When we stood side by side in front of the altar in the small church, I thanked God for his goodness and assured him that I would not ask for more because at the age of twenty-one I had already had as much happiness as a woman could ask for in a lifetime.
But of course I became greedy. Maybe if you live in the shadows for long enough you manage to get by out of the sun, but once you have basked in its warmth you can no longer thrive without it, and there is never enough. But the more I crave his warmth, the less he gives. I ask myself over and over again what it was that he had loved and what had changed. Now I am more likely to draw a frown than a smile from his face and his caresses are portioned out as meanly as if he were the warden of an almshouse and I a beggar. But I cannot blame him. The more I aim to please him, the more I seem to drive him from me. He is an artist and I understand little of that world. When he finally allows me a glimpse of his work in progress I offer an opinion. ‘Whisper, dear,’ I say, pointing at a stroke of carmine. ‘Whisper, don’t shout.’ Arthur, my beautiful husband, turns oh so slowly and looks at me as if I were the smallest creature imaginable. ‘Thank you, my dear, for that priceless piece of advice.’ When speaking the word priceless the corners of his mouth turn upwards as if in a smile but his eyes are stones. ‘Coming as it does from such an acknowledged authority on the subject of fine art.’
I do not interfere again. I spend my energies on our child, and on our home. My husband and I are like two pebbles washed up next to each other then edged apart, little by little, by the shifting sands.
I go downstairs to do the flowers and see that Jane has been there before me. She means to help, although I have told her many times that I enjoy this particular task. But you have to be careful because almost anything will make her tearful. What was I to do but give in? Jane is small but she forces her flowers and foliage into postures that nature never intended. Every time I pass one of her arrangements I feel for those tortured blooms and long to free them, but any interference might bring forth those tears. Jane calls herself insignificant but I have learnt that upsetting her causes a murmur of discontent that echoes through the household for days. Today, however, I cannot help myself but lift the stems from the vase and shake them loose before returning them, dripping but unrestrained, to the water.
Arthur finds me in the nursery, astride the dapple-grey rocking horse with the flowing silver mane. Georgie sits on my lap. The horse’s name is Dobbin. ‘Have neither of you even the slightest imagination?’ Arthur had exclaimed when told.
Georgie and I go for a ride every morning and we have just returned breathless from that day’s journey. Arthur holds his arms out to our son but not long enough for Georgie to scramble down and enter the embrace. My husband is wearing a velvet jacket in burgundy and a bright yellow cravat and his mood is extravagant as he bends down and kisses me on the lips before ruffling his son’s blond locks and calling him ‘a fine little fellow’. I shoot a glance towards the door, half expecting some visitor to be accompanying Arthur. His good moods mostly coincided with the presence of guests. He is a good host, making every guest feel as if the event was arranged just for his or her benefit. And how well he always speaks of me and our little son. Were it not for those happy boasts in front of strangers, I might never realise how highly he prized us.
But there is no one else in the room; even Nanny is elsewhere, talking to Cook about Georgie’s lunch. ‘Your work must be going well.’ I smile up at him. ‘It makes me so happy to see you in such good humour.’
That causes a frown. ‘Don’t watch me like this, Louisa. It makes a chap nervous, always being watched and clucked over, his every mood and manner examined. Suffice yourself with the boy while he’s too young to defend himself.’
I look away, out of the window, trying not to cry. There was no reason to; Arthur was just teasing.
‘I’m here to talk about little Jane. She is upset, you know.’
Slowly I turn and look at him, resting my chin lightly on my son’s fair head. ‘Why is Jane upset?’ I make it sound like a quiz. ‘Jane, Jane, Jane?’ Georgie claps his chubby hands. ‘Jane is a little busy mouse scuttling around on her busy way.’ At this Georgie squirms out from my embrace and down on the floor and makes to scuttle back and forth just like a mouse, his hands like whiskers beneath his tiny nose. These days there is nothing bruised about him; his eyes are shaped like mine, but the colour is all his own: a clear amber, an unusual shade of light bright golden-brown that I had last seen on a piece of the stone itself in the window of a jeweller’s in London. And he has grown sturdy, my boy, with strong legs and chubby little arms – ‘like strings of sausage,’ I said to Arthur the other day.
