A Mad, Wicked Folly (22 page)

AFTER LUNCH, WILL
and I went outside so I could draw.
Will took my hand as we walked, as though it was perfectly natural for him to do so. And I let him; we walked, hand
in hand, up Mermaid Street, and then across to a long, sloping lawn behind a copse of trees overlooking the Romney
Marsh.

“This is blissful,” I said, looking around me. The oak
and horse chestnut trees made a verdant background, and
the long grass and wildflowers were the perfect stage “We
should work in a natural setting more often. There is a
place near the boathouse in Hyde Park. Let’s meet there
next time.”

Will took up his pose near the horse chestnut. “When do
you expect to hear if you’ve been accepted for the exam?”
“They’re posting the list at the RCA on Thursday.”
“Are you nervous at all?”
“Nervous?” I laughed. “I’ve been having nightmares

over it.”
“Well, don’t. You’re sure to get it. I know it.”
I felt embarrassed. He started to say something more,

but I interrupted. “Now be quiet. I can’t draw you if you’re
talking.”
Will rolled his eyes.
“You’re getting much better at standing still,” I said
when I was finished and Will had come over to sprawl
beside me. “Not so much fidgeting.”
“I never fidget.”
“Maybe not.” I turned a page over and began a quick
sketch of him lying on the grass as he was with his head in
his hand.
“I love watching your face as you draw,” he said. “It’s
all aglow, like someone has switched a light on inside
you.” He ran his fingers over my cheek. His touch made me
quiver, made my skin tingle. I wanted him to do it again. I
wanted him to cup my face in his hands. I wondered what
that would feel like.
“You make me sound as if I have a fever,” I said, attempting to jest with him like I did with Freddy.
Yes, he’s just like
your brother. Keep believing that, Victoria!
I glanced at him
quickly. He wasn’t smiling at my stupid jape anyway.
“I’m completely serious. Your face changes.”
“I love to draw; I suppose that shows in my face,” I said.
“Why do you love it so much? I’m just curious.”
I shrugged. “If I’m not drawing every day, then I don’t
feel alive; do you know what I mean? And I’m not very
good in social settings—I don’t quite say the right things
or act the right way—but with my art I can express myself
through what I see and feel. It helps me understand how I fit
into the world, which is something that has quite escaped
me since I was a little girl.”
“How do you mean?”
“I never liked the same things as other girls—dolls and
frocks and such. My parents sent me to finishing school in
France so that I might learn how to behave as they thought
I should. It was unbearable until I met my friend Lily. She
let me draw her. She understood me. And then I met an
artist named Bertram in the town, and he told me about
the art studio. I felt as though I had come home. When I lost
all that, I thought I would never feel whole again. But of
course, then I met you, and the artists at the WSPU. I know
one thing is certain, Will. I would die if I could not draw.”
He looked at me frankly. I wondered if I had said too
much. I stared down at my hands, covered with charcoal
dust and pastel smudges.
“I feel the same way about my writing. All those hours
spent walking my beat, I’m really thinking of new stories.”
He laughed. “Some of the other blokes tell me I stare off into
space quite a lot, that I look gormless.” He demonstrated:
his eyes shifted upward; his mouth hung open slightly.
I giggled. “I expect that’s what I look like too.”
“Not at all. You look as though magic has taken hold
of you. It must be magic because I don’t know how you
can draw like that. I can barely manage a stick figure.” He
nudged closer to me and picked up one of my conté crayons, turning it around in his fingers. “And all these bits and
pieces you have. They fascinate me.”
I set my drawing book in Will’s lap and turned it to a
fresh page. I handed him a graphite pencil. “Here, have a
go.” He grasped the pencil; his fingers tightened around
the tip as though he were writing. “Relax your fingers. If
they are all bunched around the tip, your drawing will be
cramped.” I pulled his fingers away from the tip and loosened them so they gently cradled the pencil. “This will give
