CHAPTER 13
I left them with orders that they were all to assemble at three o’clock sharp the next day, by which time I would have gone through my sheaf of notes and have feedback and changes. Mother and Jackie already looked mutinous, and I wasn’t looking forward to the battles which would be waged over the next fortnight. But I would win the war, I was sure. Wellington would be proud of me.
With a lighter heart than I’d had for days, I skipped down the hall, around dust sheets and ladders and paint pots. Then I stopped. It was deserted. I frowned at the mess. Not even Parker was there, tutting. All was silence. It was wonderful.
I set off at a skip once more, pirouetting around obstacles now I realised I would not be seen. I hurdled a stack of planks on to the bottom step, and took the rest of the stairs two at a time. As I rounded the corner to pass Father’s studio, I stopped abruptly. I wasn’t alone anymore. Michael was there, crouching by the door, his eye to the key hole. He stared up at me, and without even considering it, I kicked him. He glowered, and I half expected him to hiss at me. I grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him to his feet, propelling him towards my study with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. He was so surprised that he just followed me, not even resisting.
I pushed him into the room and slammed the door. There was a loud crack and I heard dust falling outside.
‘What the hell do you think you were doing?’
I was so angry that I couldn’t even shout. It was quiet and calm. Menacing. Perhaps this was the great rage I had been saving for all these years.
Michael had the good sense to appear sheepish, but unfortunately for me, it made him look utterly adorable. The wave of hair fell over his eyes when he bowed his head, and when he pressed his lips together in an approximation of anguish, a dimple formed in his right cheek. He mumbled something, but I couldn’t hear. I wasn’t watching his lips, because I was distracted by just how long his eyelashes were. And that, of all the things, made me more angry than ever.
‘Don’t you dare be adorable while I’m angry with you,’ I snapped. ‘Sit down and stop looking like an ill-treated puppy.’
He gave a shout of laughter, and settled himself comfortably on the edge of my desk.
‘Are you, in all seriousness, trying to seduce me while you’re angry with me?’
‘No.’ I sounded like a petulant child. Damn him.
‘You’re not angry at all then, and this is just you trying to seduce me?’ He folded his arms and looked unbearably smug. ‘Even I know that anger doesn’t tend to go hand in hand with flirting. You must be an expert to pull that one off.’
‘I’m not trying to seduce you,’ I ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I’m merely stating the obvious.’
‘You are?’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘You think I look adorable?’
‘Looked adorable,’ I amended hastily. ‘Looked. You were dimpling.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your cheek – look, I’m not here to talk about you being adorable.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Michael smiled and had the audacity to dimple again. I glared at him and he hastily schooled his features. ‘But it cannot be denied or undone. You think I look adorable.’
I crossed the little room in two strides and stood in front of him. I leaned forward, planting one hand on either side of him on the desk. He had to lean back to give me room.
‘Am I making you uncomfortable?’ I asked quietly. ‘Am I infringing on your space?’
He didn’t say anything, just swallowed. Lifting one of my hands, I ran it over his shoulder, tracing the front of his lapel. I slipped my hand beneath his jacket, enjoying the warmth I could feel radiating from beneath his shirt. I couldn’t get distracted though, not even when I could feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest. It was a heady sensation. He could have stopped me any time he wished, but he didn’t.
I traced patterns over his shirt with light fingertips, before leaning in more closely.
‘Am I…’ I whipped the notebook out from his inside pocket. ‘Am I invading your privacy?’
I stepped back then as he made a swipe for the notebook, but I held it out of reach.
‘What were you doing outside my father’s studio?’
‘Give me that back.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘You know I could take that from you if I wanted to.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Of course you could, but you won’t do that. Because in spite of being a treacherous, spying, and quite possibly thieving blaggard, you aren’t…’
‘Actually that bad?’ Michael finished for me.
I sighed, and threw the notebook back to him. He held it for a moment, rubbing his thumb over the cover before pocketing it.
‘If I don’t tell you, are you going to have Jackson beat it out of me?’
I shrugged.
