The lady gardener walked towards him, with a sturdy key. “You’ll need this, young man.” Her complexion was fair and her absolutely blue-black hair was pulled back into a fashionable chignon.
Robert broke into a smile. Henna hair colorants came from the Far East. They were very fashionable on the continent, but he had never seen English women use them. From a distance, this petite woman had looked young. As she came closer, he saw she was old enough to be his mother. Her step was light and fluid, and her long skirt hung unfashionably straight around her slender hips. Her manner seemed not quite European, and definitely not British. He imagined her as a sparkling debutant, somewhere in Queen Victoria’s Empire, but where?
Her upper-class voice had a crisp nasal twang. “I am Mrs. Carrots, Nicholas House Mistress and mathematics-mistress.” He flinched and she laughed. “Yes, young sir, our young ladies actually learn their figures. You must be the new art-master.” She smiled and offered her hand.
He chuckled at her joke and shook her hand. “I’m Robert Dennison, how-do-you-do?” He took the key. “I haven’t accepted the post, but I expect I’ll have to…” He bit his tongue, remembering he was speaking to a member of staff. “That is… it is a fine post. I am delighted it has been offered.”
Unconvinced, she raised an eyebrow.
Feeling embarrassed and wondering if she would report his rude remark to the headmaster, he fumbled with the lock, and opened the door.
She marched in ahead of him. “I had better see if it needs cleaning. We had a lot of rain the last week of term. Dirty shoes can leave a mess.”
Robert took his portfolio, followed her in, and stopped. “This is beautiful.” The room was bright with sunlight. Blond wood walls bordered enormous windows on three sides of the single square room. “From the outside, I never guessed there was this much space.” Brilliant sunlight streamed through the high skylight onto sturdy easels and drawing tables. He placed his portfolio on a table and looked for supplies.
Mrs. Carrots inspected the floors and the cold water sink. “Filthy. Just as I suspected. It will be spotless by the start of term. Not to worry.”
“I am not worried, ma’am, believe me. I’ve spent eight years in shabby Paris lofts. This is magnificent.”
Built into the fourth wall were rows of long shallow drawers. He opened each one, and was thrilled to find oil paints, water colors, brushes, pastels, clay-molding tools, plaster mix, charcoal sticks, pencils, and every variety of paper.
“I can’t believe it. Most of these are brand new.” A long cupboard held a roll of canvas, five feet tall and three feet wide, with pre-cut boards, ready for mounting. Near the door, rows of clothes hooks hung empty. “Are these for smocks?”
Mrs. Carrots nodded. “There are dozens. Still in the laundry, I expect.” She studied Robert. “I am glad you’re pleased. The last art-master filled these cupboards to impress the parents, but then he was afraid to let the girls dirty their hands.”
Robert shook his head and closed the last drawer. “Well, anyone afraid of getting his or her hands dirty shouldn’t study art. I’d chuck out a student who… Oh, I can’t chuck anyone out, can I?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, you can’t. If tuition is paid, lessons must be given, regardless of the student’s interest or ability. Imagine my task: inspiring young ladies, with nothing on their minds but dances and trousseaus, to love the intricacies of mathematics. I do it every day.”
She stood proudly. “Most people think girls from affluent families are good for nothing but entertaining and making babies.” He choked and she smiled mischievously. “Their heads are just as good as their brother’s, often better. But they need discipline.” She saw his portfolio. “May I see your pictures?”
“Oh, yes. Please.” He quickly opened his case. “The headmaster didn’t even want to look at them.”
She pursed her lips. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
Robert spread two miniature oils, two pastels, and two water colors across one of the tables.
She studied them carefully, one after the other. “This is your first teaching job?”
He started to panic. “Y’Yes, but I’I’m sure I can teach well enough…,”
“To judge from these samples, you will be an exceptional art-master. The best I have ever come across.”
He sighed with relief, pleased she took time to study his two oil paintings.
She nodded with approval. “Very nice contrast, here.” She touched the rough canvass. “I was in love with a painter, once. He taught me a thing or two.”
