On the way home in the train that night she pondered sadly, Of course, I’ve no reason to expect an invitation at Christmas and certainly no reason to believe that Murray would turn down the invitation to the Highlands for my sake. Perhaps I was the reason he didn’t want to go, though. Poor Murray.
Snow began to fall that night and cut off the Borderland from every other part of Scotland, making it impossible for Marie to get to Edinburgh for the last classes of the year. No trains were running; a few brave people sallied out on horseback but only for short distances. The normal cart traffic that passed up and down the main street of the village disappeared and the world seemed strangely silent and waiting, as if it were holding its breath.
Still the snow fell, drifting down in a slowly waving curtain from the Three Sisters hills. Frost gripped the land and every twig, every dry flower stalk in Tibbie’s garden stood up stiff and white.
Marie sat looking out of the window, brooding about her love. He’d made no move to contact her and over and over again she recalled Amy’s warning, ‘He’s a bit of a flirt, you know.’
Yet she managed to reassure herself by recalling some loving thing he had said to her, the way he’d held her hand or slipped a kiss onto her cheek when no one was looking. Of course he loved her as much as she loved him.
She would have liked to go to Bella Vista to see Bethya but the snow made it impossible, so, desperate to occupy her mind and stop herself worrying, she started to draw the winter world.
A kind of fine frenzy of work gripped her and she found an old piece of canvas which she took to Jo’s workshop and asked him to stretch over a frame. Then, having primed it, she set herself to paint the scene from the cottage window.
It grew under her hand into a thing of such dramatic beauty that Tibbie stopped beside her every now and again to exclaim in delight, ‘Oh, lass, aren’t you clever! Oh, lass, that’s magnificent. That’s just what it looks like.’
Marie painted in a frantic hurry, knowing she must finish the picture before the snow disappeared and also knowing that it was probably the best thing she’d ever done. When she stood back and looked at it, she felt no doubt about her ability. She had become an artist and was glorying in her skill.
She was still painting in the dim grey light of Christmas morning, putting the final touches to the background of snow-covered hills, when David turned up, covered with snow after a long and arduous journey from Maddiston.
He paused in the doorway and took in the scene. Tibbie was cooking and the kitchen was full of mouthwatering smells; the cat and the parrot were in their usual places, both snoozing gently; and his sister stood at the window covering a canvas with paint.
She looked over her shoulder at him. Her face took on a hard look and she said, ‘Go away. I don’t want you here.’
He left without a word, leaving nothing behind but a puddle of melted snow on the floor where he’d stood.
The snow lay for a fortnight and when the first thaw came, Marie varnished her painting of the hills under snow and, two days later, boarded the train to Edinburgh with a tremendous sense of relief.
Warm in layers of woollen shawls, with her carefully wrapped painting on the floor beside her, she sat in the corner of a compartment, her face pressed up against the window and marvelled at the immensely high walls of frozen snow banked along the line.
Where it was possible to get a view, the hills looked like roll upon roll of wool, piled up white and pristine as they must have been in the beginning of time before Man set a foot on them. There was not a soul abroad and everything was immobile in the grip of the cold.
The end of her journey, Edinburgh, was uniformly grey, not a city to cheer the downcast soul. Marie ran along Princes Street, slithering in the slush of the gutters, till she reached the Professor’s door which was opened by a red-nosed Millie, who exclaimed, ‘It’s grand to see you. We thought you’d be gone till the spring!’
What delight it was to step once more into the brightly lit studio with its blazing fire. Chatter, banter and the usual delicious smells overwhelmed her. The flower painting she had been working on before Christmas stood waiting on her easel and the other students crowded round while Amy impulsively hugged her friend and cried out, ‘Here you are, our brave explorer from the frozen Borderland!’
‘Did you have a good Christmas with Julia?’ Marie asked and Amy said in a sarcastic tone, ‘Delightful! Very cold and horribly ghostly. I swear that castle hasn’t just got one ghost, it has twenty and I saw them all. The food was foul too, game birds and venison ad nauseam. I told Murray that if we stayed there much longer we’d all be growing antlers.’
