Keeping the World Away (17 page)

It had pained him to hear the sheer dislike in Hettie’s voice, but he had told himself it was due to distress at their daughter’s prospects. He himself had begun to share this distress. Once amused by Charlotte, and always proud of her originality, he was more and more aware how difficult her life was going to be. She was now a young woman, not a child, and must surely have a young woman’s instincts even if these did not include a love of parties and fashion and shopping. And young men. The words ‘flirting’
and
‘Charlotte’ simply were unthinkable. Caroline and Priscilla had flirted furiously, but Charlotte, if she was in the presence of any man, looked them straight in the eye without a glimmer of interest in anything except what they had to say. Men were already alarmed by her, he could see that. She did not attract them, she was neither girlish nor womanly in the accepted way, and they turned away. Sir Edward felt it his duty to equip Charlotte to face a life alone.

Well, she would have money. That would help. He had already set up a trust for her, which she would come into at twenty-one. She would have independent means and never need to humble herself either by working – though God knew what work she could do in any case – or by submitting to a marriage of convenience. On the other hand, her wealth would undoubtedly attract suitors who would not otherwise have glanced at her. How to guard against that? Look at Caroline, and what had happened to her. But Charlotte was not Caroline. She would never be taken in by some bounder after her money. Flattery would never fool her – she would see through it at once. Yet he went on worrying about her, hardly comforted by these observations. It often occurred to him that Charlotte was not of her own time. Sometimes, when he read of Mrs Pankhurst’s doings, he was made nervous – her influence on his youngest daughter would be pernicious, should she ever come near her. But, thankfully, Charlotte seemed to know little of what Mrs Pankhurst and her friends were attempting to do. Charlotte was in her own little world and showed no signs of breaking out of it.

He had said she could draw him before she went to bed. They sat together in his study, Sir Edward settled in his armchair, looking out of the window, and Charlotte on a stool opposite, sketch pad on her knee and a fine array of pencils in a box at her feet. Although he could draw well himself, he had discovered that drawing was something he could not teach her. Painting was different. He felt competent to teach her about colour, and how to achieve certain effects, and she was now quite skilled in the use of oils as well as water-colours. But as to drawing, she had
had
to try to learn through practice and he could see she was not entirely successful though she tried hard. It moved him to witness how she struggled, how it upset her not to be able to draw well. She needed a teacher and he ought to find one for her. Or else face his wife’s wrath and send her to the Slade, if they would have her.

‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘enough, time for you to retire.’

*

The painting hung on the wall beside her bed, where it had been for the last six months, as close to her pillow as it could be. Every night it was the last thing she saw, every morning the first. Her ideas about it changed all the time. Sometimes, it made her tearful, she would feel the tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes – the empty chair, the poor little table with its pitiful posy of flowers, the bare window draped with that misty net. The painting spoke of loneliness and despair, and emotion choked her throat. But at other times it made her feel cheerful – everything so neat, so simple, so clean, so calm. The parasol and the coat told of their owner – a woman, of course – and her walk in the woods, where she had delighted in picking the primroses. And what was she doing now? Preparing her supper, humming to herself, rejoicing in the serenity of her room.

Charlotte and her father had examined the painting minutely for any signature or indications of ownership, but there were none. The two of them had gone together to claim it and had been shocked at how casual the people at the Lost Property office were. They thought nothing of the painting but a great deal of respect was shown to the clothes and the valise itself. Sir Edward did not want the valise or any of its contents save for the painting, which was thought odd, as though it might be a trick to divert attention. He told them that he was sure some lady would in due course claim the valise and left his card so that, if anyone did so, the painting could be restored to the owner. Charlotte noted that his card was not put safely away but left lying on the counter from which she was sure it would soon be swept away to join the detritus on the floor. The prospect made her glad.

