Liddle stood there with a leer on his face. It was not possible to get to the door for he was blocking her way out.
‘She’ll be seeing one o’ these again,’ he said next and pulled open his unbuttoned fly to reveal a grey penis in a state of semi-erection. Kitty stared at it dispassionately.
‘You’re a dirty old man and if you try anything on wi’ me, I’ll tell Mr Laidlaw on you,’ she warned him, but at the same time taking the precaution of lifting a sharp sickle off the wall and holding it menacingly in her hand.
He backed away. ‘You’ll be like the rest o’ your family, keen enough on it when you’re a bit older,’ he jeered as he backed away.
‘I’ll never be that keen that I could fancy you,’ she snapped.
‘It’s no’ a question of what you fancy. Wi’ your family it’s a case of who you can get – like your granny and her brother,’ he shouted as he made his escape, tucking himself into his pants as he went and leaving her shaking with anger.
Chapter Seven
The corn was ripening to a brilliant golden colour on the morning that Marie walked to the station at Rosewell with Tibbie on her way to her first art class in Edinburgh. They were both as excited as they would have been were she going to Timbuktu.
Marie felt very smart in the new clothes that she and Tibbie had bought from the best draper’s in Rosewell. They’d chosen a soft blue dress, a Paisley shawl with a deep fringe and a maidenly little bonnet with artificial violets tucked into the rim. Everything smelt, and felt, new, which added to the feeling of adventure.
‘You look real bonny,’ Tibbie said as the train was about to leave and Marie smiled her thanks. She was in need of all the reassurance she could get. Going to Edinburgh was the boldest thing she’d ever done and she wished Kitty could have been there to see her off, but the harvest was beginning and it was impossible for her to get away from Falconwood.
Bethya’s maid was already seated in the corner of a second-class carriage, looking bored and indifferent. Mindful of David’s expressed concern about his sister braving Edinburgh alone, Bethya had detailed a housemaid called Ellen Merrilees to go with her. The girl was Edinburgh-born and boasted of her familiarity with the city. Unfortunately, she was also disdainful of country people and resented being told to take care of a girl who was unused to travelling.
The train was slow in starting and Marie, leaning from the open window, thought her heart would burst with nerves before it finally pulled away. Her nervousness was not only because she’d never been to a city before, she was also uncertain that she was doing the right thing. She was afraid that as soon as the art master saw what she could do, he’d send her straight back to Rosewell and this uncertainty had been fuelled by David who’d been steadily undermining her for weeks.
First of all he suggested that her nervous disposition would not be able to cope with the hustle and bustle of a city; then he switched to the tack that she would be scorned by the other students, girls who came from a very different social background to her own. He did this by advising her how to cope with them.
‘Don’t let those upper-class girls frighten you,’ he told her over and over again. ‘They’re not really any better than us. They just think they are.’
If she protested that she was going to learn how to paint and not to meet other girls, he smiled. ‘Of course you are. And you mustn’t be put out if the master says cruel things. He’ll be used to really good painters. You mustn’t let him sap your confidence.’
At last they chugged out of the station, leaving Tibbie waving frantically on the platform. Maddiston was the first stop and when they drew into the station, Marie saw her brother on the platform.
‘David, David,’ she called leaning from the carriage and he came running along to take her hand.
‘Be brave. And remember you don’t have to keep on going if you don’t like it,’ he said earnestly.
Behind her, Marie heard Ellen Merrilees sniff scornfully and when the train started again, she said, ‘I’ve never known folk to make such a fuss about a wee train trip. Haven’t any of you been anywhere before?’
Marie shook her head. ‘I certainly haven’t and neither has David. Our father was one of the workers who helped to build this railway line though, so he must have travelled a lot.’
‘Might have guessed as much,’ said Ellen, who shared the general condescension towards navvies. The knowledge made her treat Marie in an even more cavalier way.
