Creatures of Will and Temper

by Molly Tanzer

  But Evadne had excused herself, and disregarding the entreaties of her sister, her uncle, and Jonas, did not return.

  “You know, Dorina, I don’t think your sister cares for my company,” said Henry. She said it in the manner of someone commenting upon the weather, but Dorina could tell she was annoyed. And why shouldn’t she be? She’d tried to be friendly, talked to Evadne about her interests, given her presents . . . but just the same, Dorina felt guilty. It occurred to her that she hadn’t mentioned to Evadne that she’d invited Henry along, and perhaps she should have.

  No, she certainly should have. Evadne must have believed they would be going alone to the bridge, and had been taken by surprise, which she never liked.

  “Evadne takes her time coming around to people,” said Dorina. “This I fear was my fault—I hadn’t mentioned you would be coming with us.”

  “I see,” said Henry gravely. “Well, that just means I’m correct in my assumption—if I’m not a pleasant surprise, then I’m an unpleasant one.”

  “It might have been me,” said Jonas, eyes flickering to the door Evadne had gone through. “Miss Gray and I didn’t part on the best of terms after our afternoon at the National Gallery.”

  “She was in such a good mood yesterday.” Dorina sighed. “I’m a fool—I’d hoped the two of us would do something together today.”

  “Should we leave?”

  “No,” said Dorina firmly. “Or rather, I should say, it is not for me to turn you out of my uncle’s house, or for Evadne to make you unwelcome. Please excuse me. I shall be down shortly, either way.”

  “Don’t,” said Evadne, when Dorina found her changing into her practice clothing even though it was hours before she’d said she’d be going to her lesson. “Just don’t. I should have known you wouldn’t be interested in . . . well, it doesn’t matter.”

  There it was. Evadne had wanted to do something just the two of them.

  “Evadne,” she said, pleading with her sister. “Henry and I had talked about doing something today, but we both agreed it ought to be what you wanted to do.”

  “So, I’m not interesting enough on my own,” growled her sister. “I understand.”

  “That’s not it at all!”

  “No?” Evadne advanced on her sister like they were about to do battle; Dorina took a step backwards involuntarily. “You mean you wanted to spend time with me without your ghastly friend and her bizarre associate?” She sniffed.

  “Jonas was Lord Oliver’s valet,” said Dorina, annoyed. “Now he helps Henry, but really they’re just friends.”

  Evadne was completely taken aback by this intelligence. “He’s a servant?”

  “Oh, don’t be such a snob!”

  This brought her sister up short. “I’m not a snob,” she said, sounding wounded. “I just . . . I didn’t . . .”

  “Who cares what he is? He’s a perfectly lovely person—and he likes you!”

  “He does not!”

  “Yes, he does—and trust me, I’m very good at spotting such things.”

  “I don’t care to be liked by him,” she said haughtily, deflecting the flow of the conversation. “It has nothing to do with what he is, Dorina, but who he is. What he said to me in that museum!”

  Dorina was astonished. “He was teasing you, you goose! He thought you’d enjoy being compared to a warrior goddess—he didn’t mean all that about her being a virgin or whatever. I can assure you, if your virginity was on his mind, it was . . . ah . . .”

  That had absolutely been the wrong thing to say, given Evadne’s tight mouth and high color, but realizing her own error, Dorina finally became angry. Why did she always have to walk on eggshells around her sister? Why couldn’t they just be friends—laugh, talk about romance and friendship?

  “You’re impossible,” she snapped. “It’s not just him you don’t ‘care’ to be liked by, though, it’s everybody! What care you for friendship, when you can storm up to your room and—”

  “You’ve already made clear your true sentiments about me,” said Evadne, “and more truthfully, I think, than your protestations regarding your desire for my company.”

  Dorina did not like to be called a liar. She tossed her hair. “Fine,” she said, now advancing on her sister. “Stay in your room in your awful smelly clothes until it’s time for you to go to your stupid class—you’ll have more fun sulking by yourself than you would laughing with those who care for you and desire your companionship.”

