by Valerie Wood
He heard Mariabella’s foot on the stairs at the same time as the carriage drew up outside the door, and he stood by the window to glimpse the man descending from it. He saw his face as he turned to pay the driver; not a tall man, but stockily built, a long nose and a short, pointed beard. He wore a dark frock-coat and a top hat on his dark hair, and was carrying a bouquet of flowers in his hand. James cursed beneath his breath for not having thought of bringing flowers for Mariabella also. He waited and listened as Mariabella went to the door herself to greet her friend and heard her happy exclamation as she bid him enter.
‘Buon giorno, caríssima.’ He heard the deeper tones of Romanelli. ‘It is so good to see you after so long.’
‘Buon giorno, buon giorno, Massimo. You look so well!’
He heard their laughter and a language that he couldn’t understand, and felt young and vulnerable again and wished that they would come in and introduce him so that he might get the moment over.
They came into the room, Mariabella holding on to her visitor’s arm, and James saw, now that Romanelli had removed his hat, that he was quite a handsome fellow, his hair dark and curly with white streaks about his temples and in his beard, blue eyes which creased at the edges when he smiled. But he was much older than Mariabella, and then James remembered that she had said that he had been a friend of her father’s.
‘James! How good to see you.’ She extended her hand as if she hadn’t seen him in a long time, and James bent formally and kissed her wrist.
‘You look well, Madame. So good of you to invite me,’ he murmured and was gratified to see a look of approval in her eyes.
She turned to Romanelli, ‘Posso presentarie—? Massimo, may I introduce James Foster Rayner. James, this is my very good friend, Massimiliano Romanelli, who is on a visit from Florence. I wished for you to meet. I think you will have much to discuss.’
James put out his hand. ‘Signor Romanelli. How are you, sir?’
Romanelli took his hand and shook it and gave a small formal bow. ‘Molto bene, grazie. Any friend of Signora Sinclair, I am very happy to meet.’ He gazed thoughtfully at James. ‘You are a painter, yes?’
‘Yes, sir. At least that is what I hope to be. I am taking instruction from Batsford.’
‘Aah. How is Batsford? I must call on him. He is a good teacher, you are lucky to have him. He is a better teacher than painter. He knows better how to tell it than how to do it himself.’
‘Are you a painter, sir?’ James asked diffidently, not wanting to show his ignorance if the man should be famous. ‘Your name seems familiar.’
Romanelli shrugged. ‘It is a common enough name, but I am known as an art critic, not as an artist.’
‘He could have been the very best artist,’ Mariabella interrupted, tapping Romanelli on the arm with her fan, ‘if he had wanted to be.’
‘If I had not been lazy,’ he laughingly agreed. ‘If I had not had a rich wife and had to earn my own living. I had no fire in my belly for painting – my passions were directed elsewhere.’ He looked tenderly at Mariabella and smiled. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, and once more James was filled with doubts. ‘But,’ Romanelli turned to James, ‘your name, too, is familiar. Many years ago I knew a family with the name Foster-Rayner.’ He rolled his r’s as Mariabella did. ‘They lived in Yorkshire. They were very fond of the arts and music, and invited artists and writers and musicians into their home.’
‘Oh!’ James was astonished. ‘It must have been my aunt and uncle, Arthur and Henrietta Rayner. They live in York. Foster is our middle name, from my grandmother. All our family have it.’
‘Yes, yes, that was the family.’ Romanelli rubbed his hands together. ‘And you, you have taken the full name, yes? It will look well on your paintings, that is why, I think.’
James blushed. ‘That is what I thought. Yes.’ Did it seem terribly snobbish? he wondered. Romanelli seemed to be scrutinizing him rather intensely. Perhaps he thinks that I am pretentious – but then it is my name! Why shouldn’t I use it?
‘And you, too, are from that ancient city of York? A place where Italians can feel almost at home.’ Romanelli spoke to Mariabella in their native tongue and James guessed that he was describing the Roman remains of York, for he caught the words of Eboracum and colonia, principia, and via praetoria.
