Beauty in Thorns

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘So very appropriate for Topsy’s studio,’ Gabriel said at once. Then he held up both hands, laughing. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.’

  Topsy turned red, and drank down most of his glass of wine.

  ‘You must come down and help too,’ Georgie said, looking from Gabriel to Lizzie with wide blue-grey eyes that seemed impossibly innocent. ‘You are both such wonderful artists. Think what you could create.’

  ‘You could paint scenes of Dante and Beatrice,’ Topsy said to Gabriel. ‘A love that never wavers or dies, that endures even after death.’ He looked at his wife, and put out a timid hand to touch her wrist. ‘Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Janey?’

  She nodded, all her attention on crumbling her bread.

  Topsy looked at Lizzie. ‘We would love to have you both. Please, come down for Christmas. We’ll recreate our famous party at Red Lion Square.’

  ‘When you hurled the Christmas pudding at the poor housekeeper’s head.’ Georgie laughed at the memory.

  Gabriel hesitated. He looked at Janey. ‘If you have room …’

  ‘We have plenty of room,’ she answered, not looking at him. ‘It’s a very large house.’

  ‘Well … perhaps we could. It’s only … I have so much work to do. I’m getting a great many new commissions now. It must have been my painting of Guenevere.’

  Janey looked up. ‘It must be lonely for Lizzie, with you working so hard. Perhaps she would like to come down and stay with us a while.’ Her colour had risen. ‘We’d be most glad to have you. You could keep me company while Topsy paints.’

  ‘What an excellent idea,’ Gabriel said at once. ‘The fresh air will do you the world of good, Lizzie. I’ll come down and join you all for Christmas.’

  Lizzie looked from one to the other. She did not want to leave Gabriel alone in London, but it was hard to refuse without seeming rude.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ Georgie said, clapping her hands. ‘I’ll look after you both, and bring you tea and toast. Oh do say you will, Lizzie! It will be such a lark.’

  So, a week later, Lizzie found herself put on a train and sent to the country, leaving Gabriel behind to do who knew what.

  14

  Mistletoe

  Winter 1860

  The garden was dusted with snow like icing sugar.

  Janey stood by the window, her shawl wrapped tight around her. Behind her, the drawing room was magically lit by firelight and candlelight, glimmering on the little fir tree that stood in the corner, hung with gilded stars and sugar canes. Outside, the sky was leaden, the bare trees black, the countryside ashen.

  She could hear Lizzie and Georgie talking and laughing as they sketched by the fire, but she did not turn her head to listen. All her attention was on the gateway, standing open to the road.

  Gabriel was coming.

  Topsy had gone to pick him and Ned up from the train station. Soon Gabriel would be here, sleeping under her roof, eating at her table. Janey did not know if she could bear it.

  She had thought she had subdued her feelings for Gabriel, like her father tamed wild colts to the bridle. Yet each time Janey saw him she felt a kick to the pit of her stomach. He only had to touch her hand, or look at her with those laughing eyes. Janey did not know how she had kept her countenance the night of the supper party at Blackfriars. Everything he had said had been laden with double meanings, designed to make her stomach twist with fearful longing. Both Topsy and Lizzie had been wary, watching the interplay between them. Janey had tried hard to show nothing, but within was a storm of feelings.

  She heard the ring of hooves on the frosty road, then saw the horse pulling the wagon through the trees, steam blowing from its nostrils. Three men were huddled in the wagon, wrapped in coats and mufflers. They would all be chilled to the bone. Janey hurried to the kitchen, to ask for some hot mulled wine. By the time the men came down the driveway, blowing into their gloved hands and stamping their feet, she stood by the door, hands clasped tightly. A tray of goblets steamed on the table beside her.

  Gabriel came in first. He carried a great bouquet of mistletoe in his hands. He came straight to her, held the mistletoe above her head, and bent to kiss her on the cheek. Janey flinched, then – trying to compose herself – turned her face to greet him. His lips brushed the corner of hers. Desire jerked in her abdomen. He felt the catch of her breath, and drew away. They gazed at each other with sombre surprise, then he bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers again. Janey could not help herself. She pressed close as she could, the old hunger quickening in her blood.

  Then Janey heard footsteps. She pulled herself away, pressing her hand to her mouth.

