Nineteen

The Peterboroughs’ large and cluttered sitting room is stocked with objets d’art. Dreading and longing for the moment that Eva is finally finished flipping through her portfolio, Hannah flits from one exotic item of décor to another. Hannah’s plan is to let her art speak first and as much as possible. Far better that Eva Peterborough is moved to help her because she’s seen some promise in her work. Pity, in any case, seems out of the question. It’s not in this woman’s character.

“Idlewyld,” Hannah says, unable to stand the silence any longer. “Was that the name of your English home as well?”

“No.”

The Peterboroughs’ estate is vast. It’s nestled in the lush, hilly countryside, about a twenty-minute cart ride upstream from Kuala Kangsa. Judging by the state of the coffee orchards, the plantation was abandoned long ago. Perhaps the family got a good price. Though they’d hardly needed one, by the looks of the opulent furnishings.

“You’ve obviously traveled…extensively…” Hannah picks up a carved elephant tusk to examine the workmanship. “Is this from India?” she guesses. She’s seen nothing like it locally.

“That’s a shiva lingam,” says Eva, glancing up.

“Oh?”

“In honor of the penis. A sort of penis idol, if you will. From the tantric religion of Goa.”

“Oh!” Hannah puts the tusk down and bends to look at it. “Oh, I see what you mean.”

“I think these are wonderful,” Eva says levelly. “Very bold. Expressive. There is something wavering about them, about these spaces, that…draws me in.”

Hannah receives these compliments gratefully and, as the tea service arrives, answers the lady’s many questions about craft and subject matter. They even discuss her training and her life in Paris. Eva Peterborough may not be an artist but she’s obviously an educated and accomplished woman. It’s a pleasure just to talk with her.

When their conversation finally slows, Hannah attempts to explain. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here in the first place, Mrs. Peterborough.”

“Please, call me Eva.”

“Eva. The thing is, and this is why I thought of you, here, at Idlewyld… The colonel has forbidden me to paint.”

“Forbidden you!” She laughs outright. “You’re serious.”

“Perhaps not in so many words. But I—I have been warned.”

“Hmmm,” Eva muses. “This has something to do with the Ridge Road ladies, I’ll wager. Mrs. Finch and her cautionary tales. They’re a fearsome bunch, aren’t they?”

Hannah sighs audibly, which feels luxurious, but holds back her scorn. “I suppose they think they are helping me.”

“People like that always do.” Eva adjusts her collar. “What do you mean you thought of me? To be frank, we hardly know each other.”

It’s true. And the reasons for Hannah being there, making her appeal, are all patently self-serving. Swallowing, she vows to become a better human being. “Mrs. Peterborough. Eva. At the moment I have very few means, practically speaking, to keep painting. George has reduced my stipend and diverted the money to his tiger hunt. Which…I cannot see an end to.”

“No end to it? Wasn’t that bloodied spectacle at the festival a tiger?”

“Yes, it was. The colonel says he cannot be sure that one was the man-eater.”

“There is no man-eater.”

“Quite!” Hannah looks at her stained fingers with their bitten nails before thrusting them behind her back. “I may be able to manage as far as paints are concerned. However, I have no place to work. For a while, I was painting in the village.”

“But?”

She can’t bear to mention the confrontation at the Residency. “But that was not practical.”

“Oh, my dear, surely none of it is practical.”

“No, I suppose not.” Hannah rubs her eyes. “It was objectionable, then.” She shifts herself on the chesterfield. “They say I should stop.”

“They?”

“Everyone! All of the other residents!”

Eva rests her chin on her fist for a moment or two. “Why do they say you should stop, Mrs. Inglis? It is matter of your reputation?”

She nods. “It’s not that I don’t care about reputation or, what is the right word, ‘social graces’? I simply care more about art.”