‘Where is the poetry?’ Arthur had lamented, but he had been laughing in the old indulgent way. ‘Where is the beauty in that simile? Strings of sausage. I ask you.’
Now I pick my son up and kiss that whole plump arm from the wrist all the way to the shoulder, pretending to bite, sending him dizzy with giggles before letting him go.
But there is nothing indulgent about Arthur now. He is like an April day: sun one moment, dark clouds the next and you never know when to expect the change.
‘I tell you that Jane is upset and you seem to find it amusing. Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Louisa. She’s giving serious thought to moving away. She feels you disapprove of her, although God knows how anyone could disapprove of such a sweet little creature. She tells me you don’t seem to trust her with the child. Why, Louisa, when playing with him gives her such pleasure? Why should you deny her that? A possessive mother is a very bad thing.’
‘Child, tell Papa your name.’ I grab Georgie as he scuttles past, a mouse still.
‘And now she tells me you deliberately sabotaged her flower arrangement.’
‘I did not sabotage it; I released it.’
‘I must say you’re in a very queer mood. Jane has made herself invaluable to me over the past few years. There is no one who understands the business side of my life as well as she. It started out as a kindness to her, employing her, but I don’t mind admitting that now it is I who have cause to be grateful, as does Mama. She is not one of the servants, Louisa.’
‘Arthur, you know very well that I would never treat any of the servants with anything less than respect; I abhor rudeness to staff.’
The colour rises in Arthur’s cheeks but he only says, ‘All she wishes is to be of use.’
‘And I’m sure you make great use of her, my dear. As for Georgie and I, I’m afraid we think her so tiny and quiet that mostly we can’t seem to find her. But she knows everything that goes on in the house. Maybe that’s how she can make herself useful, as a spy.’
Arthur’s cheeks turn purple above his golden-orange beard. Golden-orange and purple; a successful combination in the garden but disastrous on the face.
‘And may I remind you that we have guests for luncheon. Sir Derek and Lady Glastonbury.’
‘And Viola, Viola is coming, is she not?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Georgie is attempting to balance a bright yellow brick on top of his brick castle and topples the whole edifice. His eyes grow huge. His little mouth opens and he lets out a piercing howl. I kneel by him on the floor. ‘Don’t cry. It was a good thing. Look, look, Georgie, the princess managed to escape. See,’ I point at the rubble of bricks, ‘she’s gone. By now she will be back home at the castle all safe with her mother the Queen and her father the King.’
Georgie stops crying and gets to his feet. ‘Where?’ he asks, starting to look all around the nursery.
‘You know that Sir Derek’s friendship is important to me.’ Arthur squats down by our side, his tweeds straining round his heavy thighs. Georgie wriggles free. ‘Louisa, why are you doing this to me? Why are you being difficult when I most need you? I need my sweet Louisa. Where has she gone?’
We are on the floor, eye to eye, and something small and tight loosens within me. He smiles, a little sadly, and straightens, his
hand held out. I allow him to pull me to my feet. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur.’ Before I know it my eyes brim with tears. ‘I get these black thoughts; they scare me. I behave badly, I know I do. And I love you so much. You’re so good to me. You’ve given me,’ my gesture takes in the room, the golden child within, the pretty dress I am wearing, the pretty woman he thinks me to be, ‘everything.’
