Friday's Girl Read online

  ‘Well, you would be,’ Celandine said in a reasonable tone, but she sipped at her lemonade with a thoughtful expression, not looking at her friend. ‘The question of the male in one’s life is much more complicated than our society will choose to admit, most particularly for strong-minded women. I have to say I always enjoy a feeling of great calm once Sherry has left the house. He does not need to utter a word, he can remain completely silent and yet I will feel I am on call all the time; but once he is out of sight I can settle down to working, and generally not being fatigued by him; and yet, if I am honest, I am aware that all the time I am listening for his step outside the front door, his key in the lock, his voice calling to me, and that should I never hear it again, my life would be really quite over.’

  Edith stared at her. She knew exactly what Celandine meant, and yet she did not know whether she could or had ever applied such emotions to Napier; since she had been quite sure that he would not return to her, she had grown used to the idea that she had nothing to look forward to other than the safe delivery of her child.

  ‘And then again,’ Celandine went on, dreamily, ‘there is a great deal to be said for the annoyances that a man in your life brings with him, not least the realisation that, alas, you yourself are not always in the right, which is so irritating; most especially for me, since I am always quite sure, as you know, that I am right, and dislike intensely the idea that I am not perfect.’

  ‘You are saying, are you not, that you think I should let Napier visit me, at least visit?’

  Celandine’s eyes widened. ‘I am saying nothing of the sort, dear Edith. I am merely telling you how I myself feel. You, on the other hand, may feel quite differently.’

  Edith frowned and then stood up and walked down the garden, staring about her as if seeking inspiration, or consolation.

  She came back to the table and sat down again.

  ‘Perhaps human relationships are like the sea, Celandine? They are sometimes still, sometimes stormy, but without them – there would be no life?’

  ‘Perhaps they are.’

  ‘So it is up to me to discover whether the storms to which I have been subjected have wrecked our marriage, or whether it can be brought into harbour and repaired? I think that it is up to me, not even Napier, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, I would, Edith. Only you can say whether you have been too hurt by what Napier has done to you. After all, here in Cornwall, we know that you already have an independent existence. You can stay with Aunt Biddy, as her companion and helpmeet, or you can return to your old life.’

  Celandine stood up. She herself had to return to her painting. And besides, dearly though she loved having conversations with her own sex, she did not like to dwell too much on sensitive subjects. Sometimes words were truly not the answer, and really, they both knew only time would tell.

  But as Celandine kissed Edith goodbye she could not help feeling sorry for her, but also thankful that she could only imagine the terrible hurt her friend must still be feeling. It was all very well for Napier to come bursting back into Edith’s life again, but he had to be brought to understand the terrible pain he had caused, not once but twice. If Edith could not take him back immediately, or never took him back, that would be only his just deserts. At best he had been selfish and stupid, at worst he had been negligent and cruel.

  Russo had been told not to admit any gentlemen, aside from the vicar on Thursdays, of course; so the first time Napier attempted a call, he was turned away abruptly, and allowed only to leave his card. On the second visit he was admitted, but only after Edith had written to tell him the conditions of his being allowed to call again.

  In her note to him Edith wrote out the conditions most precisely.

  Napier could call at teatime once a week, and he could view the baby, but only if Aunt Biddy and herself were present, not to mention the young nurse, Gabrielle and Russo. He could stay for an hour, but then he must go away again, and return the following week. He must not attempt to call at any other time. He must not call if he felt ill or had a cold. He must not make a scene. He must remember his manners at all times, or he would be immediately asked to leave.

  If Napier had felt that exhibiting a painting was nerve-racking, he found it was as nothing compared to having five pairs of eyes watch his entrance into Aunt Biddy’s drawing room that first Tuesday afternoon.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ he said, attempting to speak to the assembled company in a clear, firm voice, and failing miserably.

  He bowed first to Aunt Biddy and then to Edith, not daring even to attempt to kiss the mother of his child, his perhaps soon-to-be-former wife.

