A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  Mrs. Fletcher was as thrilled as Jamie with her gift. She undid the lid and drew out the bottle of rose bath oil and then the cake of lavender soap done up in sprigged paper. She held the soap to her nose and breathed deeply.

  “That’s lovely, that is. I can’t thank you enough, Vicky.” She replaced the soap in the box. “I’ll keep that in my bottom drawer for best. Now, I’d better see to the lunch.”

  For best. It was only toiletries. I pictured Mrs. Fletcher eking their use out for months, maybe years.

  Mrs. Fletcher disappeared down a narrow corridor toward what I assumed to be the kitchen, judging by the smells coming from that direction. Without a word, Jane set Jamie on his feet and went off to join her mother, the box of chocolates discarded on a side table.

  I felt like a massive toff, throwing my expensive gifts about, showing off. Like my pause at the first-class-

  carriage door, my gifts had only highlighted the differences between myself and the Fletcher family. And Jane had felt it too.

  AFTER LUNCH, WILL and I went outside so I could draw. Will took my hand as we walked, as though it was perfectly natural for him to do so. And I let him; we walked, hand in hand, up Mermaid Street, and then across to a long, sloping lawn behind a copse of trees overlooking the Romney Marsh.

  “This is blissful,” I said, looking around me. The oak and horse chestnut trees made a verdant background, and the long grass and wildflowers were the perfect stage. “We should work in a natural setting more often. There is a place near the boathouse in Hyde Park. Let’s meet there next time.”

  Will took up his pose near the horse chestnut. “When do you expect to hear if you’ve been accepted for the exam?”

  “They’re posting the list at the RCA on Thursday.”

  “Are you nervous at all?”

  “Nervous?” I laughed. “I’ve been having nightmares over it.”

  “Well, don’t. You’re sure to get it. I know it.”

  I felt embarrassed. He started to say something more, but I interrupted. “Now be quiet. I can’t draw you if you’re talking.”

  Will rolled his eyes.

  “You’re getting much better at standing still,” I said when I was finished and Will had come over to sprawl beside me. “Not so much fidgeting.”

  “I never fidget.”

  “Maybe not.” I turned a page over and began a quick sketch of him lying on the grass as he was with his head in his hand.

  “I love watching your face as you draw,” he said. “It’s all aglow, like someone has lit a lamp inside you.” He ran his fingers over my cheek. His touch made me quiver, made my skin tingle. I wanted him to do it again. I wanted him to cup my face in his hands. I wondered what that would feel like.

  “You make me sound as if I have a fever,” I said, attempting to jest with him like I did with Freddy. Yes, he’s just like your brother. Keep believing that, Victoria! I glanced at him quickly. He wasn’t smiling at my stupid jape anyway.

  “I’m completely serious. Your face changes.”

  “I love to draw; I suppose that shows in my face,” I said.

  “Why do you love it so much? I’m just curious.”

  I shrugged. “If I’m not drawing every day, then I don’t feel alive; do you know what I mean? And I’m not very good in social settings—I don’t quite say the right things or act the right way—but with my art I can express myself through what I see and feel. It helps me understand how I fit into the world, which is something that has quite escaped me since I was a little girl.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I never liked the same things as other girls—dolls and frocks and such. My parents sent me to finishing school in France so that I might learn how to behave as they thought I should. It was unbearable until I met my friend Lily. She let me draw her. She understood me. And then I met an artist named Bertram in the town, and he told me about the art studio. I felt as though I had come home. When I lost all that, I thought I would never feel whole again. But of course, then I met you, and the artists at the WSPU. I know one thing is certain, Will. I would die if I could not draw.”

  He looked at me frankly. I wondered if I had said too much. I stared down at my hands, covered with charcoal dust and pastel smudges.

  “I feel the same way about my writing. All those hours spent walking my beat, I’m really thinking of new stories.” He laughed. “Some of the other blokes tell me I stare off into space quite a lot, that I look gormless.” He demonstrated: his eyes shifted upward; his mouth hung open slightly.

