Beauty in Thorns

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘I must get back.’ Janey tried to stand up but Gabriel gripped her hand tighter.

  ‘Janey, I want to paint you … but I am afraid.’

  She knew why, but she wanted to hear him say it. ‘Afraid of what?’

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Afraid of making a worse mess. Afraid of upsetting Topsy. Oh, afraid of everything.’

  It was not what she had wanted to hear. But it was a beginning.

  ‘You can’t be afraid anymore, Gabriel. It’s time for you to start living again.’

  ‘Then you’ll let me paint you? You aren’t worried what people will think?’

  ‘They will always think badly of me anyway, Gabriel. You know. The whiff of the stable. Besides, I have no desire to be a fine lady. I’d rather be painted by you.’

  She gently freed her hand and stood up. ‘I’ll come this week if you like. Write and tell me what day suits.’

  ‘Any day,’ he answered. ‘You know that … Janey dear.’

  Gabriel painted Janey as the sorrowful Pia de’ Tolomei, from the fifth canto of Dante’s ‘Purgatorio’. Imprisoned by her jealous husband in a castle in the marshes of Tuscany, Pia sat, playing with her wedding ring, old love letters scattered beside her. Ivy enshrouded the wall, and ravens flew past, wings shadowing the sky.

  For the first week, while Gabriel did preparatory drawings and studies, Topsy and Janey came to stay in Chelsea. Topsy went to work each day, leaving her sister Bessie to act as chaperone. It was impossible to talk, with Bessie sitting there. He spent hours drawing her hands alone, entwining her fingers in a frenzy of unhappiness. Janey sat quietly, letting her thoughts maunder away, imagining another life she might have lived.

  In the evenings, Gabriel entertained guests for dinner and, once, took Topsy and Janey to a séance in the hope of proving to them that Lizzie’s ghost still walked. To her horror, Janey saw a faint pale light hovering behind Gabriel and was sure it was his dead wife’s spirit. She pressed her hands together and said silently, Please, Lizzie, don’t punish him anymore. Whatever he did to hurt you, he has suffered enough. Please let him go.

  But no-one else saw anything. Topsy made much mock of the whole affair.

  Janey could not bear the look on Gabriel’s face. She gathered together her courage and said quietly, ‘I saw her, Gabriel. Or at least I saw a light …’

  ‘Which must, of course, mean you saw a ghost,’ Topsy jeered.

  Janey flushed.

  ‘What fools you’ve made of yourselves, believing in such tripe,’ Topsy went on. ‘That fraud of a medium simply tricks you with smoke and mirrors. I’ve heard they create those raps and knocks by cracking their knuckles and toe joints. A child wouldn’t be taken in by such damn tomfoolery.’

  Perhaps it was then that Janey decided. She could not bear cruelty in any form. She had hated it when Gabriel was unkind to her husband. Now that Topsy was the one being unkind, she hated it even more. It was unworthy of him, she felt, when he had everything that Gabriel had ever wanted.

  That night Janey lay in bed, listening to Topsy snore, and nerving herself to seduce one of his best friends. It was not that she felt any guilt at the prospect of being unfaithful to her husband. In the world of her childhood, sex was something that was grabbed when wanted, like bread when you were hungry or a blanket when you were cold. Janey had given her body to her husband for almost ten years, in gratitude to him from rescuing her from the rookeries and giving her a home and family of her own. She felt she had paid her dues.

  So it was not the fear of sin that held her back. It was the fear of the hurt she knew lay ahead. Janey knew how hard she would fall. She knew the damage she would cause. She knew the price she must pay.

  Two weeks later, as she and Bessie settled back into the cracked leather seats of their hansom cab, Janey leant forward and took her sister’s hand. ‘Will you do something for me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would you spend the day at the British Museum?’

  Bessie did not misunderstand her. ‘Are you crazy?’

  Janey gave a crooked little smile, and nodded.

  Bessie sighed. ‘What if Mr Topsy finds out?’

  ‘He won’t. Besides, it’s worth the risk.’

  ‘You always were head over heels for that Mr Rossetti.’

  ‘Yes,’ Janey agreed.

