But then Beatrice came to the office on her own with her father and he discovered her sister – who it turned out was three years older – had married and moved to Norfolk. While Mr Sanderson went through some papers with a colleague, Edwin chatted with Beatrice, who was fed up and missing her sister, Louisa. She was younger than he’d thought – just seventeen years old – but very pretty and gratifyingly thankful for his attention.
She loved music and dancing, she told him. She loved concerts and she longed to go to the Canterbury, the new music hall everyone was talking of, and watch the performances but her father wouldn’t allow it. As she talked, Edwin watched the swell of her chest and the fullness of her lips and wished he could unlace her corset right there and then. He’d push her back on to his desk and …
‘Mr Forrest, are you well?’ Beatrice said. She’d stopped talking and was gazing at him, wide-eyed with worry.
Edwin smiled. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, recovering his thoughts. ‘I was thinking about a friend of mine who owns a music hall. It’s called the Berwick Rooms. It’s not as splendid as the Canterbury, but if you could get away, I would gladly accompany you one evening.’
Beatrice glanced at the closed door between her and her father. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘No, no, you’re probably right,’ Edwin said, thinking of a poster he’d seen on the way to work that morning. ‘Such a shame, as I know the singer Rose Roberts is performing and I hear she is popular. My friend is keen to introduce me …’
‘Rose Roberts?’ said Beatrice. ‘I could meet Rose Roberts?’
‘I’m sure I can arrange it,’ Edwin said with a smile. ‘I could ask your father.’
‘No,’ Beatrice said in a rush. ‘Don’t ask him. I will arrange it.’
After that it was easy. Edwin spent a few evenings at music halls with enraptured Beatrice and told her that his (completely fictional, of course) friend was away but would be back soon to make the introductions. One day, after a performance that Beatrice adored and Edwin found embarrassing, he kissed her and mentally applauded himself as she relaxed in his arms.
After that it was simply a matter of time before their frantic kisses in shady corners grew more urgent. At home, Frances was turning away from him because she’d lost a baby and she was still feeling fragile, much to his annoyance. So instead, he took a room in a boarding house and one evening, he led Beatrice there instead. She resisted at first, of course, as he unlaced her corset as he’d imagined. But not for long.
‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ she whispered the whole time he was on top of her. Edwin didn’t reply.
After a few months, however, things started to go wrong. Edwin was bored of Beatrice by then, making excuses and pretending Frances was ill and he couldn’t leave her. Beatrice grew sullen and thin. When she came to the office with her father one day, Edwin noted, with some dismay, that her curves had all but disappeared. Still, it meant he’d made the right decision when he’d stopped wooing her. She held no charms for him now. He avoided her gaze when she tried to catch his eye and offered to take her father through the papers so he wouldn’t be forced to be alone with her.
Beatrice was getting married, her father told him as he signed his documents in Edwin’s office. A man called Walter James. Edwin smiled to himself, knowing Beatrice was no longer a worry for him.
And then Walter James himself turned up at the office. He strode in, demanding to see Edwin – and on a day when Edwin’s father-in-law was working too.
‘My fiancée Beatrice Sanderson says she is in love with you, Forrest,’ Walter James said. ‘She has told me she cannot marry me, because you are the only man she wants.’
Luckily, Edwin’s father-in-law watching the whole sorry drama, took his horrified face for incomprehension and believed Edwin when he said he’d only ever met Beatrice a handful of times.
Walter crumpled in the face of Edwin’s charm.
‘I have, I admit, spoken to her at length about her love of music,’ Edwin confided. ‘Simply to distract her while her father was in a meeting. Perhaps she misinterpreted my interest in her hobby for interest in herself?’
Walter, who was easily convinced of the weakness of the female mind, agreed. A few weeks later he and Beatrice were married. And that was that, thought Edwin.
But Beatrice did not agree.