  I giggled. “I expect that’s what I look like too.”

  “Not at all. You look as though magic has taken hold of you. It must be magic because I don’t know how you can draw like that. I can barely manage a stick figure.” He nudged closer to me and picked up one of my conté crayons, turning it around in his fingers. “And all these bits and pieces you have. They fascinate me.”

  I set my drawing book in Will’s lap and turned it to a fresh page. I handed him a graphite pencil. “Here, have a go.” He grasped the pencil; his fingers tightened around the tip as though he were writing. “Relax your fingers. If they are all bunched around the tip, your drawing will be cramped.” I pulled his fingers away from the tip and loosened them so they gently cradled the pencil. “This will give you more movement.” With my hand over his, I guided the pencil, making a series of quick, loose lines across the page to create a tree. “You see, all these little marks make up the subject. Some will be lighter or darker; some will look like scribbles. It all depends on how you see your subject. Every artist interprets things differently.”

  I let go of Will’s hand with reluctance and watched him as he drew. On the right hand, his third finger had a callused lump on it created from endless hours of writing. I couldn’t keep my eyes on his hands only. My gaze wandered to his face and fixed on his mouth. I found I wanted to lie down on the grass with him, our faces side by side, our hands touching. And perhaps our lips.

  He looked at the page, head tilted sideways. “I think I’ll stick to writing.”

  “Well, that is an art form, too,” I said, closing the drawing book and closing my mind on all those wicked thoughts I kept having. Will might not know I was engaged, but I knew that I should act like I was instead of daydreaming about kissing him. I never daydreamed about kissing Edmund. I should make myself try. “When are you going to start sending out your story to publishers? We have, what? Four episodes finished?”

  He shrugged and dug at the hillside with his heel. “When they’re ready, I guess.”

  “You need to get them out there, Will. They’re really wonderful. I’ll give them to Freddy.”

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  I nudged him with my shoulder. “I will hold you to that.”

  He glanced at me shortly and grinned a little. “Surrounded by bossy women.”

  We sat quietly side by side for a little while, looking out at the view. A song thrush sang from high atop his perch in a pine tree nearby. I wrapped my arms about my knees and pressed my chin into my arms.

  “So,” I said, glancing at Will sideways. “It’s funny your mother thought we were sweethearts. Didn’t you find it funny?”

  Will said nothing, but I thought I saw his shoulders tighten. “I suppose.”

  “I’m dying to know. Who is this Eliza?”

  Will gazed thoughtfully out at the river, chewing on a piece of grass. “She was my best mate’s sister. I’d known her for a long while—since childhood. I suppose it was just natural that we should walk out together. Everyone assumed we’d be married, but—” Will hesitated.

  “But what?” I asked, holding my breath. But I didn’t love her, I hoped he’d say.

  He shrugged. “I dunno. She went into service, became a parlormaid, and I joined the police.” He pulled
the grass out of his mouth and tossed it down. “Why do you wish to know about her?”

  “It just . . . well, Jamie mentioned her. I think it’s lovely you have a sweetheart. Do you ever see her?” For some torturous reason I wanted to know more about this parlormaid who’d claimed Will as hers, who’d run her hands over his body, the body I’d drawn; pressed her mouth to his, the mouth I’d sketched. I clenched my jaw at the thought. I’d had no idea I was such a jealous person. In the space of one day I’d wanted to do battle with two different women because of Will. I pulled up a piece of grass and tickled Will’s ear with it. “Come on, out with it!” I laughed. Giggled really. I sounded like a flibbertigibbet. Tra, la, la! Do tell or I shall sulk! Ugh!

  Will batted my hand away and looked annoyed. “She’s not my sweetheart. Like I said. We went our separate ways. I haven’t seen her in months, if you really want to know.” He looked at me for a long moment and then looked away. He kicked at the grass on the hill again.