His lips move downwards in concern but not before I glimpse the slight smile in his eyes. ‘There, there, don’t upset yourself.’ He pats me on the cheek. ‘Just try and be more mindful of my needs in the future. You know how I have only now got my confidence back after that dreadful fallow period. It’s something altogether new to me, not being able to work, feeling that the fire has cooled and fearing, dreading, Louisa, dreading, that it might have died for good. I’m not saying that this had anything to do with your presence in my life, although the tensions you create at times can be very wearing. But without my work, Louisa, I might as well be dead. Dead, do you hear? And now I am feeling better, you seem at times to go out of your way to upset me. It’s not what I expected, Louisa.’ Following his little speech he walks to the door. His steps are light. He turns in the doorway and his face has relaxed. ‘Don’t forget our guests. They are asked for twelve o’clock. It would be a nice surprise for me to see you there on time and with a smile.’
I dress for luncheon, weighed down by guilt. According to my husband, I create tension, upset the equilibrium of the household, endanger his art. I stand in front of the glass and stare at my wretched reflection. Was it really so? Had my uneasy presence stopped him from working? I, who loved him? I, who wanted to understand his work? What kind of a woman did that make me? An ungrateful one, and a failure. I had set out to be his love, his friend and his inspiration; mine would be the calm spirit reigning in his house, making it a haven of solace for his tumultuous soul. I would be the softness where Lydia had been harsh; the quiet light where she had been blinding. Instead, I am just another shrill voice in the cacophony around him. How had I got it so wrong? At times he called me sharp and crass; at others a moping dragging thing. But he is the moody one. Of course, with Arthur the cause and the justification is the artistic temperament. I raise my hands to my throbbing temples. Thoughts rush round my head colliding with each other. It was wrong of him to lay the dark clouds at my door. I was mostly even-tempered. Maybe not inside, but I took great pains not to let him know. It is as if, when looking at me, he sees himself reflected – his bad temper, his despondency, his petulance – and thinks it is me.
‘Your husband has recommended an excellent teacher for Viola,’ Lady Glastonbury is saying.
‘Teacher, Lady Glastonbury, what kind of teacher?’
‘For Viola’s painting.’ She looks across the table at Arthur, her smile approving, warm, grateful. ‘He has arranged for wonderful Monsieur Grandjean to come to the house two afternoons a week. Derek has had a little studio built just for the purpose.’
‘Yes, Arthur, you have been most helpful.’ Viola is sincere but as always her eyes seem to be laughing as if at a joke of which only she is aware. I want to see what she sees through those merry eyes, but I’m too big – galumphing, Arthur says, in jest of course. Sitting there at the table I have a vision of myself galloping across a field with a net held high, like an inept butterfly catcher, chasing Viola’s elusive jokes, and I begin to laugh. Everyone turns to look at me.
‘Is something amusing you, Louisa?’ Lydia’s question is phrased like a reproach.
‘I’m sorry.’ I make my face placid, my voice soft. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention. I was thinking about something that … that Georgie said.’
‘Why don’t you join me for my lessons?’ Viola asks me. ‘I would love some company and I believe you have an eye. I have admired your flowers on many occasions.’
Lydia’s face assumes a look as if the maid had just spilt gravy down her best silk frock. ‘Are you sure it’s not Jane’s arrangements you’ve noticed?’
Viola turns and looks at Jane Dale who sits so quietly at her end of the table. ‘I’m sure Jane has excellent taste but I believe I am thinking of Louisa’s flowers, the colours she uses. I myself would never have thought of putting such combinations into the same arrangement but when Louisa does it it looks like it is the only way.’
‘I would hold you back,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t picked up a brush or a piece of charcoal since I was a girl at school.’
‘You will be fine, Louisa. And anyway, mine is a very small talent, really a facility more than anything.’
‘Don’t do yourself down, Viola,’ my husband says. ‘Claude Grandjean tells me your watercolours of the gardens at Horton Hall are quite charming.’ He spears a piece of mutton on his fork as he looks at me. ‘Why don’t you take Viola up on her invitation, Louisa? It would do you good to get out of the house. There, I think it’s a capital idea.’
‘Don’t you think it’s enough with one artist in the family?’ I ask, but I feel happier suddenly.
‘I don’t know that we shall consider you an artist quite yet, Louisa,’ Arthur says, but he is smiling, well fed and benevolent.
