Friday's Girl Page 31

  Very well, the man under whose protection she was living had sent her to take riding lessons, and he supposed it was natural for her to have known where Edith lived, but even so it seemed almost too coincidental, especially now that Napier remembered how Alfred had confessed to knowing the Snape, as he always called her, in Leicestershire.

  ‘Alfred! My dear fellow! Luncheon is served.’

  ‘Capital.’

  Alfred did not know Napier well enough to know that Napier at his most affable was Napier at his most dangerous.

  ‘Lamb cutlets for the entrée, one of the maids told me. The first of the spring lamb, heralding not just spring but summer too, I always think. And, because I am now quite done with “Temptation”, I find I must open a bottle of champagne. Indeed we must both celebrate the completion of our paintings, although you seem to have finished your portrait in a shorter time than even Reynolds himself!’

  ‘Reynolds, my dear Napier, took only a few hours. Dashed ’em off, the dear man did, you know; but it don’t mean they aren’t good, does it?’

  They drank and gossiped, and if Alfred had been able to see into Napier’s heart he might have felt daunted, but he could not. Nor did he see that when they had finished their champagne, and he turned away to move towards the luncheon table, Napier’s eyes, following him, were uncharacteristically cold.

  Nevertheless, because Alfred as usual was full of stories of the Continent, and they had both finally finished their paintings, as always Napier found himself beguiled by his friend’s company.

  Perhaps because of the champagne, and then the wine, and the delicious food, Napier found himself starting to question Mrs George’s judgement. He was well aware that she would welcome an addition – if not many additions – to the household, if only because it would mean that she would be continuously employed through yet another generation. But he was also aware that because of her extreme loyalty to Edith, a loyalty that amounted almost to fanaticism, Mrs George was quite capable of mounting a campaign to make him feel guilty about his treatment of his pregnant wife, in order to bring about a reconciliation. On the other hand, it might be that she was wrong about Edith’s condition. The wine and the pace of the talk only served to make him more confused.

  ‘You know that Mrs Todd has gone to Cornwall because she is – as my mother would put it – in an interesting condition, of course?’

  The lunch over, they were both smoking large cigars and generally celebrating as if they were officers in the field who had come to the end of a long campaign, which in a sense they had.

  ‘Edith has a cough, Alfred, not a cold,’ Napier said, his tongue firmly in his cheek as he sent up the usage of the day. The convention of calling a pregnancy ‘a cold’ had doubtless arisen in order to preserve the ladies from embarrassment. ‘Mrs George, who as you know watches over my wife’s health like a hawk, most particularly since her illness, told me she has a cough, and that is why she has gone to Cornwall.’

  Alfred’s eyes widened and his voice took on a falsely charming tone. ‘No, Napier. Edith has a cold!’

  Napier stared at him. From the moment Mrs George had hinted at Edith’s condition he had been determined to keep it a secret from his friends until such time that he himself knew exactly what her condition might be. After all, Mrs George might be wrong, or Edith might have made a mistake.

  ‘My dear Napier, it is a fact. She told the Snape, before she left in such a hurry. She said that feeling as she did, having been frequently sick in the mornings, she believed that she must be expecting a baby, but that the baby would not be yours.’ Alfred stared at Napier, and as he watched the colour draining from his face he found that it was difficult not to feel that particular excitement which jealousy of a close friend so often engenders. Why should Napier have all the luck?

  ‘I don’t think you can be right, Talisman, really I don’t,’ Napier said. ‘Edith is not the kind of girl to make the sort of mistake that would bar her from Society for ever. Nor is she the kind of girl who would turn against a loving husband. She is the kind of person who would come to me, and tell me personally what she hoped might be wrong with her. Edith is pure, and good, but over all Edith is honest. She is incapable of dishonesty. I really believe that.’

  Alfred looked intently into Napier’s eyes and hated him for loving Edith and at the same time not making love to her.

