by Nancy Carson
‘Oh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble. If you have work to do …’
‘Really, it’s no trouble. Unfortunately, I have no coal for the fire yet so I can’t offer you anything hot. Just some wine.’
‘Wine? Well, maybe just a small glass.’
‘I have to apologise again, Mrs Maddox,’ he said ruefully. ‘No such luxury as glasses here either.’
That made her laugh. ‘Do you want me to drink out of the bottle?’
He smiled apologetically. ‘If you wouldn’t mind drinking from a mug … I hesitate to offer such a meagre vessel, but not all of my belongings have arrived yet and it never occurred to me to ask to borrow any from Paganel House. It never crossed my mind that I might be entertaining somebody so soon.’
He seemed so much more at ease with her compared to their first meeting, so much warmer. She decided she did not dislike John Gibson after all.
‘I hope I’m never too pretentious to drink wine from a mug, Mr Gibson.’
He rummaged through an old tea chest and withdrew a dusty bottle of red wine. ‘I have a corkscrew somewhere …’
‘Please don’t open a bottle just on account of me,’ she pleaded. ‘I feel guilty—’
‘But you’re my first guest, Mrs Maddox.’ He found the corkscrew and forced it into the bottle, twisting it deftly. ‘I do feel obliged to mark the occasion.’
She laughed again. ‘If you insist.’
‘Indeed I do. Would you be so kind as to pass me those mugs? …’ He pulled out the cork, poured an ample measure of wine into each mug and handed her one. ‘Salute! Please, won’t you sit down?’
Daisy sipped the wine, glanced around for the chair that she knew was somewhere behind her and sat down. ‘So where did you train to become an artist?’ she asked.
‘Well, to start with, my father didn’t want me to become an artist. He was dead against it. We had some terrible arguments. He had some egotistical notion,’ John Gibson said scornfully, ‘that I should be like him. Nothing could have been further from my mind. He’s the last person I would model myself on.’
‘You don’t like your father, then?’ Daisy sounded surprised.
‘I’m very grateful to him for supporting me while I was learning my craft – he still supports me to some extent. But … let’s say I just don’t want to be like him … Anyway, when he finally accepted that art was my destiny, he grudgingly agreed to pay for me to attend the Royal Academy of Art in Piccadilly. I loved the school, Mrs Maddox. Not only did I have the great Lawrence Alma-Tadema tutoring me, but Frederick Leighton also.’
‘I’d really love to see more of your work, Mr Gibson.’
‘I remember you saying so.’ He got up from the stool he was sitting on. ‘I have a couple of paintings here that I brought in my luggage. I intended selling them in London but …’ He began to undo the string around a brown paper parcel. ‘As you can see, they’re not that big.’ He pulled the brown paper off the parcel and turned the two gilt-framed pictures towards her.
Daisy got up from her chair and went to inspect them more closely. She gasped. ‘Oh, they’re absolutely beautiful, Mr Gibson. How serene those women look.’
‘This one here …’ he gestured to the painting on her left, ‘is called A Priestess of Bacchus …’
Daisy scrutinised it closely. ‘The way you paint marble is so clever,’ she said brightly.
‘Thank you. It’s a technique I picked up from one of the school’s visiting artists – Edward John Poynter. He taught me the best way to do it.’
‘So what’s this other painting called?’
‘Expectation.’
A slender young woman wearing a flowing, diaphanous robe was peering expectantly down a plunging marble staircase as if waiting for her lover to run to her from the sea below that reflected the brilliance of the late afternoon sun. In the marble pillar at the head of the staircase Cupid was carved in bas-relief and John’s representation of it was exquisite.
‘Which do you like best?’ he asked.
‘This second one – Expectation,’ she said with certainty.
‘You can have it.’
‘Good gracious! How much are you asking for it?’
‘Nothing. I’m giving it to you.’
‘But you said you wanted to sell it. I’ll only have it if you’ll let me buy it.’
‘I don’t want money from you, Mrs Maddox. Your thoughtfulness alone is payment enough.’