  She cast a quick hunted look around. Topsy was coming through the porch, Ned at his heels. Georgie was hurrying down the steps, Lizzie behind her. How much had they seen? Janey did not know.

  Gabriel recovered first. He bounded up the stairs and held the mistletoe above the other women’s heads, kissing them both with gusto. ‘I love Christmas. Any more girls in the house?’

  ‘Only the cook and the parlour maid.’ Topsy took a goblet of wine, warming his hands on it. ‘And I beg you not to accost them, Gabriel, else they’ll be packing their bags and quitting, and you’ll be cooking the Christmas goose yourself.’

  ‘What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ Gabriel said, in husky tones that somehow made the old saying sound quite wicked.

  Janey took a goblet of wine and drank deeply, trying to hide her betraying mouth. Ned had come in and was saying, in mock affront, ‘Unhand my wife, I say!’

  ‘Never!’ Gabriel responded, holding the mistletoe above Georgie’s head so he could again steal a kiss. ‘I shall challenge you to a duel for the honour of her hand.’

  ‘My hand is very much taken, I’m afraid,’ Georgie responded, laughing.

  ‘Ah, then, I shall simply have to make do with my own lovely wife.’ Gabriel drew close to Lizzie, one hand holding the mistletoe above her head. He kissed her, but could not help glancing at Janey to see her expression. Janey stared down into the ruby depths of her goblet. Her cheeks were burning.

  She followed the others upstairs, carrying the tray with hands that felt unnerved. Everyone was talking and laughing. Surely no-one had seen.

  ‘How was your journey?’ Georgie asked Gabriel, as they came into the drawing room. The men all stood before the fire, warming themselves, as Lizzie and Georgie sat once more, skirts spread out.

  ‘Unutterably dreary and cold till we learned the true name of the Towers of Topsy. Did you know it was originally called Hogs’ Hole? Isn’t it perfect!’ Gabriel slapped Topsy across the belly. ‘Hogs’ Hole!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ned said to Topsy, trying to contain his own laughter. ‘But you must admit it’s funny …’

  Topsy looked resigned. ‘It’s not the name of our land,’ he told Janey, ‘but the cottages down the road. It’s not an unusual name for a place where pigs were once set to graze.’

  This pronouncement sent Gabriel and Ned off into fresh paroxysms of mirth.

  ‘We should buy Topsy a new name plate for the house.’ Gabriel drank down his goblet of mulled wine, and held it out for more. ‘With a little engraving of pigs wallowing in mud.’

  ‘Or a piglet painting sunflowers,’ Ned suggested.

  ‘A pig in a curly wig!’ Gabriel leaned over and triumphantly clinked glasses with Ned, then scoffed down the wine.

  ‘I should’ve known better than to tell them,’ Topsy said.

  Janey tried to smile. ‘Never mind. If it hadn’t been Hogs’ Hole, it’d have been something else.’

  Topsy shrugged. ‘It seems I am to be the butt of all the jokes.’

  ‘It cannot be helped,’ Gabriel said solemnly. ‘Given the size of your …’

  Janey looked at him. He laughed, and raised his glass to her. ‘Your wish is my command, my lady. I shall say no more.’ He mimicked locking his lips and throwing the key away.

  Lizzie was glancing from one face to the
other. Her wine glass was already empty. Janey went and filled it up for her.

  ‘I think we need more wine,’ Topsy said. ‘I’ll just go down to the cellar.’

  ‘A wine cellar!’ Gabriel laughed. ‘We are living it up. By all means, old chap. Bring up the best you have.’

  Topsy disappeared, and came in some time later, beaming, a bottle of wine in each hand and two more tucked under his armpits.

  Gabriel was in brilliant funning form all evening, taking every advantage to tease or discompose his host. Janey felt on edge, thinking he was taking it all too far. Topsy took it in good part, though. He was glad to have his friends here, admiring the house he had built.

  As always, Georgie drank nothing but water, and Janey drank not much more. The baby was pressing heavily on her stomach, giving her heartburn. She noticed Lizzie only picked at her food too. Janey thought she might offer her some warm milk with honey before bedtime, to ease her nausea.

  It had been strange, having Gabriel’s wife living here, under her roof. Janey had thought she must hate Lizzie, but it was impossible. She was so delicate, so highly strung, like a swift that slept on the wing. Hate was too heavy for such a light-boned creature to carry.