  She dropped Bessie at the British Museum, then went on towards Chelsea alone. It was a crisp, bright morning. Daffodils swayed under the bare trees in Hyde Park. The Serpentine gleamed. Domes and spires and gables and chimneypots were wreathed in a golden mist, but the sky above was the colour of harebells.

  For the first time, London looked beautiful to Janey’s eyes.

  As soon as Gabriel opened the door to her, he noticed the absence of her sister.

  She smiled at him, took his hand and led him through the house. Not to the drawing room, hung with Lizzie’s paintings of her own sad face. Not to the studio, hung with Gabriel’s. Not to the bedroom, where he had kept company with Fanny. She went out to the garden, wild and overgrown and tangled with honeysuckle.

  Gabriel flinched at the bright sunshine. Laughing, Janey covered his eyes with her two hands. She was so tall she did not need to reach up.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ she whispered, guiding his faltering steps forward, her body pressed close behind his.

  ‘Yes …’ he whispered. ‘But …’

  ‘No buts!’

  She guided him through the long grass, her silk skirts rustling against her legs, then through the hanging branches of the old mulberry tree. Within its green canopy, the light was dim and cool.

  He turned within the circle of her arms. ‘Janey, we mustn’t …’

  She pressed her mouth against his.

  The shock of it went right through his body. For a moment he was stiff and unyielding in her arms. She kissed him again, touching her tongue to the closed seam of his lips. He groaned and held her away from him.

  ‘Janey … you’re married … what about Topsy?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said fiercely. ‘But if you don’t want me I will go.’

  ‘Janey, Janey, are you mad? Of course I want you … but I don’t know if I can …’

  ‘There are many different ways of loving,’ Janey whispered. ‘We do not have to do anything that will hurt you. Just let me know if I cause you any pain.’

  ‘Janey … oh God … it’s not that … it’s …’ He wanted to say Lizzie’s name but she would not let him, she stopped his mouth with hers, and kissed him with all of her longing and passion and pent-up desire.

  Once more, Gabriel tried to stop her. ‘Janey, we can’t.’

  ‘Yes, we can. We have to seize joy whenever we can. Don’t you see?’

  His own ardent need overtook him. Her dress crumpled to the ground with the sound of paper catching fire. His clothes followed. She touched him tenderly. He groaned. Urgent hands ran over her body. Feverishly Janey drew him closer, hands stroking down his smooth bare skin, breathing in the wonderful scent of him, already feeling the tightly locked vault inside her springing open, the white roar of the bursting dam.

  Mouths against mouths, skin against skin, fingers working frantically.

  Janey cried aloud in jubilation.

  6

  The Letter

  Summer 1868

  Georgie found the letter in the bottom of Ned’s coat pocket.

  It was her habit to turn his pockets out before she brushed his coat and hung it up. She had found half-sovereigns that way before, and uncashed cheques, and unposted letters.

  She did not mean to snoop.

  Yet as she uncrumpled the note to see what it was, phrases leapt out at her.

  My darling … my skin hungers for yours …

  Georgie did not recognise the handwriting. But it was signed with a flamboyant M.

  She sat down, crushing the note in her hand. She felt lightheaded, giddy. Her heart was thumping fast and loud, so that she was aware of its echoes in her ch
est.

  ‘Georgie?’ Her sister Alice called. ‘It’s time for the boys to go.’

  She hardly registered the words.

  Alice put her head in the door. ‘Georgie?’

  She tried to rouse herself, tried to paste a smile on her lips and find the strength to rise, but it was as if the strings that connected her mind to her body had been severed.

  Alice waddled towards her. She was large with child, and had come from India to stay at The Grange so Georgie could help with the birth. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. When Georgie did not answer, she bent to take the note from her sister’s slack hand. That galvanised Georgie into sudden explosive movement. She leapt up, her fingers clenched on the note. She shoved it into her sleeve. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. The boys? Did you say the boys are ready to go? I’m coming.’

  She hurried out of the bedroom and led the way downstairs. High-pitched screams resonated through the front hallway, and Georgie’s heart sank.

