The Girl in the Picture

by Kerry Barrett

  ‘Marcus is upset,’ he said. He filled her in, briefly, on what had happened, ignoring her resigned look as he explained about the pictures of him.

  ‘I am going to his house to try to sort out a few things. Could you sit with him and calm him down?’

  ‘Of course,’ Frances said with a sigh. She didn’t seem as upset as he’d imagined, however. Perhaps, he thought, she had finally realized he was simply a man with needs and that as long as he came home to her, she was in a good position.

  Smiling to himself, he set off to the Hargreaves’ house, hoping he wouldn’t see Violet.

  He was in luck. He skirted the edge of the house, and went into the garden, thinking Philips was bound to be there. He was. He was digging one of the vegetable beds, sweat beading his forehead.

  Edwin picked his way across the grass delicately – he didn’t want stains on his trousers – and approached him. ‘Hello there,’ he said in a jovial voice.

  Philips stopped digging and stood upright. He leaned on his spade and wiped his brow, but he didn’t speak.

  ‘It would seem we find ourselves in a situation,’ Edwin continued in the same tone. ‘Mr Hargreaves has explained to me that he found some …’ he paused ‘… inappropriate sketches of me in his daughter’s possession.’ He gave a small cough. ‘He also told me he’d asked you to destroy them – and all of Vi … Miss Hargreaves’s paintings.’

  Philips nodded.

  ‘My dear boy,’ Edwin said. ‘I wondered if I could ask you to put a couple of paintings aside for me. I’d particularly like the …’

  ‘Mr Hargreaves asked me to destroy them,’ Philips said. He started digging again.

  His insolence enraged Edwin. He reached out and grabbed his arm, his fingers pushing into the solid muscle of his bicep.

  ‘Take your hand off me,’ Philips hissed through clenched teeth.

  Edwin didn’t let go. Philips twisted his arm and in one swift move wrapped his strong fingers round Edwin’s wrist.

  ‘I know what you’ve been doing to Violet,’ he said. ‘And I am going to make you pay.’

  For a moment they stared at each other. Philips was shorter than Edwin though he was undoubtedly the stronger man, but Edwin knew striking out was a risk he wouldn’t take. He would lose his job, his home, and Edwin had an inkling he had designs on Violet himself – he would certainly not risk losing her.

  ‘You are scum,’ Philips said, releasing Edwin’s wrist. ‘And you are too late. The paintings have been destroyed. They are all gone. And I am glad.’ He stared at Edwin in defiance and then he spat in his face.

  Quick as a flash, Edwin lashed out and swiped him across the face with the back of his hand. Philips didn’t even flinch. He simply wiped the blood from his nose, turned his back on Edwin, and started to dig once more.

  Chapter 53

  1855

  Frances

  Frances stood at the front door, watching Mr Hargreaves walk towards the church. He needed forgiveness, he’d told her, though he hadn’t said why. Edwin wasn’t back yet. She wondered what he was doing and to her relief discovered she no longer cared. It was time to go, she thought. Time to start her new life away from here. She watched a flock of starlings perch on the roof of Marcus Hargreaves’s house and then, as one, they swooped into the sky and landed once more on the roof.

  ‘They’re practising leaving,’ she said out loud, realization dawning. ‘That’s what I should do.’ She decided to have one rehearsal of her flight, when she would work out times and places and check she had everything she needed, and then she would be ready to go.

  The front door slammed and she jumped, as she heard Edwin’s heavy tread stamp into the drawing room.

  ‘Frances!’ he bellowed. ‘Get down here.’

  Frances began to shake as she recognized the fire in his voice. Perhaps she did care after all. Every step she took down the stairs felt like it took an hour and yet it didn’t take long enough.

  Edwin was pouring himself a whisky. His eyes glittered as Frances came in the room and she felt icy cold fingers of dread walk down her spine.

  ‘The thing I don’t understand,’ Edwin said in a falsely friendly tone, as though they were in the middle of a conversation. ‘What I keep asking myself, is why the woman I love would do such a despicable thing to me.’

