by Kate Hewitt
Her friendship Amy was, at times, her only saving grace—down-to-earth and dismissive of any artistic pretensions, Amy was always happy to talk fashion rather than composition, and she regaled Ellen with stories of Glasgow society that made her laugh. As well as being down-to-earth, Amy was exceedingly pragmatic about her own fortunes—she was to marry a man of suitable standing and wealth, most likely in the next year or two.
“We just need to find him first,” she told Ellen cheerfully. “Mama is getting rather desperate. I’m twenty-three, you know. Positively ancient.”
Tucked up in her little room at Norah’s, Ellen poured her fears and frustrations into the letters she wrote to Lucas, knowing that he, more than anyone else from the island, would understand what she was feeling.
I always thought it would be invigorating to be among so many like-minded people, and yet I fear we are not as like-minded as I had hoped to be! I suppose, even as a child, I knew I was not an Artist; I simply liked to draw. Perhaps that is what kept me from pursuing that path all these years, and now that I have, I fear the distinction is all the more obvious.
When her first letter from Canada arrived, Ellen was overjoyed. It was from dear Aunt Rose, and Ellen sat curled up in the armchair in her room, savoring her aunt’s descriptions of her beloved Amherst Island. In her mind’s eye, she could picture the way the maples lining the shore were turning russet and gold, or how the waters of Lake Ontario would be slate-coloured under an autumn sky. She could smell the hint of frost in the air, along with woodsmoke and the fruity, mulchy scent of apples being pressed into cider.
Sitting there with Glasgow’s sea of chimneys and slate roofs visible from her windows, her fingers ink-stained from a drawing class and one of the new smocks she’d purchased hanging on her door, she felt an almost unbearable wave of homesickness—not just for the island, which she missed dearly, but for a life that was familiar and comfortable instead of so new and strange. She was tired of dour-faced Serious Artists, and even Norah’s stern companionship. She liked Amy, but her friend was happily frivolous, and sometimes Ellen longed for a deeper companionship, but with whom? She was, as she’d so often been, a stranger to her own life, a stranger to herself.
Sighing, Ellen continued to read Aunt Rose’s letters, tensing a little when she came to the last paragraph.
Jed and Louisa seem to have settled into married life. They are living, of course, in the Lymans’ farmhouse, but Louisa has hopes, I believe, to build a new place on the other side of the pond. I am not sure Jed sees the need; as you know, Lucas has left for Toronto, and there is plenty of space for just the three of them there. However, as you also know, Louisa most often has her way! She has made quite an effort, I am happy to report, of being a good wife to Jed; she asked me the other day how to churn butter—but when I showed her the calluses on my hands she was quite horrified! Still, I wish them happy, and I know you do as well.
Ellen put the letter down once more, gazing out the window unseeingly as she pictured Jed and Louisa together, turning the farmhouse into their marital home. She tried to picture Louise churning butter, and failed. Louisa had never lifted a finger unless she had to.
Aunt Rose believed the best in in everybody, Ellen knew; it was one of the things she loved most about her. Yet how much would Louise really try to fit into island life, especially if she still nurtured hopes of moving to Seaton, where Jed would work for her father at the bank?
Ellen knew it was none of her concern where Jed and Louisa lived, or how their married life progressed. Her life was here now. Yet even though she knew she could never allow herself to entertain tender feelings for Jed in the slightest, she still cared about him and she knew he wouldn’t be happy in Seaton, working behind a desk. She couldn’t imagine it, and she doubted he could, either.
“But he’s happy with Louisa,” she reminded herself quietly as she stared out at the twilight settling softly over the chimneys and slates of the city. “He chose her, not you.”
And even now, over a year since he’d made that choice, the knowledge stung, if only a little. Jed and Louisa were, on some fundamental level, completely unsuited to one another. Yet, according to Aunt Rose, they were making a go of it. She needed to, as well.