She took to turning up at the office when she knew he’d be leaving for home. Running along the street next to him, begging Edwin to free her from her marriage. She told him she loved him. She even arrived at their house one day, threatening to tell Frances what they’d done on those nights in the boarding house.
Edwin saw her round Brighton. She was like Banquo’s ghost – lurking round corners wherever he went. She sat on the wall outside his office, staring up at his window for hours at a time. She followed Frances when she went out to meet a friend. It was – to say the very least – not ideal.
Finally, one day, Edwin was forced to act. Beatrice was waiting for him outside the office one morning.
‘Edwin,’ she said desperately as he walked by. ‘Edwin, darling, please …’
Edwin felt icy rage.
He turned to Beatrice, taking in how thin she was, how her cheeks were hollow, and her olive skin had turned sallow.
‘Beatrice,’ he said. ‘My darling. My one true love.’
Beatrice started to cry. ‘Oh, Edwin,’ she said. ‘I knew you felt the same. I knew it.’
Edwin offered her his arm. ‘Let’s go to see your husband,’ he said. ‘We can explain.’
But when they reached Walter James’s warehouse, Edwin allowed his cold fury to show.
‘Your wife,’ he hissed at James, who recoiled in the face of such anger, ‘is ruining my life. She is mad. Quite, quite mad. She is tormenting me, and my own darling wife – who has been made ill with the worry of it all. She needs to be locked up for her own protection.’
James jabbered apologies while Beatrice sat on the floor of the warehouse, surrounded by sawdust and watched by bewildered craftsmen, and wept.
The next day she threw herself off the West Pier and drowned.
Frances took it quite well, considering, he thought now as they walked towards home. She fixed him with a resigned stare, then shrugged as her father explained it was not Edwin’s fault. None of it. Beatrice had been weak-minded and fixated on him without her feelings being reciprocated. Then she’d merely told him that she could no longer live in their house – with its stunning views of the West Pier. She wanted to go somewhere quieter, away from people and gossip and chatter.
Shortly after that her father died, leaving his firm in Edwin’s capable hands, and making it easier to leave Brighton. And so they came here, to Heron Green, where it was quiet and peaceful. Frances seemed, if not happier then at least more settled and ‘I,’ Edwin thought as he glanced down the lane at Violet’s house, ‘have found a new hobby to occupy myself.’
Chapter 25
1855
Violet
I thought I’d never been so happy or so frustrated. I lay on my bed, replaying every word I’d said to Edwin, examining every nuance in how he had stood, or walked, or how he had cupped my face in his hand. Why, why, why hadn’t he kissed me again? I thought I would burst with confusion.
Edwin was married; that was the awful, unchangeable truth. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t touched me. I felt very sorry for him, trapped in a loveless marriage, forced to live out his days in the company of his dull wife. He was so honourable, I thought. What a loyal man he must be to ignore this connection we had. Fighting it. All for the sake of a marriage that gave him no joy.
I was in love with Edwin; I had no doubt about that. Admittedly, my knowledge of love was shaky. I had no girlfriends with whom I could discuss such things. I would never speak to Mabel about it – though I knew Mabel was sweet on a lad from the village and would probably give me the advice I felt I needed, the shame of asking put me off.
I wondered if
Father and Mama had felt this way about each other. If Father’s kisses had made Mama feel the way Edwin made me feel. Like I was about to burst into flames, and yet so icy cold I was shivery. It seemed unlikely. Father never touched me – he had never cuddled me or kissed me even when I was small – so I couldn’t imagine him being affectionate with my mother. I had no memory of ever seeing them together in fact. I had few memories of Mama – they were more feelings than solid remembrances.
I remembered the way she smelled and the softness of her cheek against mine. Unlike Father, Mama had been affectionate. She had been shy, I thought, and that was why she chose to live in Sussex though Father’s work took him all over England. I didn’t remember Mama going to dances or accompanying Father when he travelled. Instead she stayed with me and took me walking on the beach, or encouraged me when I drew pictures on the slate I used to learn my letters in the nursery.