  For a moment Frances didn’t know who he was talking about when he said the woman he loved. Did he mean Violet? Then, with a shock, she realized he was talking about her. She wove her fingers together to keep them from shaking.

  ‘Why would you make up such a story about me?’ Edwin continued. ‘Why would you spread such scurrilous lies?’

  ‘Edwin,’ Frances said, working hard to keep her voice calm. ‘Dear. I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  Edwin swallowed his whisky and took a step towards her. Frances felt herself cower and hated herself – and him – for it. She thought of her baby and tried to work out how to calm Edwin down, but her mind was blank.

  ‘Mr Hargreaves is under the impression that his daughter and I have had improper relations,’ he said.

  Frances was surprised. Mr Hargreaves had looked contrite and ashamed, and she’d heard no raised voices when he’d been talking with Edwin – not the behaviour she’d expect from a father avenging his daughter’s dishonour.

  ‘Did you tell him?’ In a swift move Edwin slapped her across the face, then he reached out and gripped her wrist. She knew better than to pull away, despite the pain.

  ‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ Frances repeated in a soft voice. She felt blood begin to trickle from her nose but she didn’t wipe it away.

  ‘Did. You. Tell. Him?’ Edwin pulled her towards him roughly and she felt her wrist click. She bit her cheek to stop herself crying out.

  Edwin felt it too. He gave a strange smile, and twisted her arm again. Hard. This time she couldn’t help giving a cry as she felt the bone break. Her vision went black and she thought she was going to faint. But then Edwin let go, and she slumped heavily to the floor, cradling her wrist. Edwin looked down at her in disgust.

  ‘Is it any wonder I go elsewhere for my pleasure when you are so disloyal.’

  So it was true. Frances reeled at the injustice of it all, but she knew better than to argue.

  ‘I have no clue why I married you,’ Edwin said. He sat down on one of the tapestry chairs by the fire and glared at her as she sat, undignified, on the floor. Her wrist was swollen and turning dark blue with bruising.

  ‘My life would improve immeasurably if you were not in it,’ he said.

  Frances awkwardly pushed herself up to standing using her one good hand.

  ‘Mine likewise,’ she said.

  Edwin looked startled. In ten years of marriage Frances had never talked back to him, not once.

  ‘And you married me,’ she went on, her voice laced with the venom she normally kept hidden, ‘so you could take over my father’s firm when he retired because I have no brothers. You married me because without me, without my family money and my father’s approval, you would always have been a lowly clerk in someone else’s law practice.’

  She had gone too far; she knew that. But somehow, she couldn’t still her tongue. It was as though a dam had broken. Edwin was standing in front of her, his face purple with anger. Frances lifted her chin and looked into his eyes.

  ‘You married me because I was the first woman who was foolish enough to say yes.’

  Edwin hit her, hard, with the back of his hand, across her cheekbone. She staggered backwards and catching her foot on the rug fell to the floor. She cried out in pain as her broken wrist hit the hearth. Edwin stood over her, a half-smile on his handsome face.

  He twisted the signet ring on his pinkie – a ring Frances suspected he’d picked up in a pawnshop because he had no family to pass it down to him, and which had cut her face as he’d hit her.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘I will send the doctor to set your wrist and we should mov
e that rug; it’s clearly a hazard.’

  Frances tried to sit up but found she couldn’t. She took a deep breath and tried again, successfully this time. The room swam and she lay on her side on the floor, feeling blood trickling down her face but lacking the strength to wipe it away. Edwin saw it too. He turned to go, then changed his mind.

  ‘Clean yourself up,’ he said. ‘You’re a disgrace. And, Frances? Never speak to me in that manner again.’

  He kicked her, sharply, in the stomach, and walked out of the door without looking back.

  Alone in the room, sprawled on the floor, Frances felt cramps grip her belly, and she started to cry.

  Chapter 54

  1855

  Violet

  I lay on my bed staring up at the ceiling. Since Father had found my artwork two days ago I hadn’t spoken to anyone. I’d simply gone to bed, and stayed there. I could not summon up enough energy to get dressed or go downstairs, and I wondered if I ever would again.