With a determined nod, Ellen set the letter aside. She was going to embrace her new life in Glasgow, and try harder to make friends with the other students. Perhaps with time Glasgow and her life at the art school would become familiar and even beloved to her. She’d made a good friend in Amy McPhee, but then Amy was not the typical art student, as she’d explained herself. Still, Ellen hoped that with a bit of effort and determination, she would start to feel more settled. The other art students were serious-minded but some of them had made friendly overtures; a young gentleman in her drawing class had admired her sketch of a hand, claiming she had managed to capture the wrinkles on the palm p very well.
Her mouth twitched in a smile as she imagined writing such a thing to anyone from the island: I have drawn a remarkable hand, and another pupil says the wrinkles in the skin are quite accurate.
Everyone would think she was mad, and Ellen half-wondered if she was. Yes, the life at the art school, the intense focus on something that she’d never dare think of as more than a pleasant pasttime, was both fearsome and wonderful.
A rap on the door startled Ellen from her thoughts. “Ellen?” Norah called. “You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Ellen rose from her chair, opening the door of her bedroom to see Norah gazing at her with something close to disapproval. Her stomach swooped nervously; as kind as Norah was, Ellen was still intimidated by her. “Who is it?”
“Who do you think it is?” Norah asked, her eyebrows raised. “Your admirer, of course.” She turned to go back downstairs, and quickly tidying her hair, Ellen followed her.
Henry McCallister was waiting in the drawing room, one hand braced against the mantelpiece as he studied a small oil painting hung above it, a river landscape done in oils.
“Ellen!” He turned with a smile at the sound of the door, his hands outstretched. “I couldn’t stay away another day. I’ve so desperately wanted to know how you are getting on.”
“Well enough, I hope,” Ellen answered. She’d left the door to the sitting room open, and she was conscious of Norah bustling about in the hallway. “Thank you for enquiring. It’s very kind of you.”
“My motives are entirely selfish, I assure you,” Henry said, and he came forward to take Ellen’s hands in his own, which she thought rather forward. “I want to hear all about your first few days at the school. I’ve come to take you out to tea at the Willow Rooms, another fine establishment owned by the lovely Miss Cranston.”
“That’s—that’s very kind of you, Henry,” Ellen began, stammering slightly, “but…”
“But what?” He raised his eyebrows, his smile gentle and playful. “I consider myself your champion, Ellen. And since I put your name forward to be accepted by the school, it is my God-given duty to make sure you are settling in. I brought the motorcar today as well, since I know you’ve never ridden in one.”
Ellen stared at him helplessly, her hands still encased in his. How could she refuse him? She’d felt in her bones, and certainly in Norah’s disapproving stare, that a friendship with Henry McCallister was not a wise idea. And yet remembering her resolve of a few moments ago to make more of an effort, she wondered why she was so reluctant.
Although Henry had been effusive in his kindness and praise, Ellen didn’t think he could possibly consider her a romantic prospect. Their stations in life were surely too different for that. Perhaps she was reading too much into Henry’s naturally effusive ways, and in truth she would like to talk with someone who had no pretensions to art, even if he had an obvious interest in the subject as a trustee.
Feeling reckless and a bit daring, she slipped her hands from his. “Let me just get my coat.”
CHAPTER SIX
Half an hour later Ellen and Henry were settled
in the Willow Rooms on Sauchiehall Street, the building and interior designed by Charles Mackintosh and hung with paintings as the tearoom on Buchanan Street had been.
“So what did you think of your first ride in the motorcar?” Henry asked as he poured them both tea.
“Bumpy,” Ellen answered with a laugh. “And alarmingly fast. But I enjoyed it.” She’d never experienced anything like it, with the wind rushing past her and the world streaming by in a colorful blur. “Where I come from, there’s only one motor car, and it had to be driven across the ice in winter to get there.” She smiled at the memory of how everyone had gathered by the shore to see the motor car come across to the island, looking incongruous in the middle of a flat field of white.
“How charmingly parochial,” Henry said with a laugh. “That’s one thing I like about you, Ellen. You’ve had such quaint experiences.”
