The Crimson Bed (11 page)

longing to shake her and make her rise and get ready. He restrained himself, however, and sitting down beside her, stared at her in silence. At last, she looked up, distracted by the irritated tapping of his cane on the floor.

    'Why, Fred... what on earth are you doing? What are you looking so cross about?'

    'You promised that you would come with me and call on Miss Farnham this afternoon, Mama. Why are you not even remotely ready?'

    'Did I say so?' she replied comfortably, 'Well, I forgot, that's all. I'm not used to making calls. It tires me so much. Tell the young lady to call on me as befits my age and station. Why should I go running about London after young ladies who are too lazy to make a call themselves?'

    Fred got up and left the room before he lost his temper. Beatrice watched him go, shrugged her shoulders, and picked up her book again.

    Fred felt desperate at his mother's lack of co-operation. He took a cab to Upper Thames Street, yearning to confide in Henry and ask his advice. To his surprise, he found Henry alone at his chambers – no Rosie, no other hangers-on.

    A young housemaid opened the door to him, curtseyed and returned to her dusting in the bedroom. Fred stared after the girl. What an odd time to be still at the housework! He knew Henry hated to get up early in the morning and was often not abroad till almost noon. The poor girl had to bring up the hot water and do the cleaning work sometime. He smiled to himself, indulgent for his friend's sake, yet critical too of his sloppy habits.

    He went through to the studio. It was a dull day and somehow the room had lost its usual glamour. It looked oddly dingy and dusty. Rather than having an air of romantic clutter, everything looked a mess. Henry always vowed he would tidy it some day and refuted any sarcastic comments from his friends that the maid was never allowed in there to clean.

    'I'd be after her if she didn't!' was his indignant reply, '
And
I make her life hard if she doesn't put everything back exactly where she found it.'

    How could the poor girl even begin to restore order to this chaos? Unfinished canvases were stacked against the walls, pieces of crumpled paper, drawings, and half-finished watercolours lay littered on the floor amongst fallen paintbrushes. Books were piled in heaps, having been used for propping up a model's pose, then left where they were. On a small table were sheets of drawings, all of Rosie in various standing or kneeling poses; beautiful, delicate drawings full of love and yearning.

    There was a sense that the artist was striving in desperation to capture something more than the mere flesh and bones of his beloved. It was as if through this constant effort to pin down her essence, he could in some way absorb the woman into his own being. Fred had seen these studies before but had never given them more than a passing glance. Now he stopped and lifted them one by one and felt a sudden understanding of Henry's feelings, felt a keen companionship in love. He might not see Rosie's qualities but Henry did and he loved the girl.

    There in the centre of the room was the picture of Eleanor Farnham, now finished, varnished and haloed in a carved, giltpainted frame, ready for the carrier to take it away. Fred paused before the picture and gazed at it in deep contemplation as if before an icon in a church. His lady looked so beautiful, so delicate and lovely. Surely, it was unlike anything Henry had done before; there was more colour and depth in its composition.

    The picture glowed with a marvellous shimmering look. This effect, which Henry had learnt from his Pre-Raphaelite friends, was gained by painting the canvas in several coats of lead white and copal varnish till it became really solid and dry, adding another layer of fresh white before painting and then applying the colours thinly and swiftly over the top of the wet ground with a light sable brush. Immense care had to be taken not to stir up the wet ground beneath and only a portion of the picture could be done at any time and in fact, was mainly used for the flesh parts of the picture. The idea was to allow the white beneath to shine through just enough to add that luminosity which made it all look slightly unearthly and unreal. It had all given Henry some trouble but at last, his work was varnished, framed and finished to his satisfaction.

    The man himself was sitting by the window. He had his feet up on a wrought-iron chair, his hands behind his head, gazing out over the river. He turned when he heard Fred come in and watched him pause before the finished canvas, a rapt look on his face.

    'Come over here, Fred, and watch the lovely light on the river at this time of year.'