  ‘I know how you must feel, my dear fellow, but really, it happens in the best of families. Girls slip up, often girls who are perhaps too innocent. Edith is too innocent, don’t you think? She might believe that, with your fascination with Becky—’

  ‘No, no, surely Edith knows me too well to suspect me of—’ He stopped, remembering Edith’s jealous outburst about Becky Snape.

  Much as Napier tried to play down the artistic fascination that he had undoubtedly felt for Becky, he was all too aware that Alfred might have happened on something too near to the truth for comfort. He had to face the fact that Alfred might be right: Edith might not have wanted to tell him that she was expecting a baby.

  ‘I hate to ask the question, but it has to arise. We have to wonder which fascinating man’s baby is it that Edith is perhaps expecting?’ Alfred pulled on his cigar, and then dipped it, slowly and judiciously, into his brandy.

  Chapter Eleven

  Celandine had arrived home to find Edith gone, and a note from her confirming that she had decided to take Celandine’s advice and go back to Helmscote and ask for Napier’s forgiveness.

  Celandine felt the usual regret that a person must feel when she finds a friend gone before an agreed departure date; a fleeting conviction that she could not have had enough of Edith’s company, but also a feeling of relief that she could once again be alone with Sherry.

  It was also a relief not to have to tell Sherry about the baby, now that she knew that Dominique had not been anything to do with her mother. She therefore settled down to delightfully hard-working days, painting first Mrs Dunstan, and then Mrs Dunstan’s friend, and then, to her surprise and delight – Mrs Dunstan’s friend having been really rather well connected – she was asked to paint the portrait of none other than Admiral Belitho.

  ‘He wants you to paint him?’

  ‘He certainly does, Sherry!’

  Celandine was positively glowing with the triumph of bringing off such an important commission. She held out her arms, not to Sheridan, but to demonstrate just how large the portrait was to be.

  ‘And he wants it this big!’

  There was a long silence as Sheridan poured himself a pre-dinner drink.

  ‘Are you sure he wants you?’

  Celandine stared at Sheridan, wanting to say something, but not sure what.

  ‘Why, yes, he does want me, Sherry,’ she said finally. ‘He wants me because of the portrait I did of Lady Trererice. The last one I did, remember? Oh, no, you never saw it: I had to go to Trego Place to do it, because she is quite crippled with rheumatism – the climate here is not kind to rheumatism – and you never saw it, did you, Sherry? I was quite pleased with it, but she was very pleased with it. So she recommended me to the admiral. It was most kind of her, don’t you think?’

  ‘But has he seen your portrait of Lady Trererice, Celandine? I mean has Admiral Belitho actually seen it? Because if he hasn’t you might be in for a difficult time of it, dearest, really you might. He might not like your style, seeing that you’re a woman and so on. He might find your style too soft, and your talent not suited to him.’

  Celandine stood up and walked to the window, her heart beating slightly too fast.

  ‘Sherry,’ she said eventually, turning back to him. The beautiful view of the sea had quite calmed her, as it always seemed to do. ‘Sherry, I have to remind you that when I painted Captain Black, and you put your name to it, you were more than happy with that situation, were you not?’

  ‘Yes, I have to confess I was.’

  ‘So if Captain Black was happy with his portrait, why would not Admiral Belitho be
happy with his?’

  Sheridan thought this over for a minute, and finally found that he could only come to one conclusion.

  ‘I think, dearest, that whatever the quality of the work, a man is always more at ease if he is sitting to another man for his portrait, even if it is only for the preliminary sketches, as with your first commission. It is just a fact. And I fear that Captain Black would not have enjoyed the portrait you did of him should you have signed it, rather than me. For a man it is like having his hair cut. He would not want his hair cut by a woman, d’you see?’

  ‘Yes, I do see. So what you are saying is that I should let you do the preliminary sketches as before, and that you should put your name to it when I have finished it?’ Celandine breathed in and out. ‘I see.’

  ‘We do need the money, dearest, really we do,’ Sheridan reminded her.

