Winter of Despair

by Cora Harrison

  ‘And you, like me, have lost a dearest husband, so I know you’ll understand …’

  That hadn’t gone down quite so well. Sesina could see her mistress stiffen. But that Mrs Gummidge had brass nerve enough for anything, pushing past Sesina as though she was a stray cat. Looking up and down the table now and then snatching up the card marked Miss Florence Gummidge.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Collins, I really can’t have her sitting next to Lord Douglas. Lots of strange things said about him, you know. I suppose you mightn’t have heard, dear Mrs Collins. You are here in your delightful house, devoting your life to your dear sons … Oh, dear, dear Mrs Collins, it must be such a relief to you just to have sons, but you see with a daughter, I have to be so careful. And of course, Florence, she can’t help it, poor pet, but she is so devastatingly attractive that I have to keep a weather eye out all of the time.’

  ‘How very tiresome that does sound, for both of you!’

  Sesina swallowed a giggle. Good old Mrs C. She certainly could give a smart answer. Mrs Gummidge looked undecided for a moment, but then chose to ignore the words. She waved the card marked Miss Florence Gummidge in the air and looked up and down at the fourteen places arranged on the table and examined the cards already laid out on the table.

  ‘Perhaps my little pet could go up somewhere near to the top of the table, somewhere where you could keep an eye on her, dear Mrs Collins, perhaps here, just beside Mr Milton-Hayes. I’ve heard such very nice things about him. A friend of mine was saying that he was doing very well from his paintings. Has taken a new house in Dorset Square, so I’ve heard. A most worthy young man, so they say.’

  ‘And Florence? Will she like sitting next to him? He’s not that young, you know. I’d put him as nearer forty than thirty. I was going to put Mr Dickens next to him. Or the canon. They are about the same age. But please do feel free to choose a suitable dinner partner for her. I was just hoping to give the poor girl a bit of fun.’

  Not half irritated, thought Sesina. Easy-going in the normal way of things, but a bit ruffled up like now. She didn’t blame her. Who owned the house, anyway? Didn’t stop Mrs Gummidge, though.

  ‘Oh, dear Mrs Collins. You quite mistake my Florence. Just because she is so pretty! But she’s a very earnest girl and interested in sensible conversation. And so I think, yes, we’ll leave that card there, just around the corner from Mr Milton-Hayes. I do want her to make a good match; I’m sure, as a mother, you’ll understand.’

  ‘Yes, of course, my dear, do put your daughter’s card over there next to Mr Milton-Hayes.’ There was a mischievous gleam in the mistress’s eyes. Surprising that Mrs Collins had given in so easily to have her arrangements overturned like that, but Sesina understood all, when, after a dramatic pause, Mrs Collins, behind her hand, whispered to the woman, ‘Of course, I can understand how worried you are. Don’t worry; no explanations needed. I did hear …’ And then she bustled over to the condiments cupboard and started giving loud-voiced commands to Sesina, just interrupting them to call across to the purple-faced woman. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Gummidge. So lovely of you to pop in. And, of course, you understand how busy I am. See you this evening, then. And I’m so looking forward to meeting dear Florence. And you can trust me to say nothing. Now, Sesina, count those salt cellars, one between two. Oh, on second thoughts, take ten sets of them. I hate conversations being interrupted with people looking for salt or pepper.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Sesina demurely, watching Mrs Gummidge flush a dark red and then walk from the room. She was wishing that she could ask for details of what Florence Gummidge had been up to. Some sort of scandal, she thought, judging by the missus’s voice, and by the fashion in which she had managed to get rid of the woman so quickly once she had dropped that heavy hint. ‘Do I leave that card where Mrs Gummidge placed it, ma’am?’ she enquired. ‘Is that all right, ma’am? We’ll leave the card there where she put it, is that right?’

  ‘Oh, who cares,’ snapped Mrs Collins. ‘Let her try to get a rich husband for the plain-faced girl of hers. Not that there’s anything wrong with being plain. I was never a beauty myself, but this girl, Florence Gummidge, well, I wouldn’t like to tell you the things I’ve heard about her. If I were her mother, I’d take her back to Essex.’

