Friday's Girl Page 26

  Marie had cooked Celandine exactly the dinner she had described, and there was no doubt that it achieved the desired mellowing effect. The true taste of Marie’s French cooking was, as it was meant to be, soothing to a degree, the meat cooked to perfection, the sauce subtle and piquant, and the home-made tart with its buttery pastry of a lightness which Celandine had quite forgotten was even possible. Yet mellow though she might feel, Celandine knew that she could not give Marie the news she wanted.

  ‘Marie. It is very difficult for me to take the baby back to England at this precise moment, because my husband has lost all his money. Not that he had a great deal, but that which he had has, alas, been taken from him, I’m afraid. A fire that was so bad that the company had to pay over all their assets. Nothing was left.’

  ‘Tiens.’

  Marie looked thoughtful, but impressed. She understood money very well; or rather she understood the lack of it only too well.

  ‘A baby is very costly in that it takes up all your time, Marie, as you probably well know. I have brought you some money, enough to keep him with Madame Montellier for the next few months, until he is grown bigger, but I can’t take him back, not just at this moment. I am having to work, to paint portraits, and although I have been paid my first commission, it is not enough, yet, for me to be able to take the baby back with me. Besides, I have to prepare my husband for the idea of adopting him. At the moment he knows nothing about the baby. I will tell him, on my return, but for the moment Dominique will have to stay where he is.’

  Marie nodded. She understood, but the expression in her eyes was one of disappointment, as if she felt that Celandine, having eaten her exquisite dinner, was somehow now cheating her.

  ‘I tell you in my letter, Madame Montellier cannot keep feeding the babies, not even her own; she too must return to her former occupation soon. She ’as no ’usband, as you know. She calls herself Madame because it is much more convenable for a concierge in an hotel. She need money.’

  ‘Therefore,’ Celandine said firmly, ‘the money I have brought you will bring her some relief. She will be able to put off returning to her job, just until the moment when I can tell my husband of my new situation. Then you can bring the baby to us, yes? Or I will come over once again, and fetch him.’

  Marie nodded, outwardly in agreement, but Celandine had the feeling that she was truly a little put out; that the money, although very welcome, was not quite what she actually wanted from Celandine.

  ‘I do not want the baby to stay for too long with Madame Montellier,’ she murmured, leaving Celandine in no doubt at all that she would soon have to tell Sheridan the truth, something to which she could only look forward with dread.

  Her arrival home was, however, a supremely satisfying contrast to the unhappy state of affairs at the Paris apartment.

  ‘Oh, Sherry, you shouldn’t have! But I am so glad that you did!’

  Sheridan had filled the whole of their suite of rooms with flowers, extravagant, rare and beautiful flowers that perfumed the air with such subtlety that they set Celandine thinking that their rooms were not in Mrs Molesworth’s house but a part of heaven.

  ‘I have missed you so much.’

  ‘I was not gone long.’

  ‘To me, unless I am painting, five minutes away from you is too long.’

  ‘You flattering Irishman.’

  Mrs Molesworth had prepared a welcome dinner, beautifully presented as well as being utterly and rather satisfyingly English.

  ‘So what was the sudden hurry to return to France about, may we ask, Mrs Montague Robertson? What is your news?’

  Sheridan was leaning over the harbour wall, smoking a late-night cigarette, while Celandine, only too happy to be home and standing beside him, stared at the faraway lights, wondering how to tell him what she knew she had to tell him. Or, rather, how to ask him what she knew she had to ask him.

  She turned to him. He turned to her and, having thrown his cigarette away, took her in his arms. She returned his passionate embrace with fervour, realising that if there was one moment to ask your husband if you could adopt your half-brother, this was most definitely not it.

  Edith looked at Napier. Seeing the detached look in his eyes, she should have suspected that he had already made a plan to which she was going to have to adhere.

  ‘You will be sitting to Alfred, while he is staying,’ he announced.

  Edith did not know why, but she felt as if Napier had hit her.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ she asked, her confidence draining from her.

