That Summer

by Lauren Willig

  Gavin turned and saw Miss Grantham hurrying down the slope, flounces fluttering in the breeze, one hand holding on to the light shawl that threatened to slip from her shoulders. He had been so focused on Mrs. Grantham that he had failed to hear the sounds of Miss Evangeline’s approach.

  “Mr. Thorne.” Miss Grantham ducked her head in greeting. She grabbed at her wrap as it threatened to slip from her shoulders. “I do beg your pardon for the interruption, Mama, but Aunt Jane says we’re to remind you that we’re to call on the Misses Cranbourne at four.”

  On the verandah behind the house, Gavin could see a shadowy figure watching. Aunt Jane, he presumed. The one who didn’t like the works of Mrs. Gaskell.

  “Is it already that time?” Mrs. Grantham rose with an alacrity that belied her words.

  Miss Grantham made a face. “Yes. I tried to make Aunt Jane believe I had the plague, but she was most unsympathetic.”

  “You’re short a few boils,” said Mrs. Grantham, but there was a depth of warmth to her voice that Gavin wouldn’t have expected of her. The corners of her lips turned up in a suspicion of a smile.

  He wouldn’t have suspected her of having a sense of humor, either, but there it was, hiding away in the corners of her lips, in the light in her eyes.

  Gavin wondered what her first name might be. Something mundane like Anne or Jane? Neither suited her at all. Elizabeth, perhaps. Something queenly. Or Ophelia, Shakespearean and tragic. But that wasn’t quite right, either.

  His fingers itched to crumple the sketches on his easel and start again. A dozen Mrs. Granthams stared out at him in red and black chalk: Mrs. Grantham cold, Mrs. Grantham haughty, Mrs. Grantham wistful, Mrs. Grantham wary, but nowhere was there the slightest hint of amusement. He felt as though he were looking at a palimpsest, a medieval manuscript overwritten in crisscrossed layers until the original message was all but lost beneath the confusion of text.

  This commission might be a more interesting project than he had envisioned.

  “It is a very subtle form of plague,” protested Miss Evangeline.

  Mrs. Grantham shook out her crumpled skirts. “Come along,” she said to her stepdaughter. “Best to face the inevitable with fortitude.”

  “Eliza isn’t inevitable; she’s unpleasant,” complained Miss Evangeline.

  “Inevitably,” murmured Mrs. Grantham, and there it was again, that glimpse of wry humor, until she turned to Gavin and the cool composure settled again over her features like a layer of thick-painted varnish. “I must crave your pardon, Mr. Thorne. I fear our time together is at an end.”

  More relief than fear, he would have guessed, and wasn’t sure whether to be offended or intrigued. Or, perhaps, just a little bit of both.

  “For this week,” Gavin said.

  TEN

  Herne Hill, 2009

  “I should have anticipated that being back there would raise some questions.” Julia’s father’s voice was heavy. “What do you want to know?”

  At least he hadn’t hung up the phone. Julia wondered what he was afraid she might ask. All those tell me about my mother questions she should have been asking ten years ago? It wasn’t, she realized, that her father had ever actively refused to speak about her mother. It was just that he had looked so unhappy, turned so into himself, when Julia had cried for Mummy in those first, horrible months that they had gotten into the habit of not speaking of her, a conscious absence, like the shiny tissue of a scar.

  Julia could understand that, now. But it had been long enough now, long enough that they should be able to speak of her, with more curiosity than pain.

  But not now. Now Julia had other fish to fry.

  “Nothing too recent,” said Julia, and could practically feel her father’s relief across the line. “I’ve found an old painting and I’m curious about the provenance. We’re talking mid-nineteenth century.”

  “Oh, if that’s all…” She heard the creak of a chair as he relaxed back against the cushions. Wicker and chintz, if she knew Helen. “There’s not that much I can tell you. Your mother”—there was that little pause, that little pause that always followed those words, like a hiccup in time—“your mother wasn’t particularly interested in that sort of thing. That was never one of her vices.”