  A knock on my door made me jump.

  ‘Go away,’ I said turning my head into the pillow.

  Mabel came into the room with a tray of boiled egg and toast.

  ‘I said, go away,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Mabel said. She put the tray down at the end of the bed, then swept over to the window and flung open the drapes. I hid my eyes from the bright sunlight that flooded in.

  ‘Your father has gone to Brighton,’ Mabel said. ‘And Philips would like to see you upstairs in the attic.’

  I sat up and eyed the tray. I realized I was actually very hungry. ‘I don’t want to go upstairs,’ I said.

  ‘Now, Miss,’ Mabel said, flinging open the doors to my wardrobe and pulling out a dress. ‘Do you think Philips wants to upset you?’

  I reached out for a piece of toast and shook my head.

  ‘Well. Get up and go and see what he wants.’

  Mabel laid the dress on the bed. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,’ she said.

  I was ready in ten. Nervous about what I might find, I climbed the stairs to the attic.

  The room was very different from how I’d left it. The wall at the far end was covered in a deep-red wallpaper. My easel was dismantled and in a pile by the door, there was no sign of any of my paintings, and the chaise was under the window where the easel had once stood. I groaned in dismay and Philips, who was on his hands and knees finishing the edge of the wallpaper, looked round.

  He jumped to his feet and grinned.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so happy,’ I said rudely.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Philips said.

  He took my hand and led me over to the wall. It smelled of wallpaper paste.

  ‘What’s different?’ he said.

  ‘All my paintings are gone.’

  ‘No. Well, yes. But something else. Look carefully.’

  I looked at the wall. Then I looked at the windows. Then I looked at the wall again. I was totally confused.

  ‘What have you done with the little window?’ I said. ‘Where’s it gone?’

  Philips looked like he was about to burst with excitement.

  ‘It’s behind the wall,’ he said. He patted the wallpaper. ‘It’s behind here.’

  I shrugged. ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ Philips said, ‘so are all your paintings.’

  I began to smile; finally I understood. ‘You’ve built a new wall?’ I said.

  ‘At first,’ Philips said, ‘I thought I might just brick up the alcove and leave your paintings behind there, so you’d be able to get them out one day.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And then,’ he carried on, ‘I thought it might be useful to have a hideaway.’

  He touched his lip and for the first time I noticed his mouth was swollen and his nose had been bleeding.

  I reached out, but he shook me off.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Look.’ He pushed the chaise away from the wall, and bent down.

  ‘There’s a little door, here.’ He felt across the wall and found it. ‘You need to push it in and it should pop out.’

  He gently pushed and suddenly a door opened. It was small, no more than a foot square, and just off the floor.

  ‘I can fit inside,’ he said. ‘So you’ll be able to. Go on.’

  I looked at him and he nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said again.

  I knelt down and wriggled through the small gap. I was in a tiny room – a cupboard really. It was about six feet long, possibly a fraction more, and narrow. I tried to stretch my arms out fully but couldn’t. It was perhaps three feet wide. The ceiling was normal height, though, and I could stand up comfortably. And at one end, was the small window.

  ‘What do you think?’ Philips was wiggling through the gap, twisting his broad shoulders so he could get in.

  He stood up and brushed dust from his thighs. We were very close together because there was not enough room to be apart.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘And confusing. Was this really part of my room?’

  Philips grinned. ‘All I’ve done is brick up the alcove,’ he said. ‘But it looks right, you see. The alcove on the other side is already boxed in – I think there are some pipes behind there – and because I’ve changed the colour of the wall – well, that’s why it looks different.’

  I looked round me in amazement. ‘So it’s a hidden room. Like a priest-hole.’

  Philips looked at me. ‘I know there’s been a bit of trouble,’ he said. ‘And I know Mr Forrest has a temper on him.’ He touched his lip again.

  I was shocked. ‘Did Edwin do this?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d rather he hit me than you,’ Philips said. ‘Do you think he beats his wife?’

