“Charlotte, I’m not a racehorse.”
“You know what I mean. You are so well suited.”
We are both witches, I add silently to myself. I know this is the main reason my father wanted me to marry Louis. He, of all people, knew how hard it was to have such a secret casting a shadow over a marriage. With a non-witch for a husband I would never truly be able to be myself. To be totally honest. To let my guard down. And now I have the mystery challenger to think about. Someone wanted to see me fail. How can I concern myself with weddings at the moment? But, of course, I cannot make this point to Charlotte.
“Oh, look, Lily, this must be the place!” she cries, leaning out of the carriage window for a better view of the unremarkable brick town house.
We step from the carriage into dazzling sunshine, which dances prettily off Charlotte’s becoming, slender dress, making the pale blue shimmer. I feel suddenly drab and unattractive in my somewhat old-fashioned black gown.
“Come along, Lily.” Charlotte takes my arm and all but drags me up the steps to the house. “I can’t wait to meet the famous Richard Mangan! They say he has a beard like a Russian tsar and a growl like a grizzly bear.”
“Both of which sound insufferably hot to me.”
“Now, now. No gloom. Not today. Let’s try and be merry just for a short time, shall we?”
I manage to smile and nod but am unsure that I will succeed in being convincingly merry. Finding the front door open we step inside. The hallway is cool and dark, with not a sign of anyone to receive us. I have to remind myself that Charlotte believes this to be the first time I have ever set foot in the house, or ever encountered any of its occupants.
“Hello?” Charlotte sings out. “Hello, anybody there?”
We venture farther in, navigating the gloomy space, walking around discarded shoes and toys. Sounds of chiseling emanate from the back of the house.
“His studio must be that way,” says Charlotte, forging ahead.
“Shouldn’t we wait for someone? We can’t just barge in,” I tell her, trying to act as I would if it were true this was my first visit to the place.
“Of course we can. This is an artist’s house. Things work differently here, you’ll see.” She strides on. With a sigh, I follow. We clamber over assorted boxes and heaps of unknowable objects until the hallway opens out through a gaping hole in the wall and we step into the studio itself. Charlotte gives a little gasp as she takes in the scene. I am shocked, too. Charlotte is doing her utmost not to stare at the very beautiful and very naked model reclining on a table on the far side of the room. The sculptor stands, hammer and chisel in hand, entirely absorbed in working a likeness of the woman’s form into the rough lump of stone in front of him.
The model returns our bashful glances with an expression that shows not the merest hint of embarrassment, and she makes no effort to cover herself up. Instead she says in a rather bored voice, “Mangan, you have visitors.”
I recognize her now as the woman I saw with Mangan outside the opium den. I remember that glorious red hair and her German accent.
With difficulty, Mangan forces himself to turn from his work. He frowns at us so fiercely I half expect him to start ranting and raving again, but I know that however great his reputation for wild living, he takes his work seriously, and is not drunk today.
Charlotte finds her voice and steps forward, hand extended. “Mr. Mangan…” she begins.
“Mangan will suffice. I want none of your ‘Mister,’ thank you.”
“Oh.” She tries again. “Charlotte Pilkington-Adams. We … I … have an appointment. Do you recall?” When he changes his expression to one of blankness she goes on. “The commission? You agreed you would undertake a sculpture of myself. For my parents.”
“Ah yes!” He is at once animated, throwing his tools to the ground to clasp and shake Charlotte’s hand. “The society beauty, delivering herself into my rough hands.” Charlotte blushes a little at this but is not given the chance to speak. “You are brave, child, as well as deliciously innocent and fresh.” He lets his fingers rest lightly on first her hair and then her cheek before gently turning her face a little to the side, the better to examine it in the light. “You have about you the look of the perfect maid, untouched save by God’s hand. Delightful!” he booms, causing Charlotte to jump. “You understand I rarely accept commissions.”
“Indeed, it is so good of you…”
“But when I saw you, when we were introduced—where was it? Some wretched ball or other Gudrun had dragged me to.”