  Julia wandered over to the heavy old draperies, twisting a dusty tassel around her finger. “That sort of thing?”

  “Lineage. Family pride. ‘Our people are better than your people.’ Your mother believed in taking people on their own merits, good or bad. That her family had been planted in the same place for a hundred years meant very little to her, one way or the other.”

  Julia was fascinated by the faint note of fondness in her father’s voice, by this window into her mother. If she pushed too hard, though, she risked having her father clam up again, so she said as matter-of-factly as she could, “So she never said anything about any old family stories or family scandals?”

  “Not really.” For a moment, there was silence on the line, silence and a faint exhalation of breath that made Julia think of the stirring of air in old, long-closed vaults, heavy with old memories and old regrets. “Your aunt Regina was the one for family stories, usually of the saltier variety. She didn’t have much respect for sacred cows.”

  That lined up with what Natalie had said over dinner that night. “Unfortunately, she isn’t here,” Julia pointed out.

  Which really was a pity. From what everyone said, Julia had the feeling she would have liked her tremendously.

  Her father took a swallow of something, probably coffee. He was supposed to be cutting down, but he generally managed to get around Helen’s attempts to switch him to decaf or, even worse, herbal teas, which he regarded with the general scorn of the hard-core caffeine addict. “If you want the official family line, you’ll have to ask Caroline. Your mother’s cousin.”

  Julia wiped dust from her hand onto her shorts. “Natalie and Andrew’s mother?”

  “Was that their names? I remember you played with them a bit when you were little—not so very much. Caroline didn’t approve of our postal code.” Julia’s father’s voice was dry, but there was a real edge underneath it.

  Well, then. “They’ve been over, helping me out—Natalie and Andrew, I mean,” Julia clarified. “They came with a friend last weekend to help me go through some of the stuff in here.”

  Nicholas Dorrington, who still hadn’t called.

  Julia banished the image of Nicholas, sweaty and intense in the back bedroom, and concentrated on the vague static on the phone line.

  The cushions creaked again. “If they’re anything like their mother, I’d check the fillings in your teeth when they leave.”

  Julia blinked at the acid in father’s voice. “I take it you and Cousin Caroline didn’t get along?”

  There was a long, weighted pause. “No.”

  Alrighty, then. Julia persisted. “But it’s Cousin Caroline you think I should talk to about the family history?”

  Her father sighed. “Caroline had a family tree made up, going all the way back to the Conquerer. Some of it might even be true.” He paused for another swallow of his beverage. “Not that you’ll get anything interesting from her. It was all how great and good and successful the family all were.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “If you’re looking for scandal, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  “Paragons of virtue one and all?” said Julia sweetly. “Now we know where I get it from.”

  “Brat,” said her father affectionately. Julia heard the rustle of paper in the background. “By the way, before I forget, it seems I’ll be in London in August for a conference. May I take you out for dinner?”

  Family reminiscence hour was officially over.

  “Sure. That would be great.” Julia noticed he didn’t suggest coming to the house. “I think I can clear the space on my exceedingly busy social calendar.”

  There was a brief silence from the other end of the line, then, “You’re not too lonely out there?”


  Julia found herself strangely touched by the gruff question. Her father liked to talk about emotions the way she liked having her teeth drilled. Without Novocain. From him, this was a major expression of concern.

  “I’m fine,” she said gently. “Actually, I kind of like it out here.” As the words came out, she realized how her father might take them and added quickly, “It makes a nice break from my real life.”

  “All right,” he said, and she was grateful to him for not voicing whatever misgivings he was obviously feeling. She really didn’t feel up to a lecture on the state of her job hunt right now. “As long as you’re managing.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Julia said, and meant it. She was about to say her good-byes and hang up when something else struck her, something she had meant to ask. “Dad, when I was little, did we live in a garden flat?”

  Her father was taken aback by the question. “A—well, yes. I guess you could say so. It was really just a basement flat, convenient to the hospital, but your mother put out a couple of potted plants and called it a garden flat. Why?”

  The concrete patio, the rickety metal table, the kitten.

