A Mad, Wicked Folly
Page 17
“See?” Sophie said, after we said good-bye to the children and made our way back to the street. “It’s not so hard.” Her eyes glittered with merriment. “Tomorrow we’ll give the polonaise a whirl, shall we?”
“Thank you, Sophie. As ever, you’re my lifesaver.” For a moment, I thought about confiding in Sophie about Will and the way I felt about him. I missed confiding in someone, and whenever I was with Sophie I was reminded of my friendship with Lily.
But as lonely as I felt, and as much as I liked her, Sophie was my lady’s maid. Even though I called her by her Christian name, she wasn’t my friend.
THAT THURSDAY AT Avenue Studios, I kept a close watch on the time, determined not to have a repeat of last week. I cleaned my brushes, tidied my work space, and said good-bye to the mural artists in plenty of time. Out on the Fulham Road, there was no cab stand about, so I stood on the pavement with my arm up for ages, but all of the cabs, motorized and horse-drawn, were full, and the ones that weren’t didn’t seem inclined to stop.
Finally, with no choice, I took a horse-drawn omnibus. The only vacant seat was at the top in the open air, and I had to sit next to a man who kept sneezing into his handkerchief. A child behind me insisted on tugging at my hat, and it took several pointed glares from me before his mother reined him in. And the entire carriage, or whatever it was called, reeked of musty old curtains stirred in with mildewed library books. What was more, the streets were so crammed with traffic that I could have dismounted the conveyance and walked to Piccadilly faster.
The row with Will was in the front of my mind, and I worried that if I didn’t arrive on time, he would leave, thinking I’d snubbed him. And so I was in near hysterics when the horses trundled past the winged figure of Anteros on the Piccadilly Circus fountain and came to a lumbering stop. I was twenty minutes late. I rushed down the bus’s steps, picked up my skirts, and ran to the RA.
Will was still there at the Royal Academy, in the same tweed jacket, waiting under the archway. “What time do you call this, then?” he said, not sounding perturbed in the slightest.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, breathless. “The traffic’s a nightmare. I was at the end of Fulham Road. It took ever such a long time to get here in the horse bus.”
“A horse bus?” Will looked incredulous. “Those old things? They are so slow with the horses plodding along. Why don’t you take the Underground? It’s much faster,” he said. “You’d be here in a heartbeat.”
I shivered. “Can’t bear the thought of it.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t stand being in close places. It’s a fear I have, you see. I expect you find that silly.”
“Not at all. My sister, Jane, has the same fear. I have a horror of spiders.” He shuddered comically. “Can’t stick them.”
“You won’t ever find me near the Underground,” I said emphatically. “The name alone gives me the collywobbles.”
“I don’t think there is any shame in being afraid. But I think it’s important to conquer your fears.” He grinned.
“How do you mean?”
He held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll take you.”
“No, Will! I don’t . . .”
Will reached down, took my hand, and strode toward Piccadilly Circus.
I tripped along behind him. “Will! I don’t have time for this. The drawing!”
“We won’t go far. Just a quick nip down the line to the next station and back. Won’t take a moment, and then you’ll see it’s a doddle. No sense spending the whole of your life behind a horse’s arse.”
“William Fletcher!”
He laughed.
It was only a short walk to Piccadilly Circus Underground station, yet in that brief space of time my knees had begun to shake and I found I was having trouble breathing properly. But Will didn’t give me time to pause. He towed me through the crowd and trotted down the steps, into the station, and up to the booking office. “One ticket, please,” he said to the ticket seller behind the gated window, and handed over the coins. “I have a season ticket,” he said to me. “It’s much cheaper and it will get you on any train you like as many times as you like.”
I made a face. “I don’t think I’ll be purchasing one of those anytime soon, William. I won’t be repeating this exercise.”
He took my hand again. “Oh, come on, don’t be such a noodle. It’s fun.”
One more flight of stairs, and we were on the platform. It wasn’t as bad underground as I had thought. The area was well lit, and there were even newsagents selling their wares along the tiled walls. Women, men, and children stood patiently along the platform.
“All right?” he asked me.
I shrugged. The longer we stood there waiting, the worse I felt. What would it be like inside that tunnel? I thought my heart would burst out of my chest, it was beating so loudly. My palm was damp inside Will’s hand, but he didn’t seem to care; he grasped my hand tighter.
“It’s easier to stand something difficult when you picture happy things. A Mermaid, how about that? Pretend you’re in front of her. Close your eyes.”
I closed my eyes, imagining myself standing in front of the painting. The feelings I usually had when I saw her began to fill me, and I felt calmer. I took a deep breath. Will stepped a little closer.
“Don’t worry, Vicky. We’ll just go to Oxford Circus. If you’re too scared, we’ll walk back. I promise.”
The conductor shouted into a bullhorn that the train was approaching and we should step back. A moment later a loud squealing noise came from deep inside the tunnel, a rush of air filled the arched room of the platform, and then the train arrived. It was not at all what I had expected. It was a narrow iron engine with several linked cars behind it. The train was quite elegant.