Robert was intrigued, “That was not in England?”
Her eyes stayed on the canvases but an impish smile spread across her lips. Her eyes sparkled. “You are correct. I was born in India and became the wife of stunningly handsome Sergeant Major Jonathan Carrots.”
She took a deep breath, remembering. “My Johnny was also a gifted painter. He wanted to do nothing else. Like all second sons of wellborn fathers, he was gifted a commission in the military. A more unsuitable career was never forced upon anyone. Johnny dutifully fulfilled his post, but every free hour was filled with painting,” her voice lowered, “and making love.”
Robert’s mouth dropped open, and she laughed. He relaxed and laughed with her. She breathed deeply and smiled with a wonderfully bright glow. “How long it has been since I have been able to speak like this.” She gestured to his pictures. “I am not surprised you chose to present still-life’s and landscapes. I presume your nudes are hidden away, safe from disapproving schoolmaster eyes.”
He nodded. “You are correct, Mrs. Carrots.” She was still smiling, so he dared to ask, “May I assume you were the Sergeant Major’s favorite model?”
She sighed sadly. “I was -- clothed and unclothed. But back to you. You do not want this post. So, why are you here?” She looked at him with kind, penetrating eyes.
He looked at the floor. “How long do you have?” Expecting her to shake her head and drop the subject, he was surprised when she pulled up a chair and sat down. Relieved someone was truly interested and wanted to listen, he took a chair and sat near her.
“I am here because I need the money. My father died three months ago. He was a poultry farmer. He always did very well. I had no idea there was any trouble, but then, we hadn’t communicated in years. I ran away to Paris right after school. Father wanted me to take over the business, or go to university. I wanted to paint. We had a dreadful row and I left.”
“How old were you?”
“Eighteen. I was penniless, speaking schoolboy French. I knew next to nothing about painting, but told people that I was a painter and for some reason they believed me. Total strangers bought me meals, allowed me to sleep in their houses. I spent all day, every day in art galleries, museums, watching other painters, and there were a hundred: good and bad. I constantly asked questions and always listened to criticism of my own painting, even when I knew the critic was a fool. It paid off.”
She nodded. “Showing respect always pays off. Besides, you have lovely manners, speak like a gentleman, and you are very easy on the eye. I am not surprised strangers were taken with you.”
Robert blushed. He knew he was good-looking, but not used to compliments from elderly ladies.
Mrs. Carrots continued, “When Dr. Theodore received your application, he told me you graduated from a distinguished academy.”
“Yes, thanks to Paul Serusier.”
She looked startled. “He is a very famous painter.”
“And a very kind man. When I was twenty, he took me under his wing. I lived in his house. I studied with him for a year, and he arranged my scholarship at the Academie Julien. When I finished, I had enough contacts to scratch out a living painting portraits. Up until three months ago, my life was wonderful. I shared a shabby loft, wore rags worse than you see me in now, ate the simplest food, but every day was full of painting, wonderful friends, and…,” his insides cramped remembering, “…fantastically beautifu
l women.”
He closed his eyes against the memories of sleek naked bodies. “Then a telegram arrived from England. Father had invested everything in a new breed of Belgium goose. A blight hit the lot. Everything was lost. He had a heart attack. Mother was left penniless. The bank took what healthy stock was left, and all the land. Now they want the house. I am her only child, so I am taking a teaching position I don’t want, to pay off her debt. Tomorrow, I shall have to go to the bank and arrange a payment plan. Mother has agreed to take in lodgers.”
He stopped momentarily, buried in self-pity. Glancing at the roll of canvas, then looking into the eaves and seeing dozens of empty drying shelves, he felt an adrenaline rush. “Mrs. Carrots, do you think anyone will mind if I used some of these supplies for my personal use?”
“I don’t think anyone will even notice. Personally, I would love to watch you paint. Having a real artist on the premises should please the parents no end.”
“And perhaps pay me for portraits of their children?”
She raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment. “Might do, after you’ve established yourself. Perhaps after a year.”