‘Tempting though that thought is, I’d just settle for barring you from the theatre. Then it’s your choice if Jackie beats you or not.’
‘Firm but fair.’ Michael rubbed a rough hand through his hair. ‘I think it’s quite obvious what I was doing, but I can see that you wish me to say it, so I shall oblige you. I was attempting to spy on your father by looking through the keyhole on his studio door. And I was doing a particularly poor job of it, frankly.’
‘Hmm. What were you spying on him for?’
‘I wanted to know what he was up to,’ he said simply. I suddenly recalled with uncomfortable clarity that I had wished the halls were empty of workmen so that I could do precisely the same thing. But if one could spy on anybody without guilt, then it was surely a member of one’s own family. And my interest stemmed purely from a place of love.
‘Where were all the workmen? Why was the hall empty? What did you do?’
Michael seemed to relax then, leaning back on the desk with a dimpling smile.
‘Suspicion, thy name is Evelyn. As it happens, I didn’t do anything. Your father cleared the halls for me.’
I sat on the desk beside him, plonking myself down with little grace and a hefty sigh.
‘What?’ I asked wearily.
‘I was looking for Parker, as it happens, and was not intending to do anything so nefarious or, frankly, unnecessary as squinting through a key hole. There were men everywhere, and one of them was hammering something, and it went on for several minutes. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear it, actually, it was very loud and went on for a very long time.’
‘Get to the point.’
‘The point is that your father stormed out of his room, screamed blue murder at the workmen for disturbing him, and they scarpered.’
‘No.’ I twisted round to face him. ‘He never did that.’
‘He did.’
Michael was an expert at looking smug.
‘So you decided to risk angering him further by spying on him?’
‘Precisely. He never struck me as the sort of man who would be riled to anger so quickly. Is he?’
‘No,’ I felt bound to admit. I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell him that I’d have resorted to spying at that point as well. After all my high spirits at the rehearsal going adequately well, I felt drained. ‘I have been a little worried about him, actually. The stress seems to be getting to him. He only got the fish this morning and I don’t think he was very pleased with my solution.’
‘The carpet outside his door was quite wet.’ Michael gestured towards his knees, and the dark, damp patches that adorned them.
‘Well that serves you right.’ I rubbed my forehead with my hand, screwing my eyes up as tightly as I could to try and make everything outside my own brain disappear.
I felt Michael’s hand on my arm, and with very little pressure on his part, I leaned my head against his shoulder.
‘I’m worried about him,’ I said quietly, wringing my frustrations into my skirt, which was twisted and creased beneath my hands.
Michael smoothed my hair down and rested his cheek against the top of my head.
‘I’m worried about it all,’ I said. ‘But especially him.’
‘I’m sure he’s just worried too. But in just over a fortnight, this will all be over, remember.’
‘I suppose.’ But two weeks seemed an insurmountable amount of time.
Michael stirred against my hair, and I couldn’t tell if he’d kissed me or not. We were closer than we’d ever been, really, with the sides of our bodies pressed against one another. His fingers drew circles and swirls on my arm. Our mouths were so far apart, though. It would be a lot of effort to lift my head. And then, of course, once we faced one another, he would know of my intentions and could decide whether or not to accept or reject me. I wasn’t sure I could bear it if he rejected me.
Then I realised that I was not being myself. I had never worried about my kisses being rejected before. If they were, they were, and while I was pleased to say that had happened only very rarely, it was a matter of pride to me that I was always in control of situations like that. I didn’t care, and that was what had always defined any intimate encounters I’d had in the past.
Even with that boy from Sheffield, almost ten years ago now, who had told me he was the second cousin of a Duke. He’d spoken more properly than anyone I’d met before - at that time - and I hadn’t let him cow me with his supposed superiority. Instead I’d let him kiss me and skipped away with his watch chain, pressed upon me as a token of his affection. I think I still have it somewhere.
I didn’t like how I was feeling with Michael. It was a symptom of the stress, it had to be. I was going to break his heart.
I lifted my head suddenly then, and dropped my crumpled skirt, instead using my free hands to cup Michael’s face and draw him to me.
