Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  While she was speaking to Robbie, Marie saw Bethya arriving and, apologising to him, hurried over to greet her.

  Bethya grasped her hands and said, ‘Where are they? Don’t tell me! I’ll pick them out… Yes, there they are, on that wall. No one else but you could do such wonderful pictures!’ Still holding Marie’s hand, she walked through the crowd, which parted in front of her because she had such an air of distinction.

  They stood together in front of the winter landscape and Bethya sighed, ‘That’s the Three Sisters. I hunted over them when I was young. How wonderful you’ve made them look. Enchanted, in fact.’

  ‘I want you to have it,’ said Marie.

  Bethya looked at her and shook her head. ‘Oh no, not that one. It’s too sad. I want one of your flower pictures… I need a summer picture to make me happy, especially now. Let’s see which one I like best.’

  They walked down the line and after much deliberation she chose a study of lilac blossom in a glass jar which Marie remembered had caused her a great deal of trouble in the painting.

  It was only later, when looking at the price list, that she saw the Professor had put a price tag of ten guineas on the lilac picture but the snow scene was sixty, the most expensive picture in the show. She was sure that Bethya had refused to take the big picture in the hope that it would be sold to some other enthusiast.

  When the little red spot went up on the lilacs and people heard that it had gone to Lady Godolphin, there was a rush to buy Benjamins, for Bethya was well known as an influential art collector. By the time the Roxburgh family arrived, all the flower pieces had been snapped up, for they came late, just before midday, but Marie’s heart leaped into her throat when she saw that Murray was with them.

  He looked well, handsomely clear-skinned and smiling and she wished she could go over to him and take his hand, for she longed to show her link with him, to mark him out as hers.

  Mrs Roxburgh, a leader of smart society in spite of her affectation of despising it, was soon surrounded by a group of chattering ladies. They told her that Lady Godolphin was in the crowd and, leaving them, she hurried over to where Bethya was resting on one of the red plush seats, for her strength was ebbing and her face was white.

  Mrs Roxburgh sat beside her and said, ‘I do hope you don’t think its presumptuous of me to introduce myself to you like this but we’ve communicated by letter and I feel as if I know you already. Our mutual interest in Marie Benjamin has made a bond between us.’

  Bethya smiled wanly. ‘She is so gifted. I’m proud to be associated with her. It would have been a terrible thing for such talent to be neglected. Even as a child, her pictures were remarkable.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Mrs Roxburgh, nodding. ‘My daughter Amy and she have become very close friends and she has spent a good deal of time at our home, Murrayhill. We’ve become very fond of her and I do think it’s a good idea for her to go to Paris. Her horizon must be widened.’

  Bethya looked at the noisy crowd around her. Everyone seemed to be studying Marie’s pictures and there was not much interest in the others. ‘I think she’s well launched on her career already,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, she is, but Edinburgh’s not big enough for her. She should get away. I hope she makes enough today to send her to Paris, for that’s what she needs, but it’s an expensive city. My husband and I intend to pay Marie’s fare there if she will accept it. She will be a good companion for our Amy. We feel that we could not let our girl go to that city alone and Marie is so sensible…’

  Bethya knew what was being asked. ‘I’m happy to go on backing Marie financially but she’s a very proud girl. She’s never taken any money from me, all she has allowed me to do is pay Professor Abernethy’s fees. It would be insulting to offer her money now.’

  ‘The classes at the École des Peintures where Amy is going are not cheap. I doubt if Marie could afford them for more than a few weeks even if she sells all the pictures she has here today,’ said Mrs Roxburgh.

  Bethya turned her lovely dark eyes on the woman by her side. ‘I’m prepared to pay her class fees,’ she said sweetly. ‘How can we arrange it without hurting her feelings? Perhaps we can tell her that the fees are much cheaper than they really are…’

  Mrs Roxburgh was delighted. ‘That’s extremely kind of you. I’ll arrange it all and Amy and I will persuade Marie to go. We want to make it possible for her to spend long enough to benefit from the teaching there. As you were saying, it would be dreadful if her talent was wasted.’