Behind him the model stirs slowly, sitting up and pulling a diaphanous robe about her. “It was the Asquiths” summer ball, Mangan.”
“I barely remember it.”
“Why would you?” she says. “You were very drunk.”
“Yet I remember this face. Yes.” He takes Charlotte’s chin in both hands now, his eyes alight with inspiration. “I remember knowing I must work with this face.”
Fighting his mesmerizing gaze, Charlotte mutters, “This is my good friend, Lady Lilith Montgomery.”
Mangan plays his part well. He turns to me as if only just noticing my presence and steps forward, studying me closely.
“And another beauty,” he says, apparently to himself. “Oh, a very different manner of harmony in these features. Such strength. Such … elegance.”
Now I feel like a racehorse again. And how I dislike the duplicity, the lies that our secret identities compel us to live out.
“And you have no desire to be immortalized in stone?” he asks me suddenly.
“I don’t believe I would like immortality,” I reply. “Nor do I find the medium of stone appealing.”
Charlotte shoots me a look. Even the model seems surprised by such a statement. Mangan is stunned into a moment’s silence before letting out a bellow of laughter.
“Boldness in a young woman—a rare thing!” he declares.
“But honesty is not, I hope.”
“I’m sure Lilith did not mean to give offense.” Charlotte gently attempts to smooth things over.
“Are you?” Mangan asks, throwing me a covert wink, so that I have to resist my own urge to smile. “I am not so certain. But”—he waves his arms in an expansive gesture—“she is your friend, sweet child. You know her better than I. Now, come, let me show you some more of my work. And we will arrange a time for sketches. If I am to sculpt this innocent visage I must explore its every detail. I must know it. Gudrun!” he barks. “Must our guests die of thirst in this house?”
She shrugs. “If they did you would no doubt pick up your hammer and let their corpses be your models.”
“Morbid woman! Go and find Jane. She will care that our guests are properly looked after if you do not.”
“Jane has gone out, with the children. You sent them out because they were making too much noise.”
He grunts. “Families are both a blessing and a curse. Still, you may yet discover the kitchen if you look hard enough.”
Scowling at the way in which she is dismissed, Gudrun flounces from the studio, the chiffon of her gown billowing as she moves, exposing her body shamelessly. On leaving she passes a tall man in the doorway. He emerges from the darkness of the hall and I recognize him at once—for his face has often come unbidden to my mind since we first met—and I recall our conversation outside the house of Mr. Chow Li. His striking appearance is not easily forgotten.
Mangan, who has ushered Charlotte into the part of the studio that is mostly under glass, calls back. “Bram! Come in. Come and meet these divine women. I mean to have them both model for me, though the dark one is reluctant. See what you can do to persuade her, why don’t you?”
At least he has the good grace to look uncomfortable at such an introduction. Though perhaps he is merely ill at ease because he knows I am aware of the sort of place he chooses to frequent.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” he says a little stiffly, and gives an awkward nod of the head that isn’t quite
a bow, before changing his mind and offering me his hand. It is clear to me he has no more grasp of the topsy-turvy conventions of an artist’s home than the rest of us. I shake his hand.
“We have already met,” I remind him. “Or had you forgotten?”
“I would have to be blind or stupid or both to have forgotten you,” he says, and then adds, “but on that occasion we were not introduced.”
“It was hardly a place for formalities.”
“You know it well?”
I try not to let my discomfort show on my face. “Of necessity. I am compelled to go there on occasion to collect my … a family member who…”
“I see,” Bram cuts in. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Sorry that my relative is so afflicted, or sorry that I do not share your love of such a destructive pastime?”
He flinches as if I have struck him. With a glance in Mangan’s direction, and lowering his voice slightly he says, “There are those who suffer lapses in character from time to time. Perhaps it is unkind to judge them.”
“Indeed.” I refuse to be won over by his argument. “And yet to see a friend in such a state and to encourage them…”
“Encourage?”