I kissed him gently, but confidently, and while at first his lips were hard and unyielding, within moments he had relaxed and was kissing me back, winding one of his hands into my hair and holding me closer with the other. I felt myself begin to soften and melt into his embrace. I couldn’t do that. I had to be in control. I drew back slightly and caught his bottom lip between my teeth, gently dragging them over the soft skin. He moaned quietly, and I couldn’t resist placing one last kiss on the corner of his mouth.
‘That’s not it, is it?’ He leaned in once more, pulling me closer.
I stroked his cheek with a lingering hand. Half seduced, he looked more adorable than ever.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I promised.
‘I can’t go anywhere for a while.’
He looked so concerned I couldn’t help but fall a little deeper.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I said again, and left him sitting on my desk while I went to speak to my father.
*****
I waited outside the door. Perhaps it would help if I pretended it was Mother I was going to see. I was an expert at dealing with Mother when she was in a temper. I had years of experience in that. But Father – now, there was something entirely different. I screwed my face up as I tried to remember the last time he had been remotely perturbed. Or that I hadn’t known what to say to him. There was that incident the other day when Mother had stormed out of his room and he had refused to show me the painting of her, which had been so out of character. And Mother’s affair, of course, but it has always annoyed me how calmly he had taken that news. It annoyed Mother as well. Perhaps that was why she’d had the affair in the first place – to try and inspire him with a passion beyond quiet, unceasing devotion.
I tapped the door, and then grasped the handle. Locked. Somehow, in this entirely surprising situation, I wasn’t surprised. I hammered then, loudly.
‘Father?’ I used my best, most authoritative stage voice. ‘Father, I need to speak to you.’
Silence.
‘Father.’ Short of stamping my foot, I don’t think I could have sounded more demanding. I heard a shuffling noise, then the key turned in the lock and he peered out. His hair stood on end, wildly, and he looked close to tears. So sad, I almost embraced him, but I don’t think that would have suited my purpose.
‘Er, Evelyn.’
‘Yes.’ I put my foot in the doorway so he couldn’t shut me out. Like a frightened rabbit, he trembled slightly and appeared ready to bolt at any moment. ‘May I come in?’
I didn’t wait for an answer, and stepped straight through the doorway, pushing past him into the studio. It was even messier than I had last seen it. Piles of books still stood across the floor, with most of the stacks knocked down and kicked and spread in arcs now. Before the windows stood two enormous fish tanks, the murky water casting a pall across the whole room, keeping the dim light in constant motion as it washed over the mess.
‘What are you doing?’
I turned to look at Father, as he stood in the doorway. He wilted against the frame, refusing to meet my eye. He cast a desperate look over his shoulder into the hallway, as though considering flight. Surely not.
‘Father?’
He shrugged.
‘Painting. Doing work. Got to get Narcissus finished.’
‘I’m worried about you.’ I said this in a very matter of fact way. I wasn’t willing to inject any more emotion into the room. Father’s eyes were watering suspiciously.
‘Oh.’
‘I want you to tell me what’s going on.’
‘Nothing.’ He swayed slightly, and with a sigh of great resignation, closed the door slowly.
‘Father.’
‘There’s just… paintings.’
‘How many?’
‘Two.’ He shifted from foot to foot, and wouldn’t meet my eye.
‘Father.’
‘Three. There are three.’
Now it was out in the open, he looked relieved.
‘But you can’t tell anybody,’ he said quickly.
‘Why?’ Father always told me about his paintings. I was practically his manager.
‘It’s a secret commission. I can’t tell anybody. If I do,’ he shrugged, then his attention was caught by a teal smudge of oil over his wrist.
‘Then?’
‘Oh. Then I don’t get paid. My name is blackened and I will never sell another painting again.’
Of course. The world of painting was surely second only to the theatre in its high drama.
‘What can you tell me?’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything, do I?’
A genuine question.
‘No. But you want to. And if you’re going to tell anybody, you know it’s best if you talk to me.’
‘That’s true.’ He gave a small smile, and I realised that I pitied him – that I have always pitied him, and I felt awful. It’s a terrible thing to not be able to look up to one’s parents.