  “Ha!”

  “Believe what you like,” said Dorina, “for I shan’t trouble myself about you ever again!” And with that, she turned on her heel, and left her sister alone, just like she obviously wanted.

  Their exchange had shaken her. Dorina had wanted so much for things to be easy between them, and yet here they were again, angry at one another, having said more unkind things. Dorina sat down on the top stair, suddenly exhausted.

  Perhaps she was selfish, but Evadne was impossible! At least she, Dorina, could admit when she was wrong—and she would let something go! Evadne would hold on to every slight until the end of time.

  Let her. Dorina resolved to not trouble herself about her sister; moping alone was doing the exact opposite of that. No reason she shouldn’t enjoy herself just because Evadne had decided she never would.

  Her uncle and his guests had repaired to his studio. Dorina was happy to see the servants had cleaned up the mess from last night; neither the spilled wine nor Dorina’s abandoned candlestick were in evidence, and the fern’s misplacement was not noticeable as Henry and Jonas had created a sort of bower with the various potted plants. They were seated on an Oriental carpet and cushions in the center of the grove, just lounging; Jonas looked up eagerly at the sound of Dorina’s footsteps, but seeing she was alone, his face fell. He amended the error in an instant; Dorina shot him a sympathetic smile to show she understood.

  “Basil is going to draw us,” announced Henry, gesturing at where her uncle mixed paints. “Isn’t that a splendid way to spend a rainy day?”

  “We shall have a memorial of our pleasant morning,” said Jonas wryly, helping himself to a cigarette from Henry’s case.

  “At least we shall have a story to tell when it’s exhibited—or at least, part of one,” said Henry, noting Dorina’s frown. “No confidences regarding lapses in temper will be betrayed, naturally. Anyway, there’s no way we shall be ourselves. We’ll all have the heads of pigs, or mouths for eyes. No longer can we count on being a pleasure party with Lancelot or what have you. We’ll be . . . symbolic of something.”

  “Wonderful.” Dorina knew she sounded as sour as her sister. Realizing this, she said more brightly, “But how shall we behave if we don’t know what we’re to become?”

  “Oh, for now he just wants us to drape ourselves artfully, so he can sketch,” said Jonas. “Come and join us! And we brought enough cushions for four . . .”

  “Then the three of us will be extra comfortable,” said Dorina. She sighed. “I’ll join you in a moment. I just . . .”

  “Take your time,” said Basil idly as he did things with pigments and oils.

  Dorina wandered up behind him to see what he was doing, but she was in no mood to make keen observations about the ways of artists. Instead, she wandered the perimeter of the studio, weaving in among the various plants, the patter of the rain on the windows a more fitting accompaniment to her mood than any sonata.

  She passed listlessly in front of the picture of Lord Oliver Wotton and turned toward it. Henry joined her, and out of the corner of her eye, Dorina saw the older woman’s cheeks flush from pleasure as she gazed upon it. Oh, Henry was so lovely, too lovely even; her profile was immaculate, her cheek was as delicate and vibrant as any peony in a Japanese woodcut. She was luminous, like a cloud bank turned pink from the sun. Dorina longed to turn, to make Henry acknowledge her glance, her desire, to kiss that mouth and . . .

  She became dimly aware that her uncle was speaking to them, but she hadn’t caught wh
at he was saying. She had never seen a beauty like Henry before. She was wholly intoxicating; her aroma, heady, and her flaws—as the simple-minded might call the faint wrinkles around her eyes and lips—just made her more interesting to look at. Dorina had never been vain about her youth. In fact, she had always longed to be older than she was, and looking at Henry she desired more than ever a few silver hairs of her own, little character lines. And not only that, if she were older, perhaps Henry would consider returning her longing. But their ages were always to be a set number of years apart. She would always be too young; she felt the pain of it like a knife, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t you like it?” asked her uncle. “You were staring at it long enough yesterday.”

