Pulling it down was more difficult than he’d anticipated. The weave of the canvas proved resistant; the oil, even the thin coats he used, slowed him yet further. He persisted, snarling, the eyeglass swinging free – but could not, in his excitement, his sudden overriding rage, exert much control over the direction of the tear. It veered sideways, through that right-hand girl’s loose contrapposto, jerking nearly to the base of the picture; then the entire thing popped off its support and fell like a curtain, a great flopping tarpaulin, wholly enfolding Jim and his cane. He thrashed about, stamping at the heavy, stiffened sheet until he was free and The Three Girls was but a tangled rag beneath him.
Owl had picked up the lamp and retreated almost to the hallway. He’d gone a little pale. ‘Jimmy,’ he said. ‘This is most unnecessary. Surely we can—’
Jim’s topper had been knocked off in the commotion. Retrieving it from among the painting’s trampled remains, he pulled it back on and straightened his collar. ‘You may,’ he panted, doing his best to assume a sardonic sangfroid, ‘you may keep the picture, Owl. Consider it a gift.’
The departure was to be vintage Whistler, a swoop through the hall and then out; his momentum was interrupted, however, by the sight of a slim woman standing halfway down the stairs, in virtual darkness. It was Miss Corder, dressed in one of those habit-like coats of hers. Jim wondered how long she’d been there, and how much she’d seen – what she could see right then, through the studio door, of the ruin he’d left strewn across the floor. He couldn’t discern very much of her face, of those peculiar, plain-pretty features, but when she spoke her voice was warm with pleasure.
‘I hear that congratulations are in order, Jimmy. That the Venice work is beyond compare. I knew it would be so. I simply knew it. Such a venture could only be the most rousing of successes. Perhaps one day soon you might allow us to—’
‘You were part of it, weren’t you?’ he said, his fury supplying an almost startling lucidity. ‘And Maud found out. That’s why – that’s why she would see you no more.’
Miss Corder descended another step or two. She seemed unsurprised. ‘Maud misunderstood. That’s all. It was a misunderstanding. I will write to her. I’ve been meaning to for months. If you could just tell me where you are living, I—’
Jim nearly laughed. They worked fast, these two, damned fast! He tipped his hat and turned on his heel, continuing on his way. Owl was giving chase, forsaking dignity, making his justifications – trying to appear amused by Jim’s feat of destruction and the fighting spirit that had driven it. There was a pleading note now, though, a whine on the edge of his baritone.
‘My dearest Jimmy, you know I – come, really – this is a failure of communication only – the – the intention was as pure as, as – I sought simply to further you, don’t you see, to help you to the comfort you deserve …’
A hansom was close by. Jim hailed it with his cane-
harpoon and hopped inside, snapping the workshop’s address to the driver. Owl instructed the fellow to wait, to allow them a moment, crossing the pavement as if he would climb aboard as well. But Jim shut the doors against him, and held them shut, leaving the Portuguese with a boot set uselessly upon the step. He removed it, peering in through the window; then he opened his arms wide in a final appeal.
The driver slid back his hatch, up above the top of Jim’s hat. ‘What am I to do, then? Is the other gentleman coming?’
‘No,’ said Jim, sitting back, tucking the eyeglass into his breast pocket. ‘Drive on.’
Autumn 1880
Maud swivelled on her chair, shifting the hem of her gown, which was tight enough to make standing up something for which you had to prepare. She looked across the room, assessing her exit. Luncheon was over, the atmosphere above their long table loaded with smoke. Plates held only bones, slicks of sauce, the odd unwanted vegetable; the party’s earlier energy was giving way, pleasantly, to a well-fed, boozy languor.
Being without lodgings at present, Jimmy was obliged to play host in a restaurant – a French place, of course, just off Shaftesbury Avenue, swell enough but not overly concerned with social form. Maud was at one end, with Matthew Eldon on her left. The poor fellow wasn’t doing well, that much was plain. Godwin had told Jimmy that he’d dropped away while they’d been in Venice, and had been labouring under some mysterious malady. There was a new sullenness to his manner – a blackness of spirit akin to that with which Jimmy himself was afflicted from time to time, and that she’d known too – but more severe, she perceived. A good deal more severe.