I made my way over to the chaise longue and patted it in as reassuring a manner as I could.
‘Sit here, then nobody will hear us.’
As Father passed me, I chanced a glare at the door. I didn’t trust Michael not to try his spying game again. Hopefully the lingering effects of our kiss meant he still wasn’t fit to be seen in public.
We sat in silence for a few moments, Father clearly hoping I had forgotten why we were there.
‘Well?’ I prompted. ‘What are the three paintings?’
‘Narcissus.’
‘Yes.’
‘And there’s one of your mother.’
‘Of course. The one she hated.’ There was always a painting of my mother.
‘Well, yes. And… another,’ he finished.
‘And what is the other?’
Father took a deep breath and chewed on his lip.
‘A commission. From Julia Fitzroy.’
‘And that’s the one you can’t talk about?’
‘No. I mean, yes, I’m not allowed.’
‘On pain of blackened reputation, and doubtless snapped paintbrushes, to boot.’ I raised a brow, and Father turned to me then, panic in his swimming eyes.
‘It isn’t funny, Evelyn. These people are powerful, aren’t they? They own everything, the Fitzroys do. So if they say we can’t – I can’t tell anybody, then nobody can know. It isn’t an option. And that’s even before they see the painting – if it’s not good enough then that’s the same thing, isn’t it.’
I took his hand then, to try and calm us both down. I felt a bit sick to see my father being treated in this fashion.
‘Could you not have turned it down? We don’t really need the money – there’ll be other patrons, I’m sure. Especially once Narcissus is shown.’
Father shook his head sadly.
‘Not got the option, same thing. Never work again. So you see,’ he gave a heavy sigh. ‘I’ve got no choice. And the worst thing, Evey, is that they want it by the exhibition as well.’
‘Why ever for?’
Father shrugged again, and sunk into his loose collar like a roosting chicken into its feathers.
‘But even so, you only need to work on the two – the commission and Narcissus. The painting of Mother can wait.’
He looked faintly appalled by the idea, and for the first time in as long as I remember, he seemed to grow into his spine once more, and his shoulders perceivably straightened.
‘It’s all or nothing, Evelyn. If I don’t finish those paintings in the next two weeks then I won’t have a career, and that’s all there is to it.’
I was so startled by his show of mild vehemence that I decided not to argue.
‘Can you finish them?’ I asked.
Father shrank again.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps, if I never sleep again.’
‘Show me?’
‘Not the commission.’
‘As you wish. But the others. Perhaps I can help, somehow.’
Not with painting – my brushwork was clumsy at best – but with reassurance, I could certainly be of assistance.
Father nodded, and scurried over to the corner of his studio. I followed, surprised and pleased that he was allowing me access to his work again. While he shuffled the canvases propped against the wall, I surveyed Narcissus. He still lacked definition in the muscles in his back and shoulder – my favourite part of a man, as it happens. But there were the beginnings of depth in the water, shadows of reeds, the glimmer of fish.
‘You’ve worked this in fast.’ I gestured to the corner of the painting, where light seemed to ripple and reflect. Father grunted and straightened, a canvas in hand.
‘It’s not ideal,’ he said. ‘That water isn’t right. There’s just no movement to it, and those fish? Not showy enough.’
‘But so useful given the time scales,’ I finished firmly. ‘And there’ll be no speaking like that in front of Parker. You know how proud he is of his fish. It was very kind of him to lend you them.’
Father mumbled something about Parker wanting to keep the theatre going and golden geese, which I chose to ignore.
‘How long until you finish?’
Father screwed his eyes up into even smaller slits and squinted at the picture.
‘A week?’
‘That’s not so bad.’
‘Maybe more.’
‘And that one?’ I reached for the canvas he held, and he instinctively drew back from me.
‘Ah.’ With great reluctance, he propped it gently onto the edge of his easel.
‘Oh.’