‘Then yes, if you are sure, Viola, I should love to join you.’ I turn to my husband. ‘And, Arthur, I shall have a much better understanding of your work as a result. I might be of real use.’
He wipes his mouth. ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself, Louisa. One step at a time and then we shall see.’
I don’t know what gets into me at times; I drop my knife and fork on to my plate, the heat rising in my cheeks. ‘Why do you always have to slap me down, Arthur, the moment I feel some enthusiasm?’
Arthur is angry, throwing words at me over his shoulder as he strides off towards the studio. He tells me I put on a performance to embarrass him in front of his guests. I note that he says his guests. I follow him, anxious to explain that it is hurt that makes me say those things, not spite, and that the last thing I wish to do is to embarrass him. ‘Arthur dear, wait.’
‘I’ve said my piece.’
I catch up with him and place my hand on his sleeve. He halts. If he were a statue I would name it Impatience. ‘Yes, speak.’
I let my hand drop. ‘No, you go. It’s nothing.’
I am alone in my room, reading by the open window, when Arthur steps inside, having knocked first. He has made an effort to wash the paint from his hands and face and his hair is slicked down and wet still. But for the beard he looks like a little boy who knows he has upset you but is also aware that he need do very little to be forgiven. I try to remain stern.
‘Louisa.’ He steps towards me, both hands outstretched. ‘Louisa, my temperamental little wife.’ He takes my hands and smiles down at me, amused and loving. My head spins with this sudden turnaround. ‘I should be more understanding of my little girl’s moods and fancies.’ His smile is rueful. I smile back at him and my cheeks turn hot as he takes me in his arms and waltzes me round the bedroom singing:
Dance little doll, dance while you can,
Dance little doll while you’re young,
For soon you’ll be old and so heavy.
Dance little doll, dance while you’re young and lovely,
Because soon you’ll be old and have no one to dance with.
In his light I felt as if I was painted bright. I look at myself in the glass after he has gone. ‘Why, Louisa, you’re quite the beauty.’
When you touch Arthur he is always warm; even in winter with the fire cold in the grate. But he is wanted in so many places. He is constantly on the move, and I’m left shivering in his shadow.
Viola is making good progress, delighting Monsieur Grandjean with her neatness and her delicate colours. My work pleases him less.
‘Too much colour.’ He peers over my shoulder at the easel. ‘Too much wildness. This is crudeness, Madame. You go over lines and use these colours as if they were oils. But these are watercolours; water, Madame. They should be applied with the light hand. Look at Miss Viola,
how delicate is her work, how right for a lady to paint.’
I can see from Viola’s profile that she is trying not to laugh. ‘But, Monsieur Grandjean, this is what I see.’ I point out at the gardens. ‘How can I paint it otherwise? Look at the borders out there and you’ll see that I’m right. Those plants might look so neat, so groomed and staked, but look again and you will see how they struggle to get free from the wire and how they clamber over the edges of the borders in their eagerness to escape.’
Monsieur Grandjean sighs and shrugs. I don’t believe he’s paid to work too hard with us. He contents himself with saying that my eyes must be very different from his, if that is what I see when gazing out at the immaculate gardens of Northbourne Manor.
Viola and I take tea together after the lesson. It pleases Arthur that I have become friends with Miss Glastonbury and it surprises him. He would deny it, of course, but I know he asks himself why would someone as jolly, as well connected, as spoilt for choice as Viola Glastonbury choose his poor Louisa as her companion.
‘Your landscapes are strange,’ Viola says. ‘What a frightening world you see. And yet beautiful too.’ Her smile turns mischievous as she asks, ‘So what about me, how do I look through those strange eyes of yours?’
I pause to study her; teasing because I know her face well enough already. ‘Pure,’ I say finally. ‘Good and kind. And beautiful.’ Viola laughs but she is blushing. ‘Yellow,’ I add, ‘and bright pink and orange.’
Shooting Butterflies Page 19