“I thought it would look like a goods train, like a steam locomotive.”
Will laughed. “Those went out ages ago. These are electric. Smooth as anything.”
Will opened the door on one of the cars, and we entered. It was spacious, with a wooden floor; upholstered benches lined both walls. We sat down on one by the door. Will took my hand again. “Ready?”
I nodded.
“If you feel afraid, just squeeze my hand.”
“I’ve decided that I’m going to collect as many spiders in a jar as I can and then pour them all over you, William Fletcher. Seeing as how it’s good to face your fears.”
“Fair enough.”
The conductor blew his whistle, and the train moved forward with a jerk. I expected the lights to turn off and pitch us into darkness, but they didn’t. There was nothing visible out the window; it was not unlike riding an overland train at night. And before I knew it, we arrived at Oxford Circus. It would have taken me nearly half an hour to walk that distance.
“Well?” Will said. “You want to ride back or walk?”
“Ride!”
Will and I stepped onto the platform at Oxford Circus station and walked over the footbridge over the rails and onto the other side. We waited only a minute for the next train to come along, boarded it, and rode it back to Piccadilly.
“Now then, miss. What do you think to that?” Will asked as we stood safely back on the platform. The conductor looked at us oddly.
“You’re quite right; it’s very efficient and not scary at all,” I said. “But how do I know what train to get on?”
“Right over here on the map.” Will led the way to a large poster that said
LONDON UNDERGROUND RAILWAYS
on the top. The map below was traced with colored lines. “Here we are.” Will pointed to Piccadilly Circus. “The Bakerloo Railway and the Piccadilly Railway leave from this station. Each route has its own color. Piccadilly is yellow; Bakerloo is brown. Where is the studio?”
I put my finger on the map. “Here. It’s not far from South Kensington.”
“Yes, I see! That’s quite simple.”
Feeling brave, I bought a weekly season ticket from the ticket seller. The seller also gave me a pocket map.
We returned to the street and headed back to the Royal Academy. As we walked, I realized that Will and I were still holding hands. My hand seemed to fit perfectly inside his.
I found I didn’t want to let go of his hand, but I did so reluctantly.
“Thank you, Will,” I said. “And I . . . I wanted to talk to you about last week.”
“Actually, I was going to fall on my sword and apologize directly I saw you. It was my fault. My mum always says I’m too hard on the people I care about. So let’s say no more about it, hey? We have a lot of work to do to get you ready for your submission. How long do we have, actually?”
“I need as much time to draw as I can get, so I’m handing everything in on the last possible day, April thirtieth. My eighteenth birthday, as it happens.” I was relieved he had changed the subject. I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to say to him.
“We’d better concentrate, then. No more messing about.”
We went back to the courtyard, and I handed Will the illustration I had worked on during the week, which I had encased between two pieces of card to protect it.
He leaned over me to study the picture more closely That’s when I started feeling anxious again. It was one thing for people to look upon my work without me there, but it was quite another to watch them look upon it. It always made me feel slightly sick. I always wondered what they were thinking. Were they trying to work out what to say to be polite? Could they see all the flaws?
He was so quiet for such a long time that I started to get nervous. Maybe he didn’t like my rendition of Hoode. Maybe the politicians were too ridiculous. “I can do an-
other if . . . if . . . you don’t like that one.”
He jerked his head up. “Another one? No! This is perfect. Hoode’s better than I imagined him. And the lords! They are so funny in the way you have them ignoring him. This is better than I’ve seen in any penny dreadful. You are going to be famous someday; you know that, right? I don’t just mean with my story, but on your own, too. I can see people emptying their wallets for a picture of yours.”
“Will, stop. I’m not that good.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that! You’re talented. You’re not changing a thing.” Will carefully put the illustration back between the cards and slid the picture inside his jacket pocket. “Now enough of that. Let’s get to work on your project.”
I found that it was easier to draw Will this time. I felt more comfortable around him. I supposed the ride on the Underground helped. And his expression was perfect. When he looked at me, he had a measure of longing in his gaze. Just like Lancelot’s when he looked at Guinevere. I did several studies of his face and even of his hands.
I spent the day doing exactly what I wanted to do. This was the life I wanted. No crushingly boring social-
etiquette classes to take or deadly dull tea parties or idiotic social functions to attend. At the end of the afternoon, I walked down the pavement to join Sophie, and then I remembered what Will had said earlier. I’m too hard on the people I care about. I stopped and looked back to watch him weave through the foot traffic.
Will cared about me. The realization filled me with such happiness that it was all I could do to stop myself from picking up my skirts and skipping down the pavement.
Twenty
Westminster School Boat Club,
Saturday, third of April
SATURDAY WAS THE day of the Boat Race, and I was looking forward to seeing Edmund again. It was a fine day and a light wind was blowing, which was a good thing; it wouldn’t be too choppy out on the Thames for the fragile boats. Sophie and I traveled to the Westminster School Boat Club, near where the race would begin, in a chauffeur-driven motorcar Edmund had sent to the house. We were to meet India and her French lady’s maid there, cheer Edmund on at the start at Putney Bridge, and then be driven in the motor to Hammersmith Bridge—midway point of the race—and finally to the end at Chiswick Bridge.