It wasn’t what I was expecting, although I don’t know what that was. Father’s paintings of Mother tend to be highly decorative and floral. They involve cherubs, winged creatures, vines of flowers and roses. Mother is usually draped in swags of fabric, reclining against sofas or trees, or flying through the air or floating in water. It was no wonder she had hated this one.
Here, she was dressed in a gentleman’s garb. She wasn’t even looking out of the painting, nor up to some heavenly host, instead only her profile was visible to the viewer. Her head was bent, and she peered intently at the skull in her hands. It was mostly line at the moment, with the stark dark blue of the background being most of what Father had painted so far. The clothes had most of their black in them, but the detail of the face, skull and hands was still to be completed.
‘Goodness me,’ I said quietly. ‘She’s Hamlet.’
And she was, and it was perfect. Or it would be. I think I understood why he refused to stop working on it. Even in line only, she was questioning her own mortality. It was unsettling to me – I could only imagine how unsettling she would have found it.
‘How long do you need?’ I asked.
Father sighed behind me.
‘Not so long as I’d like. Every line here, every brush stroke, it speaks to me. It’s going down perfectly. For the first time in my life, the paint is obeying my every thought, and this is how I pictured it. I can never paint how I picture it. Not like this. There’s always something missing. But this time –‘
‘This time, it’s Mother.’
Without all of the drama, and the beauty – although she was starkly beautiful still – this was Mother in her most basic form. She was an actor, and she lived what she acted. This wasn’t the homage Father usually painted. This was love unblinded by adoration.
‘She’s coming round to it,’ he said, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Although she won’t look at it, I think she understands it better now.’
‘And the third?’
Father opened his mouth to refuse questions, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm.
‘I know you can’t give me details. But how much time do you need?’
With one last, reverent, lingering glance at Hamlet, Father packed it away behind the other canvas, which was still covered with a sheet. It slipped slightly, revealing one bright yellow corner.
‘Two weeks. More. I just – I don’t want to paint it. I don’t feel it, it doesn’t feel right to me. Every stroke I take with my brush, it mocks me, it calls to me that I should be working on Hamlet. Or even Narcissus.’ Father rubbed his face roughly and slumped back against the wall. ‘It drains me, this one. I feel tired when I work on it.’
‘I see.’
I took Father’s arm and led him back to the chaise longue.
‘What have you been working on this morning?’
‘Bits. Not much. I just… I couldn’t.’
It was as I expected. Overwhelmed by pressure, Father had ground to a halt. Following a few moments of thought, I borrowed Father’s notebook and drafted a schedule for the next fortnight. Every day was much the same – mornings were dedicated to the secret commission – to get it out of the way for the day. Afternoons, when light was best, were mostly for Narcissus, which would be finished soonest anyway, then the early evenings were for Hamlet, to make use of the last of the light.
Father pouted, but agreed. It was time for Narcissus – only for an hour, but every minute counted at this stage.
‘But I can’t bear staring into those tanks anymore.’
I promised to find Jackson forthwith and send him to model. It was a much happier father that I left in that murky studio than had unwillingly met me only ten minutes before. Well, perhaps not quite happy. But a lot less fractious.
Michael was sitting on one of the steps, waiting for me. I waited until the door had closed and I was a few steps away from him to speak.
‘That’s a respectful distance,’ I said, lightly. ‘And your knees have dried.’
‘I wasn’t listening.’ Michael frowned. ‘You’re going to tell me what he said.’
I laughed at that.
‘I don’t know where you got that idea,’ I said with a smile as I pulled him to his feet. ‘Well, I might tell you some. But I need to think about it first. About what I feel you need to know.’
‘That’s hardly fair.’
‘What’s there to be fair about? You won’t tell me your secrets, and you think I might be up to something nefarious. The only reason I’m allowing you to remain here is because I want good publicity.’
‘And the rest.’ Michael patted his lips gently. ‘Which I am entirely supportive of, by the way. More of that, I can handle more of that.’
I leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek. I felt his stubble against my lips. He reached to pull me closer but I stepped out of his reach.
‘We all can, but unfortunately now is not that time.’
‘Tease.’ But he smiled, and dimpled, and I wondered which one of us he was referring to.
