“Thatcher will see you back to my quarters, old thing,” said Waldron.
As he escorted them out, Edwina half-turned her head to say something to her husband but stopped when she saw a look pass between him and the young soldier. Could she be mistaken, or had she seen Waldron actually wink at him?
12
Edwina suspected that Waldron made no effort to trace Teresa Kelly. She could picture him, whiskey in hand, one elbow anchored on a mantelpiece in the mess, holding forth to his subordinates about the insignificant concerns that filled the pretty little heads of women, and wasn’t it fortunate that men ruled the world, ensuring that wars would be properly fought?
But the visit had not been a complete failure. Edwina had managed to steel herself sufficiently to be able to fulfil her wifely obligations twice.
As her maid helped her settle herself in a railway carriage for the first part of their trip back to Cork, she felt a heaviness lift from her mind, knowing that from this time on she would never, ever have to submit to Waldron’s marital ministrations again. That part of her life with him was over. To celebrate she tore up his drawing of the Crimean War and flung the small pieces out the window.
After the month with him, seeing him brought home drunk at least four nights a week between two slightly less inebriated young soldiers, one of whom was always young Thatcher, she asked herself, not for the first time, what had possessed her to marry him in the first place.
She presumed it was a commonly held belief that she had married her husband for his title, money and status, but it wasn’t true. She had married him in good faith. It was he who had acted in bad faith – two months after the wedding, deserting her for India. Edwina had presumed he would take her to that country with him, or accept a local posting or retire from the army altogether after his marriage, but he said he didn’t know where she’d got that idea from. He’d always intended to go back. It was a pity it was no place for a woman who was not used to a hot climate, but that’s where his life’s work was, not on the estate, and certainly not in a local regiment that would bore him with its provincial outlook.
Contrary to her expectations, her lot turned out to be a life of solitude, with only servants for company, witnessing the rituals of a large country estate dying out through lack of attention from the absentee landlord.
What would it have been like if she’d married Dirk? She often tormented herself with the question and re-ran the old scenes to look for clues. As the years passed the answer became clearer.
At the age of nineteen Edwina had suspected that she was different from other girls. Her public failure to snare a husband three years in a row when all her set had secured one with ease confirmed her suspicion.
It wasn’t as if she wasn’t admired. On the contrary, many suitors were drawn to her beauty and social standing, but every approach filled her with anxiety, knowing that each new admirer would soon sense the emptiness and joylessness that had been her companions for as long as she could remember, and turn away to seek a more congenial partner.
For her part, if she found herself initially attracted to one of the young men her own age, the feeling didn’t last. She soon found fault with his accent, tone of voice, hair line, gestures, hands, clothes, shape of ears, nose, chin, back of the head, length of neck, posture, height, teeth, laugh, skin, conversation or demeanour, and sometimes all of them if she gave herself time to list them, and he, sensing the depth of her disapproval, would turn away.
When Edwina returned home from her third unsuccessful London season her father Algernon was in an unusually buoyant mood, and didn’t even comment that he now had two daughters who had passed unsold through the market despite the generous dowry he had settled on them.
“Come and see this,” he said to his wife and daughter before they had time to divest themselves of their hats and coats.
He led them to the schoolroom, which had been turned into a studio during their absence. Two large portraits, one of Edwina’s older sister Verity, and one of her father, mesmerised them as soon as they came through the door. Neither woman had time to say she knew nothing about art, to excuse herself in advance if she said the wrong thing, before the power of the images silenced them both.
“Caught my character, wouldn’t you say?” beamed Algernon, enjoying the effect the portrait was having on the two women. “And look how the eyes follow you around the room. Go over there and check.”
“More than that,” said Prudence, his wife. “It has a glow to it.”
“How did he get that effect? Look at the shine on the medals and the gold braid. The paint is so thick in parts,” Edwina said, leaning forward.
“Don’t touch it,” her father yelped as her hand reached out. “It’s still wet.”
“I can see that.” But she had been about to touch it. She withdrew her hand and determined to sneak back later when there was no one else around.
“And look at Verity’s likeness. Who would have believed it? Well, my dear,” he took his wife’s hands in his, “you can begin your sitting tomorrow if you’re not too exhausted after all your chaperoning responsibilities. It’s surprisingly hard work, sitting. And we have to stop Verity from distracting the young genius. I think she’s fallen for him. Keeps following him around with her mouth open. Quite amusing, really.” He put his arms around the two women, something out of character, but indicative of his exultant mood. “We’re frightfully fortunate to procure his services before he becomes too sought after,” he laughed, “or too expensive!” He gave the women a final squeeze. “You’ll meet him tonight.”
“He’s not dining with us, is he?” Edwina asked. The thought of making conversation with one more male stranger after three seasons of wasted effort filled her with dismay.
“Of course. He’s almost one of the family by now. Don’t worry, you’ll like him. He’s well-travelled and well-educated with wide interests and lots of stories to tell. Came highly recommended by the Earl of Hereford, no less.”