  Well, thought Sesina, as she arranged three glasses beside each place, this should be fun tonight. Funny stories about Lord Douglas – and he a lord! Funny stories about Florence Gummidge and her mother keen to get her married. And Molly French was a flirt. And the canon a drunk. Sesina had hoped for a little more gossip, but Mrs Collins had turned sour and snapped out orders impatiently, glancing at the watch in her waistband from time to time.

  ‘So it’s all right to leave Miss Florence Gummidge beside Mr Edwin Milton-Hayes, then is it?’ she repeated, hoping to hear some more gossip.

  ‘Oh, you might as well. That frightful woman is capable of making another fuss when she arrives. And Wilkie will give into her immediately. Who cares anyway if she nabs Edwin Milton-Hayes?’ Mrs Collins swallowed down a slug of wine from one carafe and then tried out another. Drank it straight down, too. ‘Unpleasant man,’ she said indistinctly. ‘Serve her mother right if he mistreats her precious lamb. Wouldn’t trust him with a dog, not to mind a child of mine.’ Then Mrs Collins had another swig from a third decanter and then washed down the wine with a glass of water, swilling it around in her mouth before she swallowed it. ‘Now let’s do a quick check and then I must go and get dressed. Read out the names to me, Sesina.’

  ‘Top of the table there’s you in between the canon and Mr Edwin Milton-Hayes. And then down one side, there’s that Lord Douglas, Mr Dickens, and Mrs Molly –’ (the flirty one, Sesina said to herself) – ‘and Mr Charles. And across the bottom, there’s Mr Wilkie in between Mrs Helen Jordan, the wife of the art gallery man and that woman that’s just been here, that Mrs Gummidge.’

  ‘And her dear little Florence on the other long side,’ said Mrs Collins crossing over to read the labels, ‘and that young painter, Walter Hamilton beside her. Well, that should keep the dear girl busy if Mr Milton-Hayes takes no notice of her. Wally Hamilton has the name of being a ladies’ man. And then we have the art gallery man, Mr William Jordan, I hope poor Wally takes care to butter him up and to impress him. Let me see, yes, and just next to him, in between William Jordan and his wife, Helen, we have Mr John French. He’s the husband of Molly, you know, Sesina, but you would never know it to look at him. He must be a good forty years older than she.’

  No wonder that this Molly flirts with Mr Charles, thought Sesina, but she kept her mouth shut. It was very hard to know with Mrs Collins. One minute she was as familiar and chatty as if you were a member of the family and then, the next moment, she would slap you down for taking liberties.

  FIVE

  Wilkie Collins, Hide and Seek:

  But whatever department of painting Valentine tried to excel in, the same unhappy destiny seemed always in reserve for each completed effort. For years and years his pictures pleaded hard for admission at the Academy doors, and were invariably (and not unfairly, it must be confessed) refused even the worst places on the walls of the Exhibition rooms.

  ‘This is Jordan’s place. He has his art gallery here in the bottom rooms of his house.’ I looked up at the tall, three-storey-high terraced house as I was speaking and then turned towards Dickens. ‘Let’s stop here and go in and see him,’ I proposed. ‘We don’t need to say anything about Milton-Hayes; the inspector will want to be the first to break that news when he comes around, but it would be interesting for us to pop in and judge whether he’s heard the news and to see how they both are.’ Dickens and I had been walking fast and I had begun to worry that we would arrive far too early back at home for the party. My mother was, on the whole, very easy-going, but she did like to be dressed and her hair arranged before the first guest lifted the knocker at number 17 Hanover Terrace and I didn’t want to annoy her. I stopped, therefore, at a gate marked with a tasteful sign, featuring
some of the plants in the garden and bearing the words, Art Gallery, lettered with imaginative flair. I saw him look puzzled; obviously he didn’t know the name and so I explained in a low voice that I thought the art gallery owner’s wife was the card player in the gambling picture entitled Root of All Evil.

  ‘Out-of-the-way sort of place for an art gallery,’ said Dickens, looking with disfavour at the rather overgrown rustic garden which contrasted very much with the neatly planted patches in front of the neighbouring houses. Nevertheless he nodded at my explanation. He was always a man who liked to get to the bottom of any mystery.