  Lizzie is Gabriel’s wife, Janey kept telling herself. And Topsy is your husband. You made your choice. It was the right choice.

  But every time Janey thought about that sinful stolen kiss, her muscles clenched with desire.

  At dinner that night, Gabriel suddenly took it into his head to try his hand at limericks. He had been teasing Ned and Topsy about their beards, which were growing to rather magnificent proportions, and declaimed, ‘There was an old man with a beard, who said it is just as I feared! Two owls and a hen, four larks and a wren, have all built their nests in my beard!’ He then pretended to search for birds’ nests in Topsy’s riotous beard, parting the thick curls with his knife.

  Topsy batted his hand away good naturedly.

  ‘Isn’t that Edward Lear?’ Georgie cried. ‘My sisters and I love his nonsense rhymes.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d think it was mine,’ Gabriel replied. ‘Though I’m sure I can do better. Let me see. Georgie, Georgie, pudding and pie … no, that’s been done. Help me, fellows. What rhymes with Georgie?’

  ‘Clergy?’ Ned suggested.

  ‘But what kind of limerick has clergy in it? No, no. I know! Orgy!’ Gabriel stood up, almost fell over, then steadied himself on Ned’s shoulder. He raised high one hand. ‘There is a young person named Georgie … who indulges each night in an orgy: soda-water and brandy … are always kept handy … to efface the effects of that orgy.’

  He bowed, accepting their applause and laughter with bows all around. Georgie was laughing too, though her cheeks were rosy.

  ‘What about Ned?’ she cried. ‘Make one up about Ned!’

  ‘Pooh! Too easy!’ Gabriel resumed his dramatic pose, though he swayed a little. ‘There is a young artist named Jones … whose conduct no genius atones … his behaviour in life … is a pang to the wife … and a plague to the neighbours of Jones.’

  ‘You could not have just made that up on the spot,’ Georgie cried indignantly. ‘You’ve done it at home and learned it off by heart.’

  ‘No, no, I protest … done on the spot …’

  ‘Then make up another one.’ Georgie looked around and her glance alighted on her host. ‘Do Topsy!’

  Gabriel drank down his wine, then said swiftly and with scarcely a slur, ‘There was a poor devil named Topsy … who feared he was suffering from dropsy … he shook like a jelly, but the doctor cried “Belly!” Then sad but relieved was poor Topsy.’

  Shouts of laughter rang out from everyone. Even Janey smiled, though she pressed one hand to her mouth to hide it. Topsy ruefully took his belly in both hands and shook it. ‘Too much good living,’ he said.

  ‘Marriage has made you soft,’ Gabriel jeered.

  Topsy stiffened, and shot Gabriel a look under his brows. Ned looked from one to the other, a little surprised.

  Janey was troubled. A sharper edge seemed to have been whetted on to Gabriel’s wit. She remembered how affectionate his teasing of Topsy had been when she had first met them, and how much her husband had adored Gabriel. She feared that was no longer the case. If so, Janey knew it was her fault.

  ‘Do another one,’ Georgie said. ‘Do Lizzie.’

  Gabriel sat back in his chair, regarding his wife with glinting eyes. He thought for a moment, then said slowly, enunciating his words carefully, ‘There was a poor creature called Lizzie … whose pictures are dear at a tizzy … and of this great proof … Is all that stand aloof … from paying that sum unto Lizzie.’

  Colour flamed into Lizzie’s pale cheeks. She stood up abruptly. Janey frowned. A tizzy was a slang word for a sixpence. It seemed a cruel joke.

  ‘Just teasing, Guggums,’ Gabriel said swiftly.

  ‘I … I think it’s time to go to bed. Gug, will you come?’ Lizzie’s voice was pleading.

  He took a slow sip of his wine. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ He flashed Topsy a grin. ‘We still have that whole wine cellar to drain dry.’

  Lizzie turned away blindly.

  Janey stood up. ‘Well, I think we’ll leave you to it. Lizzie, let me heat you up some milk …’ She saw the flash of distaste on Lizzie’s face, and said quickly, ‘Or can I make you some chamomile tea? To help you sleep?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lizzie said huskily.

  Georgie laid down her napkin and stood up too, her luminous blue-grey eyes moving from one face to another. ‘I’ll retire now too.’