  ‘My, my, he is looking fine,’ he said, clearing his throat, as the young nurse picked John Napier up and displayed him proudly while being sure to hold him closer to her than to his father, as if she had been instructed not to let his father too near.

  ‘Do sit down, please,’ Aunt Biddy instructed Napier. He sat on the chair indicated, which was considerably lower than the sofas upon which his hostess and Edith were seated.

  Napier stared around him, filled with unease and dark feelings of despair. He knew he was being punished, and he accepted it, but since he was a proud man he found it more than hard – he found it intolerable. And that was before the heat of the room began to make itself felt, and beads of sweat had to be wiped from his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.

  Many such Tuesday afternoons followed, until one day he turned to Edith as he was leaving the house and said, ‘I cannot visit next week as I have to go to London to see Devigne about the hanging of “Temptation”.’

  Edith nodded, the look in her eyes opaque as she remembered Napier painting over her face in favour of that of Becky Snape.

  ‘Of course, “Temptation.” How does it look?’

  ‘Oh, I think everyone is pleased with it.’ He did not feel it would be right to say that Devigne was treating it as a masterpiece. ‘Devigne has found a rich nabob newly returned from India to buy it. He is mightily pleased with himself, and of course the sum paid will help to keep Helmscote – and you and baby John,’ he added quickly, for it was difficult for him to think of his home without a wife, and now a son; yet he knew from the implacable expression on Edith’s face that he still might have to.

  ‘I hope that everything goes well for you, Napier.’

  Edith turned back from the front door, closing it behind her, and as she did so she felt the sadness of those days at Helmscote return to her. Remembering Napier’s neglect, she did not kiss the tips of her fingers in saying goodbye, as she had used to do, but left him to continue down the steps towards the sea front, feeling no more for him than she had the week before. The truth was she knew herself to be still dead inside, and it seemed that nothing would wake her.

  Once he got to London on that Tuesday, Napier could not help feeling like a freed prisoner. The relief of knowing that he would not be going before judge and jury in front of a roaring fire to eat crumpets and drink hot tea on a fine summer afternoon was intoxicating. If Devigne’s gallery had not beckoned after his long journey from Cornwall, he thought he might have retired to his club and become more than a little inebriated, but, happily for his head, he had business to which to attend – visiting his bank, making a new will, and going to see Devigne.

  ‘Ah, my dear Napier, how good to see you, but—’ Devigne stepped back, shocked. ‘But are you quite all right, dear fellow? You look positively wraithlike. Been working too hard, have you?’

  ‘I have been working very hard, in Cornwall, as it happens, but not quite in the way I would have wished. To tell you the truth, I would give anything to be back at Helmscote painting in my studio, but at this moment it is not possible.’

  Devigne frowned. ‘Not taking to the Newbourne School, I hope?’

  ‘No, more what you might call the School of Life.’ Napier laughed sardonically. ‘No, you have no need to worry, my dear Sam, I shall never abandon the Pre-Raphaelites. After all, I have sacri
ficed so much to the movement, I am quite sure that for me there can be no turning back now.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear it. The compliments I have received from people viewing “Temptation” would have pleased you inordinately.’ Sam lit a cigar and smiled benignly. ‘So. What can we expect next from Napier Todd?’

  Napier stared at him blankly. He could not tell Sam that he had come to a virtual standstill, that all ideas of where to turn next had deserted him since the birth of his son, and Edith’s refusal to return to him.

  ‘Something soon, I hope, Sam, but just at the moment I am resting, waiting for the Muse to visit.’

  Sam patted him on the shoulder. He knew just how to treat painters like Napier Todd. It was important never to hurry them, just let them take their time, pretend it didn’t matter when the next paintings were coming along, and that way they relaxed, and before long produced something quite beautiful like ‘Temptation’.

  ‘Come and see your work. As I told you, it has been much admired. Besides,’ he nodded towards the upper end of the gallery, ‘besides, there is your old friend Alfred Talisman. He will be delighted to see you.’

