by Kate Forsyth
He meant it to be a joke, but Georgie could tell her husband was truly unhappy. It was one of the strange crimps in his nature. He wanted to immobilise any moment of happiness, like a mayfly caught in golden amber. Yet the bright-winged insect always struggled to escape, to fly, to live out its short ecstatic life before it fell, spent, to the water. Ned could not catch them, and so it grieved him to see those swift, ephemeral moments pass by and be lost.
In May, the collapse of a London bank caused widespread panic. The papers reported a run on the city banks as people tried to get their money out. Other banks began to fall. Georgie lay awake, worrying about money. Ned had no head for business at all. He had once bought Georgie a watch, studded with bright peridots, with the last eight pounds they possessed. He owed a staggering amount to the Firm because he kept borrowing from it. And Georgie had once found an uncashed cheque shoved in one of his coat pockets. When she asked him why he had not cashed it, Ned had admitted that he did not have a cheque account and had no idea how to open one. Georgie had to ask Topsy to help him, and then she had taken over the keeping of the accounts and the paying of the servants, giving Ned a few pounds a week as pocket money. It was the only way, she had discovered, to be sure their affairs were in order.
If only Ned was not so slow with his paintings!
Gabriel came to visit them, the first time he had come to their home in more than two years. He admired their new pomegranate wallpaper, and their black Sussex rush-bottom chairs, all bought on credit from the Firm, and then suggested that Ned hire a studio assistant, to help hurry him along. Which was all well and good, except that Ned said there was not enough room for the two of them in his small cramped studio and spent even more time at Val Prinsep’s. Which meant that Georgie had to order tea for a stranger, and worry about the salary of another member of staff.
Meanwhile, her whole body swelled. Even her face was as round and hot as a dumpling. She had trouble sleeping, and so asked Ned to move to another room so she did not have to listen to his snoring. Phil began to wake with nightmares, and each day was a struggle to try to manage his temper.
Since her scarlet fever, everything had seemed so difficult. She looked back at the Georgie she had been before and it was like a different girl, a different life.
Or perhaps it was not the scarlet fever that had so changed her, but Lizzie’s death. It seemed like the end of their golden youth, their heedless innocence.
Her daughter came quickly and easily into the world on June 3rd, a pale little creature with the biggest bluest eyes Georgie had ever seen. Ned and Georgie decided to call her Margaret, for she was a pearl beyond price.
Lying quietly, looking about her, she sucked her thumb. Ned very gently freed her tiny hand from the swaddling bands. She closed it firmly about his finger.
He was utterly enchanted.
Georgie’s world narrowed down to a pinprick.
Between feeding the baby, soaking the nappies, bathing and dressing her little boy, kneading bread, shelling peas, peeling potatoes, paying the butcher, totting up her account book, and sewing on buttons, she barely had time to sleep.
Less than a week after Margaret’s birth, Georgie unwrapped the newspaper the fish had been delivered in, and found an article declaring that a member of parliament called John Stuart Mill had presented a petition to the House of Commons proposing women be permitted to vote. The long scroll had contained so many names that two women had been needed to carry it. The women had been so afraid someone would seize their petition and tear it to bits, they had hidden it under the stall of an apple seller till Mr Mill was there to take charge of it.
More than one and a half thousand people had signed it. Georgie marvelled at the thought of it. She looked down at her tiny daughter, nestled in her arms, and wondered what life would hold in store for her.
Elizabeth Garrett, one of the women who had carried the petition, had trained secretly to be a doctor. Her friend Emily Davies had founded a college for women.
Perhaps, one day, Georgie thought, her daughter would have all the things that she had been denied. A proper education, the right to work, the right to vote. The idea excited and unsettled her. She read everything she could find about the petition, and wished that she had had a chance to sign it.
Georgie’s head was filled with new ideas, but she had no-one to talk to. Ned was hardly ever home. He spent most of his days at the Prinseps, and went out on the town with his bachelor friends in the evenings. He would come home, humming some vulgar music hall song, reeking of beer and pipe smoke. In the mornings, he would groan and cover his eyes with one hand, and only manage a few dabs of paint.