you more movement.” With my hand over his, I guided the
pencil, making a series of quick, loose lines across the page
to create a tree. “You see, all these little marks make up
the subject. Some will be lighter or darker; some will look
like scribbles. It all depends on how you see your subject.
Every artist interprets things differently.”
I let go of Will’s hand with reluctance and watched him
as he drew. On the right hand, his third finger had a callused lump on it created from endless hours of writing. I
couldn’t keep my eyes on his hands only. My gaze wandered to his face and fixed on his mouth. I found I wanted
to lie down on the grass with him, our faces side by side,
our hands touching. And perhaps our lips.
He looked at the page, head tilted sideways. “I think I’ll
stick to writing.”
“Well, that is an art form, too,” I said, closing the drawing book and closing my mind on all those wicked thoughts
I kept having. Will might not know I was engaged, but I
knew that I should act like I was instead of daydreaming about kissing him. I never daydreamed about kissing
Edmund. I should make myself try. “When are you going to
start sending out your story to publishers? We have, what?
Four episodes finished?”
He shrugged and dug at the hillside with his heel.
“When they’re ready, I guess.”
“You need to get them out there, Will. They’re really
wonderful. I’ll give them to Freddy.”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
I nudged him with my shoulder. “I will hold you to that.”
He glanced at me shortly and grinned a little.
“Surrounded by bossy women.”
We sat quietly, side by side, for a little while looking out
at the view. A song thrush sang from high atop his perch
in a pine tree nearby. I wrapped my arms about my knees
and pressed my chin into my arms.
“So,” I said, glancing at Will sideways. “It’s funny your
mother thought we were sweethearts. Didn’t you find it
funny?”
Will said nothing, but I thought I saw his shoulders
tighten. “I suppose.”
“I’m dying to know. Who is this Eliza?”
Will gazed thoughtfully out at the river, chewing on a
piece of grass. “She was my best mate’s sister. I’d known
her for a long while—since childhood. I suppose it was
just natural that we should walk out together. Everyone
assumed we’d be married, but—” Will hesitated.
“But what?” I asked, holding my breath.
But I didn’t love
her
, I hoped he’d say.
He shrugged. “I dunno. She went into service, became
a parlormaid, and I joined the police.” He pulled the grass
out of his mouth and tossed it down. “Why do you wish to
know about her?”
“It just . . . well, Jamie mentioned her. I think it’s lovely
you have a sweetheart. Do you ever see her?” For some
torturous reason I wanted to know more about this parlormaid who’d claimed Will as hers, who’d run her hands over
his body, the body I’d drawn; pressed her mouth to his, the
mouth I’d sketched. I clenched my jaw at the thought. I’d
had no idea I was such a jealous person. In the space of
one day I’d wanted to do battle with two different women
because of Will. I pulled up a piece of grass and tickled
Will’s ear with it. “Come on, out with it!” I laughed. Giggled
really. I sounded like a flibbertigibbet.
Tra, la, la! Do tell or
I shall sulk!
Ugh!
Will batted my hand away and looked annoyed. “She’s
not my sweetheart. Like I said. We went our separate ways.
I haven’t seen her in months, if you really want to know.”
He looked at me for a long moment and then looked away.
He kicked at the grass on the hill again.
This tidbit of information did little to assuage my jealousy. Mindful of how stupid my thoughts and actions
were, I realized that maybe the antidote lay in telling Will
I was engaged. But how to begin? I would just say it:
Will,
I’m engaged.
No, that was too blunt. How about:
Actually, I
forgot to tell you something. It’s so funny that I haven’t said
anything before. I’m getting married in three months’ time.
No, that was worse.
If I were truly honest, I didn’t want to tell Will. He saw
me as an artist, and I liked that. I didn’t want him to see me
as belonging to a man.
These days with Will would be gone soon enough. I
knew this even as we sat next to each other in the sunshine. I couldn’t let them go quite yet.