  ‘Plenty of very wealthy people around Regent’s Park,’ I explained. ‘William Jordan does a good business, sold a lot of my father’s paintings, for very good prices, also. Milton-Hayes was lucky to get in with him. To be honest, he isn’t, wasn’t, a particularly outstanding painter.’ I was anxious to go in, anxious to see if Helen was all right. She and I were friends and I hoped that no harm would come to her and that she and her husband would make up their differences. ‘His wife, Helen, painted the board,’ I said, seeing that my companion’s eyes were fixed on it.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Dickens, giving it a cursory look. ‘She’d be better off doing her garden. Pulling up weeds, rather than painting them.’ He looked severely at a clump of delicate herb Robert, whose elusive pale pink flowers contrasted with the clusters of dark green ivy, grown like a hedge against the garden wall.

  ‘They’re wild flowers,’ I said mildly. I found Helen’s garden and her paintings rather charming. As she was herself. ‘Let’s ring the bell,’ I proposed hastily. Helen might be on her knees behind some bush. She spent a lot of time in her rustic garden and she would be upset at his remarks if she overheard them.

  However, when she opened the door to us, I could see that he was mollified. The sight of Helen Jordan was enough to enchant any man, no matter how critical.

  One of the most beautiful women in the art world of London, I had always thought her. Auburn hair, very dark, long-lashed eyes – that wonderful combination that I had always admired. Dressed beautifully and expensively as always. Her corn-coloured hair braided into innumerable soft braids and piled onto the crown of her head. Her eyes glowed at the sight of me. Helen was always a charmer.

  ‘Wilkie!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a wonderful surprise. You brighten up a dull afternoon. Come in out of the fog. And this must be Mr Dickens. What a privilege to meet you, Mr Dickens. I cannot tell you how much I loved Bleak House! I have read it again and again. Come in. Come and see William.’

  Her voice was low and melodious and again I could see how impressed Dickens was, despite his hatred of gambling. He had no time to reply though because the inner door opened and William came through, burst through, in fact. Very hastily, indeed, rather as though he were expecting some bad news and the sound of the doorbell had alarmed him. He stopped short when he saw me, almost seemed startled, and yet he knew me very well indeed. I was the one who, over the years, had taken many of my father’s pictures to him to be sold to the owners of houses in the terraces and streets within the Regent’s Park district. And I was the one delegated to come and collect the money due to my father once William had subtracted his own substantial commission. The art gallery owner had done very well from the dozens and dozens of small, medium and large paintings which my father, a hard-working man, had turned out. William and I had always been on excellent terms, but now he looked at me with an apprehensive expression on his face.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ he asked and, yes, there was certainly a note of tension in his voice. His eyes slanted rapidly towards his wife and then returned to scrutinize my face.

  ‘What should be wrong?’ I said and then lightened the atmosphere with a jolly laugh. ‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ I said. ‘I haven’t taken to painting, again. Haven’t come to ask a favour. Don’t want you to sell any painting of mine.’

  He laughed, also, but it was a forced and artificial laugh and I saw him look once more at his wife. And that lovely face had grown very white under his scrutiny.

  ‘Don’t see why I shouldn’t be a painter,’ I grumbled while keeping a sharp eye on Helen. ‘After all the Academy did exhibit my Smuggler’s Retreat. And if only it had been put in a more favourable position then I would have made a fortune.’

  William Jordan laughed once again and this time it sounded a little more natural. ‘Stick to the literature, Wilkie,’ he advised. ‘What do you think, Mr Dickens?’ He definitely sounded more relaxed now, but I wondered whether the sound of the doorbell had made both husband and wife expect bad news. Odd that Helen had opened the door to us herself and had not left the task to a servant. They would not, could not, be short of servants, I thought. Well, I hoped not, anyway. But as I looked around I, the most unobservant of men, could see signs of household neglect. There was dust on the mantelpiece and on the window sills. The vases had flowers in them, but not hothouse flowers, just a few wild flowers from her garden. The window, like all untended London windows, was streaked with sooty fog and did not appear to have been cleaned for days. The rug looked unshaken and the fireplace was filled with ash and dead pieces of coal. The room, I thought, was decidedly cold. Could Helen’s gambling have reduced their income to the extent that a servant had to be dismissed? Or had money been demanded of Helen by someone who knew that she had continued to gamble despite promises to her husband. Perhaps the housekeeping money had gone to swell the coffers of Edwin Milton-Hayes.