  Her youngest sister, Edie, stood in the front hallway, dressed in a dark serviceable travelling gown, a bound trunk at her feet. With little Margot on one hip, she was bending over Alice’s son Rudyard, who lay on his stomach, yelling and flailing his arms and legs. He was dressed in a short frock over starched petticoats and front-buttoning drawers. His face was red and tear-stained, and he only stopped screaming to take the occasional breath.

  Phil stood with his legs set apart, his hands on his hips, a mulish expression on his face. A toy train was shoved in his back pocket.

  ‘Phil, what did you say?’ Georgie cried.

  ‘Nothing. I just told him he was a baby. And he is. Wearing skirts like a girl.’

  ‘He’s not yet three years old,’ Alice cried in exasperation, hurrying down the stairs. ‘We’ll breech him at Christmas time, when he has his birthday.’

  ‘You weren’t breeched till you were three either,’ Georgie added.

  ‘And he’s a baby ’cos he cried when I took my train away from him. It’s my train.’ Phil’s lower lip was stuck out, and his cheeks were hot with outrage.

  ‘You were very generous for letting him play with it,’ Georgie said, ‘and I am sure Ruddy is grateful. It’s time to go on the real train now. You know how much you were looking forward to that. Why don’t you let Ruddy play with your toy train just a little longer? Just to make sure you don’t miss your real train?’

  Rudyard had stopped crying for a moment, lifting his head to stare at Phil.

  ‘No.’ Phil crossed his arms.

  Rudyard began to weep again.

  Georgie looked out the door. The hansom cab was waiting outside the front gate, the cab driver smoking his pipe, one hand on the horse’s reins. The horse wore blinkers, and stood with its head drooping, one leg relaxed. If Edie did not leave now, they would miss their train to Bewdley, where Georgie’s parents were waiting to welcome them.

  ‘Please, Phil,’ Georgie coaxed.

  ‘No. It’s mine.’

  ‘Then I shall give him your other train – your favourite train – for him to keep,’ Georgie said, losing patience. She began to walk towards the parlour, where Phil’s train collection was kept in a box on the shelf.

  ‘No! No!’ Phil shouted and hurled the train at Ruddy, hitting him on the head. The little boy began to scream, and Alice rushed to comfort him. She tried to pick him up, but he was too heavy for her. Edie put down Margot so she could lift Ruddy into his mother’s arms, then picked up the little wooden train and pressed it into the boy’s hands. The tears cleared away miraculously, and Ruddy began to spin the wheels with his finger. Georgie, meanwhile, had taken two trains out of the box and given them to her son, saying, ‘You’ll need to take care not to lose them, Phil. These are your very best trains that Uncle Topsy gave you.’

  He clutched them close, and she took his hot hand, leading him back out into the front hallway. Alice and Edie were whispering together, and turned to look at her as she came towards them. Georgie’s steps slowed.

  ‘Alice says you found a letter. Is it from … you know who?’ Edie said. She had never been known for her tact.

  Georgie went crimson. ‘No. It’s nothing. Come on, you need to go else you’ll miss your train.’

  ‘You need to talk to Ned,’ Alice said. ‘You can’t keep pretending nothing is wrong, Georgie.’

  She felt as if someone was tightening a vice about her chest. Alice had been here only a week. Was it so obvious that things were amiss? Georgie thought she had kept up a creditable front.

  ‘Not in front of the children,’ she said, then looked about her. ‘Where’s Margot?’

  Her sisters looked around them, surprise on their faces. Georgie let go of Phil’s hand and ran out the front door.

  Margot was sitting on the back of the horse, held in place by the cab driver. Her short legs stuck out either side, and she was beaming.

  ‘Eh, but she’s a bold lass,’ he told Georgie, his pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth. ‘Ran right out an’ tried to pat me old Bess. Lucky she weren’t trodden on.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Georgie lifted her daughter down. For some reason, she was trembling, close to tears, close to fury.

  Her sisters had followed her on to the street. ‘Driver, if you could get the trunk,’ Alice commanded. As he went into the house to get the boys’ luggage, Edie said, ‘I’m so sorry, Georgie. I only put her down for a moment.’

  Georgie nodded. Edie kissed her and then kissed Margot, who had her arms reached out, struggling to get back to the horse. ‘I’m sorry about Ned,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. It’ll blow over.’