He turned again to James. ‘Yes. It was a wonderful time for me. It was a long time ago – nearly twenty years, but I have never forgotten that period of my life.’
James nodded. ‘It is a wonderful place, that is where I found my love of art. I was at school there, though my home was not there. I live – lived, east of York, in the village of Anlaby near the port of Hull. My father is in shipping.’ His voice trailed away as Romanelli’s eyes flickered intently over him.
Romanelli stroked his beard. ‘Indeed? May I sit down, my dear?’ he asked of Mariabella who was still standing.
‘Si, si. Excuse me. Of course. How remiss of me. And you will take a little wine or coffee?’ She rang the bell for the maid and Romanelli sat down on one of the sofas and continued to peruse James.
‘Then I have met your parents.’ Romanelli gave a dry cough. ‘The – erm – Rayners in York had a brother and his wife staying with them at the time. They were from Anlaby. I visited them at their home.’
James was even more astonished. ‘Really, sir? How extraordinary.’
‘Yes,’ Romanelli murmured, cupping his hands together and tapping his fingertips. ‘Isn’t it!’
They had coffee and cakes with Mariabella and then Romanelli asked James to accompany him to see Batsford, where he would look at his work and hear what was happening in the art circles of London.
James reluctantly said goodbye to Mariabella; she did not invite him to return with Romanelli, and he kissed her hand and wished that he could have spoken to her privately before leaving. She expressed the wish that he would find his father improved, and requested that he call on her on his return.
‘William Morris is the man to look out for,’ Romanelli said as they walked along the riverside. ‘He has much talent. One day he will be famous the world over. You will do well to study him.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ James agreed. ‘I have met him and had conversation with him, and with Burne-Jones; but the painter I most want to meet is Rossetti.’
‘He will be returning to London in a few days, I met him in Paris only last week. I will introduce you.’
James felt a quiver of excitement. ‘I would be so grateful. Do you know him well?’
Romanelli nodded. ‘Well enough. We have known each other for a long time. His father came to England as a political exile, and his home in London was always open to other Italians. But to talk again of your family,’ he added. ‘Your father is sick, I heard you say?’
‘I received a letter from my brother saying that he was, and so I decided that I would return home for a few days.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Romanelli murmured. ‘I trust that he will make a good recovery. And your mother? She is well?’
‘I believe so,’ James said dismissively. ‘Gilbert said that she was worried.’
‘Gilbert? Your brother? I remember him also, I think. He was only a small child but I remember his orange hair.’
‘His red hair!’ James laughed. How Gilbert would hate to have his despised hair described as orange. ‘Most of my family, my cousins and uncles, have various shades of red or fair hair. Except me,’ he added. ‘I take after my mother.’
‘Of course.’ Romanelli glanced at him as they neared Batsford’s studio. ‘She was very dark – and quite beautiful. Is she still?’
‘My mother?’ He had never thought of his mother as ever having being beautiful. No. His mother, he was convinced, had never been remotely beautiful, she was too sullen and morose, there was no inner light within her to give any kind of loveliness.
Romanelli slowed down and then stopped to look over the river. He stood with his arms folded in front of him and gazed out tow
ards Battersea Bridge. ‘Si,’ he said softly. ‘You perhaps would not think it of your mama, children rarely do. But – si, she was very beautiful. She was enchanting and joyous. Milly.’ He dropped his voice to a mere whisper. ‘Milly bella.’
24
Gilbert was convinced that Harriet was softening towards him. He had been attentive and devoted towards her during their stay in Scarborough, making sure that she enjoyed her visit to the fashionable spa resort without any nervous apprehension. He even tenderly bathed a blister on her foot, which came from walking in unsuitable shoes down the cliff path from the Esplanade to the Spa, where she desired to try the efficacious mineral waters so recommended by doctors and health seekers. Gilbert declined to do the same, being quite put off by its russet colour and odd smell, and declared that he would rather bathe in the sea, for it would surely do as much good. Harriet was reluctant to bathe publicly, although the bathing machines appeared to be discreetly situated, and so they both decided that as the wind was cool, perhaps they would leave the experience for another time.