I had been five when Mama died, though she had been poorly for a while before she finally passed away, with a fever caused – so Betsy, our housekeeper at the time, had said – by the baby inside her. I hated the baby.
Then one night I’d been woken by my mother’s cries, and footsteps running up the stairs. Scared, I had knelt by the window and looked out into the night to see a man riding up on a horse and coming into the house. He was the doctor, I’d learned later. But whoever he was, I somehow knew that a late-night visitor wasn’t good news.
In the morning, there was silence. I’d gone downstairs, barefoot and still in my nightgown, and found Betsy, the housekeeper, hanging heavy drapes at the window and crying. When she saw me, she gathered me into an embrace and I felt her tears dripping on to my sleep-tousled curls.
‘Your mama is gone,’ Betsy said, sniffing. ‘Your mama and her baby boy.’
I had blinked at her, not fully understanding at first. Later, I’d gone to see Daddy, who was sitting in his leather chair by the window of his study, looking out over the sea.
Feeling sad and confused and so alone, I had wanted to climb on to his lap and snuggle into his chest and have him tell me everything was going to be fine. I wanted him to say that I was safe and he wasn’t going to leave me the way my mother had. But he didn’t look at me. Instead he spoke in a gruff tone.
‘You are to go and stay with your Uncle Alistair and Aunt Gert.’
I wanted to protest. I loved my Aunt Gert, who was Mama’s sister, but I was scared of Uncle Alistair who had a tickly moustache and an unfamiliar Scottish accent, and I really disliked my cousin, Peter, who pinched me and teased me. But the set of Daddy’s jaw made me think again. It was clear I was going whether I wanted to or not.
As it happened, I only stayed a few months with Alistair and Gert in their draughty Tunbridge Wells home, because Uncle Alistair was sent to India and Daddy didn’t want me to go, though I nearly did at first. My ticket was bought and my place on the ship confirmed before Daddy decided I should stay – and instead I came home where I was cared for by Betsy and educated haphazardly by a series of miserable governesses.
I longed to go to school, but Father wanted me at home where I had no friends, no mother, no father to speak of, since he travelled such a lot. I had been starved of affection and attention. And now Edwin was giving me both. I craved his love like the desert craved rain, I thought. And I knew – I knew – that he returned my feelings, wife or no.
I thought of him now. The way the breeze lifted his reddish-gold hair, how his strong arms were dusted with freckles, the way – when he gazed at me – his blue eyes darkened.
Lying on my childhood bed, I ran my hands over my body and wondered how it would feel to have Edwin do the same. I thought about the novels that Mabel read and that I’d sneaked a look at, and pictured myself in the place of the heroines, but that wasn’t nearly detailed enough. All I knew was that until Edwin kissed me again, I wouldn’t rest.
The next day, after I’d finished yet another sketch on the beach, I stepped back from my easel and took a breath. ‘Would you like to see it,’ I asked Edwin.
He smiled at me and crunched across the shingle to look. ‘Excellent,’ he said, standing close to me. ‘You are indeed very talented.’ I breathed in the smell of his cologne. I couldn’t speak. Edwin took my hand and for a moment I thought I would pass out.
‘Violet,’ he said. ‘You are so special to me.’
Then he bent his head down and kissed me. My knees buckled and I felt that pulse pound between my legs – how could that be?
Then Edwin released me.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Frances is expecting me for dinner.’
I sank on to a rock, weak with desire, and watched him climb the path to the village without looking back at me.
I loved him completely; I knew that now. I was his.
Chapter 26
Present day
Ella
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Research!
Gorgeous George,
How is the academic life treating you? Do all the students seem terribly young? Do you remember how grown up we thought we were back then?
So, here we are in Sussex and I’m supposed to be writing my latest novel. But instead I’m digging into a mystery! I’ve found out that an artist lived in our house. She disappeared without a trace in 1855, and though at the time people thought she’d simply run away, I think something might have happened to her.