  Marie, unaware of all this planning, was acutely conscious of Murray no matter where he went in the big room. When he stood in front of one of her pictures, her eye followed him, trying to discern from his expression what he was thinking. She could not approach him because she was besieged on all sides by admirers and every now and again Milly, who was keeping the purchase sheet, would rush up to whisper out of the side of her mouth, ‘Another one away!’

  At last she could stay away from Murray no longer and succeeded in pushing her way through the crowd to stand beside him. She tried to slip a hand into his but he had them in his pockets, though the smile he turned on her was fond enough to make her heart melt.

  ‘Which picture do you like best?’ she whispered.

  He pointed to the scene with the sleeping cat in Tibbie’s kitchen. ‘That’s the one. It’s so peaceful, so homely.’

  ‘It’s my home,’ she said softly, thinking how very different it was to Murrayhill.

  ‘In that case,’ said Murray, ‘I’m going to buy it.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she protested. ‘You can’t do that. You mustn’t waste money. I’ll paint you another one and give it to you as a present.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no, I want to buy it.’ He consulted his catalogue sheet. ‘It’s only ten guineas. I can easily afford that — especially now.’

  ‘Especially now?’ she repeated in surprise.

  He looked slightly taken aback. ‘I mean especially now that I’ve finished studying and will soon go to work.’

  Just then Milly came over again with a lady admirer who’d asked to be introduced to Marie so her tete-a-tete with Murray was broken up and he was swallowed up by the crowd.

  By half-past twelve people had started to drift away and Robbie appeared at Marie’s elbow.

  ‘I’m taking Tibbie for a meal at the hotel at the far end of Princes Street. Will you join us?’ he asked.

  She looked around for the Roxburghs but they had disappeared, so she accepted his invitation and they lunched in great style with the waiters fussing around Robbie who seemed to be known to them.

  He ordered wine and toasted Marie with it and she felt tears rise to her eyes as she looked at the two smiling faces beside her. Dear Tibbie, whose cheeks were bright pink with the unaccustomed wine, and Robbie, who was openly proud of his achievements but not so proud that he could not acknowledge Marie’s as well.

  She wished that she was not acting a part, pretending to be as happy as they were, and not secretly sorrowing over Murray, wishing it was he who was sitting with her, not Robbie.

  Before they returned to the station to catch their train home, she said, ‘I’d like to go back to the studio and find out how many pictures have been sold altogether.’ Tibbie and Robbie went with her and she hid from them her hope that Murray had left her a message with Milly, but disappointment awaited her over that too.

  The Professor exclaimed in delight at the sight of his star pupil and rushed across to take her hands. ‘My dear, my dear, you’ve sold everything except the big snow scene. You’ve made ninety-eight guineas! It’s a fortune, well done.’

  ‘Is that enough for Paris?’ she asked him.

  ‘It would keep you there for about a year providing you’re cautious,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity the snow scene hasn’t gone, though, because it’s the best of the lot but I priced it high, perhaps I went over the top. I thought it so masterly, you see…’

  ‘But all the people at the show would know
it was by a woman, wouldn’t they?’ said Marie bitterly and the Professor nodded.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. But don’t despair. There’s another four days of the show. It might go before the end.’

  For the next two days she waited in Camptounfoot, wondering about Murray. On the third morning after the show Robbie arrived to say goodbye, for he was going back to London, having been unexpectedly recalled because of pressure of business.

  Tibbie was more disappointed than Marie by his departure, for she had high hopes of a romance flourishing between them but they had not had long enough to get to know each other. Marie was too concerned with wondering whether Murray would contact her to give much thought to anything else.

  On the fourth morning, a footman from Bella Vista turned up with a note from Bethya. She too, said the note, was preparing to go south but had been in contact with Mrs Roxburgh of Murrayhill about the trip to Paris. If Marie would go up to Murrayhill as soon as possible, the final plans could be made.

  Marie was on the next train to Edinburgh and found Amy and her mother closeted in the parlour at Murrayhill with French dictionaries and railway timetables piled on the table beside them.