Sir Edward had thought the painting should be properly framed and had chosen a frame himself. Charlotte, from the beginning, was not sure that his choice was right – she preferred it unframed. Gilt did not look appropriate, but she thought it ungrateful to say so. A gilt frame contradicted everything the painting was about and she could not understand why her father, of all people, did not see this. But at least it was a narrow frame, which did not dominate the canvas, and in certain lights it did not look like gilt. Lying on her side, Charlotte began to live in the painting, narrowing her eyes and hypnotising herself. She felt herself to be twenty, or twenty-five, an artist at last. She must, she thought, be a successful artist because this room of hers was no garret. It was pretty, if simple, no sense of deprivation about it. She wondered what was hidden from view – this was only a corner of the room after all. A bed, of course. Somewhere to keep clothes, perhaps. And was she living in a house? She must be, and high up, from the vague outline of rooftops through the lace curtain. Did she have other artists around her? Charlotte thought not. No, she was quite alone, and content.

She did not understand why, but the painting looked best in the morning light. Waking, she would turn on her side and through half-closed eyes, still bleary with sleep, the painting would seem to shine before her. It had a radiance so gentle and soft that it made her smile. She would snuggle down under the bedclothes, keeping her eyes fixed on the scene before her, and there would come over her a feeling of expectation. Someone would come into her life and change it – perhaps that was what the painting promised. She had told her father how the painting made her feel and he had been a little irritated. He had told her to study the painting properly, as any art student should (Charlotte was flattered to hear that he deemed her worthy of such a title as ‘art student’). Had she noted the use of Naples yellow in the colour of the chair, the handle of the parasol, the flowers and the triangular slice of wall? And what about the brushstrokes? Had she seen that they were tiny, that very small brushes had been used? These were the things, her father said, which she should be
observing
instead of being carried away by romantic flights of fancy. It was foolish, he said, to talk about ‘loving’ a painting if one had not taken the trouble to understand how it had been executed. It was, he finished, insulting to the artist.

But Charlotte knew that none of her thoughts insulted the artist. She was quite sure that she had interpreted the artist’s intention.

*

Lady Falconer, arriving home, was not pleased. She could tell, the moment she walked through her front door, that things were not as they should be. The servants had become slack. They had not known, of course, that she would return on Friday instead of Monday, but that was no excuse. There were boots lying any old how in the hall, muddy footprints on the tiles, a coat tossed on a chair, still dripping rain onto the cushion. Instead of the smell of polish there was a most unpleasant aroma of onions. Exasperated, she stalked through the hall and stood at the top of the stairs leading to the kitchen. ‘Jessie!’ she called. There was no reply. Furious, Lady Falconer was obliged to descend to the kitchen, which she found perfectly clean and tidy but quite empty. There appeared to be no servants in the house at all, and if she wanted tea, and she wanted it very badly, she would have to fend for herself. But she was not quite ready to do so.

Back upstairs, she called again, this time for Charlotte. Again, no reply, but in Charlotte’s case this was not necessarily significant, it did not mean either that she was not at home or that she had not heard. She would have to be searched for, every room looked into, and the thought of this made Lady Falconer weak with temper. She took off her travelling clothes and her corset and changed into a loose gown. She was very, very tired and wanted nothing more than some refreshing tea and then a bath drawn for her. Her energies seemed to be deserting her and she suddenly felt like one of those women she despised, forever complaining that their households were falling about their ears. Lying on her bed, though promising herself this was only for a few moments, she tried to relax, but her mind was full of annoying
images
. Priscilla, for one. A Priscilla apparently hysterical at the not surprising news that she was to have a baby. What on earth had the girl imagined would be likely to happen? The fuss she was making was perfectly ridiculous.

There was a sound downstairs. She raised herself up, and listened intently. Someone had come in through the front door – therefore not one of the servants she so badly needed. It was either Edward or Charlotte. The steady footsteps on the stairs told her that it was her husband. She heard him pause on the landing. ‘Henrietta?’ he called, sounding both surprised and alarmed, which was hardly flattering. She kept silent, playing Charlotte’s game. He rapped on her bedroom door and then opened it slightly. She did not open her eyes. The door was gently closed. She heard him descend the stairs again and go out of the front door. She knew she ought to be grateful that her rest had been respected, but she was not. Once upon a time, he would have tiptoed over to her bed and kissed her. Once upon a time, she would have laughed and kissed him back. Once upon a very long time ago.