‘How is Murray?’ Marie managed to stop herself blushing as she asked the question.
‘The same as usual. He sends you his love,’ said Amy lightly, waving a paint-smeared hand.
Professor Abernethy then came across and beamed on his star pupil. ‘It’s good to see you again. Have you been working during the holidays?’
‘Yes, I have. I brought a picture for you to give an opinion on because it’s different from anything else I’ve ever done.’ As she spoke she was untying the string that held the wrappings over her canvas. Everyone watched while the snow scene was unveiled and when she turned it round to face them there was a universal sigh of admiration.
‘How beautiful… Oh, doesn’t it look cold…? My goodness, it’s masterly…’ came the comments.
It was what the Professor said that mattered to Marie, however. She stood staring at him while he looked at her picture.
He took a very long time, chin on his fist and eyes veiled. Then he stepped a few paces back and stood staring at it again. All the girls were watching him with bated breath.
At last he switched his gaze to the artist. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I thought that you were a very adept copyist. You seemed to be able to paint in any style… but this isn’t derivative at all. This isn’t the work of someone who is only a facile brush wielder. This is entirely original, I’m happy to say. You’ve made the breakthrough. You’ve become a real artist. My word, I’m overcome with admiration.’
Marie was so moved that she couldn’t speak, only shake her head and try to stop her tears from flowing. The kindly old man put a hand on her arm.
‘You mustn’t weep. You’ve got a heaven-sent gift. It’s something to rejoice about.’
‘I painted it for the exhibition,’ she whispered.
He nodded with enthusiasm. ‘Of course, the exhibition. It’s scheduled for February. This will be the best thing in it. This will make your name. The only thing that makes me sad is that this picture tells me I’ve taught you everything I can. You need someone better now. You’ve outpassed me by a long way.’
Marie was the heroine of the hour. The entire class clustered round her, looking at the painting, asking how she achieved her effects. She didn’t have any secrets to impart…‘I just wanted to paint it as it was, to show how cold and bleak it looked… I was low in my spirits and I wanted to show that too…’
She didn’t tell them that as she was painting the picture she had been painfully conscious of the fact that on the slope of the hill that faced her, her murdered mother had lain dead in similar cold and wintry weather. All the desolation of her loneliness, her split with David and her unrequited love was painted into it.
Amy slipped an arm round her waist and said sympathetically, ‘I can see you were sad when you did that. You must come home with me tonight and see the family. They’re all longing to entertain you again.’
It was as if the sun emerged from behind a black bank of clouds. Light flooded the world and the blood throbbed faster in Marie’s veins. She beamed with pleasure as she said, ‘I’d love to. I’d really love to.’
When they emerged onto the street after the class was finished, the city seemed to have taken on a new face. A wintry sun gleamed down and gilded the windows, casting bright highlights over the grim stones of the castle. Marie beamed so joyously that Amy’s coachman
was infected by her high spirits as he tucked the girls into their seats and told her, ‘It’s good to see you again, miss.’
I’ve been worrying about nothing. Everything’s going to turn out well, she thought as they drove to Murrayhill, which looked like a fairy mansion on the face of its hill, with its unmarked white lawn stretching down from the terrace to the road.
Mrs Roxburgh was waiting in her warm parlour and rose with both hands outspread when Marie entered. ‘You’ve kept yourself away from us for far too long,’ she cried.
This sounded as if Marie had been deliberately staying away but she made no protest and said with a delighted smile, ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’
Behind her Amy said breathlessly, ‘Marie’s done the most wonderful picture for the exhibition. The Profs in ecstacies about it. He says she’s got too good for him to teach any more.’
Mrs Roxburgh fixed her sharp eyes on Marie’s face and said, ‘I knew you’d outgrow Professor Abernethy. You need someone better. I think you ought to go to Paris.’