Ellen wasn’t sure she liked the sound of ‘quaint’; it seemed a bit patronizing. Still, she held her tongue and merely smiled, because she supposed llife on Amherst Island would seem quaint indeed to a man of the world such as Henry.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it, at any rate,” Henry continued. “I hope to introduce you to all sorts of new experiences.”
“You make me sound like a pet project,” Ellen said tartly, before she could think better of it. Henry’s face fell amost comically.
“Not at all, not at all,” he assured her. “Quite the opposite.” What, Ellen wondered, was the opposite? “Please don’t take offense. I would for you to do that.”
“I’m not offended.” Being insulted by Henry felt like kicking a puppy; he so wanted to please and be liked.
“Then you’ve put my mind at ease.” Henry gave his usual charming smile as he added cream to his tea and stirred it. “But now you must tell me how you are finding art school.”
“It is all very new and strange,” Ellen answered after a moment. “At times I admit I feel quite intimidated. But I hope with the passage of time I shall become more accustomed, and of course I am immensely grateful for the opportunity.” She added this as a matter of duty, because Henry had already reminded her once how it was thanks to him that she was here at all. While she didn’t enjoy the idea of being beholden to him, she accepted it as part of his due.
“It is understandable,” Henry answered with a nod, “that it would be overwhelming at first. You’ve never been around so many artists before, I expect.”
“Or any at all,” Ellen answered with a laugh. She found she could be candid with Henry in a way that she had not yet found the courage to with her fellow students.
“But just because you are a young woman from a small place, Ellen,” Henry continued seriously, “do not think that you have less ability than anyone else at the school. I have seen your work, and Francis Newbery himself said you had great talent, if unschooled.” He smiled wryly. “That is why you are here, of course. To learn. But the raw ability is something you have always had. Don’t ever doubt it.”
“Thank you,” Ellen murmured, touched by his praise as well as a little discomfited. She was not used to such flattery; her teachers certainly didn’t give it to her, and her art had always been such a private thing. She’d only shown her sketches to a few people—Jed and Lucas, Aunt Rose and Uncle Dyle. “It is very kind of you to say so,” she told Henry.
“It is not mere kindness,” Henry answered. “I believe it right down to my toes! But now let us talk of something more pleasant.”
“Is art not pleasant?” Ellen teased. She realized, somewhat to her surprise, that she was enjoying herself more than she had since she’d arrived in Glasgow, and she felt more comfortable with Henry than she had with anyone save perhaps Amy. She was glad he had asked her to tea.
“I must admit, I am a shallow enough creature to prefer parties to art,” Henry said and Ellen stared at him, confused by the sudden change of direction in the conversation.
“Parties…” she repeated blankly.
“Yes, my mother is having a ball on the Friday night after next. It is, I fear, a somewhat tedious social occasion, with far too many young ladies swanning about in ball gowns, looking for both marriage and dance partners. As her only son, I must of course attend, and I was hoping you would consider making this burden easier to bear.”
“I’m afraid I don’t…” Ellen began, still genuinely at a loss, stopping when Henry leaned towards her, his eyes bright as he took her hand in his own.
“I am asking, Ellen, if you will accompany me to the ball as my special guest.”
For a second Ellen could only stare at him. “A ball…” she repeated, her hands still clasped in Henry’s. She slipped them out of his and reached for her cup of tea, needing a moment to gather her thoughts as well as her composure. She gazed down into the milky depths of her cup, feeling a disconcerting mixture of confusion and fury. Was Henry asking her out of pity? Surely he realized how impossible her attendance at such an event would be. She could certainly not go to the ball as his special guest. She could not go at all.
And no matter how carefree and insouciant he could seem, a man of his stature in society would know that. He would know it very well indeed. To attend a ball as his guest would be social suicide for Ellen, if she had any pretensions to society. She would be labelled brazen, grasping, a harlot or worse. Her mind raced, trying to think of a way out of this predicament.
“Ellen?” Henry prompted, and she looked up to see him smiling rather whimsically at her.