Georgie tried to talk to him, but he only got defensive and clammed up.
‘Just try to finish a painting!’ she would admonish him. ‘Else we’ll need to move somewhere cheaper.’
‘I cannot paint any faster,’ he cried. ‘Do you want me to just slap paint on the canvases like those damned French fellows?’
Another time he said, ‘When did you turn into such a nag?’
Crying alone in her bedroom, Georgie knew he was right. She had turned into a nag. But he was a father now. He had responsibilities.
One day, her sister Agnes came for tea. Always the prettiest of the family, Agnes was turned out in fine style in one of the new crinolettes, which only employed hoops at the back. It made sitting rather difficult, so Agnes was perched sideways on her chair, her silken skirts bunched up behind her.
‘So where is Ned?’ she asked, after properly admiring baby Margaret – now called Margot for short – in her cradle.
Georgie shrugged. ‘He’s gone to Little Holland House again. It’s Sunday, and they have an open house that day.’
Agnes looked at her questioningly. ‘Where?’
‘Little Holland House. Where the Prinseps live.’
Understanding dawned on her sister’s face. ‘Ah yes, of course. The patrons of Mr Watts. Isn’t Mrs Prinsep one of the celebrated Pattle sisters?’
Georgie nodded.
Agnes sipped her tea. ‘Are they not famous for their beauty?’
‘Oh, yes, and for their wit and talent too,’ Georgie replied rather bitterly.
‘Do you not wish to go too?’ Agnes asked. ‘To Little Holland House, I mean. I believe that the crème de la crème of London society is to be found there.’
Georgie shrugged and looked uncomfortable. ‘They wouldn’t welcome the children … Phil is just at that rambunctious age, you know.’
‘Leave them at home,’ Agnes suggested, selecting a thin cucumber sandwich from the selection on the plate. ‘Your skivvy Sukey wouldn’t mind watching them, would she?’
‘Oh, no, I can’t,’ Georgie said. When Agnes looked surprised, she tried to explain. ‘Sukey is little more than a child herself. Something might happen …’
‘Georgie, what happened to Christopher was not your fault,’ Agnes said gently. ‘We of all people know just how easily a baby can die.’
Georgie found herself choking up, and had to dab at her eyes with her napkin.
‘It’ll do you good to go. Fresh faces and all that. If you like, I can come and mind the children for a couple of hours. Little Holland House is only a block away. A message would reach you in a trice.’
Georgie imagined an afternoon away from the house and the children, enjoying Ned’s company, talking of books and art and politics, eating food someone else had cooked.
She smiled at her sister gratefully. ‘Thank you, Agnes. I’d like that.’
‘You might want to get a new dress,’ Agnes said. ‘And do something with your hair, for goodness sake.’
4
The Three Graces
Autumn 1866
The following Sunday, Georgie put on her bonnet and walked with Ned through the bright fallen leaves to Little Holland House. It had once been the dower house for the noble Holland family, and was a gracious old building with tall chimneys and steep tiled gables set in the midst of a huge old gard
en.
Women in delicate white frocks and big hats stood under the elm trees, croquet mallets in their hands. Georgie at once felt herself at a disadvantage. She had not liked to tell Agnes, but there was no money for her to buy a new dress or a more fashionable hat. She had to make do with what she had.
Georgie knew she must look a dowd.
Men sat nearby, some smoking cigars, others playing cards at a little white table. A long table was set up under the tree, set with blue-and-white china and silver cutlery, and white wine in green glass carafes. Bowls were heaped with the biggest, reddest strawberries Georgie had ever seen. A large platter of saffron-hued rice was topped with sizzling lamb. A stout man with the weathered skin of someone who had seen a few Indian summers was carving roast chicken with strangely crimson skin, and the air was filled with an exotic spicy smell that Georgie had never before encountered.