It took all Marie’s pride not to clutch the maid’s arm when they stepped off the train at Waverley station, for the noise, the hustle and bustle were overwhelming. The city brought out a new aspect in Ellen too. She seemed to become taller and more bold than she was in Rosewell and intent on showing Marie how familiar she was with urban chaos. Shouldering her way through a crowd of other travellers, hauling Marie behind her, she headed for the steep flight of steps leading to Princes Street. It was a breathless climb but when they’d completed it, they found themselves in a broad thoroughfare packed with carriages, people on horses, men pulling handcarts and horse-drawn tramcars.
Marie quailed. Her heart began to beat very fast and she drew back into the mouth of the stairs, wishing she could retreat into the station, but Ellen had other ideas.
‘The place you’re going to is number ninety-three Princes Street,’ she said consulting a piece of paper she held in her hand. ‘This here’s Princes Street and it can’t be far. I’ll take you there and come back for you at a quarter past three.’
Though she resented being sent to look after a yokel, it was good to be back in her native city and free to spend half a day visiting friends and relations in the High Street, where she’d been born. She intended to get rid of Marie as soon as possible and make the most of her freedom.
She set a good pace, striding along the pavement and pushing loiterers aside till they found ninety-three, an elegant town house facing directly across to Edinburgh Castle, which sat high on its crag on the southern side of Princes Street.
A flight of broad white steps with black railings on each side led up to the front door from the pavement and Ellen stopped at the foot of them.
‘This is it,’ she said indicating the number painted on the door. ‘You’ll surely be able to manage to get yourself in? All you’ve got to do is rap the knocker.’
Marie flushed, angered by the assumption that she was a total incompetent. ‘Of course I can. I see you’re in a hurry. Please go.’
The maid didn’t protest but swept off down the crowded pavement like a sea cutter.
Marie lifted the enormous knocker and dropped it in its bed. The noise it made was so loud that she stepped back in alarm. Almost at once the door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a mob-cap and carrying a feather duster, who took one look at Marie and said, ‘Up you go, my dear. He’s waiting for you.’
A wide stone staircase with elegant metal banisters led to a broad landing off which a half-open door showed a long room overlooking Princes Street. It had vast, uncurtained windows to the front and the rear and the floor was polished wood that shone like glass. Dotted here and there across its wide expanse were tall wooden easels and canvas stools. There was no sign of anyone, however, and Marie hovered uncertainly on the threshold till the woman in the hall called up, ‘In you go. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.’
As soon as she stepped into the salon, something wonderful happened. It might have been the smell of paint; it might have been the sight of the easels and the clarity of light flowing into the gleaming empty space, but her fingers suddenly itched to pick up a brush and start painting. Dazzled she walked down the middle of the floor staring at half-finished canvases propped on the easels and did not turn her head when there was a footfall behind her.
‘Do you like anything in particular?’ asked a warm voice and she whirled round to see a plump little man with an upstanding frill of grey hair and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. His clothes looked as if he had stepped out of the past, because he was wea
ring black silk stockings, black pantaloons and shoes with silver buckles, a high-necked white shirt and a black waistcoat that buttoned over his round stomach. The thought that flashed through Marie’s head when she saw him was, He looks like Humpty Dumpty.
This pleasing little vision came prancing towards her, walking on his toes. His hand was outheld and he cried, ‘Good day, my dear, good day. You are Lady Godolphin’s young friend, aren’t you? She wrote so glowingly of you, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. My name is D’Arcy Abernethy.’
All Marie’s nerves and misgivings were dispelled by the stimulating atmosphere of the studio and the warmth of this greeting. ‘Yes, I’m Marie Benjamin, Mr Abernethy,’ she said.
‘Professor D’Arcy Abernethy,’ he corrected her in a kindly way before taking her arm and leading her up to a window. ‘Just look out there. Isn’t that a wonderful view? What other city in Europe has a view like that?’ he asked her.
‘I’ve never been anywhere else,’ she told him and he laughed.
‘But you will, my dear, if Lady Godolphin is right. I hope you’ve brought some of your work to show me.’