“I’m sorry, Henry, but I cannot go to a ball,” Ellen said, trying to pitch her voice between kind and firm. “It’s quite impossible, as I’m sure you realize.”
“Impossible?” He raised his eyebrows, still holding onto his whimsy, although now Ellen suspected it was with some effort. “I realize no such thing! Especially if I call for you in my motorcar—“
“Don’t,” Eleanor cut him off, her voice turning sharp. She pressed one hand to her hot cheek; she most certainly was blushing. “Please, please don’t.”
Henry frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” Ellen asked, her voice low. “Surely you see the impossibility of it… of our different positions… would you make me a laughingstock?”
Henry stared at her for a moment, his forehead furrowed, and then he sat back in his chair and shook his head slowly. “Ellen Copley,” he said, “I didn’t take you for a snob.”
“A snob!” She drew back, stung. “I’m hardly that. I’ll have you know I grew up by the railyards of Springburn—“ Something she hadn’t actually wanted to mention, but she wore it as a badge of honor now.
“There are many forms of snobbery,” Henry informed her. “And believing a lass from Springburn can’t come to a ball held in a villa in Dowanhill is snobbery, whether you think it or not.”
Ellen shook her head helplessly. Henry had a way with words, it was true, but she knew in her bones, in her very soul, that she was right. “It seems like common sense to me.”
Henry leaned forward, and Ellen thought he might reach for her hands again, and so she quickly put her teacup down and clenched them together in her lap. “Ellen,” he asked earnestly, “why do you think it’s so impossible for you to attend this ball? Plenty of young ladies will be there—“
“Young ladies I have no acquaintance with,” Ellen returned. “Ladies of society, who as you said will be arrayed in their finest and looking for husbands, who have been invited by your mother and are not your special guest.”
“Then don’t come as my special guest,” Henry said with a smile and a shrug. “Just come. All that matters to me is that you’re there.”
“Why?” Ellen asked, although she almost didn’t want to know the answer.
“Why do you think?” Henry countered. A stubborn gleam had entered his eye that Ellen wasn’t sure she liked.
“I wouldn’t fit in,” she argued. “I don’t even have the right clothes.”
Is all that stands between you and this ball a gown?”
Henry asked and Ellen fought down the fury she’d felt when he’d first invited her. Why couldn’t Henry see the awkward and untenable position he was putting her in? Why did he makes it all sound so obvious and easy? Because, Ellen realized, it was for him.
“It’s not just about the gown,” she said a bit impatiently, “although I certainly don’t have a gown that would be suitable for such occasion.”
“That is easily remedied—“
“Don’t you dare,” Ellen warned him, properly angry now with how deliberately obtuse Henry was being. “I cannot accept any gifts from you, Henry, and certainly not a gown. Surely you see that.”
“I see that it’s priggish nonsense,” Henry returned with spirit.
“To you, perhaps, as a man of some standing and means,” Ellen returned with just as much spirit. “But not to someone like you.”
“Someone like you? See, you are a snob. A reverse snob.”
“That is nonsense and you know it. I am being practical, not snobbish. If I came to your ball, I would be reviled, Henry, or at least ignored—“
“So you think. But the world is moving on, Ellen, especially in a modern city such as Glasgow. You must move with it—“
“Well, I’m afraid I’ve never been very good at that,” Ellen cut him off with finality. “I don’t like change.”
“And yet you moved all the way across the Atlantic,” Henry returned. “Twice.”
“Yes.” Briefly Ellen thought of the girl she’d been, standing on deck with her Da as they sailed past the Statue of Liberty eight years ago. Things had changed so much since then, and some of that change had not been welcome. Her father leaving… Aunt Ruth dying… being sent from Seaton to Amherst Island and back again… There had been many joys along the way, but it still hadn’t been easy. And truth be told, she wasn’t sure just how much she’d actually changed on the inside.
“Even so, I must be firm on this,” she said to Henry. “It would not be appropriate for me to attend this ball in any capacity, and certainly not as your guest. I’m quite sure your parents would not approve.”