  ‘What a surprise to see you, Wilkie. We’re looking forward to your mother’s dinner party. Can’t wait for our company, eh?’ The art gallery owner had a stilted note to his voice and I saw him glance again at his wife. And then when I made no reply, he asked suddenly and slightly maliciously, ‘What’s young Charley doing these days? Haven’t seen sight nor sound of him for some time. Has he finished the Regent’s Park painting?’

  ‘I think he has been working for Millais,’ I said and then added, with my eyes on his face, ‘and I think he has been painting in the clothes on some figures that Edwin Milton-Hayes has sketched. Charley is very good at material, at textures.’

  His face had paled at the mention of Milton-Hayes. I was sure of that. He did his best to rally, though, observing curtly that my brother would be better off concentrating on his own paintings rather than bringing praise to other artists because of his expertise and meticulous care in painting the details of a scene. His heart wasn’t in the lecture, though and he soon ran out of words. No offer of refreshments had been made and both husband and wife seemed uneasy in our company, uneasy and apprehensive, rather as though they were expecting us to make some sort of an announcement.

  ‘I suppose that you have seen Milton-Hayes’ latest masterpieces, have you?’ I said carelessly. ‘What did you think of them? Allegorical, aren’t they?’

  I saw Helen pale, pale so noticeably that Dickens turned to look at her with concern. He even took a step nearer to her and put his hand on the back of a chair as though about to offer her a seat. She stiffened, though, and stood very upright, very still, her eyes on her husband. He also stiffened.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he said abruptly. ‘Haven’t seen anything by Milton-Hayes for some time. Not sure who he deals with, but not me.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ I said. I took off my spectacles to give them a polish and peered at him. ‘I would have thought that you would have been his first port of call. You live so near, don’t you? You could even have popped in this morning before your breakfast, couldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of “popping in” on artists, as you put it,’ he said coldly. He had an angry flush on his face.

  ‘You live so near,’ I repeated innocently. Did he know that the man was dead? It was possible that he had heard. After all the police had been there for hours. But if he had heard, he was not going to betray any knowledge. He eyed me with a strong air of dislike and then turned to Dickens.

  ‘Could we offer you anything before you go? A cup of c
offee? Tea? A glass of wine?’

  The emphasis on ‘before you go’ made the offer barely polite and Dickens didn’t bother to reply. His eyes were fixed upon Helen and I saw a measure of concern in them.

  I decided to put an end to the tension.

  ‘We must go, now. We won’t keep you. I know that you are busy. Just passing the gate and couldn’t resist introducing my friend here. I knew that Helen is a great lover of his books.’ I said the words blandly and with conviction, though, before this evening I had never heard Helen say anything of the sort. It was a stupid thing to say, in any case, since Helen was due to meet him within a couple of hours, but it got us out through the door and then when we were safely past the gate I looked back at him standing there in the doorway. He was frowning heavily and I wondered what he was thinking of. I raised an umbrella in a gesture of farewell and endeavoured to keep up with Dickens’ rapid walk.

  The more that my friend was pondering over a puzzle, the faster he always walked. I had learned that during the past few years. Eventually, though, he stopped and waited for my short legs to catch up with him and then slowed his pace.

  ‘Blackmail,’ he said after a minute. ‘I said it before and now I’d lay a bet on it that there is blackmail involved. This man, Milton-Hayes, devised a very clever method of blackmailing. A most effective method. He paints someone in a compromising position and then shows them the picture and tells them that if they don’t pay up, why then he will show the picture all over London, beginning with a small select party in number 17 Hanover Terrace where the face will not be revealed, but then moving on to other and more public occasions where, undoubtedly, that oval of white paint would have been removed and the victim would have been ruined for ever in polite society.’

  Dickens stopped for a moment, carefully removed a clod of earth that disfigured a newly painted gate and then walked on again, thinking hard. After a few minutes he spoke again and his voice was very thoughtful.