  ‘Otherwise why should I ask you, Edith?’

  ‘I don’t like sitting to people as much as I thought I might.’

  ‘You will not mind sitting to Alfred. He is more patient than I am.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that is something after all.’

  ‘It is impossible for a man to paint his own wife. It is nevertheless surely possible to paint someone else’s wife. Which is why I thought you might not mind sitting to Alfred, since you are not married to him. He does so need a model at the moment. He very much admires your beauty. And you are in full beauty at the moment, truly you are, Edith, since Cornwall. I think you cannot have ever looked more beautiful.’

  Edith thought for a moment. ‘Oh, very well, Napier. If that is what you wish. I will sit to Alfred, but you must understand that I am not going to wear a Grecian gown, or pose with a harp. I will never do that again. I will wear something of my choosing.’

  ‘No, of course, you must wear something of your own choosing, and that I am sure would be Alfred’s wish too. He simply wants to paint your portrait, because he finds you beautiful.’

  Edith’s thoughts went to her wardrobe and she started to wonder what dress she would wear, in her mind’s eye turning over each of her fashionable outfits – the grey with the black velvet trim, the blue with the high-necked lace collar – which meant that Napier was able to deliver his coup de grâce just as he reached the door and started to turn the handle.

  ‘Meanwhile I have to finish old Hollingsworth’s painting, because, apart from anything else, if I don’t, he will spread the word that I am not to be relied upon. Miss Snape has agreed to sit to me for that. Granted her hair is not exactly the same red as yours, but she will do very well for the arms and hands, not to mention the forehead. We will meet at dinner. For the moment, au revoir.’

  He was gone before Edith had registered exactly what he had said. In fact the full import of what was implied, of what might be about to happen, only came to her when she turned to her wardrobe to try to pick out the most flattering dress in her possession.

  She was to sit to Alfred, who had already confessed his attraction to her, and Becky Snape, of all people, was to sit to Napier? It was all becoming like a game of artistic musical chairs, but there was a part of her that was naturally quite curious to sit to someone besides Napier. It would be very different, as Napier had hinted. Perhaps, unlike Napier, Alfred Talisman would find her inspiring? Hard on the heels of this question came others. Why would Napier consider Becky Snape, of all people, inspiring? Or was her husband’s inspiration dependent on something that he was not telling her?

  Celandine had awoken early for her – although late for Sherry, whom she had just heard leaving the house for the harbour to sketch one of the old fishermen before the poor fellow set sail.

  It was pleasant to be left not just to sleep, but to tussle with the question that, since her visit to France, had haunted her. The truth was that even after several weeks had passed she still had not plucked up enough courage to ask Sherry the question she needed to ask. She kept feeling that if she had only just a little more peace and quiet she would most definitely be able to come up with the best possible way of asking Sherry if he would mind adopting her half-brother.

  The truth was that she was fast coming to the conclusion that there was no good or tactful way of putting what she had to put to Sheridan except in good plain American English, and she was bracing herself for
the shock of his reaction. She had barely convinced herself of this, when there was a knock at her bedroom door.

  It was Mrs Molesworth, and she had brought up Celandine’s breakfast on a beautifully laid tray, complete with embroidered cloth and hot coffee. One glance told Celandine that the landlady had carefully placed on it everything that Celandine enjoyed, such as newly baked hot cinnamon buns, and fresh Cornish butter.

  Celandine skipped out of bed and, after donning a warm night robe, seated herself at the table by the window.

  ‘Join me, oh do,’ she begged, and seeing that she really meant it Mrs Molesworth quickly disappeared back to her kitchen, to reappear moments later with a fresh cup and saucer.

  After Celandine, feeling unusually hungry, had eaten several of the cinnamon buns, Mrs Molesworth having made sure that they were lavishly spread with yellow Cornish butter and pale Cornish honey, the two women, already well versed in each other’s ways, fell to companionable silence, sipping their coffee and watching the sea, which was, as always, a gloriously enriching sight.

  ‘Mr Montague Robertson is to collect the painting from the framer this afternoon, and tomorrow it will be off to Captain Black’s house, I hear?’

