I had been afraid that after the unpleasant episode in Luke’s office, my visit to the Bond Street art gallery would have to be postponed. I could not imagine Luke risking his brother’s displeasure a second time in one day. But at luncheon Esmond mentioned that he would again be spending the afternoon at the docks, so perhaps after all the way would be clear.
Bearing the two paintings I had chosen as the best examples of my work, I presented myself at Luke’s office as arranged.
‘Are you really quite sure you can spare the time?’ I asked, trying tactfully to offer him a loophole.
‘Don’t worry, Rachel.’ Luke gave me a rueful smile. ‘But now you have seen for yourself the truth of what I told you yesterday. I am allowed very little scope in the business. Esmond keeps control in his own hands.’
I did not wonder that Luke sounded bitter. It was exactly what Jonathan had told me—Esmond denied power to anyone else, because he feared another man’s ability being matched against his own.
Luke rang a small silver bell on his desk, and an office boy, a fresh-faced lad of about fourteen, came running.
‘Yessir?’
‘Go and find me a hansom, Tommy, there’s a good chap.’ Luke always had a friendly, easygoing word for servants or staff. It was yet another of his hundred and one similarities to Jonathan.
The afternoon sun was a delicate misty orange as we set out. Our cab rattled over the cobbles, racing through the narrow lanes and into Cannon Street. Leaning forward, I gazed up in awe at the great blackened dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
‘How high it is! You could surely see the whole of London from up there?’
Luke smiled. ‘Let me show you around, Rachel. Drop this quaint idea of trying to sell paintings.’
So he was still refusing to take me seriously! Perhaps he was right; perhaps after all I was being foolish to suppose a raw and inexperienced young woman could break into London’s cosmopolitan art world. But nevertheless I was quite determined to try. Until I had met with actual failure, I would keep on hoping.
My two pictures lay at our feet on the floor of the cab. Luke had not asked to see them. He had just taken the loosely packed parcel from me, and tucked it under his arm.
But neither had Jonathan taken any interest in my painting. He had treated it indulgently, as a suitably innocuous hobby for me. Whenever I showed him my latest picture he would look at it uncritically, saying something like, ‘Jolly good, my love! What a clever little thing I’ve married.’
I grew more nervous and jumpy as we neared our destination. When we turned from Piccadilly into Bond Street, and drew up outside a building with a most imposing facade, every last shred of confidence deserted me in an instant. Luke seemed to have selected one of London’s leading art dealers! I should have warned him that a modest talent like mine did not aspire to such heights.
‘Perhaps,’ I said almost hopefully, ‘he will be too busy to see us.’
Luke patted my arm encouragingly. “Don’t worry. I telephoned from Esmond’s office when he was out, and arranged an appointment with Sir William Bendon for four o’clock,’
Sir William was probably the most courteous gentleman I had ever met in my life. Gravely distinguished, with iron-grey hair and a small goatee beard, he succeeded in making me feel almost at ease in his sumptuous first floor suite. Until, that is, the moment came to produce my paintings. Then I wished the earth would swallow me up.
At Sir William’s invitation I took a seat in one of the delicate gilt chairs. Luke slipped the two canvases from their paper covering and propped them on a stand. The first showed a native boy in a squatting position, solemnly intent on the task of making a fire. The other was a happy picture of two little Chinese girls playing in the garden of our home in Port Sarawei. I had sketched them while their father was discussing business with Jonathan in the house. Later, at my leisure, I had thought the picture worth doing in oils.
The great man considered my work gravely for several minutes, a thoughtful finger to his lips. When he glanced at me again his smile was full of kindness.
‘Mrs. Harwood, you are a clever young woman,’ he began in his rather precise voice, ‘They are pretty things indeed, and nicely executed...’
I knew immediately that it was to be a negative answer. The softly flattering words were designed to let me down gently, and already I was seeing my work in a new harsh light, as if through his eyes. It was amateurish and fumbling. It might have colour, it had little else.