Edwina groaned inwardly at the prospect of having to suffer a tiresome know-all impressing her father during the interminable mealtimes.
“Artists don’t live in the same world as we do,” said her father when the clock showed five minutes past eight and the painter’s chair across from her stood unoccupied.
How does he know? Edwina sourly asked herself. He’s only ever met one.
“The old Earl could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end. Not about our young man, I hasten to add. Other artists. Older ones. He collects them.”
Her back was to the door. She saw her father lift his head and look towards it, and saw his face take on the expression of a man leading his horse into the winner’s enclosure on Derby Day. “Ah, there you are!”
Mistake Number One, thought Edwina. Being late for dinner.
Verity looked as if her focus had shifted from the mortal to the celestial.
“Lord Byron,” said Prudence, following the gaze of her husband, who was by now standing up. She was never one to lower her voice.
“Dirk Armstrong,” Algernon announced, ready to introduce his wife and younger daughter.
“Is that his real name?” Edwina whispered to Verity, knowing he was close beside her and would hear what she was saying. She was weary with exasperation and didn’t care if she appeared rude.
Dirk thanked the manservant for holding out his chair for him and directed a humorous remark in his direction.
Mistake Number Two. Addressing a servant at the dinner table in another person’s house. Edwina looked meaningfully across at Verity, but her sister chose to ignore her glance. Wrong-footing guests was a game they played, the main rule being the guest was to remain unaware of his gaffe while the girls exchanged sly smirks.
Dirk acknowledged the introductions and sat down.
“Yes, it is my real name,” he smiled across at Edwina. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, you know . . . Dirk . . . a dagger . . . strong arm . . .”
“What’s this?
” asked Algernon who hadn’t heard Edwina’s question.
“Nothing important, Father.”
Not to be detected playing it, especially by her father whose disapproval she feared, was another rule of the game.
During the meal, Prudence’s dread of choking and difficulty with her ill-fitting new false teeth prevented her from speaking while eating, Verity’s nearness to Dirk struck her dumb and Edwina’s despondency sapped her spirit, so Algernon monopolised his guest with talk of dams, hydro-electric schemes, motor cars and the first heavier-than-air flight that had taken place a few years earlier.
What had happened to the stories of hunting? All her life, until tonight, they had provided the sole topic of conversation at the table.
At one point, Dirk turned to Prudence and asked if she could see herself taking a spin in a motor car.
Mistake Number Three. Directly addressing the lady of the house without first being addressed. Edwina exaggerated a horrified expression, but once again Verity refused to reciprocate.
Mistake Number Four. Not speaking to her. Only once had he looked at her, giving her the kind of indulgent smile one would give an infant or a grandmother.
She left the table feeling strangely disturbed and lonely.
By the time her mother’s portrait was completed four weeks later, Edwina noticed that the apathy that had sucked the colour from her life until now was gone, and she hadn’t been aware of its passing.
On the due morning when her turn had come she felt sick and asked her father if she could postpone the sittings.
“Under no circumstances,” stormed her father. “His reputation is spreading like wildfire, according to the Earl, and if we let him go now we might miss out altogether. Now, no more of your nonsense. If necessary, I’ll get a bed brought down for you to lie on.”
She bowed as usual to the strong will of her father. “That won’t be necessary, Father. I’m feeling a little better already.”
With help from her maid, Edwina put on her debutante’s gown, fixed her hair in an intricate sculpture, and made her way to the schoolroom where she sank with relief into the gilt high-backed chair that had been chosen by Dirk for its contours and comfort.
When she heard the door open, the air in the room appeared to lighten and brighten.
Dirk scrutinised her for a full ten minutes after their initial greeting, then in silence moved around to view her from different angles. He stood on a ladder, looking down at her, then sat on a low stool, looking up. Closed one curtain, then two. Opened them again. Half closed one. Asked her to stand while he changed the angle of the chair, holding her upper arm. Three times, three different angles. Moved the chair on to the rostrum. Held her hand to guide her. Stood back.
His scrutiny may have been routine to him, but to her it was alarmingly intimate. She had never been unchaperoned in the presence of a young man before.
He came in close – she could smell the honey on his breath – and, guiding her chin, moved her head a little to the left, then realigned her arms and, taking the fingers of her right hand one by one, positioned them on her thigh with a gap between her index and middle fingers. After each adjustment he stepped back to gauge the effect.
When he was satisfied he began to sketch. His gaze remained impersonal.
After a week, at the beginning of each sitting, Edwina tilted her head or placed her right hand slightly off the angle Dirk had shown her on the first day so that he would have to correct them. He didn’t hold her chin or her fingers for a second longer than was necessary. Once, while adjusting her gown, his fingers brushed along the top of her breasts but didn’t linger. She didn’t know if what he had done was appropriate or not, and looked for clues when he returned to the easel. His expression as usual was abstracted and absorbed so she concluded it must be all right. As her father had said, ‘Artists are different’.
So as not to bring attention to her ploy, she waited for three days before deliberately pulling down the left neckline so that it sat lower than the right. When he didn’t appear to notice the change she felt a sting of disappointment.