Edmund, in his dark-blue uniform, looked as handsome as ever. When we arrived, he was with several of his teammates, standing in a cluster round their boat. But seeing us, he broke away from the group and came over.
India kissed Edmund on the cheek. “I wish you the best of luck,” she said. “But I’m absolutely gasping for a lemonade. Come along, ladies, let’s leave Miss Darling and Edmund alone.” India gave Edmund a pointed look, and she and the two lady’s maids went off and joined the queue in front of a refreshment stand.
“Are you nervous at all?” I said, casting about for something to say. Even though I was glad to see Edmund, I still felt somewhat tongue-tied in front of him after that disastrous dinner a fortnight ago.
He leaned back against the low wall that bordered the river, drumming his fingers against the stone. “Not at all. We have a superb team this year. Cambridge hasn’t a chance. Don’t tell my father, but I have a little wager riding on the outcome.” He grinned sheepishly. “Can’t make a leopard change his spots, as it goes.”
I laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Say, this probably isn’t the right time, but I have something for you. If I don’t give it to you now, I’m afraid I’ll lose it. I’m daft that way.” Edmund reached into his pocket and drew out a small velvet box. He opened it and removed an enormous sapphire-and-diamond ring. He lifted my left hand and slid it onto the third finger. “Your engagement ring.” The sapphire was oval and set with a trio of square diamonds on either side.
“Oh!” I didn’t know why I was so surprised that Edmund would give me a ring, but all of a sudden the engagement seemed so very real.
“Is it all right?” Edmund pulled my hand toward him and peered at the ring, as if seeing it for the first time. He looked at me quizzically. I couldn’t help but think how the sapphires matched his eyes. They were both a perfect ultramarine blue. “Mother said girls love sapphires and diamonds.”
“Oh. No. I mean, yes, of course. It’s lovely.”
“It’s official, then.”
“Yes,” I said faintly. “I suppose it is.”
“Jolly good. I suppose I can stop calling you Miss Darling now. And you should call me Edmund.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I’d better get back to my mates or they’ll think I’ve lost my nerve and jumped ship.” Edmund kissed my cheek and then ran down the towpath to his teammates, who welcomed him with hearty slaps on the back.
I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. I held my hand out in front of me. The jewels sparkled in the sunshine. The ring was pretty—beautiful even—but it wasn’t me. It looked wrong. It felt wrong.
What was I doing, marrying someone I didn’t love, like some old-fashioned Victorian girl? I felt claustrophobic, just as I had when I’d worn my mother’s gown. I looked around. There were too many people here. I just wish I could go home.
The ladies came back, and India handed me a glass of lemonade. I reached to take it, and she saw the ring. She squealed. “He gave it to you? Oh, it’s beautiful, Miss Darling.”
I smiled and nodded. I took a sip of the lemonade, hiding my face in the glass.
A girl in a striped tailor-made and boater hat came over and started talking to India. Grateful for the distraction, I turned away from the two. Sophie caught my eye.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Something’s the matter. You’re pale as death, Miss Darling,” she said.
“It’s nothing, Sophie. I’m quite well, really.”
Sophie looked at me doubtfully.
India came back, hooked her arm through mine, and began to chatter away about the race, but I was barely able to take in what she was saying.
We returned to the motorcar, and the chauffeur drove us through the crowded streets to Putney Bridge. We found an empty space near the embankment wall to watch. The ring felt heavy and cold on my finger. I could not stop twisting it around and around, trying to find a better fit. I caught Sophie looking at me, so I stopped and tried to concentrate on the race.
Since Oxford had won the toss of the sovereign coin, the team picked the north station on the Middlesex side of the river, which had the advantage on the first and last bends, leaving the south station on the Surrey side for Cambridge. The two teams rowed downstream for a bit, warming up. Then the boats’ coxes raised their arms while the teams got into position, lining up with the University Stone on the south bank. The umpire waved a red flag, starting the race. Edmund’s boat got off the mark quickly, rowing to the center of the river, where the fastest water was.
When the boats disappeared round the bend, we got back into the motorcar to follow the race farther. Oxford was ahead at Hammersmith Bridge, which boded well, the driver told us; most boats ahead there went on to win the race.
As we reached Chiswick Bridge we saw, turning the bend at Watney’s Brewery, the dark-blue uniforms of the Oxford crew, at least a boat’s length ahead. Cambridge caught them up as the two teams pressed for the finish, just before the bridge. I saw Edmund, pulling at his oar, perfectly in synch with his teammates, his brow damp, his jaw tight. The coxswain, sitting in the bow, shouted at the team through his bullhorn. The tip of the boat surged past Cambridge’s, and they won in nineteen minutes and five seconds, breaking Cambridge’s three-year winning streak.
When the crew stepped ashore, a crush of spectators surrounded them. India grabbed my hand, and I tripped along behind her as she rushed up to greet her brother. Edmund saw us and pressed through the crowd.