  Napier stared between the backs of the prosperous men and women pacing the gallery, chatting to each other, and sometimes even looking at the paintings. Alfred Talisman was not just in the gallery, he was staring up at Napier’s painting. Napier hurried towards him determined on facing him down, although with what he had no real idea, for he knew that he had been more at fault than Alfred had ever been.

  Alfred turned as he heard someone behind him.

  ‘Napier, my dear fellow.’

  ‘Hallo, Talisman.’

  Alfred took a few steps backwards. He, like Napier, despite his elegant appearance, was not looking as robust as he had in days gone by. He pointed towards the face in the painting.

  ‘That is very good, Napier, really it is.’

  Napier stared up. It was good. It was very, very good. He had managed to capture something of the nature of Eve in Becky’s perfect face with its almost blank eyes, as if even should she 500 succeed in tempting Adam she would truly not have known quite why.

  ‘Ah, the Snape,’ Alfred mused, still staring up. ‘She left me, you know.’

  ‘Women like the Snape always leave you, Alfred. You should know that. They are all ambition, and no feeling. They use us as mere stepping stones upon which to climb upwards. You would never do for the Snape. She would always have much richer game in her sights.’

  ‘How true, my dear Napier, how true.’ Alfred smiled ruefully. ‘Unhappily, though, she has left me with something more than pleasant memories and a successful season’s hunting.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Alfred.’ Napier looked at him. ‘That is bad luck.’

  ‘You did not partake of the forbidden fruit?’

  ‘I love my wife, Alfred, it would not be an answer. Unfortunately, now, thanks to my insensitivity, and your meddling, she no longer loves me.’

  Napier turned and began to walk away from Alfred. It was just his luck to bump into him; but Alfred followed him, determinedly keeping pace.

  ‘You are not alone in loving Edith, Napier. I love her too. I loved her the first time I met her, but unlike you, I would have loved her passionately, as a woman should be loved. And I would have gone on loving her the way you have never loved or appreciated her.’

  Napier turned and faced Alfred. ‘I admit I treated Edith abominably, and now she is making me pay for it, which is only right.’

  Alfred paused, his eyes opening slightly wider.

  ‘Edith has left you?’

  ‘Yes, Alfred, Edith has left me, and will not return to me until such time as she feels she can love me again – if ever she feels she can love me again, which I am beginning to doubt.’

  Alfred groaned. ‘But for the Snape she could have been mine.’

  ‘She could never be yours, Alfred. You would never have loved her as I do.’

  ‘You didn’t love her, Napier. You bought her with a wedding ring, and then you neglected her. You don’t love her now, you’re incapable of loving anything except your art, and you know it.’

  Napier held Alfred’s despising look for a few seconds, and then said in a quiet, determined voice, ‘Very well, Alfred, I will prove to you just how much I love Edith.’

  Alfred laughed at the seriousness of his face and tone. ‘That is a very safe statement, since you know as well as I that you can’t prove to someone that you love them.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Napier pointed to ‘Temptation’.

  ‘To prove how much I love Edith I will destroy this painting which I still own – I will destroy it here and now – if—’ He pointed across the room to Alfred’s completed painting, ‘Friday’s Girl’. ‘I will destroy this, if you will destroy your painting of Edith.’

  Alfred paled. ‘You can’t do that, Napier. Good God, that painting means everything to you.’

  Napier’s expression was implacable. ‘It is mine to destroy. Sam has not paid me for it. I shall do it to prove how much I love Edith. Do the same to “Friday’s Girl” as I shall do to “Temptation” and I will know you love Edith.’

  ‘Oh dear me, Edith, terrible news, I am afraid.’

  Aunt Biddy sat down, forgetting to sit sideways, so her crinoline flared up too high and she had to bat it down and rearrange herself.

  ‘Such terrible news,’ she went on, fanning herself. ‘The fact is that Napier has caused a scandal, and what a to-do! It is all in here.’