  “Of course she likes it,” said Henry, with a smile that told Dorina she knew exactly what the younger woman had been thinking. “Who wouldn’t like it? It’s your masterpiece. One need not have known Oliver to appreciate its genius.”

  “I wish you would take it, if you admire it so much,” said Basil. There was a tone in his voice that surprised Dorina, a simmering . . . something, not quite anger, not quite frustration. “I painted it for you.”

  “I thought you were painting it for yourself, with all your talk of never exhibiting it.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “It’s yours. I insist; you must keep it.”

  “You’ve damned me, then,” said Basil, quite seriously. “How sad, to live every day with it hanging there, haunting me. Oliver will always remain as he is—beautiful, in his prime—while I grow old and gray and frail. He will always be laughing as I lose my sight, always be straight as my spine curves, always remain firm as I begin to shake and—”

  “Baz,” said Henry gently.

  Basil shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m not accustomed to loving my own art,” he said. Dorina made a mental note of that—it had never occurred to her that artists might not love the things they created, but she filed it away for later pondering. The present was currently far too interesting for her to be ruminating on what she might write in the future. “I’ve certainly never loved my art more than a person. And I still don’t. But now that Oliver is—is gone, I can’t love him as a person. I can only love him like an ivory Hermes or a silver faun . . .”

  “You are not yourself,” said Henry. “Don’t talk like this.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” The house was full of tension that morning; Basil was angry now. “Oliver was finer than any material thing, and now he is only a material thing. I would have cherished the opportunity to see him grow old and die, but now he will stay the same forever. Maybe I could live with that thing if the picture could change, could grow as foul as I shall . . . bah!” Basil tore his eyes from the golden portrait, which almost seemed to glow, and stalked away back to his work table. Henry followed him. Dorina did not; feeling weak in her legs, she joined Jonas on the sprawling carpet. She looked at him nervously, but he shrugged—this conversation had clearly happened before. She nodded in return, and he patted the back of her hand with his palm, a familiar gesture from a servant, no doubt, but Dorina didn’t mind. She was no snob.

  “I should never have painted that picture,” said Basil. “You’re right—it is my masterpiece, the finest piece of work I’ve ever done, and I hate it. I think I shall destroy it if you don’t take it away.”

  “Have a cigarette,” said Henry, opening her case, “and relax, look at it again, and—”

  “Don’t you dare offer me one of those things ever again,” said Basil, whirling around so quickly that if Henry hadn’t stepped back, he surely would have knocked it from her hand. “And don’t you dare offer one to my niece, either!”

  “I haven’t,” said Henry, sounding wounded. “You know I wouldn’t . . .” She glanced at Dorina. “I’ve already told her no several times, if you must know.”

  “But you smoke them around her just the same, and take your bloody snuff, and whatever else . . . You make it look so . . . so delightful, as you’d say.”

  “I’m right here,” said Dorina, appalled.

  Basil passed a hand over his eyes. “For now,” she thought she heard him murmur.

  “I think I shall go,” said Henry, all dignity. “I don’t believe I’m of a mood to sit quietly and be sketched.”

  Dorina sprang to her feet. “Don’t go,” she implored her. “I shall see nothing of you tonight, you’ve already said so . . .” Henry looked so serious, Dorina went to her and took the older woman’s hands in her own. “If you go, today shall have even less sunshine in it, and it needs all it can get. If you go, I shall cry so much that the house will surely flood. If you go—”

  “Oh, just invite her to your bloody meeting,” snapped Basil. “She’s yours already, completely—or if she isn’t already, she will be. You won’t be easy until you’ve taken her under your wing, shown her what Oliver showed me . . . what you showed Oliver. Don’t worry—look at us, we’re all doing just fine!”

  Henry extracted her hands from Dorina’s. “I told her no, Baz. She’s not coming.”

  “Not tonight. But in a week? In a fortnight?”

  “I told her no,” repeated Henry. “What more do you want? She’s a person, with her own thoughts and feelings and interests.”

  “I’m not in the mood to paint,” muttered Basil. “I’m going upstairs, and I don’t wish to be disturbed.” He stalked from the room.