From the Spa Terrace they looked down at the wide sweep of sands and viewed the lighthouse at the end of the Vincent Pier: the cluster of red-roofed houses nestling in the shelter of the tree-covered headland, and to the right of the picturesque ancient church of St Mary, which clung to the side of the hill, the remains of the castle stood dominant, defiant and protective above the town.
They crossed the ornate iron Cliff Bridge to visit the town and could still hear the faint strains of music coming from the Spa’s Gothic Saloon, but which was almost lost by the screech of seagulls, such an integral sound of Scarborough.
Harriet appeared puzzled by his attitude towards her, expecting, it seemed, that he should be demanding of her and not so attentive and thoughtful as he obviously was; and he thought that she was trying in little ways to please him, as if she felt guilt over the conflict between her desire to be an obedient and good wife and the abhorrent fear within her of what lay ahead in the marriage bed. He did not demand anything of her, and left her each night to sleep alone while he slept on the daybed in the sitting-room of their suite.
On their last evening before returning home, she had been particularly tender towards him, giving him her whole attention during their conversation, and holding his hand in a caressing, loving way as they listened to the concert in the New Hall. Yet still he did not suggest that he came to her bed, and she retired with a sad and confused look on her face.
He awoke at about two o’clock in the morning; the moon was shedding its light into the room and he was startled to see Harriet standing there, clad only in her bedgown. ‘What is it, Harriet? Are you unwell?’ He threw the blanket from him and went towards her.
‘No, I’m not ill, Gilbert. I couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I’m sorry to disturb you – I thought perhaps a little wine or cordial, if there was any, might help me relax.’
He smiled. Harriet drank very little wine, it was unlikely that she would crave it to help her into oblivion. ‘Come here,’ he said softly. ‘Sit by me.’ She did as he suggested and lay her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and put his arms around her. ‘There,’ he whispered, ‘is that better?’
‘Yes, thank you, Gilbert. You are so good to me. I don’t deserve you.’
He turned her head towards him and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. ‘What nonsense is this?’ he whispered. ‘It is I who does not deserve you.’
‘No,’ she protested. ‘I have failed you. I have not fulfilled my duty towards you.’
He tensed. So she still had this idiotic idea that it was a woman’s duty to please her husband. He said nothing, but stroked her arm and shoulder, running his hand up and down her soft skin. His hand brushed against her breast and he felt her tremble. He touched her gently, his fingers feather-light against the curves beneath her cotton bedgown, and she gave small gasping breaths. He kissed her again, small loving kisses against her cheeks, her ears, her throat, while his hands explored her breasts and tiny waist. She looked at him, her face white in the moonlight, her lips parted and her eyes enormous.
‘Come,’ he whispered and pulled her to her feet. ‘Look.’ He led her to the window. Below them, across the Esplanade, the sea was bathed by the bright light of the moon, the white wave crests sparkling with silver as they rushed to the shore and the sands bleached white. ‘See how beautiful it is.’
‘Gilbert,’ she breathed. ‘I think that perhaps I am ready for you.’
He kissed her once more on her mouth, holding her face between his hands. ‘Not yet,’ he said softly. ‘Not yet. Goodnight my darling, go back to bed,’ and he turned her around and propelled her towards the bedroom door.
She barely spoke on the journey home; they travelled by train, and in the company of other passengers there wasn’t the opportunity to talk privately, but Gilbert was bright and breezy, pointing out various items of interest in the fields and villages as they passed through, which Harriet looked at with large soulful eyes, but made no comment.
When they arrived back at Hull’s Paragon Station, he took her home in a hired carriage, and said that he was just slipping out to the office to see if all was well and that he would be home for supper. As it was late, most of the clerks had gone, but Billy was still there, as was Hardwick, who greeted Gilbert with some relief.