‘But I couldn’t.’
‘It’s my gift to you. You are not allowed to refuse it.’ He smiled and she saw how his brown eyes crinkled appealingly. ‘It would be thoroughly bad-mannered of you to refuse.’
‘Well, now I feel well and truly chastised,’ she quipped. ‘I don’t know how to thank you …’
He smiled again, an affable smile, and their eyes met at long last – and held for just a second. In that brief moment she already perceived some warmth for her, and was just a little disconcerted by it.
They sat down again, drank more wine.
‘What sort of people buy your work?’ Daisy enquired.
He laughed self-consciously. ‘This type of painting – with the pretty girls in revealing robes – tend to be bought to adorn the walls of billiards rooms and gentlemen’s clubs, I suppose. The more classically acceptable subjects … well, I imagine they find their way into the homes of the same gentlemen.’
As he spoke Daisy was all the time weighing him up, assessing him. He seemed such a kind, gentle soul, anxious to please, and at ease now in her company.
‘Tell me about your life in London.’
He sipped more wine, then smiled again, evidently pleased that Daisy was taking an interest in him. ‘Artists tend to herd together, Mrs Maddox. First of all I lived in an artists’ colony in an area called St John’s Wood. I mixed with a whole host of artists, all brilliant in their way. I had my first picture accepted for the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition in 1887 and I began to do well enough to rent a studio in Kensington where I met lots of other well-known painters. Then I went to Italy for a year.’
‘What did you do in Italy? I’m fascinated.’
‘Again, I lived in an artist’s commune – in Rome.’
‘And you enjoyed it, of course.’
‘I loved Italy. The light is so … oh, the light inspires me even now.’
‘And all that marble,’ she suggested with an impish grin.
He laughed self-consciously. ‘Yes, all that marble … But after a year I returned to London.’
‘So what decided you to come back to Dudley?’
‘Oh … lack of funds … A temporary setback, I hope. I’ve been seeking a dealer to handle my work, to save me the worry and effort. I intend to settle and be as prolific as I can be here, at home in the Black Country. I hope to produce a lot of good quality work.’
‘I wish you well, Mr Gibson. I’m sure you’ll succeed.’
‘Thank you. Would you care for more wine?’
‘I’d better not, thank you. Already it’s gone to my head and I’ve got so much to do. I really should be going.’ Daisy emptied her mug and placed it on the workbench he’d installed. ‘Thank you for the drink – but especially for the painting. I’ll treasure it. When you are very famous and it’s worth a fortune I shall be able to swank and tell everybody how I knew you.’
‘I’ll wrap it for you, shall I? Save damaging it.’ It took him only a few seconds, and he handed it back to her. ‘Please call again, Mrs Maddox. I’ve enjoyed talking to you no end. Next time, I hope to have some proper wine glasses.’
‘Next time I hope you have some means of boiling a kettle,’ she replied teasingly. ‘I don’t normally drink wine during the day. In any event, it would be a privilege for me to see your work as it’s being created.’
‘Conversely, Mrs Maddox, it would be a privilege for me to show you.’
On Saturday, when Daisy had finished attending to the horses, she ascended the outside stairs to the room over the stable
to check Caitlin’s work. The new bed was neatly made with a fresh crease visible on the sheet that was turned over the quilt, and the pillow was nicely plumped up in a white, freshly laundered pillowcase. She looked around. It was very spartan still, and she wished to make the new groom’s accommodation a little more welcoming. Having lived in servants’ quarters she knew how inhospitable they could be, and she didn’t want that for her own servants. A new jug and bowl was needed, a towel rail, a rug for the floor. Maybe a stove. In winter it would be unbearably cold in here with no fire and she did not envy the poor lad who was to occupy it. Let him have some home comforts. First thing next week, she would purchase those few items that would make it more like home.
On Sunday, Lawson returned from his travels. Of course, he was tired and hungry and glad to take off his boots and sit with his feet up while Daisy told him about her week.
‘I take it you haven’t missed me then?’ he said.