Both girls gasped and Marie made her usual self-deprecatory noises but Mrs Roxburgh quelled them with an upraised hand. ‘Listen to me. Paris is the only place if you’re really serious about painting. Are you?’
Marie did not have to think about the question. Vigorously she nodded her head. ‘Yes, I’m serious.’ Painting was almost as important as Murray.
Mrs Roxburgh seemed pleased at this reply. ‘You’re a remarkable girl. You have to be dedicated to succeed as an artist, you know.’
Marie nodded. ‘I know that but…’
‘But?’ Mrs Roxburgh was looking at her with interrogating eyes.
‘But I’m poor. I’ve no money. How can I go to Paris?’
‘What about Lady Godolphin?’ Amy asked.
‘I’ve no claim on Lady Godolphin. She helped me out of kindness. I expect nothing more from her.’
This did not put Mrs Roxburgh off, however. ‘She helped you because she recognised your talent and that has grown. If she knows how good you are now, she’ll probably go on helping you. Besides you’ll make money from the pictures you enter in the exhibition.’
‘If anyone buys them,’ said Marie.
Amy laughed. ‘You’re such a pessimist. Of course someone’ll buy them. They’re all splendid. You’ll probably make enough to take you to Paris.’
Marie looked from one to the other. They were both privileged women who could see no obstacle to any hopes and ambitions they held.
‘I’d like to go,’ she admitted, ‘but not for too long.’ She was wondering how she’d manage to live in a foreign land, so far away from Murray.
‘Paris is a beautiful and enchanting place,’ said Mrs Roxburgh, walking back to her chair. ‘When you get there, there’s no predicting how you’ll react.’
To put the final touch to the delight of that day, Murray was at home and when Marie entered the drawing-room he jumped up and walked towards her with a smile of welcome on his face.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ he told her.
All her fears disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. I was foolish to doubt him, she thought, as he led her to a chair and sat beside her, leaning forward as if she were the only person in the room.
Not only Murray, it seemed, but every member of the family went out of their way to please her that night. When they had dined, music was suggested and she sat in the midst of them listening to her favourite songs in a haze of happiness. Outside the window a full moon was shining on the snow-covered garden and the sky was a blanket of velvet studded all over with stars.
Murray saw her gazing through the uncurtained glass and leaned across to ask softly, ‘Would you care to take a turn with me before you go to bed?’
His mother looked up sharply. ‘Yes, that would be nice but wrap up well. It’s so cold.’
He shook his head. ‘We won’t be long, Mama. Just a short walk to clear our lungs, a breath of fresh air. It’s stuffy in here.’
A look passed between them and Mrs Roxburgh nodded. ‘All right, but keep warm. Don’t go far.’
He fetched a warm shawl for Marie and they set out, heading across the lawn to a little wooden summer-house that was tucked in a corner of the boundary wall. He took her arm to guide her over the snow-packed path and she felt as if she were in heaven. What she wanted most in the world was to lean her head against his chest and feel his heart beating beneath her cheek. Her emotions were so intense that she could not speak.
Murray was telling her how hard he had been working during the past few months.
‘I really want to do well. If I pass the exams this time, I’ve been offered a place in a legal office in Queen Street, but they’ll only take me as a probationer and it’ll be several years before I’m on my feet…’ he said.
She looked at him with shining eyes. ‘I’m sure you’ll do well. You deserve to for all the work you’ve done. It doesn’t matter to me how long we’ve to wait, Murray.’
‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘I won’t be in a position to ask anyone to wait for me for a long, long time. It isn’t fair on the girl, Marie.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t care. I’ll go to Paris and learn to paint really well and then perhaps I’ll be able to earn enough money to ask you!’
He smiled. ‘You are a silly girl! But you’ll probably meet someone else in Paris. I don’t want you to think that you must wait for me…’
‘I’ll never meet anyone I love more than you,’ she whispered.
‘Now, now,’ he said, as if he were calming a boisterous dog. ‘You know we can’t be serious about each other yet, don’t you? You’ve your career to think about and I’ve got mine.’