  Edith put down her sewing and stared at Aunt Biddy as the older woman held up her copy of The Times.

  ‘Shall I read it to you to lessen the shock, my dear?’

  ‘No, no, please don’t concern yourself, I will read it for myself.’

  Edith turned the newspaper towards her, and read the item with growing incredulity.

  Well-known society painter Napier Todd caused a sensation yesterday at the Devigne Art Gallery by publicly destroying his masterpiece ‘Temptation’. It is as yet unclear as to what his motivation may have been. When speaking to us, Mr Samuel Devigne, owner of the gallery, said, ‘I cannot understand the reason for his extraordinary behaviour, whether his action was prompted by dissatisfaction or by some sort of wager. Whatever the reason, the buyer, who happily for him had not as yet paid for the painting, is understandably furious. For a painter of Mr Todd’s reputation to behave in this manner is utterly uncharacteristic. I have the highest regard for Napier Todd’s work. I also know that he has not been well lately, and I only hope that this is not symptomatic of some sort of nervous collapse. Naturally, since he still owns the painting, no charges will be pressed, and I hope that a return to health will swiftly follow.’

  Edith looked across at Aunt Biddy. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘I know, my dear. Oh dear, oh dear indeed, and whatever next? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’

  Edith stood up. ‘I shall have to go to him,’ she announced. ‘He must be terribly unwell.’

  Aunt Biddy watched her young companion hurry from the room, and picked up her fan and began rapidly to fan herself. Perhaps it had taken this violent action of Napier Todd’s to bring Edith to realise that she loved the man? Or perhaps she would hurry up to London and find that she loved him even less? Whatever the outcome, there would be no more shilly-shallying.

  Celandine stared at her nearly completed painting. Since taking up portrait painting she had greatly improved her technique, not to mention widening her circle of acquaintances in Newbourne. What had begun as a reluctant pursuit to help pay the bills had ended in an output that was both demanding and pleasing. She knew that Sheridan was most relieved now not to have any part in her world, and she herself had no longing to share his constant quest, his daily struggle to paint the reality of life in present-day Cornwall.

  At that moment she heard the pleasant sound of Sheridan’s key turning slowly and erratically in the old front door, followed by a brief murmur from the narrow street
outside, and the door shutting behind him.

  ‘Celandine!’ Sheridan stood at the door of the room that was now her small studio and waved a newspaper. ‘The most awful drama, dearest. Too terrible. What can have happened to Napier to do something so frantic?’

  Celandine stood up. She always looked forward to Sherry’s afternoon return from his own studio with a purposefully subdued excitement, and now he was there, no matter what the news, she could not help smiling. He was, after all, her dear, dear Sherry.

  ‘Well, something was bound to be the outcome of so much emotion during the past weeks,’ she said in reasonable tones, taking the newspaper from him. ‘As long as no one has died—’ She glanced at the newspaper. ‘Only a painting – then the world will go on spinning, I think.’

  Sheridan looked at Celandine as she calmly read the item to which he had pointed. He was always grateful for her sanity, but at that moment he was more than grateful for it, he was entranced by it.

  Edith had managed to find out from Sam Devigne that Napier was staying at Brown’s Hotel. As soon as her train brought her into Paddington from Cornwall, she was able to take a hackney cab and hurry round to see him, but not before she had called in at the gallery to see Devigne.

  ‘It seems,’ Sam told her, his eyes dark with patient sorrow, ‘that he was trying to prove something to Alfred Talisman.’ He stopped, frowning, and stared a little closer at Edith. ‘Ah, but I know you, don’t I, Mrs Todd? Yes, of course I know you. You arrived ahead of yourself, only a couple of weeks ago, and have been very much admired, I have to tell you.’ Sam’s gaze immediately brightened as he recognised the beauty in front of whom he was now standing. ‘Well, this is really quite delightful, I do assure you. I have two of you now!’