‘I don’t want to bother you now, sir, when you have just got back,’ Hardwick looked worried, ‘but we have no news of ’Star Two; she hasn’t been seen since leaving ’Shetlands.’
‘Good heavens, man. It’s far too early to start worrying, she won’t have reached the ice fields yet.’
‘No, we know that, Gilbert,’ Billy interrupted. ‘It’s just that the Frances May returned early with a damaged hull and reported that they hadn’t seen sight of her, even though they left at the same time.’
Gilbert dismissed their worries. ‘I’ll make enquiries tomorrow, but I still think it is too early to have any fears about her. Have you heard news of my father?’ he enquired of Billy.
‘My father said he looked quite well when he left him the day after the wedding, but there is bad news of Uncle Thomas.’ Billy told him of their uncle’s fall from the top of the mill. ‘Sammi is still there with them; Betsy has taken it very badly, and Tom and George are working like ten men, now that Mark has left.’
Gilbert commiserated and said that he would try to get out and see them, though he knew deep down that he wouldn’t, especially if Sammi was there and there was a chance that he might see the child again. His conscience was very troubled when he thought of them, and he was still in a quandary as to what to do. How I would hate Harriet to find out.
He bathed when he got home and changed for supper, and saw that Harriet had arranged flowers on the dining table which was set with the silver and crystal they had been given as wedding presents.
‘I think the maid will do very well, Gilbert,’ Harriet said. ‘So I hope that we can keep her. As for Cook, well, we shall see tonight whether she is worth the money we are paying her.’
Gilbert grimaced, the payment for servants had never before occurred to him; his mother had always taken care of that matter and, as far as he knew, she never had recourse to his father over any difficulty with them.
Cook excelled herself at this, their first meal in their new home. Turtle soup was presented first, followed by plaice fried in butter and lemon juice, a sorbet to cleanse their palates came next, and a third course of mutton pie in small pastry cases was served with mushrooms and parsley.
‘I asked Cook to keep the supper light,’ Harriet said as Tilly brought in the dessert of gooseberry pie and cream. ‘I thought after our journey it was best not to eat too heartily, as we shall probably want to retire early.’
‘Quite right, my dear.’ Gilbert poured another glass of wine. ‘I am a little weary. Will you take more wine?’
‘Yes please.’ She finished off the wine in her glass. ‘It is quite pleasant.’
He glan
ced at her in surprise, he thought she had pulled a wry face on taking her first sip. ‘Here,’ he smiled. ‘Put a little sugar in it. You may prefer it.’ He passed her the silver sugar bowl which had been brought in with the dessert. ‘Not that you need sugar, my darling. You look sweet and lovely enough.’
She blushed, a soft pink on her cheeks, her hair fell in dark ringlets around her face, and the white bodice of her gown was cut low, emphasizing the rounded swelling of her breasts.
‘I don’t recall seeing you in that gown before, Harriet. Is it new?’
She shook her head. ‘The skirt I have had since last year, and the bodice even longer.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘It was a high neck, you may remember, and – and I decided to adapt it.’
‘I see.’
She had been busily sewing in her room when he had returned home and had glanced up in some confusion when he looked in at her. The bodice was very revealing and he hoped that she wouldn’t wear it when they were out in other company. He didn’t want his wife’s charms on display for other men to see.
At half-past ten he made a great show of yawning and stretching, and announced that he would go up to bed. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Harriet.’ He bent over and kissed her on her cheek. ‘I’ll look in on you before I leave.’
She looked up at him in bewilderment. ‘But Gilbert,’ her voice wavered, ‘you don’t have to use the spare room.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said lightly, ‘there’s no need to worry; I shall sleep perfectly soundly. It’s a very good bed. Don’t stay up too late and overtire yourself. Goodnight.’
He saw tears glisten in her eyes and her lips trembled, but he turned away and closed the door behind him.