  “Oh dear,” said Dorina. She sat back down again. She felt awful. “Now everyone is cross with me in this house . . . and I don’t feel as if I’d done anything—well, not much—to deserve it.” She sighed. “You’d better go, Henry. Perhaps I can figure out how best to apologize to my uncle and my sister.” Tears of frustration began to roll down her cheeks. “I think they both want me to be someone other than who I am . . . Well, maybe they’re right, and I am a selfish beast, and a—”

  “Don’t say that!” Henry was beside her, had her arm around her. “Don’t ever wish to be anyone but who you are!”

  “I want . . . I want to be older. I want to be old enough that you’ll let me be like you . . . come to your society, learn to appreciate the world instead of just seeing it. I want to be like you said, a critic with a meat cleaver; I want . . . I want to be anyone in the world less prosaic than myself.”

  “You’re not prosaic!”

  “No? And yet you treat me like I’m a stupid little country girl!”

  Henry looked helplessly at Jonas, who shrugged.

  “Let her come,” he said.

  “But . . .”

  “We can make arrangements for her, like any other junior member.”

  What this might mean, Dorina could not say, but she did not pry; she did not wish to press her luck. Her tears of frustration had been sincere, but they dried quickly upon hearing that she might be invited to Henry’s appreciation society.

  Ah, well. Perhaps she was still a child!

  “All right,” said Henry at last.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Baz was right . . . I would have relented, sooner or later. I’m only human, and you’re very persuasive.” Henry smiled sadly. “Jonas, let’s help her pack. She’ll need something suitable for tonight, and you’ll know even better than I what she should wear.”

  “Something white and sacrificial?” suggested Dorina. She’d meant it as a joke, but it only made Henry look more somber.

  “Let’s put you in as many colors as we can, in good taste,” said Jonas, nervously looking at Henry.

  “She’ll be just as tempting, whatever we do,” said Henry.

  4

  If demons have taught us anything, it is that the senses and the soul must be treated with equal consideration.

  —On the Summoning of Demons

  Dorina left her uncle’s house without telling her sister where she was going. Basil knew where she’d be, so it wasn’t as if she was ducking out without anyone knowing where she could be found.

  She also wanted to prote
ct her own happiness. Evadne had a way of making people feel bad about things they were excited about, and Dorina was very excited. She didn’t want any clouds hanging over this triumph—there were enough in the sky already.

  Henry had a few little errands, and Dorina could think of literally nothing she’d rather do than come along. Not only was she curious, but she also needed to find some way to manage her nervous enthusiasm. She didn’t want to seem like an overeager puppy.

  They headed to the Borough Market, in Southwark, where could be found Henry’s favorite florist in all of London. Henry’s greenhouse would provide the more exotic blooms for the table and the meeting rooms, but she could not produce the needed volume for all the arrangements.

  The young woman who ran the shop was as genteel a shopkeeper as Dorina had ever met, an absolutely delightful young woman who seemed to be intimately acquainted with Henry. So intimately that Dorina felt a twinge of envy over the way they laughed and joked with one another about the young woman enjoying the bouquets “in person.” After they got back in the carriage, perhaps sensing Dorina’s discomfort, Henry told her that the girl would be not only bringing the arrangements, but staying for the gathering.

  They then went on to tour the rest of the market to look for a few ingredients Henry’s cook had forgotten, and pick up a few extras, as well. They purchased some lovely asparagus, mushrooms, and strawberries from the greengrocer’s, as well as a variety of orange Dorina had never tasted before; from a patissier they bought delicate almond-cream tarts and from a baker, beautiful fresh breads.

  Given that Jonas was kind enough to carry their parcels for them, they used their umbrellas to shield him from the downpour as they walked to meet Henry’s carriage. They got soaked in the process, but it was tremendous fun. Dorina was certain she saw Henry’s eyes flickering her way as they laughed and scurried through the deluge, and later, in the cab, when Dorina artfully complained of her clammy bodice.