  “No reason,” said Julia. That odd flash of memory the other day, her mother’s voice, laughing. “I just wondered.”

  If that had been a real memory, and not her imagination, then what else did she remember? Voices raised in anger, her father’s hard and clipped, the linoleum floor of the kitchen hard and cold beneath her knees, the sound of crockery smashing.

  “Dad—” She didn’t even know what to ask. She was saved by a tiny electronic beep. “Oh, damn, that’s my call-waiting.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” said her father with obvious relief. “Think about August.”

  And he was gone, with a click. Julia didn’t know whether to curse or be grateful.

  She jabbed the tiny flash button. The number on the screen was unknown, a UK number.

  “Hello?” she said shortly.

  “Julia?” The voice was British. Male. More than a little Jeremy Irons–esque.

  Julia put on her best professional voice. “Speaking,” she said briskly. Always best to sound busy, as though one were efficiently handling multiple international trades instead of hanging out in shorts and tank top in a dilapidated Victorian mini-mansion.

  “This is Nick.… Nick Dorrington,” he elaborated when his initial introduction was followed by blank silence. “Andrew’s friend.”

  “Oh, right! Hi.” No need for him to know that she’d been waiting for his call like an overeager teenager.

  “On that painting”—the dryness of Nicholas’s tone suggested he knew exactly what she was doing—“I believe I’ve got something for you.”

  Any embarrassment Julia might have felt was subsumed in a tingle of pure treasure-hunting excitement. This, she thought, this was why people went on Antiques Roadshow and scoured flea markets for hidden treasure, this thrill of discovery. “Do you have the name of the painter?”

  “Possibly.” Nicholas was the very model of professional caution. “Do you have a—bollocks.”

  Julia choked on a laugh. There went professional. She manfully restrained the urge to say, No, no, I don’t. At least not if bollocks were what she thought they were. England and America, divided by a common language.

  In the background, Julia could hear the tinkling of a bell and a high-pitched female voice raised in an extended and breathless monologue.

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Cartwright,” said Nicholas with false heartiness. “I’ll be right with you. Would you mind terribly leaving Fifi outside? You remember what happened last time.”

  A sharp bark illustrated Fifi’s feelings on the matter, but the discordant jangle of the bell suggested that her owner had complied.

  Lowering his voice, Nicholas said to Julia in confidential tones, “My assistant is out today, so it’s just me minding the fort. Look, I know this is a bit of cheek—but would you mind terribly coming to the shop? I can show you what I’ve found.” There was a pause, and then, “It’s more effective with illustrations.”

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Sure,” said Julia. She ought to mind being dragged out, but it had been—how many days?—since she had left Herne Hill. Besides, she was curious about this shop. Natalie made it sound like a cross between Christie’s and Sotheby’s with a dash of the Frick Collection thrown in. “Where is it?”

  “Are you driving?”

  Do you drive? would be the more pertinent question. She had no desire to ever get behind the wheel of a car, and, growing up in Manhattan, she hadn’t had to. “No.”

  “Wise,” said Nicholas briskly. “The shop is in a cul-de-sac off Portobello Road.” He reeled off the address in a professional monotone that suggested he’d been through this same routine many times before. “Either Notting Hill Gate or Ladbroke Grove will do you equally well. Yes, Mrs. Cartwright!”

  “Great,” said Julia. “See you there.” And then, because she couldn’t resist, “Have fun with Fifi!”

  She clicked the END CALL button before Nicholas could respond and went to go explore her suitcase to see if she could find any of her more respectable summer clothes. Preferably something without sweat stains.

  Who knew? She might even shower.

  Herne Hill, 1849

  It was raining the following Monday when Mr. Thorne came for his appointment.

  “We’ll have to be in here, I’m afraid,” said Imogen, ushering the artist into the drawing room. “Would you like a cup of tea? A cloth to dry yourself?”

  Mr. Thorne looked wet to the bone, rain dripping from the brim of the hat he held in his hand, soaking his jacket. The hat didn’t appear to have done him much good; there was water matting his dark hair and trickling down his face.