Robert looked discouraged, then caught his breath. “There’s something else.” His mouth was dry with excitement. He hurried to the corners of the room, studying the storage spaces. “Last year, a London art dealer, Daniel Gildstein, came to Paris. He offered me a show. He was willing to pay for shipment of my paintings, against profits from sales, but his gallery was booked two years in advance.
“I contacted Mr. Gildstein the moment I returned to England, and just yesterday, he telegraphed that he had a cancellation for January. My paintings are still in Paris. I thought I would have no place to store them, let alone finish some, and then varnish and mount others, but I have that space here. With teaching six-days-a-week, it will be a tremendous amount of work, but…” He nervously bit his lip. “Do you think I could possibly teach and work on my own…,”
“I think you can do anything you set your mind to. How can I help?”
Tears of gratitude flooded his eyes as he gazed around the studio, imagining his paintings hanging on these pristine walls. “I’m not sure. The very idea is overwhelming. First off, I need to cable Paris and have my friend arrange for packing and shipping. Then I need to cable Mr. Gildstein for the money. When the pictures arrive, I’ll need to sort and select… I’m not even sure I have enough pictures for an entire show. I may be short…,”
“If this show of yours is a success, you will be leaving us?”
His heart raced. “I’m not expecting miracles.”
“Good! I want you here for a while. My girls need someone to inspire them.” She walked up to him, squeezed his arm, and looked into his handsome dark eyes. He stared down into hers, bright and shining. “You are a real artist, not the silly excuse that usually passes for an art-master.” She shook her finger. “Teach them, Mr. Dennison. Teach them to see, the way you see. I am not saying they will become artists, but they might see more of the world, if you teach them how.”
Impressed with her dedication, he smiled. “I’ll do my very best. I promise.”
“Good! Now…” She stood back and looked him up and down. “Cut your hair, take an advance on your salary, and get a new suit.”
He swallowed.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Hmm… You look younger and that is not good. Do something to make yourself look older. It won’t be easy to command the respect you’ll need and deserve. You can keep that studio key. I have another. If your pictures are to arrive before the beginning of term, you can ship them in my care: Amelia Carrots. I promise they shall be stored safely until you return.”
She paused, considering. “I was dreading another school term -- another four months of adolescent tears and traumas. I believe your presence will cheer my life a good deal. And please, when we are in private, call me Amelia. I haven’t heard my name spoken by a man in a long time. I miss hearing it.”
Robert chuckled. “Thanks, A-m-elia. It’s a beautiful name.”
She beamed. “It is, when a man says it. Good bye, and welcome aboard.” She turned on her heel and walked briskly away. Robert watched her go. She seemed to grow younger as she sprinted down the path, back to her sunflowers.
Robert spun back and studied the wonderful storage spaces. There was more than enough room for his pictures, but they had to be meticulously organized. He took drawing paper and quickly sketched every detail of the studio. His pictures would arrive in large wooden crates. Once they were opened, every drawing, painting, and pastel must be carefully stored where he could find it instantly. Most of the time, the studio would be filled with noisy students. Every private moment would be precious.
Before Robert left the school, he went back to Dr. Theodore’s secretary and took an advance on his salary. The next day he found a reasonably priced tailor and ordered a new suit. Counting every penny, he decided to wait for a barber till the start of the school term. The next morning, instead of shaving his entire face, he started growing a moustache.
Chapter Eighteen
August 1903
Like a Sergeant Major inspecting the troops, Anthony Roundtree slow-marched around the servants’ hall. He was now forty, short and thin. Gray streaks spread through his dark hair, down his temples, and along his sideburns. Heavy lines cut deep around his mouth creating a perpetual frown. Standing to attention, the cook, the scullery maid, two parlor maids, the houseman, the footman, coachman/groom, and groundskeeper formed a straight line. Lillian and Elisa stood close together, across the room.
Roundtree continued his march. He gazed at the ceiling. “Sir John Garingham arrives tonight, so everyone has to snap to. No more lazing about. Everything must be in order.”