‘Now go away. You can come back tomorrow if you like, but I have a lot of work to do. I can’t do it with you distracting me.’
‘By being adorable? No, I suppose not. It’s a wonder I manage to get any work done myself.’
He caught my hand and bowed over it, brushing his lips against my palm.
‘Until tomorrow.’
He left me with another smile, and I watched him as he descended the stairs, and disappeared around the corner.
It took me a few moments to remember where I was supposed to be going and what I was supposed to be doing. I shook my head at myself, to clear away the heavy dregs of lust which still hung about my mind. Foolishness. He was just a man, after all. They were all built the same, so he wasn’t anything special.
I checked my watch, and reasoned that as it was almost five o’clock, Jackie would most likely be the kitchen.
I made my way down the back stairs, and almost tripped over Annie.
‘Oh my, did I kick you?’
She was curled on one of the steps, her long limbs folded into a neat parcel which nestled against the wall. She nodded.
‘I’m so sorry, darling.’
She nodded again, and I decided that both Jackie and Father would have to wait. I seated myself down on the step and put my arm around her.
‘Would you like to talk about it?’
‘No,’ came the sulky reply.
‘Sure?’
She nodded, but not a moment later burst out with-
‘Stupid Jackson.’
I frowned. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘Stupid Jackson,’ she mumbled again.
‘He is very stupid,’ I agreed. ‘But any particular reason why this time?’
‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’ She sniffed loudly.
‘Where is he? Father needs him for modelling.’
Annie rose swiftly and mumbled something that sounded like “kitchen”. I let her go. I knew what it would be. It was always the same.
I found Jackie, as predicted, at the kitchen table. He was leaning back in his chair, his boots on the table. The remains of a feast lay before him, from bread crumbs to chicken bones, and the large flagon that stood in the midst of it all. They were not the only things on the table though, as perched, one either side of Jackie’s boots, were two blondes.
I had never seen them before, so I could only assume they were new. Both were terribly pretty, and couldn’t have reached twenty yet. The old dog.
‘Good evening, Jackie,’ I chirped as I entered. He jumped slightly, and after a moment’s pause, took his boots from the table. I smiled. ‘And ladies.’
I strolled over and laid a nonchalant kiss on Jackie’s head. The blondes exchanged looks, and I hid my smile by busying myself by the sink. Come to think of it, I could barely remember eating earlier. My stomach gurgled and I made my way to the pantry, seeking out any bread Jackie might have left, and the ham I had bought a few days before.
I returned to find the kitchen empty of blondes but for Jackie, whose own golden head was raised to reveal a petulant pout.
‘What did you do that for?’
I shrugged. ‘You can do better. Or go after them if you’re that bothered.’
Jackie leaned further back in his chair, and returned his boots to the edge of the table.
‘I’m not so bothered. They chirp to each other all the time. It’s really quite boring, come to think of it.’
‘A perfect tableau ruined by sound. Poor Jackie. Perhaps it’s for the best.’
‘You could be right.’
‘Oh.’ Annie appeared in the doorway. ‘So they’ve gone, have they?’
Jackie sat up a little straighter at the sound of her voice, but didn’t turn his head. I took a good look at her. Tall as she was, she was slender as a reed, and quivered slightly as though in a breeze, as she stood in the doorway. No, scratch that, she was like a violin string – long, taut and tight, vibrating with anger as though a bow were being pulled across her.
‘Evey scared ‘em off,’ Jackie said, seemingly unaware of the passion in the doorway.
I nodded and took a large bite of my sandwich. Probably better to stay quiet for this one.
‘I wish,’ Annie said, ‘That I could visit the kitchen in my own home, without being forced to endure the company of… of ladybirds such as those.’
Clearly Jackie had come to the same conclusion as me. He remained quiet, but looked a little frightened.
‘That I cannot even eat – and I need to eat, Jackson – without being forced to sit through the inconsequential chatter of your, of your whores, is frankly, untenable.’
I don’t think Jackie knew what that meant.
‘And they were sitting on the table. On the table, Evey. And heaven only kn