N WEDNESDAY MORNING
I was sitting with
Papa at breakfast—Mamma, as usual, was
still abed with her breakfast tray—when Mrs.
Fitzhughes brought in the letters and left them
at the silver salver at Papa’s elbow. He put his newspaper

down and sorted through the neat stack of envelopes. A
moment later, he drew in his breath so sharply that I looked
up from my boiled egg. He was holding a cream-colored
envelope heavy with inky black calligraphy and embossed
with a wax seal and ribbon.

“It’s not for me. It’s for you!” His eyes were wide. “You’ve
done it, my dear!”
“Done what?” For a dimwitted moment, I thought
Papa meant I’d been accepted to sit for the RCA exam. I
must admit my heart beat a little faster, but of course that
couldn’t be. Then I saw the wax was embossed with the
king’s arms of dominion.
He handed the envelope over. “I’m sure you’ve been
invited to Court.”
I put down my toast and sliced the envelope open with
my fruit knife. Papa watched eagerly as I tugged out a
cream-colored engraved invitation.

I sat back in my chair. Everything was truly going
according to plan. The reinvention of Victoria Darling was
complete. I had done everything they asked of me. Now,
all I had left to do was to meet the king, not make a fool of
myself in front of him, and marry Edmund. I could feel the
chains loosening. Soon I would be on my way.

“Well?” Papa asked.
I nodded, handing him the invitation. “It’s as you say.”
Papa read the invitation and stood up. “Well done, my

I stood up to do as he asked, and as I passed him, he
reached out and took my hand. “I’m so proud of you, my dear,”
he said, squeezing my fingers. “So proud.” His dark-brown
eyes looked at me earnestly, and for a moment I pretended he
was saying he was proud of me because I had gotten into the
RCA. For a little moment I afforded myself that tiny luxury.

THE NEXT DAY,
Thursday, I went to back to the RCA to see if
I had been accepted to sit the examination. With Will’s words
of confidence boosting me, I marched up to the list and found
that I was accepted, and that I was to present myself to the
panel on the first of July. I swear I had to stop myself from
running to Hyde Park. I couldn’t wait to tell Will.

When I reached the boathouse where we were to meet,
he wasn’t there, so I sat down on the steps and waited. After
a bit I could see him approaching. His head was down as he
walked with long purposeful strides, looking at the path,
lost in thought. As he drew near, I stood up and ran down
the steps to greet him. I couldn’t help it. I threw my arms
around his neck.