The servants glanced at each other. For weeks, they had worked fourteen-hour days, scrubbing and starching, painting, pruning, polishing, and making the rundown estate fit for company.
Roundtree turned to the cook. “The French chef and his staff arrive tomorrow at midday. This is his kitchen for the night, so stay out of his way. If he wants help, he will ask for it.” He strutted proudly. “Sir John has invited titled guests. We have never had quality people in this house, so…,”
Lillian rushed to the center of the room. “Oh, but we have, Tony.” She smiled serenely, clutching her wrinkled fingers together. “You were too young to remember, but this house was always filled with society. Wonderful parties… elegant visitors, laughing, dancing… Even after mama died. Papa was so handsome.” She giggled, “There was a never ending stream of ladies vying for his…,”
He glared at his sister. “Silence, woman!”
She pursed her lips and cowered.
“Father’s been dead for twenty years and I’m tired of hearing about him. Ever since Sir John decided to host his betrothal dinner here, you have invented the most preposterous lies.” He pointed a finger. “He has not engaged an orchestra from Vienna, or ballet dancers from Moscow, and I am very sure King Edward will be otherwise engaged.”
Lillian sniffed and Elisa held her hand for comfort.
Roundtree moved down the row of servants, cruelly berating each in turn. Suddenly, he was shouting at her. “Elisa, you are to smile and say nothing. Nothing! Is that clear?”
She nodded silently.
“If anyone asks you a direct question, smile, and answer with as few words as possible. After dinner, you will sing and play. When the guests tire of you, you will thank Sir John for your party, say that you are tired, and go to your room. If the guests wish to dance, you will play the piano until they tire, then excuse yourself. You are not to engage in conversation. Is that understood?”
She whispered, “Yes, Father.”
Pleased with himself, he commanded, “That will be all.” He turned and marched up the stairs.
The cook pulled a pretty young maid aside. “Listen, Mary. Tha’ve not met Sir John Garingham, and y’ dan want t’. ‘e
’s the worst sort t’is.”
Mary smiled knowingly. “Not t’ worry. I’ve kept Mr. Roundtree at arm’s length.”
The cook shook her head. “Garingham’s not Roundtree. ‘e gets w’ ‘e wants, no matter what. There’ve been two maids before y’, both young and pretty, both thrown in t’ street w’ their bellies swelled.”
Mary’s eyes opened wide. “Maybe they…,”
“‘Maybe’ nothin’. It was rape, pure and simple, and ‘e’ll do t’ same to thee, if tha’ can’t stay out of ‘is way.”
Mary shuddered, then nodded her thanks. Hurrying back to work, she wondered how she was going to keep her distance from the master’s guest of honor.
Chapter Nineteen
“Ahh…,” Lillian Roundtree leaned against a high bed post and exhaled. Mary put her knee against her mistress’s back, pulled the corset strings as tight as her strong young arms could manage, and tied them tight.
Lillian gasped for breath, smiling happily. “You know, dear, this is the first new gown I have had in twenty years.” Mary lifted the beaded turquoise gown, amazed by its weight. She carefully lowered it over Lillian’s head, then painstakingly fastened two-dozen tiny buttons up the back.
Lillian sat at her dressing table, giggling as Mary secured a garish feathered ornament into her gray-streaked, copper hair. “When I was a little girl, I used to watch my mother dress. There were parties every night. That was forty years ago.”
Mary smiled. “Goodness, Miss Roundtree, forty years is a long time. I’m only sixteen.” She arranged curls over her mistress’s forehead and around her eyes, covering as many wrinkles as possible.
“It seems like only yesterday,” Lillian sighed. “Look Mary. Look at that portrait, see how handsome my papa was.”
The maid patiently obliged. Lillian talked about the painting every day. “Both of yer parents were ‘andsome, Miss. You and yer brother Charles look lak twins. Miss Elisa resembles y’, wiv ‘er red ‘air. Mr. Roundtree’s t’ only one wiv dark ‘air.”
Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1) Page 11