“Have you not considered that a person already in thrall to the dreadful substance might find it easier to abstain if those he kept company with did so also?” Even though I know Mangan’s indulgence in opium is an infrequent and small thing, less so than his drinking, indeed, I cannot let the thing rest. It distresses me that this apparently well-mannered and intelligent young man should think Mr. Chow Li’s a worthwhile place to visit at all. I hear myself being unkind, intolerant, unreasonable, even, but I cannot stop myself. Why should it matter what this stranger does or thinks or feels?
“My abstinence has no bearing on my mentor’s actions, I assure you.”
“Do you know that? Have you tried even to modify your own behavior?”
Bram opens his mouth to respond but says nothing. The silence between us grows.
He has no answer to that. Spirits save us, how I detest what the drug does to people. Good, clever, gifted people, ruined. I do not trust myself to discuss it further. I’m here for Charlotte, I must not spoil things for her. Mangan has his dissolute moments, but he is a decent, caring man beneath the image of outlandish genius. I do not know this other artist well enough to assume the same is true of him.
At last Mangan’s voice shatters the uncomfortable moment. “Cease your dithering, man, and come here. Cast your eyes upon this delicious example of young womanhood. How would you paint her, Bram, tell me that? How would you capture that essence of the ingénue, eh?”
I follow Bram as he answers Mangan’s summons. I walk in the cool of his shadow. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to reveal strong forearms which are splattered with paint, and he moves with an easy gait. He wears his hair longer than most men of my acquaintance, and has about him the sense of someone breaking free of their fetters. I find conflicting thoughts chasing through my mind. I have no time for wastrels and hedonists, and yet there is something undeniably attractive about this man. Something beyond his dark good looks and lithe body. Something more.
When we find her, Charlotte is glowing with excitement. She grabs hold of my arm and whispers urgently in my ear.
“Isn’t Mangan simply marvelous? I can’t wait for him to begin work. Imagine, little me being transformed into art by him!”
“I find it hard to believe your parents agreed to this. Have they met Mr. Mangan?”
“Oh yes, at the Asquiths” do. Though they’ve never been here of course.” She laughs gaily. “Mama would faint away at the sight of Gudrun, though I think Pa would become a regular visitor if he knew what went on here.”
“Better not tell him, then.”
“I shan’t. This will be my place to come where I can shake off all silly convention and etiquette, just for a few hours. Oh, Lilith, it’s going to be such fun!”
Mangan throws an arm around Bram’s shoulders. “I am to undertake a rare commission of Miss…”
“Charlotte. Please, call me Charlotte.”
“… You should paint her while she sits for me. What do you think to that idea?”
Bram smiles, and I am irritated to find myself responding to the warmth in his face, the sincerity of the gesture.
“I’d love to paint you, Charlotte. If you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Heavens, no! I’d be delighted. A portrait as well as a sculpture in stone! Are you famous yet? Oh, never mind, I’m sure you will be soon. When can we begin? My engagement diary is practically empty, I swear. There is nothing to do this time of year.”
“Charlotte,” I feel obliged to be the voice of caution, “don’t you think you should consult your father first? About the painting, I mean. After all, they only agreed you might sit for Mr. Mangan…”
The sculptor gives another loud guffaw. “You’ve nothing to fear from Bram, I promise you. A man of unquestionable integrity. I’d call him a gentleman if I didn’t consider the name an insult. A fine fellow, solid and honest as the day is long.”
Mangan bustles Charlotte out into the garden to show her some of his larger works. Bram remains, his head tilted slightly to one side, as if waiting for something more from me.
“I’m sure I appear very … cautious to you,” I say, finding myself uncomfortable beneath his gaze.
“Your friend will be quite safe here with us.”
“Perhaps. Until you take it into your heads to have her accompany you on one of your … outings.”
Bram’s smile disappears completely, to be replaced by an expression somewhere between hurt and anger.
“I see you have already formed a very low opinion of me,” he says.
“I have no opinion of you.”