  This tidbit of information did little to assuage my jealousy. Mindful of how stupid my thoughts and actions were, I realized that maybe the antidote lay in telling Will I was engaged. But how to begin? I would just say it: Will, I’m engaged. No, that was too blunt. How about: Actually, I forgot to tell you something. It’s so funny that I haven’t said anything before. I’m getting married in three months’ time. No, that was worse.

  If I was truly honest, I didn’t want to tell Will. He saw me as an artist, and I liked that. I didn’t want him to see me as belonging to a man.

  These days with Will would be gone soon enough. I knew this even as we sat next to each other in the sunshine. I couldn’t let them go quite yet.

  Twenty-Six

  Darling residence, breakfast room,

  Wednesday, twelfth of May

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING I was sitting with Papa at breakfast—Mamma, as usual, was still abed with her breakfast tray—when Mrs. Fitzhughes brought in the letters and left them at the silver salver at Papa’s elbow. He put his newspaper down and sorted through the neat stack of envelopes. A moment later, he drew in his breath so sharply that I looked up from my boiled egg. He was holding a cream-colored envelope heavy with inky black calligraphy and embossed with a wax seal and ribbon.

  “That’s lush,” I said. “Who sent you that?”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for you!” His eyes were wide. “You’ve done it, my dear!”

  “Done what?” For a dimwitted moment, I thought Papa meant I’d been accepted to sit the RCA exam. I must admit my heart beat a little faster, but of course that couldn’t be. Then I saw the wax was embossed with the king’s arms of dominion.

  He handed the envelope over. “I’m sure you’ve been invited to Court.”

  I put down my toast and sliced the envelope open with my fruit knife. Papa watched eagerly as I tugged out a cream-colored engraved invitation.

  Miss Victoria Darling

  To Be Presented by

  Mrs. Elizabeth Darling, Mother,

  To King Edward VII at Court

  Friday, Fourth of June 1909

  Ten o’clock in the Evening

  I sat back in my chair. Everything was truly going according to plan. The reinvention of Victoria Darling was complete. I had done everything they asked of me. Now all I had left to do was to meet the king, not make a fool of myself in front of him, and marry Edmund. I could feel the chains loosening. Soon I would be on my way.

  “Well?” Papa asked.

  I nodded, handing him the invitation. “It’s as you say.”

  Papa read the invitation and stood up. “Well done, my dear. You must go and tell your mother right away.”

  I stood up to do as he asked, and as I passed him, he reached out and took my hand. “I’m so proud of you, my dear,” he said, squeezing my fingers. “So proud.” His dark-brown eyes looked at me earnestly, and for a moment I pretended he was saying he was proud of me because I had gotten into the RCA. For a little moment I afforded myself that tiny luxury.

  I kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Papa,” I said, and then went off to find Mamma.

  THE NEXT DAY, Thursday, I went to back to the RCA to see if I had been accepted to sit the examination. With Will’s words of confidence boosting me, I marched up to the list and found that I was accepted, and that I was to present myself to the panel on the first of July. I swear I had to stop myself from running to Hyde Park. I couldn’t wait to tell Will.

  When I reached the boathouse where we were to meet, he wasn’t there, so I sat down on the steps and waited. After a bit I could see him approaching. His head was down as he walked with long purposeful strides, looking at the path, lost in thought. As he drew near, I stood up and ran down the steps to greet him. I couldn’t help it. I threw my arms around his neck.

  “I did it, Will! I got accepted!”

  He stood still for a moment, but then he put his arms around my waist and hugged me hard.

  “What happens now?” he asked as we walked to a little clearing underneath a tree by the Serpentine, the lake that flowed through Hyde Park.

  “I need to show further work,” I said as I unpacked my sketchbook and pencils. “It has to be even better than what I’ve shown already. I thought I’d do the pastel study of Lancelot, to show the examiners what I’d like to accomplish at the school.”