She was carrying a small document case bought for her by Tibbie and raised it in his direction. ‘Yes, they’re in here,’ she told him.
He frowned. ‘Not very big, are they?’
She didn’t explain that she had never had access to large sheets of paper and practised her art on scraps or single sheets. Her nervousness returned.
Bending down she opened the case and brought out a sheaf of watercolours of the countryside around Camptounfoot and some of wild flowers that she’d done during her wanderings with Kitty.
He held them up in front of his face and peered closely at them, one after the other. This took a long time, for after he’d looked he laid them down on a tabletop and bent over them, finger on plump chin. Marie felt as if she were going to faint, for the suspense was almost more than she could bear and her self-esteem was falling with every moment that passed. David’s warnings about the high standard of art in Edinburgh resounded in her mind.
‘I’ll go back to the train and forget all about this,’ she said at last, watching the Professor’s solemn face.
He shook his head and asked, ‘Have you any others with you?’
‘No, I’m sorry, that’s all I brought. And anything else I’ve got isn’t better I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t be sorry, my dear. These are delightful. Lady Godolphin’s right. You have an amazing talent, although it’s quite unpolished. This flower picture has a Dürer-esque quality about it, and in the landscapes, the skies are good and skies are very hard to paint. Yes, you’ve mastered that. Remarkable in one so young. The perspective’s a little out in places… that needs work. And your range of colour is unsophisticated. You need to widen your palette.’
‘Do you really like them?’ she whispered, only half-believing him.
‘Like them? They’re delightful. It will be a pleasure to teach you, my dear, a real pleasure. We’ll start with drawing practice. The class does not begin till half-past one but I’ll fetch you a chair and a table and you can do some charcoal sketches. Wait here a moment till I get things organised.’
While Marie was gathering her sketches together again and putting them back in the case, the woman who had opened the door to her, came into the studio and asked, ‘Have you eaten? I’m sure you haven’t and Papa is so silly, he’d never ask. When he’s talking pictures, he doesn’t think about food.’
She’d called him Papa and Marie had thought she was the maid! Her face flushed scarlet with embarrassment at her mistake, but the woman did not mind. She was obviously used to being taken for the servant.
‘I’ll get you something,’ she said sweetly to Marie. ‘Sit down there on the window seat and I’ll bring it up.’ She brought bread and cheese, an apple and a glass of red wine, the first Marie had ever tasted. She was brushing breadcrumbs off her skirt when a group of young women came into the studio, laughing and chattering among themselves. They were all beautifully dressed in clothes and jewellery that made Marie’s gown look insignificant.
One of them looked across at her and asked, ‘The new girl? The Prof said you were coming today. Lady Godolphin’s friend, aren’t you?’
Marie nodded and one by one they smiled at her, saying their names which she immediately forgot because she was so flustered. The only one she remembered was a girl with very black hair swept tightly back from an elfin face with a pointed chin and sparkling dark eyes. Her figure was slight and wiry and she looked like a sporty young boy.
‘I’m Amy Roxburgh,’ she said with a wide smile before walking over to the far window and hiding herself behind a large white canvas propped up on an easel.
Before long the Professor came back, followed by his mob-capped daughter, who was struggling to carry a fold-up chair and a table at the same time.
‘Put them down there, Milly,’ he said indicating a spot by the window. ‘Then go and bring George,’
George turned out to be a huge plaster-cast head of a Roman emperor wearing a wreath of laurel. He was laid on the window ledge and adjusted to just the right angle by the Professor, who then indicated that Marie should sit down in front of him.
Make a drawing of George, my dear. Note his fine nose and the nobility of his brow. Make him look like the ruler of a vast empire. Go to it!’ he exclaimed, clapping his hands and skipping off into the middle of his other students.
As he made his rounds, Marie could hear him making comments on their work. ‘Oh no, Sibyll, your flowers look dead. They’re alive, paint them as if they are living and vibrant. I want to be able to smell them!’