  ‘How do you feel about crossing the Channel?’ asked Mrs Roxburgh jocularly when Marie appeared.

  She shook her head. ‘My snow scene hasn’t sold. I might not have enough money.’

  Mrs Roxburgh laughed. ‘Of course you do. Mr Roxburgh and I want to pay your train fare to Paris. Now, don’t refuse out of hand. If you accept our offer, it will get you there and Lady Godolphin has negotiated specially reduced class rates for you because of your talent… They’re pleased to get a girl who can paint so well already.’

  This was a lie. Bethya had undertaken to pay the full fees but Marie was not to know that.

  She looked starry-eyed as Amy’s mother went on. ‘That means the money you’ve earned from the exhibition will be sufficient to pay your accommodation and food. Will you do it? Will you go?’

  Amy chipped in, ‘Do say yes. They won’t let me go alone. You must come.’

  I wonder if they’re grooming me for acceptance into the family? thought Marie, for she was still acutely self-conscious when faced by the barrage of Roxburghs and aware of her social shortcomings.

  Mrs Roxburgh put the clinching touch to her argument when she said, ‘You’ll learn so much more than painting in Paris. You’ll come back a woman of the world…’

  ‘It’s very kind of you. I would like to go,’ she faltered. They had won.

  ‘Good, good,’ cried Amy, clapping her hands.

  ‘Good, good,’ echoed her mother. ‘I’ll arrange things from this end. You must write to Lady Godolphin immediately and say I’ve spoken to you and that you’ll go to Paris with Amy. You’ll love Paris. It’s such a lovely place to be in when you’re young.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cora White’s Excelsior Club was famous with London’s sporting men and, in spite of being in an unfashionable area, it was very smart indeed.

  Bothy-born Kitty never ceased to admire the elegance of its furniture and fittings, the gleam of the paint, the sumptuousness of the carpets which, she was sure, would not be surpassed for style in Windsor Castle itself.

  The front of the house was a reception area with an elegant entrance hall and sitting-rooms where clients lolled around reading newspapers or gossiping while pretty girls hurried to and fro serving drinks.

  Behind were a series of sweat rooms and plunge baths where the clients went to lie wrapped in towels, enduring heat that could almost melt the flesh from their bones. The heating system was worked by an ingenious network of piping that connected with a huge furnace in the back yard, where a dust-stained gang of men were continually employed shovelling coal into its maw.

  Clients could turn up at any time, day or night, and while they sweated, they called up food or refreshments, though the more serious of them took neither and sometimes fainted from lack of nourishment and weakness, so extreme was their regimen.

  After a session in the hot rooms, they lay on cots in white-curtained cubicles to be massaged by well-muscled men who looked like, and sometimes were, ex-pugilists. For many of the clients the club was a sort of home from home and they held dinner parties there for their male friends or conducted long card games at the baize-covered tables.

  Apart from her own girls, Mrs White did not admit women, even as guests of the clients, and the Excelsior was a male paradise. The stokers, the masseurs, the never-seen kitchen staff and Laverty were men; the rest of the staff pretty young women who were not averse to sitting on a client’s knee if so requested.

  There were seven girls, including Kitty Scott, working in the house. Though some of them appeared to do nothing more than walk about with trays of iced water, they all were handpicked for their looks. In this line up of beauty was a creamy-skinned Nordic blonde; a beautiful mulatto girl from Madagascar with eyes of jet-black surrounded by astonishingly brilliant whites; an Irish colleen called Brigid with hair like a raven’s wing; and three pert Cockney girls whose doll-like faces belied their sharpness of wit and steely characters. Kitty was the only one with red hair and she stood out because she was the tallest of them all.

  When she made her first appearance in the lavender gown Laverty had picked out for her, she was met by a wall of suspicion and distrust from the other girls. They had formed alliances among themselves; there were rivalries and dislikes simmering beneath the surface. Each faction wondered where this stranger would fit in.