  ‘Precisely, Sherry! And I have been given the commission. If you wish for such commissions you should go out and paint portraits too, but you had rather not do that, because you would rather risk our security by following your own particular vision. And that is perfectly fine, I am sure, Sherry, but what is not perfectly fine is that you should cast doubt on the strength of my abilities. I have obtained this commission on the strength of my portrait of Mrs Dunstan’s friend, Lady Trererice. The admiral is well aware that I am a woman, and he, unlike yourself, does not seem to think that it matters in the least. Quite the contrary, he told Mrs Dunstan that Mrs Angelica Kauffmann was one of his favourite painters, and that he believed women brought more sympathy to their portrait work than his own sex.’

  ‘I don’t see why you are becoming so heated, dearest, really I don’t. I merely stated that I could see that being a woman painting a man could present some difficulties.’

  ‘It could, but it will not!’

  Celandine seldom became furious, and she had never really felt angry with Sheridan before, but at that moment she could see exactly what he was up to, and it was called – in nursery language – having your bun and eating it.

  Sheridan wanted to pursue his own course, which was not going to pay for two-day-old bread, not to mention anything fresh from the bakery, let alone Mrs Molesworth’s charges for their board and keep, and at the same time he wanted to cast doubts on Celandine’s talent, and lower her confidence to the point when she would give in and put his name on the bottom of her work.

  ‘I am a painter in my own right, Sherry. You are a painter in your own right. We might not be equal in the eyes of the wretched English law, but when we face a blank canvas we are equal in the eyes of Art. I will paint the admiral, and he will be pleased, see if he is not.’

  At that moment the sitting-room door opened slowly. Celandine knew at once that Mrs Molesworth had overheard every word that had just been said, because she stared momentarily at Sheridan with a look that said, ‘Well, you asked for that, young man!’

  ‘Mrs Montague Robertson, may I have a word?’

  Celandine could not wait to leave Sheridan to his thoughts and so she quickly followed Mrs Molesworth out into the corridor.

  Alfred had been most reluctant to tell Napier the truth of his wife’s condition, but when he asked himself afterwards whether he should or should not have done so, the second truth of the matter, if it could be called that, was that he always came to precisely the same conclusion.

  He had, as a friend, surely, to tell Napier? It was his duty. After all, if Napier had never even touched his wife, then Napier surely only had it coming to him when she turned to someone else? In fact it could be said that he had forced the poor girl into a situation where she would be less than a woman if she did not.

  ‘Why do you suspect that the baby is not mine?’

  Alfred could not say, Because, my dear Napier, I heard your poor young wife, innocent that she is or was, upbraiding you for neglecting her. Instead he had just stared soulfully at Napier, relishing the fact that if he himself could not have her, it was only fair that Napier, who did not want her, should lose out on her too.

  It had been a bitter blow to him to realise that if Edith was pregnant the likelihood of her ever giving herself to him would be remote, to say the least; but it must be a more than bitter blow for Napier, who had, after all, married her.

  ‘It was when I was painting her the last few days that it gradually dawned on me that her skin condition was changing and she was filling out, almost imperceptibly of course; that despite that irritating little cough she was changing, her skin blooming, her hair growing more lustrous. Of course . . .’ Alfred was careful to laugh in order to hide his bitterness. ‘Of course, for a wonderful moment I thought that this might be because she was falling in love with her portrait painter, that she was so pleased with the picture that she had fallen for the artist, but, alas, that was not apparently the reason.’

  Napier had started walking up and down the dining room, looking and feeling as if he was in a nightmare. Mrs George had suggested to him that Edith was in an interesting condition, and now it seemed that Alfred too was telling him the same thing, but hinting at an altogether different outcome.

  ‘I would not normally pay any attention, but Mrs George has just mentioned the very same thing. But why do you think that it might not be mine, Alfred?’

  ‘Let us say . . .’ Alfred sighed. ‘Let us say I know that it could not be yours, Napier. Let us just say that I overheard certain things that mean that it could not be yours. It might be anyone’s, my dear fellow, but you and I know that it can’t possibly be yours.’

