.’

  Mrs George, revelling in her authority over her patient, took complete charge, refusing to let Napier see Edith, and banishing him to sleep in his dressing room.

  ‘A man has no business in a sick room,’ Mrs George told him firmly, and she made it her business to stand by the bedroom door in such a way that Napier dared not push past her. ‘I will let you know if her condition worsens. Dr Bennington believes just the sight of you could send her temperature up. No excitement with fevers, he says.’

  She stared straight into her master’s eyes and held his look in such a way that he was forced to read her unspoken words.

  Thanks to your unrelenting selfishness she may well soon die, and nothing either the doctor or I can do to save her.

  Finally, since Edith appeared not to be turning any sort of corner, and to his own astonishment, Napier found himself escaping the house to go to the nearby church and pray.

  ‘I will of course be only too happy to attend your poor young wife in her last moments, Mr Todd.’

  Napier stared at the rector, the realisation coming to him at last that he might well be going to lose Edith. He started to walk backwards down the church path, cramming his hat on his head, moving slowly away from the pale-faced cleric, before finally bolting back towards Helmscote, this time determined on seeing Edith, on telling her how much she meant to him.

  He walked quickly up the shallow wooden stairs, and down the corridor to the bedroom just as Mrs George was emerging from it carrying a large bowl of water, with towels draped over her strong arms.

  ‘I would like to see my wife,’ he stated.

  Mrs George did not smile. She looked at him gravely, as always blocking his path. ‘You may see your wife now, Mr Todd, but only if you compose yourself. She is a very sick young woman. I do not want you upsetting her, especially not at this moment.’

  Napier stared at the housekeeper, realising that the expression on her face was not unlike the one he had just seen on the face of the vicar. Mrs George’s face was majestic in its solemnity. Edith, her expression seemed to be saying to him, was about to depart this world. For her part Mrs George was well aware that her own face was pale owing to sitting up all night and all day beside her patient, but as she looked at her master she realised that Napier’s face was not pale, it was bloodless. The fear in his eyes was so real that she knew she would have to tell him the truth. She simply could not live with her conscience if she did not.

  ‘Your wife, sir, has taken – your wife has taken a turn for the better, but I don’t want anyone disturbing her, sir.’

  ‘I shall endeavour not to do so.’

  ‘That would be just as well, given the circumstances.’

  Mrs George looked grim and stern but felt resigned, knowing that her words would have little effect on Mr Todd. She remained standing in front of the door.

  ‘I don’t want anyone bursting in on her. I don’t want her upset. It could reverse her progress, bring her down, if you understand me, Mr Todd? We are very lucky to have her still, as you may very possibly have at last realised. You may go in, but only for a minute, you understand. Only for the smallest of minutes, not more than that.’

  She gave him yet another stern look before finally allowing him to pass her, and made her way down the corridor on careful tiptoe, as if to demonstrate to Napier just how she expected him to conduct himself in her patient’s presence.

  Edith opened her eyes just as her husband entered the room. She had no idea how dangerous her condition had been, or how high her fever, how delirious her state. All she knew was that a pale-faced Napier was now creeping towards her bedside, an expression of assumed calm on his face, anxiety in his eyes.

  ‘Well, well, you have given us all a terrible turn, Edith. Mrs George and the rector quite feared for you,’ he told her, clearing his throat, his heart beating faster as he realised, just from the look of her, quite how sick Edith had been.

  ‘I don’t know what can have been wrong with me . . .’

  She moved her lips with difficulty for they were still dry and cracked from the fever, and seeing this Napier leaned forward and took a glass of water from her bedside table and offered it to her. She sipped at it.

  ‘I am so sorry I have held you up, Napier,’ she whispered, giving him back the glass. ‘You must be so late with your painting . . .’

  ‘Old Hollingsworth will wait for my masterpiece,’ Napier told her. ‘He will have to now, won’t he? No matter he has finished the room in which it is to hang, no matter that he has chosen the frame, he will just have to wait until you are better and it is finished.’

  Edith smiled bleakly and then closed her eyes again. If she had had the strength she knew she would have cried at his words. For it seemed to her that the reality behind them was that Mrs George and the rector had feared for her, but Napier had only really feared for his painting.

  The truth was that he had not missed Edith at all; that was really quite certain. It seemed that nothing had changed.

  Within a week or so Edith was allowed downstairs and able to sit in the small morning room off the main hall. She felt too weak to do more than sit in front of the fire and stare into it, but Mrs George was so assiduous in her attentions that even if she had been able to do more, the housekeeper would not have let her, fussing around her as if she was still in danger, instead of well on the way to recuperation, which Edith was certain she must be.

  Napier on the other hand was obviously at a loose end, and without perhaps realising it made this quite plain. He could not finish his great painting without Edith, but at the same time he was finding it impossible to get on with anything else.

  ‘She’s not coming back to the studio until the doctor says she can, Mr Todd,’ Mrs George told her master, her ultimatum emerging so tightly that the words appeared to be squeezed out from between her thin lips. ‘Not for anything is she going back to that studio of yours until Dr Bennington says she may, and at the moment I have to tell you, sir, he says she may not.’

  It amused Mrs George to see Napier struggling with his feelings as he was forced to accept that until Edith was quite better he must obey the doctor’s, and Mrs George’s, orders.

  ‘I feel some guilt about my wife’s condition, you know, Mrs George.’ He had walked off to the morning-room window, but now he turned to face his housekeeper.

  ‘I am sure we all should,’ Mrs George told him, careful to keep her tone as objective as possible. ‘But least said soonest mended, I always think, and let us hope that we can come up with some way to speed Mrs Todd’s recovery.’

  ‘Do you think there is something else we can do?’

  ‘I always think there is something else we can do, sir.’

  ‘I must think of something then, I must really.’

  Finally, some days later, Napier came into the morning room holding a letter, obviously newly arrived.

  ‘This is from my friend Sherry Montague,’ he announced.

  Edith looked up at him, her expression remote, as it always seemed to be nowadays.

  ‘Sherry has written saying that I must come back to Cornwall, and bring you too, that it will be perfectly splendid for your health. He says there are plenty of lodgings in the villages around Newbourne and suchlike places. I know that from when I visited him last summer.’
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  Edith’s expression did not change, and Napier went on in a rush, hoping to engage her interest.

  ‘Cornwall is beautiful at this time of year. I am sure it will help you recover. You will feel quite different once we go to Cornwall, I know it. You will benefit from the sea air. I am sure that Mrs George and the doctor will be happy for you to travel now you are a little stronger.’ He took up one of her hands and patted it, his expression optimistic as he imagined a rosier future. ‘And once I see you settled and happy in our lodgings, I will be able to go off with Sherry and paint in the open air, something he is always only too anxious for me to try.’

  Without waiting for Edith to say whether or not she wanted to go Napier left the room, humming happily to himself, not realising that Edith had said nothing in response to his pronouncements.

  Edith stared after him for a few seconds before closing her eyes and surrendering herself to lassitude. Each time she saw Napier she longed to ask him why he had not yet loved her in the way men were meant to love their wives. She longed to ask him if her innocence put him off; if she was too young and too unsophisticated for him. And yet she dared not, because she had no idea how she should frame the words. Besides, there was something about the look in Napier’s eyes that always stopped her. Since her illness, it seemed to her the look had strengthened in purpose, as if he was determined on something about which he could not, or would not, tell her.