“You can close your eyes if you wish until I’m ready to do them,” he often said, and she was sorry that the excuse to look at him looking at her was denied her for any period of time.
After each session he would talk to her in a friendly manner. Sometimes, unaware of time passing, they were both late for dinner.
When she could tell from the angle of his gaze that he was painting her lips, and later the shape of her breasts through the silk, she became uneasy and confused and wondered what was happening to her.
After the third week he made fewer brushstrokes, but the thinking and assessing took longer. He wasn’t in such a hurry to begin in the mornings. The offer of tea was at last accepted and the two of them shared the ritual, where finally he encouraged her to talk about hunting, and for the first time she put her enthusiasm into words.
She had been sitting for five weeks, a week longer than the others, and was beginning to dread his departure, which must be imminent.
“I’m doing the finishing touches. No need to keep the pose. Relax, but stay in the chair. Could you ever imagine your life without hunting?”
The question surprised her. “I’ve never thought about it,” was her answer, though a more truthful one would have been ‘No’.
“Could you ever see yourself throwing in your lot with a poor itinerant artist?”
He was standing motionless, holding his breath, his brush poised in the air.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t in conscience spin out this portrait much longer just to make sure I see you ever day. I need to have some indication of your feelings.” Did he mean what she thought he meant? “You must have some idea how I feel about you.”
She didn’t.
“Sorry, I should have given you warning. While you recover, do you want to see yourself in your finished state?”
He put his hand over her eyes and guided her to the front of the easel. He watched her, knowing she wouldn’t be able to disguise her reaction on first view. She burst into tears. He laughed, took her in his arms and held her reassuringly.
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
He smelt of linseed oil, turpentine, soap and himself, and she wanted to climb inside his shirt.
“Come on, you have me worried now.”
She was loath to lift her face. His chin was resting on top of her head, his arms increasing their pressure and she thought she might faint with desire.
“It’s beautiful,” she said at last. “You flattered me.”
“What you see is what I saw. Don’t tell me you don’t know you’re beautiful?”
Later, Dirk turned the easel around to face the window and swore when he noticed the left hand was slightly out of proportion, looking smaller than the one on the right. Cursing loudly, he took up a palette knife and scraped off the hand in one stroke, exposing the canvas with its burnt sienna underpainting. “Too busy looking at your face,” he said to Edwina, and didn’t apologise for his outburst.
That means he has to stay on longer, Edwina thought with relief, and she could postpone the frightening prospect of speaking to her father who expected her to marry an earl.
The following day a telegram addressed to him was delivered. His mother was ill and his presence was needed at home.
“Leave your things here and come back to collect them when your mother recovers,” she pleaded, inwardly raging at the bad timing.
He thought it more sensible to take everything.
“Can’t you wait to speak to my father first?”
He looked at her oddly, told her to say goodbye to the family for him, kissed her long and deep, manoeuvred one heavy bag onto his back and another over his shoulder and, refusing any offer of a lift, walked to the train station in the village two miles away. When he was gone she wished she had at least accompanied him to the end of the avenue. Everything had happened too quickly.
&n
bsp; 13
That odd look Dirk gave her on his day of departure haunted her for years. Had he spoken to her father the previous night and had the difference between a favoured artist and an aspiring son-in-law been pointed out to him? Her father could cut and wound more deeply than anyone else she knew and she was horrified to think Dirk might have been on the receiving end of an unrestrained mauling. Or had he taken her lack of an immediate enthusiastic response as a ‘No’, not appreciating the complexity of marriage traditions among the gentry?
Eleven telegrams had come for Dirk during his stay and they were all to do with commissioning work – she knew because she’d read them. Those he dropped carelessly on the table beside the easel, but the last one he had folded and put in his jacket pocket. Was his mother really ill, or had he invented the story to give credibility to his reason for leaving?
At the end of a fortnight she didn’t think she would appear too forward if she wrote to him at his home address – after all, if she had said a straight ‘Yes’ to his proposal, they would be engaged by now. It was a friendly letter – she had her pride and didn’t mention love or the future, making sure to ask at length after his mother’s health.
She haunted the front hall waiting for an answer, but none came.
Her father didn’t mention the scraped-off hand. Did that mean Dirk had arranged with him to return at some time to repaint it? She didn’t ask. Her portrait remained propped against the wall after the other three were hung.
She spent long stretches of time in her room crying, or riding her horse too fast and too hard.
Dirk had either lost interest in her, she concluded, or been sensitive to her father’s disapproval and for her sake had withdrawn. Or had he taken justifiable offence and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble? It’s not as if he’d be short of admirers, and why go where he wasn’t wanted? Worse than all that, though she couldn’t believe it, was the possibility that she was nothing more than a diversion he had made use of while he was in the house. Did he make advances to all his young female sitters? He seemed too genuine for that, but how could she be sure when she knew so little about men of her own class, let alone those of another?
Tyringham Park Page 7