    Fred fetched another chair, straddled it and looked out over the Thames. It was less foul today as the wind was not blowing as heartily as usual and there was a soft haze in the air that muted and transformed the river, reminiscent of a Turner painting. A slight mist was rolling in, cloaking things with a magical light, hiding the worst excrescences of the scene.

    'Coffee?' asked Henry.

    'No, thanks. I just needed to get out of the house before I exploded. Henry, my mother is not helping me one bit. How I envy you your good, sensible mother and her kindly intelligent ways.'

    'My darling Ma is a great being, of that there's no doubt,' smiled Henry, 'I don't appreciate her half enough. Why, what's your old dragon been up to this time?'

    'It's what she isn't up to that's the trouble,' said Fred, still indignant. 'She promised me faithfully... why, Father asked her specifically. She promised... that's the point, damn her.'

    'Fred, pull yourself together and tell me what the devil you're rambling on about?'

    'She promised to make a call on Miss Farnham today and I was to accompany her and thus gain a proper introduction to the young lady. How the dickens else am I going to get anywhere near her and try to persuade her that I'm the only man in the world for her? My wretched, lazy mother has totally forgotten the whole thing and wouldn't rouse herself from her sofa if there was a fire raging round her. What am I to do, Henry?'

    'Do? Do what you must do, of course. Go and call on La Farnham yourself. Why the hell do you need the old lady with you?'

    'What, just like that?'

    'Just like that. My dear boy, we are men of action! Well, at least some of us are. We are not your pedantic fools who stifle themselves with convention, rules and pointless etiquette. There's a world of difference between natural good manners, which is true courtesy and chivalry, and idiotic etiquette. The first comes from an understanding and love of one's fellows and the latter from mere usage and meaningless tradition. Ignore the conventions. You love the girl. Go and woo her and hang the rules!'

    Splendid words – but the cold light of day had hit Fred by now. He was amazed at the way he had behaved when alone with Ellie and felt ashamed and afraid that she might never speak to him again with his mother or without. How could he have spoken and acted so madly? What would she think of him?

    'It's all very well for you,' he replied, 'you're the sort who does that and gets away with it. I find it hard not to do as I'm expected to do.'

    'Indeed. Convention is your middle name. And it's true– we English are a reserved bunch. Well, for once be a devil, be daring. You seized your opportunity the other day, didn't you? How did the girl respond?'

    'I think she was afraid of me. I don't know whether she liked it or thought me mad. I think I've really made a mess of things. Damn it, Henry, I've never felt like this before! I feel I want to burst when I'm with her. I want to make love to her on the spot. I can't be bothered with the conventions and yet I can't ignore them. She's a well brought up young lady, not some whore we picked up from the Haymarket.'

    Henry clapped Fred on the shoulder.

    'You should have taken her in your arms while you had the

chance! Faint heart never won fair lady, Fred. You know that for sure. Of course, she's interested. Frankly, I wouldn't be too sure about our young Miss Farnham. She has a way about her, a very knowing way with men. I see it in her eyes. It shows a mile off to anyone observant. But when was a lover ever aware? Grab the girl and carry her off to Gretna Green.'

    Fred looked wistful. 'Ah, what a picture of bliss! D'you know, I'm tired of being a bachelor. It has its advantages but the fact is I'm a domesticated fellow. I want to be married, feel secure and comfortable, have a lovely, doting woman always there for me, my children about me, glass of whisky by my side and a comfortable bed to retire to with my missus.'

    Henry gave a hearty laugh. 'You think Miss Farnham would make a good wife? Well, I think she'd rule the roost. She's a temperamental young woman in my opinion. Don't you see that flash in her eye? She's the plate-throwing sort, I'll wager you,'

    'Ah, but I like that flash in her eye. That's what intrigues me. I need a spirited girl. I confess to being a lazy fellow and she'd wake me up in no time.'

    'She'd wake you up all right. And you're right; you do need a kick up the backside.'

    'Thanks a lot. However, I take your point. Opposites attract, they say, and therein lies my hope. But how, in God's name, to set about it?'