Georgie clutched Ned’s arm self-consciously, as he was greeted warmly on all sides. Mrs Dalrymple – the youngest of the sisters – came and took his hand and kissed his cheek, before giving Georgie a vague smile. Her soft white dress blew in the breeze, giving a faint impression of her long lithe limbs beneath. Silver bangles tinkled on her wrists.
‘Ned, my dear, so lovely to see you again. So you have brought your wife …’ she hesitated, obviously not remembering Georgie’s name. ‘You are welcome, of course. Do, please, come and sit. Can I offer you a glass of wine?’
‘No, thank you,’ Georgie replied, more curtly than she had intended.
Mrs Dalrymple lifted both finely plucked eyebrows. ‘Some tea then? Coffee?’
When Georgie named her choice, she snapped her fingers at one of the black-clad men-servants nearby. ‘Mitchell, some tea, if you please.’
‘If it’s not too much bother,’ Georgie said apologetically.
‘It’s no bother,’ Mrs Dalrymple said in a bored tone. ‘Ned, will you come and meet Mrs Cassavetti? She is looking to commission some paintings, and I am sure she will adore you.’ She tucked her hands into the crook of his elbow, smiling up at him as she led him away.
Georgie sat down, smoothing her skirts.
‘Mrs Dalrymple does love a handsome young artist,’ a laughing voice said, close to Georgie’s ear. ‘I always expect her to fall to her knees and offer to feed them fresh grapes.’
Georgie’s vision had been obscured by a mist of tears. She blinked them away, and turned to see a handsome young woman smiling satirically at her. She was dressed in a severely cut coat and skirt, with her dark hair parted in the middle and smoothed back to a low chignon.
‘You must be Mrs Jones. I’m Rosalind Howard.’ She held out her hand to Georgie. Her handshake was swift and firm, like a boy’s. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. Is this your first visit to Pattledom?’ She laughed at Georgie’s expression of surprise, saying, ‘That’s what I call it. The Kingdom of the Pattle sisters. Where Art and Beauty is worshipped, and Convention and Morality scorned. I can see you too scorn convention, refusing to let yourself be trapped within a corset and crinoline. Good on you! And you do not drink alcohol either? I can see we shall be friends.’ She lifted her teacup in an ironical salute.
Rosalind had a lively tongue and a quick mind, and she amused Georgie by giving her a potted history of all the other guests. ‘That man in the black skull-cap and the beard of a prophet is Mr Watts, the painter. Sara likes to say he came to visit for three days and stayed for thirty years.
Georgie laughed.
Rosalind grinned boyishly, and pointed to a young man with black curls and scowling brows. ‘That handsome young Greek god is Luke Ionides. He and his family live at No. 1 Holland Park, and are famous for their fancy dress parties. One night the American painter James Whistler con founded everyone by turning up dressed as a chimney-sweep, so convincingly old Mr Ionides almost had the footmen throw him out. I have seen your husband there many times, but not you. Do you not care for fancy dress parties?’
‘No.’ Georgie made a helpless gesture at her frock. ‘And I have little ones …’
‘Oh, but you must never let children stand in the way of romance,’ Rosalind said, laughing. ‘I hope to have a dozen children, but I won’t let that stop me from attending a party!’
The stout man with the dark skin was serving lunch. The food made Georgie’s mouth burn. She could not eat a mouthful of it. Rosalind ate heartily though, talking all the while.
‘You must know Robert Browning, of course. No? That’s him over there with the fringe of a beard and the ink-stained fingers. I will introduce you later if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ Georgie stammered, a little overwhelmed. ‘I love his poems.’
‘You like to read? Have you read Adam Bede by George Eliot? Did you know it was really written by a woman? Miss Evans is not here today, but I shall introduce you next time if you like. Though you must not mind that she is living in sin. Would you mind that?’
The question was shot at her, taking Georgie aback. She said slowly, ‘I do not know. I suppose it depends on the circumstances.’