‘I’ve been too busy to miss you,’ she replied blithely. ‘But I’ve really enjoyed myself keeping busy. Having Blossom and the gig is a godsend.’
‘How have Mrs O’Flanagan and Caitlin been behaving?’
‘They seem to have settled in well. Mrs O’Flanagan is certainly queen of the kitchen now and Caitlin seems a willing worker.’
‘You’ve had no trouble with either of them, I take it?’
‘Indeed not. Nor do I expect to. Why should I?’
‘Just checking … I see we have a new painting by John Mallory Gibson.’
‘I know. Isn’t it beautiful? I called on Friday to see how he was settling in and he gave it to me. I wanted to pay him for it but he wouldn’t accept anything.’
‘How do you find him? Is he still as odd as I remember him?’
‘I don’t think he’s odd at all, Lawson,’ Daisy said protectively. ‘He seems very pleasant.’
‘A bit of a milksop, though, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t have said so.’
‘Certainly anti-social. He can never look you in the eye.’
‘I think he’s just very reserved, Lawson. Shy. A bit unsure of himself … a loner. I certainly wouldn’t call him a milksop. I think he was glad of a bit of company, to tell you the truth. I couldn’t shut him up once he started talking – not that I wanted to. He likes the house anyway, which is a load off my mind. He likes all that space.’
‘Another satisfied customer then.’
‘Yes. Anyway, how was the Continent?’
‘Oh … Paris was crammed. Never seen it so busy. They’ve got this thing on they call the Centennial Exposition, to mark the centenary of the French Revolution. It’s what they built that Eiffel Tower for. I actually had lunch on the first stage one day.’
‘I’ve seen photographs of it. It looks magnificent.’
‘Paris is magnificent.’
‘D’you like it more than London?’
‘I tell you, Paris makes London seem dreary.’
‘I wish you’d take me sometime.’
‘One day, I promise. You’d love the fashions. By the way, is the room over the stable ready?’
‘Well, the bed and the chest are installed and ready. It just needs a jug and bowl set and a towel rail – and the lad to occupy it, of course.’
He nodded his acknowledgement. ‘And did you collect the rents I asked you to?’
She laughed. ‘Yes. But I had to take Molly Kettle with me to prove who I was to some of those doubting Thomases in Albert Street.’
‘How was Molly?’
‘Worried …’
‘Oh? What about?’
‘About little Flossie. She sold her.’
‘Did she? Who to?’
‘To some woman who said she would find her a place in some gentleman’s residence in London. She was bitterly regretting it. You know, Lawson, I’d buy the child back for her if I could find out who she went with and where she was. I don’t suppose you’ve come across anybody buying young girls?’
‘Me?’
‘It was just a thought. You socialise a lot. How do I know who you might meet?’
‘Well nobody who buys young girls that I know of,’ he answered dismissively. ‘Anyway, I’m going upstairs now to have a rest. What time’s dinner?’
‘Seven.’
‘Good. Get Caitlin to fill a hot bath for me in an hour.’
‘All right. Do you intend to go out later?’
‘Are you joking, Daisy? I’m tired. I’ve just got back from Paris.’
It didn’t stop you last time, she wanted to say, but held her tongue.
That night, Lawson retired to bed before Daisy. When she went up he was sound asleep and she looked at him lovingly. Well, there’d be no lovemaking tonight, even though he’d been away more than a week. Perhaps in the morning …
In the night Daisy was woken by the fretful sounds of the horses in the stable. She reached a hand out to Lawson to alert him that something might be amiss, but discovered that he was not there and his side of the bed was barely warm. It must have woken him too; he must have gone down to investigate. She got out of bed, closed the sash to shut out the noise and dived back under the covers. Presumably, he had the commotion under control. Within a few minutes she was asleep again. When she awoke in the morning, Lawson was already up and dressed.
‘You’re up early.’ She was disappointed that he had not woken her first.
‘Busy day,’ he said economically.
‘So what was causing the horses to be so fretful in the night?’ She swung her feet out of bed and onto the rug at the side of the bed. ‘They woke me with their whinnying.’