    Fred went over and looked for a long time at Eleanor's portrait. He wondered what it was that made him feel so fascinated by this one particular human face and form. Eleanor embodied some deep, inner image in his heart and soul. The image was archaic, mediaeval, greater than himself and intangible. It stirred him to his depths. Like some magical garment, the image flowed from his heart and wrapped itself around the woman he loved, making her fit the dream and the fantasy, raising her on some high pedestal of chivalry and beauty. Like an olden day troubadours, he wanted to worship her from afar with an alchemical intensity.

    'I wish you would do a copy for me, Henry. Why not paint one for me in watercolours? I'll pay you well.'

    'Much as I need the cash, old fellow, I don't think that's the answer to y
our
particular problem. A copy of her face will keep you satisfied, sighing, lusting, and doing absolutely nothing about the real woman. It's the real woman you need to obtain. Then you will have her portrait forever with you. I'll do one as a wedding present. That's a promise.'

    'Well, I must go to her then... you are right,' said Fred, 'I must break through this barrier.'

    'I have an idea,' Henry said suddenly. 'I was going to get our man to take the portrait round to Farnham's place some time later today. But the fellow is doing something for my mother and he won't be free till tomorrow morning. Why don't we pack it up, load it into a cab along with you and you take it round and present it yourself? It would be an ideal reason for you to call. You can say you came to see me – which is true – and offered your services as my man wasn't as yet available, which is also true.'

    'A splendid idea!' said Fred in delight. 'That is capital! I'll call a cab now and we'll load the portrait. Will you make sure it's well wrapped first?'

    'Well, help me do it, that'll be quicker.'

    The two men fetched the packing required which Henry had heaped in a corner of the room and set to work.

    'Make sure the man takes great care unloading it, 'said Henry, 'they are so clumsy, you wouldn't believe it! I've had to repair pictures that have been most carefully packed but the idiots treat them as if they were tossing cabers around.'

    The packing was completed to their mutual satisfaction. Fred called a cab, loaded the picture in with care, sat himself opposite, and holding the bulky parcel steady with his hand, set off, half nervous and anxious, half excited, to the Farnham house in Belgrave Square.

Chapter 9

Ellie was delighted when she heard that Mr Thorpe awaited her downstairs and that he had brought the famous portrait with him. She longed to see what it was like as Mr Winstone had refused to let her look, saying it should be a surprise. She trusted it would be perfect because her father had such faith in this artist's work. She herself had seen little of Winstone's work before this but then few people had. He was as yet an unknown.

    Ellie came slowly down the stairs on silent feet. She stopped in the hallway and found the servants all gathered about the portrait whispering and considering it in hushed tones.

    'Oh, go away!' said the imperious young lady. 'Let me see my own portrait, for heaven's sake!'

    They scattered to their various places like leaves in the wind, ashamed to be caught in their curiosity. Ellie went forward to look at the picture. She stood for a long while, enraptured by the colour, the sheer luminous brilliance of the canvas. How wonderful to see a portrait shine like this, not dingy brown with age and severe of countenance like some of those ancestral horrors that lined the stairs. Was she as beautiful as this? A truthful girl, she was inclined to think that she was not half as lovely as the damsel in the picture. Still, it would be good to look on when she was old and grey and might then convince herself that maybe, after all, she had once been so luminous a goddess.

    It was time to go in and greet Mr Thorpe. She paused at the door and collected herself for a few moments. He had been rather wild when she had last met him and now here he was turning up, obviously determined to see her again. She smiled to herself a little. Thank God, both Papa and her companion, Miss Adelaide Perrin, were out visiting that afternoon. Was Mr Thorpe likely to begin again with all that nonsense? He had looked the last person on earth to come out with such astonishing and passionate declarations. Frederic Ashton Thorpe seemed the epitome of the fussy, conventional Englishman, feelings held well in check and yet he had declared his love in such a desperate fashion. He was sincere, she felt certain of that.

    She could not deny it was very exciting. Oh, these mad artists! No wonder they had such a reputation. She secretly liked this kind of intense passion, this circumvention of the rules. Who cared about rules when it came to love? It was very delightful to meet men like this. The only other man who had never cared for society and its conventions had been Alfie.