Sadness swilled around the room and she struggled to dispel it. She was forty, Edward was forty-five, they had been married over twenty years, what could one expect. Again and again recently she had had the impression that he did not like her or feel anything for her and that he resented his own compulsion to come to her bed. Why he did, she could not fathom. They never discussed it. Only very rarely did she turn him away and when she did so he left at once. It made her head ache, thinking of this state of affairs, and ache even more when in some queer way it led her to remember Priscilla’s distressed outburst that she hated what Robert ‘did’. Her mother had stopped her at once. She wanted no such confidences, nor was she willing to provide any herself. Marriage was marriage. Each woman had to make of it what she could.

*

Mother was back, and Charlotte could not stay in her bedroom much longer. She hated the room and had no wish to linger, except that it held her painting. She had discussed with her father hanging it in the library, which only the two of them frequented, but they
had
both decided it would not look right. There was no suitable wall upon which to hang it there, except the one where Sir Edward’s most precious possession already hung. The two other walls were lined with bookshelves and the third had two large windows with only a narrow gap between. They had tried the little painting there and it looked utterly lost. In Charlotte’s bedroom it looked not so much lost as drowned, smothered, but at least it was near her when she slept. The hideous wallpaper that she was obliged to endure could not have been a more unfortunate background for the painting – the huge red flowers, the brilliant green of leaves and stems connecting them, and the dark, dark blue of the spaces in between shrieked and howled at the tiny oil.

But then so did everything in the bedroom. The carpet was another horror, and the pink satin eiderdown and cover on the bed were hard to bear. No one had ever consulted Charlotte over how her bedroom should be decorated and furnished and now that she was nearly sixteen she resented this. Her mother said the wallpaper had cost a fortune, and would last many more years, and the carpet was valuable, with the dark blue in it matching the blue in the wallpaper
exactly
.

Charlotte felt rather proud of being susceptible to surroundings. It was a mark, she was sure, of great sensitivity. Coming into her bedroom, she could feel her skin prickle and her limbs tighten as everything crowded in upon her, the huge mahogany wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the bed itself. Conversely, when she walked into the morning room, so light and underfurnished, she felt her body relax and her spirits rise. The library was different again. There, she seemed not to be oppressed by the heavy bookshelves and the big oak table and chairs, even though the room was not especially light and the carpet was a dull brown. The atmosphere was somehow liberating, the privacy of the room generating not claustrophobia but security.

Her mother was calling for her. It was vulgar to shout, but she was shouting. Reluctantly, Charlotte answered the shout, made from the bottom of the stairs, with one of her own, from the landing outside her bedroom, and was instantly reprimanded. She
descended
the stairs slowly, thinking, as she saw her mother below, that she would like to slide down the banisters and land with a triumphant bump at her feet. Her mother, it was obvious, was angry about something and would be difficult to appease.

‘Where is Jessie?’ her mother asked.

Charlotte shrugged, knowing her mother would view this as an inflammatory gesture. ‘Out,’ she said.

‘I am aware of that,’ her mother said, ‘and I am also aware that the entire staff seem to be out.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘It was a half-day holiday.’

‘For what? What is this holiday in celebration of?’

Charlotte risked raising her eyebrows and shaking her head.

‘I go away, and all order disappears,’ her mother said. ‘Well, I should have known it. Your father lives in a dream and you are simply irresponsible.’

There was no point in defending herself. What had she done that was ‘irresponsible’? Nothing, but then ‘irresponsible’ in her mother’s opinion could cover a host of trivial misdemeanours. Already her mother was leading the way into the drawing room where a flustered Mabel was laying out tea-things. Charlotte followed, as she knew she was obliged to. Her mother waited until Mabel had gone, instructing her to close the door on her way out, and then she said, ‘Tea, Charlotte?’ her tone unexpectedly conciliatory. Tea was poured, a biscuit offered (and accepted). For a moment or two there was silence, during which Charlotte reflected how different it was being alone with her mother and not her father. She felt wary, ready for attack, and indeed she found her eyes narrowing over her teacup, as though she were preparing herself. Her mother did not like her, it was as simple as that. She had been a disappointment from the moment of her birth – a third girl! – and always would be.