“That’s not true. You think you know me, and you have judged me. Which is a pity,” he goes on. “I would far rather you thought well of me. I’m not sure why it matters that you do, but it does.”
For a moment I stare at him. It is so unlike me to be at a loss for words that I am thrown, disconcerted by what he has said, and by the way he is looking at me.
The front door of the house is flung open and a squealing gaggle of children charge down the hallway and into the studio.
“Pa! Pa! We are home!” cry what must surely be twins in unison as they belt past us, a large shaggy dog on their heels, and several more children, all equally vociferous in their search for their father. They roar out into the garden where Mangan can be heard greeting them happily. A flustered woman brings up the rear. She looks hot and out of breath but still finds a smile with which to greet me.
“Ah, you must be the lovely Pilkington-Adams girl I’ve heard so much about. Mangan is simply longing to sculpt you.” She yanks her hat from her head and mops her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Where have those children got to? Freedom has ice cream all down his shirt front. The dog’s eaten most of everybody else’s and is bound to be sick any minute. Children!” she calls as she trails out after them. “Children, you are too sticky to go near your father. Come and be washed. Oh! Hello there, who are you?” she asks, clearly having got as far as Charlotte.
Bram steps toward the hall. “That was Jane, Mangan’s wife,” he explains. “She’s chaotic and harassed, but she’d give you her last bowl of stew. Around here that means something. Try not to judge her too quickly.” And without giving me a chance to reply he disappears into the dark depths of the house.
Jane marches back in from the garden dragging two small children with her.
“Bram gone? I was hoping he’d help me bathe George. Wretched dog has candyfloss in its fur as well as ice cream and Mangan won’t allow it back in the house in such a state. Can’t think why not, it’s no stickier than his offspring. Leo, stop wriggling, do. You will be washed,” she insists.
“Does he often do things like that? Help you give the dog a bath and … suchlike?”
“Oh, Bram is a sweetie. Couldn’t
wish for nicer. I know he looks very Byronesque, and he does have a tendency to brood if he’s on his own too much, but we see to it he’s kept sociable.” She laughs. “A person does not have a choice in the matter in this house. He’s only been with us a few weeks, but he gets on famously with everyone. And the children adore him.” She shakes her head. “Do you know he had barely set foot in the door, his very first day in London, and I sent him off to retrieve Mangan from that dreadful Mr. Chow Li’s clutches? Not that you’ll know who I’m talking about. Vincent, if you try to bite your brother again there will be consequences.” She strides onward, hauling her reluctant charges with her, but has not entirely vanished into the gloom of the hallway before she calls back over her shoulder. “That’s a tremendously dear man, you know, and such a talented artist. A very rare bird indeed.”
7.
Bram regards the portrait on the easel in front of him with deepening disappointment. He has been working on it for days, now. He had taken Mangan’s advice and wandered the streets with his sketchbook, seeking inspiration. He has drawn scene after scene of the city: Oxord street shoppers, an overturned milk cart, a flower stall, the Thames at twilight. All interesting subjects, and good material to work with, but nothing that truly stirred him. He persuaded a chestnut seller to come to his studio and be painted, in the hope that a model would be more satisfying to paint directly, rather than working from sketches. The sitter had been patient and stoic, only mentioning once that, as he was still wearing his heavy coat and fingerless mittens, the studio was uncomfortably hot.
At the time Bram had been moderately pleased with the finished picture, but now, only a few days later, it fails to please.
There is a reasonable likeness and a convincing skin tone. The composition is satisfactory. The draftsmanship professional. There is, in fact, nothing technically wrong with the painting, it is just … dull. Dull and flat and lifeless. Where is the flair? The spark of life? The character in the features? The beauty? I can’t show this to Mangan.
An image of Lilith’s face, bold and graceful, springs up before his mind’s eye. His joy at seeing her again, at discovering her identity, at knowing she is not lost to him, is tempered by her reaction to him. He recalls the way she spoke to him, the way she judged him, and the memory irks him anew. She was quick to label him as contemptuous, on scant evidence.
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