  Georgie could not speak. Edie lifted the little boys into the hansom cab. Georgie managed to reach out and ruffle Phil’s curls, and whisper a goodbye. It was the first time he had ever gone away from home.

  ‘Be good!’ Alice told her son, whose lip had begun to tremble again. ‘You’ll have such a lovely time with Grandmama and Grandpapa. Goodbye!’

  As the carriage door closed and the horse began to clop away down the street, Ruddy suddenly realised that his mother was not going with him. He began to hurl himself against the window, screaming at the top of his voice. Edie tried desperately to calm him, and Alice followed alongside, waving and blowing kisses and trying not to cry herself.

  Georgie stood silently, her squirming daughter in her arms. She felt utterly exhausted. At last the hansom cab had turned the corner, and was out of sight and sound. She went back inside and put Margot down on the ground, holding on tight to her leading-strings. When Alice had followed her in and shut the door behind her, Georgie said abruptly, ‘I must put this little one down for her nap. You look all done-in. Why don’t you have a rest too? I will see you at tea.’

  She lifted Margot up and took her to the nursery, and rang for some milk to be warmed. She lay on the bed, Margot beside her, and counted her toes and sang ‘This Little Pig’ and ‘I Had A Little Nut Tree’. Every now and again she had to wipe away her tears. When at last Margot was asleep, she lay quietly, wondering what she was to do.

  Georgie had tried hard these past few months to regain her husband’s regard. She had nursed him through another winter of coughs and colds and sore throats and feverish misery. She had hosted a housewarming party with all his oldest and dearest friends. She had cut her hair in a new and more flattering style, with soft curls on her forehead. She had made herself a soft white muslin dress, with a blue riband to define her waist, and another of yellow silk, hoping she looked like a dancing daffodil. She had tried hard to take an interest in Ned’s work, even though it seemed all he could paint was the sinuous white form and fiery hair of Maria Zambaco.

  It doesn’t mean that he loves her, she told herself. It’s just a passing fancy, one of his short-lived obsessions. He’ll soon tire of her.

  But Ned still slept in another room, and she did not know how to invite him to return to her bed. The very thought embarrassed her.

  After a long while, she rose and put the letter back in N
ed’s pocket, where she had found it. She did not say anything to him.

  Georgie had always found it most difficult to speak when she felt the most deeply.

  For Margot’s second birthday, Georgie planned to host a special feast with all their best friends.

  Topsy and Janey and their two little girls would be there, and Gabriel and his sister Christina. Johnny and Effie Millais were coming with their multitudes of children, and Arthur and Tryphena Hughes with theirs. Roddy Stanhope and his wife and daughter were invited, and two new friends, the potter William De Morgan and his sixteen-year-old sister, Mary, who could be counted on to entertain all the children with her storytelling.

  Georgie was in the kitchen, an apron tied over an old dress, her hair dragged back into a knob at the back of her head, when the front doorbell rang unexpectedly.

  Wiping her hands, Georgie hurried to answer it, wondering who it could be. Any supplies or models for Ned always went in the side entrance, and Georgie was not expecting her guests for another few hours.

  Charles Howell stood on the front step, a woman wearing a veiled hat behind him. Georgie stared at them blankly. She knew Mr Howell, of course. He was a good friend of Gabriel and Ned’s, and was present at every party. He seemed to make his living by finding patrons for artists, or sourcing old china or tapestries, or acting as a go-between between the money-lenders and the temporarily indigent. He wore a heavy scarlet-and-gold cross hanging from a broad red ribbon, saying it was an old family order from his noble Portuguese mother. He claimed he had supported his mothers and sisters by diving for treasure in sunken galleons, and it was rumoured that he had had to flee Portugal after being caught cheating at cards.

  Georgie did not like him at all, thinking he was a bad influence on Ned. So she said coolly, ‘Mr Howell, what a surprise. I’m afraid Ned is not here. I’m expecting him home any moment, though.’

  ‘It is not Ned I’ve come to see, but you, Mrs Jones,’ he answered with an easy smile, striding in over the doorstep.

  Georgie automatically moved back. ‘You wish to see me? Is something wrong?’