‘But you will not accept them for your gallery, Sir William?’ It was hardly a question, but rather an acknowledgement of simple fact.
‘Not because they lack merit, my dear. But you have only to look around you to see that this is not the type of work I deal in here. At the moment I am interested mainly in Impressionism.’
Luke had gathered up the canvases, and was beginning to wrap them up again. I thought he might be embarrassed, and be holding it against me. But he didn’t look upset. In fact, he seemed almost pleased to have got such a definite rejection.
I stood up.
‘It was most kind of you to see me, Sir William. I am very sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘My dear young lady... !’ Obviously he blamed himself severely for having caused me distress. ‘I only wish I could have been of some small service to you.’
I smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps you have been of service, Sir William. You have obliged me to face the truth that my work is not saleable.’
‘But I said nothing of the kind!’
I was perplexed. ‘I thought …’
‘I will try to be quite honest with you, Mrs. Harwood,’ he said gently. ‘Your work is very nice. It is not inspired. It will never rank as more than acceptably good. However, I think you might do modestly well as a painter of children’s portraits because you show a natural sympathy with young people. That is a rare gift, believe me.’
The despair of a moment ago was gone, swept away by such encouragement from an expert. I moved towards him impulsively. ‘Oh thank you, Sir William!’
He smiled benevolently at my rush of enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps after all I can do something to help you. Do take a seat again while I scribble a note.’
Sir William sat down at an elegant marquetry table, and began writing rapidly. I glanced around at Luke. He looked rather less than pleased, I thought.
Folding the stiff notepaper, Sir William slipped it into an envelope, which he swiftly addressed.
‘Now Mrs. Harwood,’ he said, coming over to me. If you will make it your business to call upon this gentleman, I think you may have more satisfaction with him. The Sangster Galleries deal in rather more ... more popular work than we do here.’
He waved aside my profuse thanks, and told his clerk to call us a cab. It was a mark of Sir William’s graciousness that he himself escorted us to the street door, wishing me good luck as we left him.
In the hansom I smiled at Luke happily. ‘The address is in Kensington Church Street. Is that far from here?’
‘A good twenty minutes’ drive, I’d say. I’m afraid that it won’t be possible today.’
‘But surely…’
‘We must get home before Esmond,’ he pointed out.
This reminder that we were risking Esmond’s anger quite spoiled my pleasure, putting a chill on the journey back to Edenhythe.
That evening we were only eight at the dinner table, the two guests being a Mrs. Robson and her daughter Veronica. The mother was a stout and distinctly overblown matron, but Veronica was beautiful, with lovely rich chestnut hair and fine brown eyes. Any woman would have been envious.
On this occasion I was separated from Luke. He sat between Mrs. Robson and Veronica, across the table from me. I was placed at Lady Lavinia’s end, with Albert Fox on my other side.
In my mind I was still in Sir William Bendon’s gallery, hearing him praise my work in that neat controlled voice of his. Only half my attention was spared for the table talk. But I did notice that Veronica was making good use of her long-lashed eyes. She would flutter winsomely at Luke and gaze at Esmond intently, apparently finding his every lightest remark utterly absorbing.
At our end of the table, Lady Lavinia was keeping the conversation going with Mrs. Robson.
‘I was so disappointed that your husband could not accompany you this evening, my dear.’
‘Alas! Poor Frederick suffers for his sense of duty. All these late sittings at the House!’ The lady stabbed me with a sharp eye. ‘Mr. Robson is a Member of Parliament,’ she explained, just in case I had failed to register the fact when we were introduced.
‘Yes,’ I said politely. ‘You must be very proud of your husband.’
‘Oh I am, of course. But people never realise what such public spirit costs. The dear man has had so little time left over for his wife and daughter since he was elected.’
Veronica seized upon this remark. ‘It’s perfectly frightful! Papa simply never has time to take us anywhere. I sometimes feel I am the only person in London not to have seen The Catch of the Season.’