‘That’s true,’ she agreed, ‘and I take my career very seriously too.’
‘Of course you do,’ he said in a hearty tone. ‘And so you should. Everyone says you’ve a brilliant future before you. Even for a woman…’
The words chilled her. ‘I think it’s so unfair the way people think women painters are inferior to men,’ she burst out. ‘I have to sign all my work with my initials and not my full name. That’s awful.’
Murray had a pragmatic mind. ‘It’s sensible, my dear, if you want to sell your work.’
‘But don’t you see that I want to be recognised as myself, Marie Benjamin, not as some make-believe man, not just a saleable commodity?’ she sighed.
Money mattered to him, however, and he brushed that aside. ‘When you’ve made your name, you can start a movement. Meanwhile make money, that’s my advice to you.’
They seemed to be moving away from the matter of romance, however, and she leaned her cheek on his sleeve, saying softly, ‘I’ve missed you so much, Murray. You’ve been on my mind a lot.’
‘That’s good, I’m glad,’ he said awkwardly, squeezing her arm. She wondered why he didn’t kiss her and decided to take the initiative, moving closer and whispering, ‘Have you missed me?’
He was so handsome in the semi-darkness with the silver-gilt colour of the moon playing on his face that her heart beat faster as she looked at him. His gaze sought hers and she saw his eyes softening.
‘I’ve thought about you a lot too,’ he said vehemently. ‘A great deal. More than you can imagine.’
Emboldened by this, she kissed his cheek. He sat very still for a moment and then stood up abruptly. ‘Come on, it’s getting cold and Mama will be wondering where we are,’ he said, extending his hand.
Her face was so stricken that his resolve melted, however, and he aimed a peck at her cheek. ‘Don’t look so woebegone,’ he whispered. ‘It’s best if we just stay friends for the meantime. It’s so complicated. There’s such a long time to wait… We can’t commit ourselves. My family are anxious that I don’t until I’m really settled.’
‘Just tell me one thing,’ she whispered. ‘Just tell me you still love me.’
He held her hands to his chest and his wonderfully soulful eyes were fixed on her face. ‘I still love you. If it was left
to me, if I was independent, I’d marry you tomorrow. You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever met in my life.’
She almost jumped with joy. ‘Of course I understand. I’ll wait. It doesn’t matter if I have to wait ten years for you,’ she told him in a heartfelt voice.
He stroked her cheek and said, ‘It’s not just waiting, it’s not being tied…’
She shook her head. ‘We’re not tied.’
He sounded relieved. ‘I knew you’d understand. You’re such a sensitive and sensible girl. I didn’t want to hurt you because I thought you expected something to happen quickly, but it can’t, you know.’
‘Of course it can’t. I know that perfectly well. But I do love you,’ she cried out and threw out her arms to him again. He bent down and kissed her once more. Then gently he took her arm and led her back to the house.
When they re-entered the drawing-room, the family all looked up expectantly.
Marie beamed and happily told them, ‘It’s so lovely tonight. All the stars are out.’
Mrs Roxburgh looked from her to Murray and said slowly, ‘You seem to have enjoyed yourselves.’
It was only when she was in bed that night that an unbidden thought struck Marie. Though she’d vehemently avowed her love for Murray, he had been reluctant to do the same. She told herself she was being stupid. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he?
Chapter Fifteen
The exhibition was fixed for 15 February 1875.
It was to take place in a large gallery along the road from Professor Abernethy’s studio and was one of the social events of the Edinburgh year, because all the art masters, of which there were many in the city, periodically displayed pupils’ work. The teachers vied with each other for the patronage of rich families with daughters and the Prof expected that Marie’s work would stand head and shoulders above everyone else’s. It would be better than any advertisement for him but he was not a selfish man and sincerely hoped that Marie would sell her pictures well because he had a shrewd idea that her circumstances were very different to those of his other pupils.
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