‘Very true. It is a delicate situation, of course. Her lover Mr Lewes is married already, but his wife fell in love with his best friend. They cannot divorce, Mr Lewes being accused of being complicit in his wife’s adultery, but Mr Lewes and Miss Evans act in every way as man and wife. They are not accepted in society, of course, but here in Pattledom such petty-minded rules are not enforced.’
Georgie was shocked, though she tried hard not to show it. She had never heard of a man and woman who lived happily together in sin. She wondered uneasily what kind of bad influence these people must be having on Ned. She wished she had not come.
Rosalind put one hand on hers. ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean to scandalise you. Mr Lewes and Miss Evans are truly good people, I promise you that. If they could marry, they would. It is the fault of this society we live in, where appearances and conventions mean more than the truth in people’s hearts.’
Georgie nodded slowly. Her new friend was right, she knew. And when Georgie had married Ned, she had wanted to live in his world and put aside all the intolerant teachings of her mother and her church.
She looked down the table, to where Ned had sat down next to a high-nosed, olive-skinned older woman with a mass of loosely fastened dark red hair, which owed more than a little – Georgie thought – to the henna plant.
‘That is Mrs Cassavetti,’ Rosalind said in a low voice. ‘She is the sister of Alexander Ionides, the Greek consul. There are hordes of them here in London, very closely knit, very proud, and very, very rich. We call them the Greek colony. It would be a feather in your husband’s cap, if he could secure the Greeks as his patron.
Mrs Cassavetti had her hand on Ned’s arm. She lifted her other arm and pointed up the hill towards the house. Ned gazed where he pointed. His face changed. He looked thunderstruck.
Georgie looked to see what had so caught his attention.
Three slender young women were walking down the green slope, laughing. All three were clad in soft blowing muslins, and their mass of dark curling hair was so loosely bound that long tendrils floated about their faces. All shared a classical profile, and large dark eyes fringed by thick eyelashes. Two were olive-skinned and brown-haired. The one in the middle, however, had pale skin and lustrous dark-red hair, and the muslin dress seemed to cling to the sinuous lines of her body.
Georgie licked her dry lips. ‘Who … who is she?’
Rosalind turned to look. ‘Ah, the Three Graces. Part of the Greek colony. The one with the lighter brown hair is Aglaia Coronio. She’s Mr Ionides’s daughter and the sister of the Greek god I pointed out to you before. The tall dark one is her cousin, Marie Spartali. I’m surprised you don’t know her. She’s been taking painting lessons with Ford Madox Brown for a couple of years now and is said to have some real talent.’
She paused, shot a quick look at Georgie’s face, then said lightly, ‘The one with the marvellous hair is Madame Zambaco. I’ve never met her befor
e. She made a shocking mesalliance a few years ago. Eloped from her father’s death-bed with his doctor. I’ve heard he was a brute to her, so she fled in the dead of night with her two little ones and not much more than the clothes she stood up in. Luckily for her, her parents had tied up her fortune so the wicked doctor couldn’t get his claws into it. I’ve heard she’s worth eighty thousand pounds, which is not to be sneezed at.’
While Rosalind was talking, Madame Zambaco and her cousins had reached the table where they were met with cries of delight and welcome. She was smiling at Ned, offering him her hand. He stood up to take it. Her riotously curling hair was the colour of polished mahogany. It must reach her waist if released from its combs.
‘Excuse me,’ Georgie said, and got up clumsily. She made her way to Ned’s side.
‘But, of course, I would love to paint you,’ he was saying. ‘If your mother is truly so kind as to commission me. Surely you must come and visit me, and see my work first? To be sure you like it?’
‘I’d love to,’ Madame Zambaco said. ‘I am free tomorrow, if that would suit you.’
‘Yes, indeed, of course. Any time.’
‘Ned,’ Georgie said.
He turned at the sound of her voice. ‘Oh. Georgie. There you are. This is Madame Zambaco. Her mother wishes me to paint her. I said I would be honoured, of course. Madame Zambaco, this … this is my wife.’
Did Georgie imagine the hesitation in his voice, his reluctance to introduce her?