Her name was Violet Hargreaves and she was a contemporary of your buddies the Pre-Raphaelites (by the way, I’ve been reading a lot about them too and beginning to appreciate them, you’ll be pleased to hear). She seemed to paint a chap called Edwin Forrest rather a lot.
I’ve been trying to find out more about her, but there are so many books about the Pre-Raphaelites I’m at a loss as to where to start – and let’s be honest, there’s very little written about female artists anyway. So could you possibly, pretty please, see what you can dig up about my Violet? I’ll be so grateful.
And if you ever want a weekend by the sea (the English Channel I mean, rather than the bracing North Sea) then you know you are always welcome. I attach some pics of the new house and the kids.
Much love
E
Xxx
Chapter 27
1855
Violet
‘Are you certain you don’t mind?’ I looked at Edwin over the top of my easel.
He gave me the half-smile I was growing to love, and shook his head. ‘Such sacrifices I must make in the pursuit of art,’ he said. He laughed at my worried face and came to kiss me, sending shivers through my body.
‘Darling V,’ he said. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’
Father was still in Manchester and I was making the most of my time alone. Now I was accustomed to sketching Edwin and felt I had got used to his stance. He was a natural model, aware that he was a handsome man, and I sensed he knew I thought so too. I had so far simply sketched him in poses I thought of as ‘Edwin poses’, perched on his rock or standing, hands clasped behind his back, staring ahead, as he had been the first time I saw him.
But now I had decided the time was right to begin my sketches for the final work – I needed to sketch Edwin in my studio and I needed him to take his shirt off.
I had met him as usual on the beach that afternoon, but had asked him to come to the house with me. He had agreed, but followed me five minutes later to make sure no one saw us together.
‘The villagers have an ear for idle chatter,’ he said. I wondered if it was Frances’s eyes he wanted to avoid but I didn’t ask.
I had waited just inside the front door, then let him in when he arrived, bustling him upstairs before Mabel saw. But then I’d had to ask Philips to bring up a stool. He had done so in silence, glancing at Edwin as he passed.
‘Is everything all right, Miss?’ he said.
‘Quite all right, thank you, Philips,’ I said, feeling awkward. I knew it was silly but I was still sti
nging from the way he’d rebuked me when I’d asked him to pose for me.
When Philips went down the stairs, I positioned Edwin on the stool.
‘Imagine you’ve been in the lions’ den all night,’ I said. ‘But they’ve not harmed a hair on your head.’ I pulled him forward so he was leaning with his arms on his knees. His hand skimmed the back of my skirt and I flushed.
‘Now look up at me,’ I said. Edwin looked at me through his long eyelashes and I bit my lip. He was a fine man. That was when I asked him to remove his shirt and he came to kiss me.
He stood close by as he took off first his shoes and socks, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. I breathed in the smell of his sweat as he slipped his shirt off his broad shoulders.
He was lean, with well-defined muscles on his stomach and a sprinkling of golden hair across his chest. It took every bit of self-control I possessed not to reach out and touch him. He saw me looking and smiled again.
‘Sit back on the stool,’ I said, my voice shaky, my head reeling at seeing a man’s body for the first time. I retreated to the safety of my easel, using it as a shield.
Edwin sat down, still holding my gaze. He almost assumed the same pose as before, but his arms were different.
‘Just slightly forward,’ I said.
‘Show me.’
I moved towards him and took his upper arms in my hands. My fingers looked tiny compared with the width of his muscled arms. Gently, I pulled him forward, then – as though my hands had a mind of their own, I traced a soft caress up to his shoulders.
‘Violet,’ Edwin said. He leaned forward and rested his head on my breast, his arms round my waist. I stroked his back.
We stayed for a while, locked together, then Edwin stood up, his arms still around my waist, tipped his head and kissed me.
Until now our kisses had been dry and chaste, but this time everything was different. Edwin’s lips pushed against mine until I opened my mouth.
The Girl in the Picture Page 11