‘Oh, it was nothing. A couple of drunks from London Fields spooked them with their hooting and bawling.’
‘You’d think people would have more consideration.’
‘It’s not something you ponder intensely when you’re fuddled.’
‘Well, listen to the voice of experience …’
After breakfast, when Lawson had gone out, Daisy tacked up Blossom and guided her between the shafts of the gig. She was already becoming expert in handling the mare and it was a source of great satisfaction to her. She drove into Dudley and bought a large rug for the floor of the room over the stable and some other things she thought might be useful for the lad when he started work; a soap dish and a mirror. She called at Paradise briefly to see her mother and father and learned that Sarah continued to enjoy working at Hillman’s leather works. Before lunch she returned home and, as soon as she had unhitched Blossom she ran up the outside staircase to the groom’s room to lay down the new rug and hang the mirror on a nail that had been hammered into the wall years before and since whitewashed. She unfolded the rug, an inexpensive, home-podged affair she’d bought from the market, and placed it on the floor at the side of the new bed. She got up, stepped back and inspected the overall effect. Much better. Much more homely.
Then she noticed the bed.
It was not in the same pristine state as it had been on Saturday. The sharp, ironed crease down the middle of the sheet that turned over the quilt was not so sharp any more, and there were small creases everywhere as if it had been lain in. The pillow, though tidy and set straight, had been slept on. Oh, the bed had been remade expertly, but it did not look the same as before. At once she thought about the horses being disturbed in the middle of the night. Had somebody slept in here unbeknownst? Was that the reason they were so agitated?
Puzzled, she drew back the covers. A silver cross and chain lay curled on the bottom sheet. Caitlin’s. A cold shudder ran down her spine. Daisy had noticed at breakfast that the maid was not wearing her cross and chain, but had thought nothing of it.
She picked it up and inspected it. On the obverse of the cross, on the horizontal bar, the word ‘Percival’ was engraved. She sat down on the bed, trembling a little, trying to understand its significance. Something was not right. Too many strange coincidences had cropped up lately, coincidences that by themselves meant little. But each, when considered as par
t of the same phenomenon, began to make some sense. She did not like what it suggested, so she had to think it through very carefully. Percival was at the bottom of it, whoever Percival might be. This Percival had given Caitlin the silver cross and chain – and it was silver, for there was a hallmark stamped into it – and a man doesn’t give a girl such an expensive personal item of jewellery if she means nothing to him, or he to her. And yet, Caitlin had claimed that Percival meant nothing to her. It did not ring true. Look how the girl reacted when first she saw Lawson. She’d believed Lawson was Percival. She’d admitted as much. But she’d tried to trivialise the incident.
Could Lawson have met Caitlin before? Could she have been one of his former conquests when, to preserve his true identity, he’d told her his name was Percival?
There was no doubt that the girl had been in this bed. The fact that her cross and chain was here was testimony enough … And Lawson had gone down to these very stables last night … and his side of the bed was cold when she felt for him. How long had he been gone? She wished now that she’d lit the lamp and looked at the clock. She wished now that she’d stayed awake to see just how long he was away. She wished now that she’d followed him down here … Maybe … Oh, God, it was too distressing to even contemplate … What if it was Lawson and Caitlin together who had disturbed the horses?… Dear God, let it not be … Not Lawson … Please God, make it not so … Please, please, God …
Daisy looked up to the vaulted roof of that little room without seeing it and tears filled her eyes at the realisation of what she had discovered. Just what had she stumbled upon? How long had it been going on? What unspeakably cruel quirk of fate had impelled Mrs O’Flanagan and her daughter Caitlin to become part of her household and in her employ? How cruelly ironic. It was not fair, because she instinctively liked them. It was not fair at all.
Daisy and Lawson had been married little more than two months. Two months that, apart from a couple of instances, had been the happiest, the most eventful time of her life. If this thing was true … If there really was something going on between Lawson and Caitlin … Oh, it was too horrible to think about …