Eva smiles shrewdly. Could it be that Hannah’s misjudged the strange woman? Will Eva report to George or Lucy the latest installment of her foolish obsession to paint? There is nothing for it now but to press her case further. So she says, “I don’t exactly know why, but you’ve always seemed to hold an appreciation for the fact that I paint, Mrs. Peterborough. It’s obvious that you have an independent mind. I respect that very much. And I don’t believe the colonel would suspect anything if I were to…come here occasionally. He’d think I’m visiting you to socialize. That we are becoming closer friends.”

Eva blinks slowly.

“Which of course I would like to do as well, to become closer friends. I really would.”

She’s skipped over the major consideration: the Peterboroughs are recluses who live well outside of town. No one would find her here.

“Let me be clear, Mrs. Inglis. You are requesting that I—that we—permit you to paint on our premises? And that we lie to your husband about it.”

“No, no, I would lie to him. You need not have anything to do with him. Just as it is now.”

“So: condone your deceit and the very practice you say your husband has already ‘forbidden.’” Eva’s expression is neutral.

“I promise I wouldn’t be in your way,” Hannah hastens to add. “I had in mind to paint out of doors, you see. In the forest, with your permission. I needn’t come in the house at all.” She looks around her. The main house must be thirty rooms or more for the three of them. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could be in the way in a place like this.

Eva refreshes her cup of tea. “You say you have no means to continue painting.” Hannah shakes her head warily. “And that you face opposition from your friends and your husband.”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you stop?”

“I—uh. I don’t know.”

“I think you do. You’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to pursue something that, to put it mildly, continues to cause you suffering. Why?”

What happened to the praise and memories of Paris? The woman is formidable when she wants to be.

“Surely, given the circumstances, this is a reasonable question for me to ask.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Hannah says. “Of course it is. I suppose I don’t stop because I cannot stop. I need to paint.”

“Explain.”

“Only that I cannot stop, Mrs. Peterborough! I’m not sure if I ever could. Certainly not since the academy. I find that I need to make art. And I would like to try—” She draws a deep breath. “I wish to contribute. I feel that I have something to contribute to whatever it is that we’re all…trying to fathom. This life. Mostly, I admit, it’s personal need. Whether that’s selfish, I’m not sure. But whatever else is expected of me here, on earth, I need to paint. I’m sorry, but I don’t know how else to put it.”

Eva Peterborough watches her in stillness for what feels like an age. Then says, “Bravo, darling. Of course you may paint here.”

“Really?” With shaking hands, Hannah replaces her cup and saucer to the table. “Thank you, Mrs. Peterborough. Thank you very much.”

“I believe in a woman’s right to meaningful work. I’m better known around here for what I don’t believe in. They can’t seem to get past that.”

“Oh, yes, right.” The Peterboroughs are atheists. That is their scandal. At the moment, Hannah couldn’t care less whether the lady stuffed cloven hooves into her shoes and hid a tail under her frumpy dress.

They sip tea and trade happy glances for a minute or two before Eva says, “Really what you need, Hannah, is a patron. Like Michelangelo had Pope Julius.” Her laugh is an awkward wheeze.

That the woman knows about the ancient master’s patronage makes Hannah want to squeal with joy. “Well, I thought I might do some paintings for you and Dr. Peterborough in return for your hospitality. I could paint your estate, or the mansion, if you like. Or your portraits? Or if you’d prefer, you could choose something from my existing collection.”

“How kind of you.” Eva opens the portfolio and begins flipping pages, but soon shuts it. “Is it truly a question of having the colonel’s permission?”

“Goodness, I didn’t think. Am I putting you in an awkward position with your husband?”

“Not at all.” She looks out the open casement window. Past an enormous weedy planter, a scrubby meadow slopes away from the house. “Charles will take no notice of us, I’m sure. He’s very busy these days with his research.” Eva gets to her feet and Hannah rises, on cue. “In fact, he and I hardly take any notice of each other. It suits us that way.”

“Sounds heavenly!” she blurts out, feeling her face redden. “But then, I’m frightfully anti-social.”