  He looked ruefully down at the hat in his hand. “The latter, if you don’t want me to drip on your carpets.”

  Imogen cast a disparaging glance at the red cabbage roses Jane had chosen two years ago. She wasn’t sure they could be hurt by it. But she only said, “I’ll tell Anna.”

  Imogen might not mind mud in the carpet, but Jane would, and when Jane minded she could make life very tedious.

  Imogen watched as the artist toweled his face and hair dry, damp strands clinging to his cheekbones and forehead like streaks of wet paint. With his hair plastered to his head by the rain, he looked like a statue of a Roman emperor, the bones of his face strong and stark, his lips thin and mobile. He made the shuttered room feel small, crowded, and close.

  Imogen hastily looked away as Mr. Thorne caught her staring. He must have thought the cause was something else entirely, because he hastily finished his ablutions and, handing the cloth back to Anna, said, “Is there anywhere else we might—?” Catching himself, he said quickly, “I don’t mean to sound particular. It’s the light, that’s all.”

  “Or the lack thereof?” In the rain, the drawing room looked even gloomier than usual, the heaving drapes weighing down the windows, the dark, textured paper brooding on the walls. But the morning room was Jane’s province and the study forbidden territory without explicit authorization from Arthur.

  “I am afraid not,” said Imogen apologetically. “But I can light the lamps.”

  She set about the room, suiting action to words, adjusting the wicks, coaxing the small flames into life.

  Mr. Thorne eased his bundles off his shoulder, onto Jane’s cabbage roses. “This is the first time I’ve painted a portrait. I want to get it right.”

  Imogen paused in the act of fussing with a wick. “I was under the impression you’d painted a great many people.” The image of Mariana’s tortured face rose unbidden before her, Mariana, leaning yearningly towards the window, her whole body a pattern of longing.

  “Those were models,” said Mr. Thorne. As Imogen watched, he unpacked the apparatus of his trade, setting up the easel with an easy skill that made his clumsiness of the week before even more remarkable. From the corner of her eye Imogen watched his
hands, swift and sure, anchoring his canvas to the frame. “Women who are paid to play a role.”

  Imogen fingered the stiff fabric of her dress, the dress that Arthur had insisted she wear. Arthur had decreed every aspect of her appearance for her portrait: where she was to sit, what she was to wear, how she was to arrange her hair. It was Arthur who had insisted it be in the summerhouse, “Since you are so often there, my dear.” She was to be immortalized as he designed, frozen into paint as the surface image of the wife he wished to display to the world.

  “Is there such a difference?” Imogen said wryly.

  Mr. Thorne’s amber eyes fixed upon her face, hawk-like in the gently diffused light.

  All he said, though, was, “If done properly, there ought to be.”

  “You are an idealist.” Her voice came out too dry; she licked her lips to wet them.

  “No,” he said, and she could feel him watching her, assessing her, as if he could peel her away, layer by layer. “I simply strive to paint what I see.”

  See a little less, she wanted to say, but she was interrupted by the sound of heels clacking against the marble floor of the hall.

  “Imogen?” It was Jane in the doorway, her skirts taking up the width of the frame, blotting out what light there was from the hall. Her eyes darted to Mr. Thorne, behind his easel, and back to Imogen again. “Cook can’t find the keys to the pantry.”

  “Cook has most likely left them where she always leaves them,” said Imogen pleasantly. “Buried in the flour.”

  Jane shrugged. “Be that as it may.” She made no move to leave. Instead, her starched petticoats rustled briskly as she bustled into the room, planting herself firmly down on a chair by the lamp. Imperiously she said to Mr. Thorne, “Will you be long?”

  Imogen winced at Jane’s rudeness. However she might feel about this portrait, Mr. Thorne was a talented artist; he didn’t deserve to be treated like a delinquent chimney sweep. Imogen’s eyes met Mr. Thorne’s; his lips quirked at the corners, as though he understood, understood and sympathized. Biting her lip, she looked away.