  Celandine, still thinking over the problem of little Dominique, nodded absently, only turning back to her companion’s conversation after a short pause. She hoped that Captain Black would like the painting. Indeed she prayed that he would like it, for he had only paid for half of it, and the other half of the commission, although vital to their security, was dependent on his approval.

  ‘Yes, as I understand it, it is off to Captain Black now, and no delay, Mr Montague Robertson said,’ Mrs Molesworth reiterated, but this time her eyes left the sea despite the fascination of its intense winter blue and she stared at Celandine in a concentrated manner. ‘And now that you have finished the portrait of Captain Black, which Mr Montague Robertson has signed’ – her voice had become uncharacteristically sarcastic – ‘now that you have finished that portrait on behalf of your husband, I wonder would you consider painting my granddaughters and myself, Mrs Montague Robertson? Or are you always to have to do your husband’s work for him?’

  Celandine stared at Mrs Molesworth, thinking that she had never before realised that she was quite so observant. It was stupid of her, because if she examined the life of a landlady, it was clear that the day-to-day running of a lodging house was not simple. The constant watching that no one slipped out of the back door with any of her silver, or out of the front door without paying their dues. If a landlady was to succeed she had to be among the most observant of people.

  ‘My husband is not interested in painting portraits,’ Celandine said finally, careful to keep a defensive note out of her voice. ‘It is not that he cannot paint portraits, he does not want to paint portraits. He wants to paint the working people of Cornwall. He wants to show how they live, the grim details of their lives. He is part of the new movement of realism, the Newbourne school as they are now calling it. It should be very exciting, the new movement, if it succeeds, which I am sure it will, but for the moment there is no public for it, although I am sure there will be quite shortly.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Mrs Molesworth agreed. ‘No doubt at all, but the truth is that you have to eat. I would say that is the reality of your situation, Mrs Montague Robertson, no doubt at all. Men allus likes to fill their mouths with words, but we women know you can’t eat words, nor fill your stomach with ’em. No, food is what does that, and food has to be bought.’

  The expression on Mrs Molesworth’s face became momentarily grave as she turned back to the view.

  ‘However that mebbe,’ she said, once more gazing diplomatically out to sea in order to take the heat off the moment. ‘However that mebbe, it may also be that you want to paint the reality out there, Mrs Montague Robertson, and ignore the reality in here.’ She patted her stomach in a small significant gesture.

  ‘No, I don’t want to paint any other reality than my own, Mrs Molesworth. I just want to paint for my living in the same way that you let your houses and your rooms for yours. My attitude is . . .’ Celandine paused, as she also found herself gazing diplomatically out to sea to avoid putting too much emphasis on their conversation. ‘My attitude is,’ she continued, lowering her voice as if what she was going to say was shocking, which perhaps it was, ‘that my art is, or should be, at the service of what I am commissioned to paint. Never mind what the subject might be, I will paint it, if commissioned; provided always, of course, that the subject is not distasteful. I want to work and be paid. I want to be a professional painter. But it is much more difficult, Mrs Molesworth, for a woman to be a painter than a man. Men, you see, can spare the time to go to art galleries, and they have control of the purse strings, most especially in England; which means that it is the men who buy the paintings, and the paintings they buy are inevitably by – men. This is why, if we are to be paid, my husband has to sign the portrait. What is more, it seems that with few or no exceptions men do not want a female signature on the bottom of a painting that is about to hang on their wall, whereas a woman does not mind the sex of the painter, only the subject.’

  Mrs Molesworth considered this quite complicated thought in silence for a while, turning it over in her mind, waiting in her usual Cornish way before giving her verdict.

  ‘I knows what you mean,’ she said, breaking what turned out to be quite a protracted silence. ‘I knows indeed what you are on about, for my Albert, when he was alive, he never would give a second look even to a book if it was by a woman. Women’s palaver is what he called it. I put it down to his being naval. Always at sea with men, he knew no better than to think his sex ran the world, same as what they run ships, poor souls.’