He stood still for a moment, but then he put his arms
around my waist and hugged me hard.
“What happens now?” he asked as we walked to a little
clearing underneath a tree by the Serpentine, the lake that
flowed through Hyde Park.
“I need to show further work,” I said as I unpacked my
sketchbook and pencils. “It has to be even better than what
I’ve shown already. I thought I’d do the pastel study of the
Lancelot, to show the examiners what I’d like to accomplish at the school.”
We got to work, but gray clouds had been rolling in,
and after a few minutes the first raindrops began to fall.
Will and I jumped up and dashed for cover. Just before we
reached the boathouse, the skies opened up, and it bucketed down, drenching us. Will reached back and took my
hand, pulling me the final distance underneath the eaves
of the boathouse. He shook the raindrops out of his hair,
laughing. “Well, so much for that.”
We watched the rain come down in stair rods, filling
the paths with puddles of water. The wind had whipped
up tiny waves on the Serpentine. Several people were
stranded underneath nearby trees. Two little boys ran by
us, stomping through the puddles and laughing.
“Blast this weather,” I said. “We have so little time until
the exam. I wish we had someplace to work indoors.” If
only I could take Will back to the summerhouse in Chelsea,
but, with so many builders about, I couldn’t chance it. “It’s
pointless to go back to the Royal Academy. The Summer
Exhibition is open now, and it will be ever so crowded if
we tried to work in the galleries.” The Summer Exhibition
heralded the start of the social season, and so the chances
of being seen by someone who knew my mother or me
would be much greater.
Will looked thoughtful. “Actually, my flat isn’t far from
here, near Praed Street Station in Paddington. We could
work there. What do you think?”
“Your flat?” I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I trusted myself
enough to be alone with Will in his flat, but I had been
alone with him before in my summerhouse. Surely I could
resist temptation. “Of course,” I said. “Why not?”
WILL LIVED IN a groom’s quarters over a stable. His entire
flat consisted of one long, narrow room. Shelves crammed
with books hung over a table made from a plank of wood
atop two trestles. A single bed lay under the eaves; an apple crate served as a nightstand. His clothes hung from
a peg on the wall. His kitchen consisted of a pitcher and
bowl, two tea mugs, a stack of plates on a shelf, and a tiny
paraffin stove. Two mismatched wooden chairs faced a
coal fireplace. It was deathly cold, and I could feel a draft
whistling round my ankles. The large skylights let in a
good amount of light. But that was about the only thing in
the room’s favor.
I caught Will looking at me, uncertainty on his face. “It’s
not much,” he said. “I expect you’re used to something . . .
well, different.”
I went over to the window, grasping for something nice
to say about the flat. The rooftops of London stretched in
an endless forest of chimneys, and there was not a single
human being in sight. “Oh, look at the view.”
Will moved to stand behind me. “You can see clear
across the rooftops. It’s like another world up here.”
I glanced around. “Where is your lavatory?”
“Outside. I share the privy with the other tenants. I
bathe at the public baths.”
I sat down in one of the wooden chairs by the fire; one
of its legs seemed shorter than the others. Will bathed with
other people. I couldn’t imagine it. I had my own lavatory
at home, with piped-in hot water, a huge claw-foot bathtub,
and all the warm towels and French-milled soap I wanted.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“Not long. I used to live in the Section House near
Cannon Row Police Station, but I can’t write with so many
blokes about, so I choose to live here. It’s not much, I know.
To be honest, I was a little embarrassed to bring you here.”
I couldn’t help but compare Will to Edmund with his
new motorcar and our house in Chelsea full of rooms we
didn’t even need. I’d be willing to wager that Will wouldn’t
care about the flowered wallpaper in the sitting room. The
flat touched something inside me and made me like Will
even more.
“Don’t feel that way, Will,” I said. “I think it’s grand you
have a place of your own.”
He looked relieved. “I suppose we’d better get to work.
That’s what we’ve come here to do, after all.”
The flat may have been poky but, despite the noise
from the street, the room was peaceful. I watched Will over
the top of my sketchbook. He was leaning over the makeshift table, his pencil flying across his notebook. When he
reached the end of the page, he lifted the pencil and bit
the end of it as he scanned what he had written. As attractive as Edmund was in his expensive clothes, he would be
eclipsed by Will in his simple muslin shirt with his sleeves
rolled to his elbow. I made a quick sketch of Will at work in
the corner of my sketchbook and then returned to Lancelot.
“Will you show me what you’ve drawn?” Will said after
a few moments. He set his pencil down and came around
to peer over my shoulder.
I held my hand over the paper. “It’s not ready yet.”
“Come on, Vicky.” He held his hand out. “You’ve read
all my work, so there’s no secrets between us. Give it over.
You’re going to have to show the examiners, so why not just
start with me?”
“Fine.” I handed him the sketchbook. “Bossyboots.”
He took the book over to the window.
“Blimey,” he said. “It’s really good.”
I stood up and took it back. “I don’t know. I think the
perspective is a bit skewed.”
Will made a little noise of exasperation. He set the book
down and took me by the shoulders. “Will you stop finding fault? Listen, you dafty. When are you going to realize
how talented you are? You made my carcass look halfway
decent, and that’s saying a lot.” He gave me a little shake.
His eyes were warm, his expression kind. His hands felt
so good on my shoulders. I thought about how he had felt
when he hugged me earlier in the park. The way he had felt
when I fell asleep in his arms on the train.
And then the image of him nude flashed in front of my
eyes, leaving me feeling slightly dizzy, weak, and hungry for something I didn’t quite understand. I had seen
Will undressed in person. He had seen me undressed in a
drawing. Amazing that two people could know each other’s bodies so intimately and yet . . .
This thought was barely taking shape in my mind when
Will leaned forward and kissed me.