When he came to Amy Roxburgh at her stance in the far window he stood back and sighed, ‘My dear Miss Roxburgh, everything you paint is larger than life and three times more coloured. Do try to tone things down a little.’
Gradually, however, as Marie pored over her drawing of George, the world around her withdrew and she became oblivious to the talk and laughter of the other students, who, as three o’clock approached, left off their painting and gathered again in chattering groups. It took a hand on her shoulder and the Professor’s voice in her ear to break her concentration.
It’s ten past three, Miss Benjamin. Your maid has come to take you to the station. That’s a good drawing you’ve done but when you come back I’ll show you how to master charcoal in order to give depth. You’re coming back on Friday, aren’t you?’
She stood up, wiping her charcoal-stained fingers on her handkerchief. After concentrating so long on the plaster cast of the Roman emperor it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust and she staggered a little.
She did not fall because a hand slipped under her elbow and a laughing voice said, ‘You work too hard. You mustn’t do that or you’ll show all the rest of us up. Most of us are only here to pass the time, you know.’
It was Amy Roxburgh. Marie recovered quickly and said, ‘I’m sure you’re not!’
Amy nodded solemnly. ‘But we are. It’s good to be able to paint little pictures. It gives us a nice hobby for when we’re respectable married ladies. But it wouldn’t do to be too serious, would it?’
Unsure if she was joking or not, Marie stared at her and Amy grinned like a cheeky urchin. ‘The Prof said your maid’s waiting. You’d better hurry. I know what maids are like. Positive tyrants. I’ll see you again, won’t I? I always come here on Tuesdays and Fridays.’
‘Yes, I’ll be back on Friday,’ said Marie. All her dread about the painting class had disappeared and she could hardly bear to tear herself away from George.
The maid, Ellen, was waiting at the front door. Her face was scarlet and she smelled strongly of drink, for she’d spent three hours in one of the taverns of the Old Town among the cronies of her youth. When she saw Marie coming down the stairs, she ran forward and grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, hurry up, we’ll miss the train if we don’t run.’
Amy, descending the stair behind Marie, laug
hed and said, ‘Just like I said, tyrants. I’d get another maid if I were you, my dear.’
Ellen was pulling Marie out into the street, dodging in and out between strolling people like a rabbit making its getaway from a hungry dog. Marie had no choice but to run after her.
When they got to the station, Marie said angrily, ‘What’s all the hurry about? The train doesn’t leave for another ten minutes.’
Ellen didn’t bother to answer but dashed straight into the station buffet and ordered herself a glass of gin.
‘I need a drink before I can face that journey with you again,’ she said rudely, throwing it back and pushing the glass across the polished wooden top for a refill. By the time they boarded their train, she was staggering and two old women, already seated in the carriage, drew back from her in distaste.
When they alighted it was Marie who was looking after the maid. She took her into the ladies’ waiting-room and poured cold water on her face. ‘Can you manage to get back to Bella Vista on your own?’ she asked.
Ellen bridled. ‘Of coorse I can. Awa’ ye go and leave me be. I’m weel able to tak care o’ mysel’, no’ like some folk.’ In her cups she had abandoned the carefully modulated accent she adopted when at work and reverted to pure Edinburgh.
Marie left, determined that she had no need of a chaperon any longer. Friday could not come fast enough as far as she was concerned.
One important thing had to be done before she could return to Edinburgh, however. She must go to Bella Vista and report to Lady Godolphin about her first visit to the painting class.
Bethya was lying on the sofa with her eyes closed when the butler announced the arrival of Miss Marie Benjamin.
Marie, shyly entering the room behind the imposing man-servant was surprised to see the change in Lady Godolphin since their last meeting. She was no longer a figure of glamour in a rose-bedecked bonnet but a thin invalid lying on a sofa with the funny-looking dogs snuffling beside her. Her lips were tinged blue and her glorious hair seemed to have become less vital, for the long side tresses lay limply on her shoulders. However, her voice and manner were as vivacious as ever.
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