‘Well, Matt, here we are,’ she’d said as they’d sat down. ‘Together once more.’
He’d given her only a small, pained smile and had barely spoken since.
To Maud’s right was Mrs Godwin, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, small and smart – pigeon-like, she couldn’t help thinking, in her neat roundedness – with an air of natural refinement that made Maud feel like a factory girl. She was happy to talk, though, soon revealing that she was an artist, or rather an art student, since marriage and motherhood had obliged her to relearn everything. Maud had looked at her inquisitively, inviting an explanation. She hadn’t supplied one.
Overhearing something of this exchange, Jimmy had swept down upon them. He liked this woman, Maud saw, the young wife of his oldest friend; he liked her immensely. Made munificent by a sense of impending success, by the universal laudation of his friends, he’d declared that they both surely stood at the absolute forefront of London’s female artists. Their work, although very different, was equally admirable, and it needed to be displayed.
‘You are ready, I think, the two of you. Ready for the Grosvenor, and many other places besides. When the Venice etchings have been shown, and the pastels as well, we will go through your work and make our selections. We will have it seen by the necessary people. Miss Franklin’s flowers, Mrs Godwin – the honeysuckle, you know, that she drew in Italy – Bon Dieu, they are the finest examples of such things that you will ever find placed before you.’
His hand had settled upon Maud’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing up a tiny fold in the fabric of her gown. She’d turned to protest; and he’d given her a confidential, sidelong look, the brow above the eyeglass twitching slyly.
‘Indeed,’ Mrs Godwin had replied. ‘I should certainly like to see them.’
Jimmy was now back at his seat in the middle of the table, among Campbells, Coles and Mitfords, spinning yarns of Venice – of nights at the Café Florian and elsewhere; of swimming in the lagoon, and sketching from his gondola; of various minor foes engaged and bested. The showing that afternoon was good, with nearly all of the wider Whistler circle present. Several of the more daring, such as Godwin, had even brought wives or sisters. A new face or two could also be found among the gentlemen. Most notable was a fleshy, rather flamboyant young Irishman addressed by all as Oscar, who appeared to be listening closely to what was being said; he was a poet, Mrs Godwin had told her, and already of some renown. In fact, there was but one really glaring absence, which the company was now starting to discuss. Maud hesitated, releasing her hem. She decided that she could perhaps wait a minute longer.
‘I told you,’ said Bertie Mitford. ‘Did I not tell you, Whistler – months, nay, years ago? The Owl is a robber!’
Everyone looked at Jimmy. He puffed on his cigarette, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling, counting out each second of the pause. ‘Well, my dear Mitford,’ he replied, flicking ash onto his plate, ‘so was Barabbas.’
Lord, how they laughed. All poise was forgotten; they beat their fists upon the table, and rocked back hard in their chairs. It was impossible not to get caught up in it, but even as she smiled Maud was frowning a little too – for wasn’t Barabbas pardoned and released, while Jesus went to the cross?
Jimmy was moving on, however, his self-satisfaction so great he was practically aglow. This was the Whistler who had slapped on the Prussian blue at Prince’s Gate, taken John Ruskin to court, painted The Golden Scab –
and who was applying himself now, without mercy or restraint, to what he termed the scalping of Master Howell. The lines were well rehearsed, and the topics carefully chosen. The business concerning Disraeli, with whom the Portuguese had claimed, ridiculously, to have a personal connection. The furniture declared lost, or in for some programme of protracted repair – but really put in pawn or even sold, with Owl pocketing the cash. The lies and obfuscations that had issued forth in an unending stream.
‘When the running of one’s show is given over to Howell,’ Jimmy proclaimed, ‘it acquires the wild farce of the pantomime – the clown stealing the clock, mes amis, and sitting on it while it strikes.’ He raised a hand to stem the mirth. ‘But beneath this, lest we become indulgent, there is a focused and voracious aim. This cannot be forgotten. Never again would I dream of presenting Howell to anyone without explaining in the same breath – the Owl, bird of prey.’