  We got to work, but gray clouds had been rolling in, and after a few minutes the first raindrops began to fall. Will and I jumped up and dashed for cover. Just before we reached the boathouse, the skies opened up, and it bucketed down, drenching us. Will reached back and took my hand, pulling me the final distance underneath the eaves of the boathouse. He shook the raindrops out of his hair, laughing. “Well, so much for that.”

  We watched the rain come down in stair rods, filling the paths with puddles of water. The wind had whipped up tiny waves on the Serpentine. Several people were stranded underneath nearby trees. Two little boys ran by us, stomping through the puddles and laughing.

  “Blast this weather,” I said. “We have so little time until the exam. I wish we had someplace to work indoors.” If only I could take Will back to the summerhouse in Chelsea, but, with so many builders about, I couldn’t chance it. “It’s pointless to go back to the Royal Academy. The Summer Exhibition is open now, and it will be ever so crowded if we tried to work in the galleries.” The Summer Exhibition heralded the start of the social season, and so the chances of being seen by someone who knew my mother or me would be much greater.

  Will looked thoughtful. “Actually, my flat isn’t far from here, near Praed Street Station in Paddington. We could work there. What do you think?”

  “Your flat?” I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I trusted myself enough to be alone with Will in his flat, but I had been alone with him before in my summerhouse. Surely I could resist temptation. “Of course,” I said. “Why not?”

  -

  WILL LIVED IN a groom’s quarters over a stable. His entire flat consisted of one long, narrow room. Shelves crammed with books hung over a table made from a plank of wood atop two trestles. A single bed lay under the eaves; an apple crate served as a nightstand. His clothes hung from a peg on the wall. His kitchen consisted of a pitcher and bowl, two tea mugs, a stack of plates on a shelf, and a tiny paraffin stove. Two mismatched wooden chairs faced a coal fireplace. It was damp as well, and I could feel a draft whistling round my ankles. The large skylights let in a good amount of light. But that was about the only thing in the room’s favor.

  I caught Will looking at me, uncertainty on his face. “It’s not much,” he said. “I expect you’re used to something . . . well, different.”

  I went over to the window, grasping for something nice to say about the flat. The rooftops of London stretched in an endless forest of chimneys, and there was not a single human being in sight. “Oh, look at the view.”

  Will moved to stand behind me. “You can
see clear across the rooftops. It’s like another world up here.”

  I glanced around. “Where is your lavatory?”

  “Outside. I share the privy with the other tenants. I bathe at the public baths.”

  I sat down in one of the wooden chairs by the fire; one of its legs seemed shorter than the others. Will bathed with other people. I couldn’t imagine it. I had my own lavatory at home, with piped-in hot water, a huge claw-foot bathtub, and all the warm towels and French-milled soap I wanted.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “Not long. I used to live in the Section House near Cannon Row Police Station, but I can’t write with so many blokes about, so I choose to live here. It’s not much, I know. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed to bring you here.”

  I couldn’t help but compare Will to Edmund with his new motorcar and our house in Chelsea full of rooms we didn’t even need. I’d be willing to wager that Will wouldn’t care about the flowered wallpaper in the sitting room. The flat touched something inside me and made me like Will even more.

  “Don’t feel that way, Will,” I said. “I think it’s grand you have a place of your own.”

  He looked relieved. “I suppose we’d better get to work. That’s what we’ve come here to do, after all.”

  The flat may have been poky, but despite the noise from the street, the room was peaceful. I watched Will over the top of my sketchbook. He was leaning over the makeshift table, his pencil flying across his notebook. When he reached the end of the page, he lifted the pencil and bit the end of it as he scanned what he had written. As attractive as Edmund was in his expensive clothes, he would be eclipsed by Will in his simple muslin shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbow. I made a quick sketch of Will at work in the corner of my sketchbook and then returned to Lancelot.

  “Will you show me what you’ve drawn?” Will said after a few moments. He set his pencil down and came around to peer over my shoulder.