  Napier groaned and leaning forward he wrapped his arms across his body as if in sudden pain.

  ‘But I love her, Alfred. She is my wife!’

  ‘Of course she is, but first and foremost, as we both know, you married her because she was your inspiration, and that isn’t always what a woman wants, or understands, unless perhaps she too is an artist, like Sherry’s wife. You know the ladies well enough, Napier my dear fellow. They have their own ways of expressing resentment. Mrs Todd could have fallen in love with her doctor, with her groom, with her gardener; there is no possible way that you will ever find out, except to ask her yourself, which of course I suppose you will have to do.’

  ‘But Edith seemed so jealous of Becky Snape. That was one of the reasons that we quarrelled so badly, because of Becky Snape. She hated the fact that I had painted over her face in favour of the Snape. It seemed that it maddened her; and then of course she saw two sets of footprints in the snow, and came to the wrong conclusion. Would she indulge in such jealousy if she herself was being unfaithful?’

  ‘Perhaps that was what, I believe, is called a feint, my dear fellow. You ever watch a bird building a nest? I used to watch them all the time when I was young. They are full of the most cunning feints. The ladies, God bless them, make awful asses of us men, which for the most part we really rather enjoy. It is only when it comes to these other matters that we are pulled up short by our boot straps and wonder if we are not what they wish us to think we are; if they are not at pains to hide the fact that we are, in fact, their playthings, their baubles.’

  ‘Would that be the reason she went away to Cornwall so suddenly? To go to see Sherry and Celandine, because she was in a quandary about her state, and hoped that I would be distracted by her accusations? Accusations which I may say are, and were, completely without foundation, I do assure you.’

  ‘Oh, I know, my dear fellow. If only she had not run off that way, I could have reassured her that the Snape is not at all your type. My type perhaps, but not yours at all. You are too fastidious.’

  Alfred lit another cigar. He had always been jealous of Napier, not just because he had inherited a good income from his father, or because he was able to follow his artistic principles to such a narrow degree, but because he was, finally, and Alfred knew it, a gentleman. Alfred was not a gentleman. He might be a member of an exclusive London club, if not two exclusive London clubs, but gentlemanly he was not.

  Alfred had always enjoyed his life
, and he had always looked out for moments of indulgence for which he found it all too easy to forgive himself. What he had never done before was fall in love. He had been careful never to do so, but now that it had happened, and he had found that the object of his undoubted passion had been taken, he was damned if he wanted Napier, who had after all neglected the beautiful creature, to take her back again. If Edith, as she must have done, had been unfaithful to Napier because he had neglected her, that was one thing, but in pursuing her own ends it seemed to Alfred that she had also been unfaithful to his own vision of her. To him Edith had been innocence personified, loving and giving, always anxious to support, to help. Now that that vision of her had been destroyed he wanted nothing more than for Napier to desert her. He only thanked God that he had finished the painting; that he had completed ‘Friday’s Girl’, as he had called it.

  ‘Let us go for a ride, and then let us come back and get drunk again,’ he suggested, a little thickly, to Napier, who, confused and wounded as he was, agreed.

  ‘I feel how Othello must have felt,’ Napier confided to Alfred after a good, long stiff canter during which he had a hard time of it staying on, such was his lack of sobriety.

  ‘It only took a handkerchief to turn his insides to fire, not a pregnancy,’ Alfred reminded him. ‘And Iago, of course, was on hand to help,’ he added slyly, looking sideways to see if Napier had picked up his nuance, but he was only staring miserably ahead.

  ‘I really love Edith, you know, Alfred. I really do. I know I married her for her beauty, but I have grown to love her for her character. She is so insouciant, so impish, so mischievous on occasion, but with it all, I hoped – I believed – so innocent. And to think that she accused me of dallying with the Snape.’

  ‘It is best to forget that time, surely? The footprints in the snow, they were undoubtedly those of Mrs George making sure that the Snape had her door locked – from the outside, I dare say!’ Alfred laughed.