  ‘What about Janey?’ Topsy said, splashing more wine into his glass. ‘You’ve made a rhyme for all of us … what about my wife? Don’t you have a limerick for her?’

  Gabriel regarded Janey with dark brooding eyes. ‘No. I don’t think I do. She is above limericks, I feel.’

  Lizzie went out of the room with faltering steps, and Janey hurried after her. Georgie followed close behind. ‘Your husband is so quick, isn’t he?’ she said to Lizzie. ‘Though I can’t believe he said I like orgies!’

  Lizzie tried to smile. ‘He likes to tease.’

  The next day, the men groaned and found it hard to get out of bed.

  Outside, the snow fell heavily. Janey stood in the doorway, gazing across the pristine lawns, catching snowflakes on her tongue as if she was still a child. She could not explain her feelings. Joy and trepidation, fear and expectation, all twisted together within her.

  The friends all settled down to work, despite the men’s aching heads. Gabriel crouched over the doors to the settle, painting an angel with crimson wings. Ned and Topsy lay on their backs on the scaffolding, painting the ceiling. The women painted flowers and apple trees, and dresses of gorgeous design. Lizzie showed them how to lay their brushstrokes as carefully as embroidery stitches. With her red hair knotted at the base of her neck, her dress flowing loosely about her, she was as graceful as a nymph. While Georgie was a dancing, laughing child, taking pleasure in everything. Janey felt gigantic and gawkish beside them.

  More wine was served with lunch, and the party was merry once again. Jokes and riddles flew back and forth, and Janey could not help being pleased with all the compliments showered on her for her cooking. Georgie begged her for her recipe. Lizzie ate more than a few mouthfuls. Topsy was aglow with happiness.

  The afternoon was spent working on the murals in the drawing room, with the women painting alongside the men. The idea was to create the look of a tapestry unfurling across the wall. Topsy created a pattern of roses repeated on a blue background on the upper third of the wall, while Gabriel amused himself by painting a wombat curled up asleep under a chair.

  Topsy was delighted with the result. ‘We should start a company of Fine Art Workmen, to do this for other people’s houses,’ he declared. ‘We could paint furniture and embroider wall-hangings.’

  ‘What about wallpaper?’ Gabriel said. ‘Then we would only have to do the design once, print it and st
ick it up with glue. Much less work!’

  ‘We could create beautiful stained-glass windows like they had in medieval days,’ Ned said dreamily.

  ‘Let’s do it!’ Topsy cried. ‘We’ll make a fortune.’

  ‘And roll everywhere in yellow coaches,’ Ned said.

  The day was short; winter dusk closed in early. Topsy hurried to finish painting scrolls here and there on the lower third of the wall. ‘I’ll paint the motto there in the morning,’ he said, laying down his brush at last, paint in his hair and beard, and smeared all over his shirt.

  ‘What motto is that?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘If I can,’ Topsy replied proudly. ‘From the Flemish painter, Jan van Eyck. Janey and I saw his work when we were in Bruges on our honeymoon. His portraits are so full of personality. I’ve never seen anything quite like them.’

  Gabriel did not look pleased. Janey wanted to reassure him that Topsy did not mean to compare Gabriel to van Eyck unfavourably. Topsy admires your work immensely too, she wanted to say. It’s just that van Eyck’s work is so alive, so real, so human. You see their feelings in their faces … and that is not your strength, I’m afraid …

  But, of course, she said nothing.

  Janey was tired the next day, and found it hard to rise from her warm bed in the sharp winter dawn. Then she heard a bellow of rage. Tumbling from the bed, dragging on robe and slippers, she hurried down the hall. Topsy stood in the drawing room, dressed in his smock, his painting box dropped and broken on the floor. Stamping his feet, shaking his fists, he was cursing with great vigour and fluency.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she cried.

  Topy’s face was suffused with blood. He pointed to the mural. Janey stared. It took her a moment to realise someone had painted ‘As I Can’t’ in every single scroll.

  Her heart sank.

  It had been Gabriel, of course.

  ‘It was just a prank,’ Gabriel said. ‘You can paint over them again.’

  But for once Topsy would not be mollified. Even when Gabriel and Ned together painted over the mocking words and replaced them with the motto he had chosen, Topsy remained stiff and angry.