‘I have no doubt,’ said Esmond with a smile that was half-kindly, half-amused, ‘that you could easily enough find a willing escort, Veronica.’
‘I for one,’ said Luke, ‘would be most happy to take you.’
‘Luke!’ exclaimed Lady Lavinia. ‘Do not tease. Esmond was just about to ask Veronica to the theatre.’
‘But...’ protested Luke.
‘Now do be quiet, boy, and get on with your dinner.’
Luke subsided, but his left eyelid flickered in a wink that was intended for me.
Every face around the table was turned expectantly to Esmond. Reaching out for the mustard pot, he smiled at Veronica serenely.
‘You would find me dull company, I’m afraid. Musical comedy is not to my taste at all.’
There was an awkward pause. Then Lady Lavinia, hastily introducing a new subject of conversation, announced that I was expecting a baby. ‘So I shall have my great-grandchild at last,’ she said with triumph.
‘Oh, how absolutely divine!’ Veronica gushed, as if the rebuff from Esmond had never happened. ‘I simply adore babies! Such sweet little angels. I want to have at least half a dozen, don’t you?’
‘That,’ I said quietly, ‘will hardly be possible for me.’
‘Oh heavens!’ Veronica clapped her hand to her lips. ‘Have I said something perfectly dreadful?’
Away to my left I heard a quick nervous giggle from Ellen, which even Albert thought out of place. ‘I say, old girl,’ he muttered quickly, ‘that’s really not quite the thing…’
There was a sudden burst of conversation, as if everybody was anxious to push the gaffe out of mind as soon as possible. But for me there was still worse to come.
I was astonished and dismayed to hear my one and only friend in this household blithely breaking my trust in him. Luke’s voice rang clear above the rest.
‘You’ll be surprised to know that Rachel is a most talented artist. This afternoon she went to Bond Street and tried to talk Sir William Bendon into buying some of her paintings.’
This provoked quite a babble of astonishment. But a far more powerful reaction came from Esmond and Lady Lavinia. Their disapproval thundered in silence for several long seconds.
At last Esmond spoke. ‘Is this true, Rachel?’
At first I was able to meet his angry gaze with calmness. But then to my chagrin I was forced to look away. I tried to conceal my agitation by helping myself to butter I didn’t need.
Before I was collected enough to speak, Lady Lavinia had chimed in. ‘What is all this nonsense? The very greatest care must be taken by a woman in your condition. I simply will not tolerate such behaviour.’
Esmond ignored his grandmother. ‘Well, Rachel?’
I had to look up again and meet his eyes. And when I did, my gaze became locked with his. For a few moments the rest of the company around the table were forgotten, as I tried to fathom Esmond’s expression. Was he angry merely because I would not meekly accept his tutelage? Or were his emotions more complicated than that?
In vain I tried to sound decisive. ‘As a matter of fact, I was hoping to get some commissions for portraits and ...’
‘Why?’
Just the one rock-hard word, tossed straight at me. There was absolutely no give in it at all. I felt as if I were facing the Inquisition.
How could I commit myself to the truth, publicly, over the dinner table? How could I confess, with the Robsons present, that having come to Edenhythe on charity my one hope of independence was to hawk my paintings of Sarawei children around the lesser art dealers of London?
I made myself answer him lightly. ‘Who knows, Esmond, you might be proud of me one day, when I’m famous.’
But my effort at flippancy was a miserable failure. In my mouth such coy banter sounded ridiculous. Esmond didn’t even bother to reply. A mask came down upon his face, a freezing blankness of expression.
If he had been disapproving before, now it seemed he was totally indifferent to me. Even as I raged inwardly against Esmond’s unfairness, I longed for a hint of sympathy from him.
Through the pain in my mind came Lady Lavinia’s strident voice, laying down the law.
‘I absolutely forbid you to do such a foolhardy thing again. Do you hear me, Rachel? Do you hear me, girl?’