This brought forth another shout of laughter, the thump of fists upon white linen, the chimes of shaken crockery. Again, Maud caught herself grinning, while Mrs Godwin suspended her gentility to release a vindictive giggle.
Matthew Eldon was the only person who did not join in. His arms were crossed, a penny cigar burning quite forgotten between his fingers; there was a deep line scored an inch out from the corner of his moustache that Maud hadn’t noticed before. He seemed to have edged back from the table, from the party, as if sliding his chair slowly into the shadows. Maud moved closer and asked him softly if anything was wrong. She realised that a part of her actually wanted him to be annoyed by all this, and to object to it in a way she could not; to stand up and state that Jimmy’s venomous display really went too far. That it sailed extremely close to malice.
This would never happen. Eldon was too loyal. Instead he sat motionless for a while, a rough statue hewn from wood, the cigar smouldering on in his hand.
Then he sighed. ‘I know that he’s a louse, Miss Franklin,’ he said. ‘I know it. I just miss him, that’s all.’
*
The meeting was arranged for three o’clock, at the refreshment lodge in Hyde Park. Neutral ground, Maud supposed, in case events took an unexpected turn. There might be hysterics. A snatching. All sorts of desperate nonsense. Such things must occur.
It was a fine late autumn day, cold and crisp as new sheets. Maud met Edie beforehand at Marble Arch and the sisters walked diagonally across the park, on a path half buried by leaves. With her usual perversity, Edie appeared to think that she could soothe them both by working her way down a list of Maud-related worries. Health was foremost. Was she looking after herself properly? She still looked so pale, so thin; she was wheezing like an old woman. Was she completely sure that she was out of danger?
Yes, Maud replied, all was well, or reasonably so; Dr Whistler had seen her three times since her return and had pronounced that she was recovering. It was the damp in Venice, he’d surmised, and the rather wretched places they’d been obliged to live in. Such a relapse had been nigh-on inevitable. He’d given her a special paste, and some kind of cordial to drink. There was no cause for concern.
Mention of the Whistler name brought Edie to her next item: the state of Jimmy’s finances. Had the bankruptcy been resolved? Were they able to feed and house themselves, and cover their responsibilities? They were, Maud told her firmly – going on to relate with the faintest irresistible trace of told-you-so how the Fine Art Society had paid up in full and were going to exhibit the pastels early in the new year.
‘Everyone says they are sure to sell. Jimmy says they won’t be able to help it.’ Maud looked ahead to the Serpentine, now visible between the trees, the coppery sunlight catching upon the water; her nerves suddenly sharpened, sending a shiver through her shoulder-blades. ‘It looks good, Edie,’ she added, more quietly. ‘Honest it does.’
The refreshment lodge was long and low and doing a surprisingly brisk trade for mid-November. A family was sitting outside, on a bench next to the doors: a man and woman, plainly but respectably dressed, with a small girl playing close by, hopping back and forth in a game known only to herself. Maud’s eyes fixed immediately upon this child, upon the auburn locks that spilled from beneath her simple bonnet, upon the shape of her face, the motion of her little limbs, the movement of her lips as she whispered under her breath. It was only when she and Edie actually arrived at the bench that she noticed the infant, fast asleep, held in a sling across the man’s back.
There was an impact almost, something seeming to whistle in at tremendous speed and clout her about the head, dulling her senses, setting the world at a distinct remove. The couple rose. Both were tall and lean, and slightly guarded. She was introduced to Mr and Mrs Walters, the foster parents, and then to Ione, to her own daughter, now three and a half years old. She said something in return, she must have done. She began to cry. She apologised to the Walters, to Edie, several times over. She took hold of herself somehow and crouched before the child, before her Ione – thinking that if she is scared, if my tears upset her, if she asks to be taken home and away from me, I will die.
But no. The girl was curious. Confident, even. Dear God, she was like Jimmy.
‘You are my mama,’ she said.
‘I am,’ Maud managed to answer.
Ione pointed at Maud’s gown. ‘Your dress is blue.’
