SIXTEEN

1920

Lilian seemed to think little of the notion of being painted by a man met once in the street. She turned the card over between her delicate fingers and said, “Why not? It’s a nice address. And he’s a Worsley. They’re a good set.”

“You know his family?”

“I know their cousins. Or is that the Horsleys? Hmm, well, it is a good address. And just think, your portrait. How nice to have a portrait. In the year of your twenty-first. When you are the loveliest you will ever be.”

“But alone?” said Arlette, who needed no convincing of the benefits of having her portrait painted for free. “Surely that can’t be wise.”

“I shall come with you, if you’re feeling that silly about it.”

Silly, thought Arlette, silly? Surely the person who would walk into the home of a strange man unaccompanied was the silly one. “Would you really?” she asked.

“Of course,” Lilian replied flippantly. “Why ever not?”

• • •

Two days later Arlette and Lilian took a hackney carriage to a street of tall white houses by the river in Chelsea. The street number took them to the door of a small cottage painted powder blue. Arlette breathed in deeply, touching the fabric of her favorite dress, a drop-waisted chiffon affair in dark plum, which she wore under a matching coat.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” said Gideon, greeting them at the door. He wore a white shirt, unbuttoned to a quarter of the way down his chest, and tight brown trousers held up by elastic braces. He looked either halfway through getting dressed or halfway through getting undressed. It was a rather informal fashion in which to meet two ladies, Arlette could not help but feel, almost risqué, and she was glad for the bristling, effervescent presence of Lilian at her side.

“Good afternoon,” said Lilian, “you must be Mr. Worsley. I am Lilian Miller. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Gideon,” he replied expansively, “call me Gideon. And Miss De La Mare, how charming to see you again. As beautiful as I recall. Do come in. Please.”

He held the door open for Lilian and Arlette and ushered them into a small hallway piled high with coats and boots and packing crates and tea chests. “I would like to say that I have only just moved in, but sadly, I have been in the cottage for over a year and have not found the time or the inclination to unpack my possessions. The more time that passes, the more convinced I become that whatever lies within those boxes is not needed, and maybe I should dump them in the river and let the dead folk pick them over.”

Arlette noted that the house was dirty and wondered if Gideon Worsley lived without help. It seemed unlikely but not impossible.

“I am terribly excited,” he continued, leading them through to a small sitting room furnished with three ancient armchairs, a brass-topped table, a credenza full of books, and a statue of a naked woman carved out of old stone. The naked woman was draped in silk lingerie and a hat. There was indeed a cat, a Persian, extravagantly, dreadfully furry and in dire need of grooming, who sat on a cushion in the window watching them suspiciously. “I’ve been brooding over the memory of your face for ten long days. And now you are here!” said Gideon. “Tea. Stay here and I’ll bring it through.”

Arlette nodded uncomfortably. She had never been brought tea by a host. She could not imagine how he would be capable of doing such a thing.

“Bohemian,” whispered Lilian when he’d left the room.

“I did warn you.”

“Strange, though. He has no housemaid, or so it seems. He is clearly a man of substance, and this house is in a very desirable area.”

Arlette surveyed the room again. On the brass-topped table sat a tray full of half-smoked cigars and cigarillos, and on a silver tray sat three cut-glass tumblers, sticky with the residue of Calvados poured from the bottle next to them. The air smelled sour and rancid, like the air that blew from the public houses that Arlette passed on her way to and from work. It did not smell like a home should, of woodsmoke and beeswax and dust. It had no order, no method. It appalled and excited Arlette in equal measure.

Lilian was agog. She continued in her stage whisper, “It is entirely what one would imagine the home of a reckless artist to be, I suppose. And do you think he covered over the lady purposely, to spare our blushes?” She nodded at the scantily clad statue and giggled. “As though we haven’t seen a naked woman before.” She laughed breezily.

Arlette laughed breezily too, although she had never seen a naked woman. Not once. The only possible notion she had of how a woman appeared underneath clothes was the one she saw reflected in her bedroom mirror. She assumed that she was not unique in her arrangement of dips and peaks. She had spent a week in hospital two years earlier, when she was struck down with the Spanish flu, and had been examined in most every respect from ankle to neck, and no one had at any point ventured the suggestion that there was anything unconventional about her physiology. She wondered how Lilian, a girl of just eighteen, had had the opportunity to see a naked woman, but assumed it was another example of the yawning gulf between their upbringings.

“Here,” said Gideon, returning with a paint-splattered wooden butler’s tray bearing a pot and three cups and a small jar of sugar cubes. “I’m afraid there was no milk. Or at least what milk there was seems to have given itself over to a terrible attack of the lumps. So I hope you will forgive me and drink it black?”

“Oh, I prefer it black,” Lilian offered overfervently. “Thank you.” She took a cup from his outstretched hand and perched herself on the edge of an armchair.

“So, you’re here to ensure that nothing unseemly happens to your friend, is that correct?” he asked Lilian.

“Yes, indeed.” Lilian smiled and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. “She is three years older but has had a rather sheltered upbringing. On an island.”

“Ssh.” Gideon put his finger to his lips dramatically. “I have promised Miss De La Mare that I will be able to divine her provenance using instinct alone. No clues, please.” He smiled. His teeth were not good, not for a man of his standing, but this did not detract from his general air of raffish handsomeness, and despite the squalor of his home, Arlette couldn’t help noticing how nice he smelled, a scent, rather than of himself, of something to do with cloves and peppermint.

Lilian and Gideon chattered for a while, trying to find some common ground and failing. The closest they got was a girl called Millie who’d possibly gone to the same school as his sister for two terms. Arlette sipped her tea, clearly an expensive blend, served in cups that were also of very good quality. She looked for clues as to the direction this experience might take.

“Well,” said Gideon, after a few more moments, placing his empty cup on the brass-topped table, “I think, if it’s agreeable with you, Miss Miller, I would like to take Miss De La Mare up to my studio.”

Arlette felt her stomach wobble. She wanted, she suddenly knew without a doubt, to do this alone, yet she could not judge its wisdom. She looked at Lilian for reassurance, trusting, for some reason, that this headstrong eighteen-year-old girl would know better whether this man with his half-unbuttoned shirt had good intentions or bad.

Arlette said, “Shall I stay on alone?”

“Oh, yes!” said Lilian, springing to her feet. “I absolutely don’t want to hang around here, disturbing your artistic juices, not to mention your attempts to work out where the mysterious Miss De La Mare might have sprung from. I will leave you to your afternoon, and Arlette, I will see you at home. If you’re not back by six o’clock, I will send out a search party.” She laughed and pulled on her coat. Gideon saw her to the door and reappeared—looking, now that Lilian was gone, threatening and rather obscene.

“Come,” he said, cupping his large hands together, “come up. Let’s get started.”

Arlette placed her cup carefully upon the table, smiled the best smile she could find, and followed this strange man up uncarpeted stairs towards who knew where.