  ‘No, it’s not just naval, I’m afraid, Mrs Molesworth.’ Celandine smiled. ‘It’s general. But, see here, I would love to paint you and your grandchildren. How would you like to be painted?’

  ‘In my best frock with my cameo brooch,’ came the prompt and proud reply.

  ‘And how would you like your grandchildren to be?’

  ‘Seated about my chair, their heads on my knee, like a story book of old. I have a mind to thinking that’s allus a nice picture. I saw one like it, many years ago, of a Lady St Probyn, I think it was, a local lady; but she looked graceful, to my mind, very ladylike, very elegant.’

  ‘I know just what you want. And I would love to do it, believe me, Mrs Molesworth.’

  Celandine leaned forward impulsively and kissed Mrs Molesworth’s soft cheek, for they both knew that, one way or another, the commission was Mrs Molesworth’s way of saying that for the next few months Mr and Mrs Sheridan Montague Robertson would be living rent-free.

  Alfred took a step back, his handsome face impassive, which meant that, when he did finally utter, what he had to say proved to be all the more shocking to Edith.

  ‘The grey tone does not suit your skin,’ he announced, his voice cool, his expression still impassive.

  Edith stared at him, about to protest, and then, realising that it would not be the best way to start their sitting, she sighed. It was not the large sigh that Napier would give if she moved so much as a muscle when sitting to him, but it was a sigh none the less.

  ‘This was chosen for me by one of the most chic and fashionable establishments in Richmond,’ she said, after she had made her point with the little sigh.

  ‘From a painter’s point of view, Mrs Todd, I would not care if the grey had been chosen for you by Tintoretto himself, the fact of the matter is that it does nothing for your skin.’

  ‘But there are other colours here too!’

  Alfred stared at her, left a pause, and then said, ‘May I come up to your dressing room and see what is in your wardrobe?’

  The look in his eyes was purposefully compelling, and they both knew exactly why. If Edith said no it would mean that she was frightened of what he would say; if she said yes, it would mean that inevitably their relationship would change. After a
ll, a man viewing your wardrobe was next to a man choosing your clothes, and once a man chose your clothes it was only a short step to his paying for them, and eventually for – you.

  ‘Why, of course you can come up to my dressing room, Mr Talisman.’ Edith smiled. ‘Follow me, please do.’

  Alfred did indeed follow her, his face still expressionless, until, as they entered the house, Edith paused in the hall and rang the bell for Mrs George. The housekeeper appeared all too promptly, which immediately made Edith wonder if she was always crouching under the stairs listening to the goings-on in the hall.

  ‘Mrs George, Mr Talisman doesn’t think that this grey silk dress suits the colour of my skin—’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t, does he?’ Mrs George stared at Alfred. She had never liked him, and for some reason she could not name she liked him even less now.

  ‘No, he doesn’t. So I wonder if you could be awfully obliging and take him up to my dressing room to show him the contents of my wardrobe, so he can choose the colour he thinks is most fitting.’

  ‘Painters!’ Mrs George said under her breath.

  Edith pretended not to hear and promptly turned on her heel and returned to the studio, satisfied that she had in some way she could not really explain won the first round. Alfred Talisman might want to go through her clothes, but he was not going to do so with her as a witness, if she had anything to do with it. If he wanted to take stock of her wardrobe he could do so with Mrs George as a witness. The idea of watching Alfred sighing and shrugging his shoulders in painterly fashion at her poor little outfits was far from enticing.

  But she had counted without Alfred, who finally returned twenty minutes later, closely followed by Mrs George carrying a stack of dresses in her arms, and looking like a fury.

  ‘Not the yellow, no. I don’t like women in yellow, they make me think of custard—’

  ‘We don’t want to know that, thank you,’ Mrs George cut in quickly, looking shocked, as if custard was not a ladylike subject, which perhaps it wasn’t. ‘Just choose a dress, Mr Talisman, and let me go back to my work, would you, please? I have a great deal to do, as you will no doubt appreciate – or perhaps you will not?’