Maud looked down, abruptly aware of how the gown clung to her beneath her coat and how rich the silk was; how conclusions must surely have formed in the minds of the foster parents about her, about her circumstances, her character, her motives in—
Ione held out her hand. Maud accepted it, her head swimming with gladness and gratitude. The child’s grip was firm. Maud could feel the warmth of her palm through their gloves. Without consultation, she was led off towards the broad curve of the Serpentine.
It was growing cold, properly so, the sun’s rays now broken by the skyline. They talked about the handful of ducks that bobbed upon the water, agreeing that they looked very chilly indeed, poor things; and then the rowing boats, moored along the lakeside in a jagged column, covered for winter. Ione confided that she liked boats, but had never been out in one.
‘Perhaps we shall do that,’ Maud said. ‘You and I, in the summer. Perhaps we shall.’
The girl gave a serious nod. ‘And Maud,’ she said. ‘Maud as well.’
Maud blinked. The baby. The one she’d barely seen. The one she’d never held, or called by her name. ‘Of course. Yes, of course. Yes.’
‘And Mrs Walters.’ Ione stopped; she looked over her shoulder, towards her foster parents, who were walking with Edie a dozen yards behind. ‘She’ll come too, won’t she?’
‘I don’t—’ Maud faltered, overcome by a dark feeling, a deep sense of shame; by a consciousness, acutely painful, of her own unsuitability. Her hopeless inadequacy. You are no kind of mother, she thought fiercely. You are no more than a damned stranger. She swallowed. ‘I – I don’t see why not.’
Soon afterwards they retreated to the lodge, to a booth near the fire, for sweet tea in tin mugs, a plate of buns with a waxy glaze, and a rather stilted conversation – with which Edie was no help at all, remaining at the margins in what she probably imagined was a considerate silence. Ione had picked up a bun, which looked enormous in her hands, and was busy attempting to work a corner of it into her mouth. She’d sat on the bench beside Mrs Walters. The woman was friendly enough, but with a hardness about her also; it was there in her wide-set eyes as she considered Maud across the table and asked if she’d had far to come.
Maud had an answer ready: only from Wimpole Street, she said, where an apartment had been leased. She thought it best not to reveal that she was actually back at Sharp’s Hotel, while Jimmy stayed with his brother and plotted their next move. She spoke distractedly, however, unable to stop looking at the children. It scarcely seemed real, after all her yearning, to be sitting there with them. Ione had Jimmy’s nose, she noticed, and his brow – the nose and brow he himself shared with his mother. And baby M
aud already had a head of coal black curls. The infant was stirring now and was brought round off Mr Walters’ back – rather to his relief, for she was a solid little thing, with plump red arms, a Franklin chin and a decidedly grumpy expression. Set upon her foster mother’s lap, she reached at once for the pieces of bun left on the plate before her.
They looked like a family. You couldn’t deny it. Ione leaned against Mrs Walters, finishing off her bun, scrutinising her mother – who sat there in all her supposed elegance, in her fur-lined coat and her dainty little hat, as if she’d wandered in from a far-off, unknowable, slightly ridiculous land. The dark feeling returned. You have no right to be here, Maud thought. No right at all. The best thing you could do would be to leave them alone.
Mrs Walters tried to interest the infant in her; in going over to her, perhaps. Baby Maud looked up – this child for whom she’d bled and screamed, for whom she’d come so sickeningly close to death – and her chubby face was empty of recognition, of concern, of anything really. She gave a single shake of those black curls and returned her attention to the bun.
Do not rise, Maud told herself; but she rose. Stay here, she commanded, at this table; but she made to leave, muttering yet another apology. Edie had plainly been expecting this and started to get up as well.
‘No,’ said Maud. ‘Don’t. I won’t be long.’
Outside, the sun was almost gone, the colours of the park fading with the light. Maud went around a corner of the lodge. She stood for a minute; then, after checking she couldn’t be seen, she took out tobacco and papers and removed her gloves to roll a cigarette. As she struck a match to light it, the flame glinted on metal – on the ring, still there on her finger, proclaiming her Mrs Whistler. It had gone unmentioned at the luncheon, but surely wouldn’t here – not by Edie at any rate. She thought of what her sister might say and let out a short, bitter laugh. Her lip trembled. A hot tear popped onto her cheek.
Mrs Whistler Page 34