  The thought had never crossed my mind, but I immediately feared Philips was right.

  ‘Oh I don’t think so,’ I said. Irrationally, I felt I had to defend Edwin to Philips. ‘It was only once and I think he had a bad day, and then I irritated him …’

  Philips looked doubtful and I trailed off.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘That’s of no importance. Look at this room.’

  But Philips kept looking at me. ‘Like I said, at first I just wanted to hide your artwork so you could find it again one day. But then I thought you might need somewhere to disappear to.’

  I felt uncomfortable under his astute gaze.

  ‘So my art …’

  ‘Is there.’ Philips pointed to the corner. ‘I remembered you said to roll it up with the paint on the outside,’ he said. ‘And I’ve put it away from the window so it doesn’t fade – the sun doesn’t reach that spot, I’ve checked. And your paints are here too.’

  In the opposite corner, neatly stacked, were my palette, brushes, and paints.

  I breathed out. All my work was there – everything but my version of ‘Mariana’ and a few sketches of Edwin that I’d already hidden in the cupboard on the other side of the room. I decided not to mention those for now.

  ‘I’m going to burn some of the frames and your easel,’ Philips went on. ‘So your father thinks I’ve destroyed everything. And I told Mr Forrest I’d already done it. He wanted some of your paintings for himself.’

  ‘Did he?’ I said. I wondered if he’d wanted them for the gallery at the club. Perhaps it was his way of helping me – like Philips had done.

  ‘So he hasn’t got any.’

  ‘No,’ Philips said. ‘I didn’t want him getting his hands on your stuff.’

  I felt a tiny prickle of annoyance that Philips had made that decision for me.

  ‘So anyway, that’s that,’ he was saying. ‘I don’t think you should come in here, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just think you should only come in if you really need it. If you come too much, people might realize it’s here. And the hinges on the door will start to show if you open it too often.’

  ‘You’ve really thought about this,’ I said. ‘You’ve done all this for me?’

  Philips looked at his fee
t. ‘I don’t know much about art,’ he said. ‘But I know your stuff is good and I know the way your face looks when you’re painting. It’s just not fair, that’s all.’ He looked up at me and grinned again. ‘I hate it when things aren’t fair.’

  I took a step towards him and took his hand. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  He smiled at me.

  ‘Philips,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done, without you. You’ve been a good friend to me.’

  He nudged me with his elbow in an embarrassed fashion, and I reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Then, thinking of the way Edwin always wanted me to show my appreciation, I snaked my hand round his neck and pulled his head down so his lips met mine. For a second, Philips responded but then he jerked his head away.

  ‘No, Violet,’ he said. ‘I am not like him. I didn’t do this for you so you’d …’ He looked away from me. I felt my cheeks burn in shame. ‘I just did it because you deserve it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I whispered.

  Philips shook his head. ‘Don’t apologize,’ he said. ‘Not to me. Never to me.’

  ‘About Edwin,’ I began, feeling like I had to explain things to this man, this good man who had been so nice to me when no one else had seen me.

  Philips screwed his face up. ‘He’s not right,’ he said. ‘Violet, I know you think you love him or something, but he’s not the one for you.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as you think he is,’ I said, but even as I said the words, I realized they were hollow. Philips was absolutely right in what he thought of Edwin. He hit me, and he forced himself on me, and he probably did it to Frances, too.

  I leaned against the wall, then I slid down to the floor where I sat, with my head in my hands. ‘Oh I have been such a fool,’ I wailed. ‘A selfish, silly fool.’

  Philips sat next to me. ‘He reeled you in,’ he said. ‘He’s got the gift of the gab, and it seems to me he doesn’t like it when people say no to him. You had no chance.’

  ‘He has a wife,’ I said in despair. ‘He has a wife, and she warned me to stay away and I didn’t.’

  ‘Violet, this isn’t your fault,’ Philips said.

  I grimaced. ‘Some of it is my fault,’ I said. ‘I was just so desperate to be an artist that I went along with everything he said.’