  As she looked from face to face an old singing game that used to be played at Camptounfoot school came unbidden into her head. ‘Bow to the East; Bow to the West…’ the children sang as they skipped round in a ring. The one in the middle picked out her friend and that went on till only one was left unchosen. That one was usually Kitty.

  Which of these women, she asked herself, was the ringleader, the equivalent of Bella? Being on the road with the boxing show had taught her a lot about life and she knew that it would not do to set herself up in defiance. She would pick the winning side and placate it.

  She smiled and the Irish girl smiled back. The only one who did not smile was the shortest and sweetest-looking of the Cockney girls, whose name was Gladys.

  That’s the leader, thought Kitty and smiled directly at her.

  Her reward was a grudging nod. ‘Where you from then?’ the girl asked. It was an acknowledgement of her existence. Kitty was in.

  At first Mrs White attempted to recruit the new girl as a bearer of drinks but she rebelled against sweeping around with a tray in her hand, knowing that the eyes of men were following her every move. She hated having to be scrupulously polite to boors whose faces she would gladly have slapped. Her manner was so offhand that it was obvious within one day that another position would have to be found for her, but she was so eye-catching that Mrs White was reluctant to put her behind the scenes.

  ‘You said you were good at counting, didn’t you?’ she asked after a minor incident when it looked as if Kitty was about to bounce a silver tray off the head of an amorous client.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Kitty did not believe in false modesty.

  ‘I need a bookkeeper. The old man who used to do it died last month and I’ve been doing it myself but it takes me away from other things. You’d have to tally up all the chits for drinks and services that the girls bring in and enter them in my big ledger. Some of the patrons run accounts with me, you see.’

  ‘I could do that,’ said Kitty confidently.

  ‘The only thing is you’ll have to do it at a desk in the front hall. I want the customers to see you. It’s a pity to hide you away.’

  Kitty glared. ‘You’re dressing the window, are you? I don’t mind so long as I don’t have to sit on their knees and put up with them pawing me.’

  Cora sighed. ‘I’ll let them know you’re off bounds. Just don’t hit them, will you? This isn’t a boxing show, this is a gentlemen’s club. I’ll try you at the bookkeepin
g and see how you get on. If you don’t, I’ll have to let you go. I can’t afford passengers, even if my sisters send them to me.’

  Kitty bridled. ‘I’m no passenger, Mrs White, but I’m no baggage either.’

  Cora laughed. ‘I like a girl with a quick tongue. All right, come into my office and I’ll show you how the books are kept. If you suit me, I’ll pay you a pound a week and your keep.’

  Clients signed for anything they bought or received. Each day piles of paper chits appeared on Kitty’s desk that had been set up beside an immense potted palm in the entrance hall. These chits had to be added up before being entered in the ledgers under each client’s name. Bills were sent out monthly and Kitty prepared them too. She accomplished this task with ease and far quicker than any bookkeeper Cora had employed before, so her reluctance to flirt with the customers was soon forgiven by the owner of the club but not so quickly by the other girls, who felt that Kitty’s disdain for the customers reflected on them.

  Hardbitten Gladys put a restraining hand on Kitty’s arm one night as she was climbing the stairs to bed in the tiny attic beneath the eaves.

  ‘You too good to chat up the customers? Some sort of a lady then? Do you think we’re all tarts?’ she asked. Her breath smelt of gin as she pressed her face near Kitty.

  ‘Of course I don’t. I just don’t like men much.’

  Gladys’s eyes glinted but her tone softened. ‘You should have said so, dearie. We don’t mind. It takes all sorts. But you don’t look like one of those.’

  That night Kitty took the precaution of sleeping with her knife beneath the pillow. There were dangers to be faced apart from the customers, she guessed.

  Once Kitty was accepted, none of the girls made any secret of the fact that they were prepared, and expected by Mrs White, to sleep with the clients of the club, providing they were paid enough.

  ‘You’re silly not to do it too. You’d get plenty of offers. And what’s wrong with it? It’s all over so quickly and none of us are virgins, so we’ve nothing to lose,’ exclaimed Brigid.