17
If I ever managed to have a show of my own, I could display an entire collection of my time in Julian’s apartments. One might assume that a single string of rooms provided little inspiration, but in my time with him, I found there were countless angles, countless objects to shift, countless variations in light as the sun moved from one end of the house to the other.
Through plenty of objections, I’d finally won him round to sitting as my subject. “You’ll love modeling,” I’d told him. “It involves your two favorite activities: sitting quietly and smoking.” Though I’d begun a few studies of him in the privacy of my studio, I hadn’t had the honor of painting him from life, in the dwellings which had defined his postwar years.
I danced into his room excitedly that morning, and he made me suffer, knowing it was agony for me to wait while he smoked two cigarettes and wandered the room. I allowed him to choose the composition so he would feel comfortable.
In the end, he arranged my easel well behind the piano bench and sat facing the keys.
Of course.
I didn’t bother to argue. At least I was getting some piece of Julian on canvas. He played on and off as I mixed my colors, delighting in matching his hair and flesh.
As assumed, Julian was the perfect sitter. He did not complain once, even as an hour passed by without my noticing. It wasn’t until it had begun raining that he stood to close a window, and lingered in front of my easel. I allowed myself the pleasure of looking him up and down—his pressed trousers, his shirtsleeves, the angle of muscle that ran from his shoulder to his clavicle.
“You don’t suppose I’m going to allow you to see it before it’s finished?”
“I’d like to see your process,” he said. “If I may.”
I gave in, standing for him to sit in my chair. Once he was settled, I perched on his knee and waited. There was not much to see yet—no great detail—only the vague shapes of piano and a cabinet beside, topped with a vase of peonies I’d brought from downstairs, the curtains dragging over the floor, and the beginnings of what light had come through on Julian’s left side before the sun went in.
“I was thinking of Lavery’s interiors,” I said. “Lord Wakeford occupies himself in his immediate surroundings. What d’you reckon?”
Julian’s arms circled my waist, pulling me in so he could nestle his head beneath mine. “I reckon you’ve got my hair wrong.” I tweaked his ear and he laughed. “No; the way you’ve played with the light here is brilliant. It’s very fine, Bertie.”
I would never tire of hearing that. “But do go on. Show me what you would do.”
Julian’s hand drifted to take up a flat brush. I held my breath. It was the first time he’d even dared. But it seemed he only wanted to hold it, to feel the worn wood between his fingers, to savor the weight of it before setting it down again.
He placed a kiss on the inside of my wrist, where he knew I got sore. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Why? It may all come flooding back to you in a single stroke.”
Julian tilted his head away, and I ran my fingers through his hair, away from his temple, and kissed the scar there. “I shouldn’t like to devalue your work,” he said.
“Oh, bosh! I saw some of your paintings downstairs; they were charming.”
He said nothing for a moment, then lifted his eye. “You were downstairs?”
“I went with Anna and Cece,” I said, hoping it would act as my defense. “And I think it’s high time we got you painting again.”
Julian shook his head. “I have enjoyed watching you work, but I’m too riddled with images I don’t wish to make permanent.”
I remembered what he’d said to little Anna, that he remained always in the dark. In my mind, it could help to take to canvas, to rid himself of the ugly, turn it into something physical that could be torn, or burned, or painted over. Otherwise the nightmares might become a sanctuary of sorts, a familiar place to hide whilst the rest of the world changed outside.
Gwen had said their mother stayed in her bed until the end. I couldn’t help but agree with her that Julian was in immediate danger of the same fate.
“Julian?”
He spun the chiffon sash of my dress round his finger. “Hmm.”
“I thought . . . perhaps another evening we might give it a go.”
“What’s that?”
I tightened my arms around his neck and leaned my chin against his hair. “The other night—with Anna? You made it far as the nursery. Do you think you might like to go again? A few steps, even. I’ll go with you.”
“It isn’t your concern, Bertie.”
I sat up so he could look at me, but his head remained bowed. “It is, actually. It matters to me what happens to you.” Julian tried to shift, but I made it clear I was not removing myself. “Don’t you see that I care about you? That I want you to be well?”
“I am capable,” he said.
“I know. So why not make a start?”
“I will go when I must.”
“You haven’t much time.”
“Bertie—”
“Why not try whilst I am still here to help you?”
Julian closed his eye, face soured as though he were in pain. The look frightened me so that I let go and stood from his knee.
“I don’t wish to upset you,” I said. “But you do realize neither of us can stay here?”
A long pause. Julian put his hands on his face, a shushing sound as they smoothed over whiskers. His body had gone tense, and I feared for a moment that I’d pushed him too far. When he moved from the chair, I knew I had, for he went to the sideboard and swallowed a pour of whisky.
I turned to face the window, feeling a fracture through my heart. How easily a good morning could turn to a bad night. Julian would have many more at this rate.
Then I felt him approach, wrap his arms around me from behind until we were flush. A hot tear rolled off my chin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I twisted to face him, placing my hand on his cheek.
I love you.
The words sounded so simple in my head. Just three words; how easy it had been to toss them around lightly, costing me nothing. But now, looking into Julian’s face, I felt a digging ache of fear. For I’d never spoken those three words before and truly meant them. What if now, I gave them away and they were not returned?
So instead, I smiled, kissing Julian. “I had better be off. The gong will go any minute.”
“No, no, no, don’t go!” I shouted uselessly through the window at the sun. After spending so much of our lovely summer shining, it had reached August deciding enough was enough and now it was trying to rain. Though I suppose it matched my mood after leaving Julian last evening.
Even with my easel angled to catch every drip of natural light, I couldn’t get a handle on my colors with an overcast sky. The chandelier in the Music Room had electric lights, too yellow and of little use. So I stood and shut the window, misty wind blowing back my hair, resolving to give in for the morning.
There was no excuse to avoid tidying up. I crossed the room with a jar of dirty brushes dangling from two fingers, stopping when a knock came to the door.
“Yes, come in.”
In came Roland, clothed in collared shirt and sleeveless jumper. It seemed the weather had affected us both.
“Morning, Bertie.” He rubbed his palms together and observed my mess. “I wanted to look in, seeing as you missed breakfast. You weren’t, er . . .”
Idling, I jostled the brushes in my jar. Fibs were becoming rather tiresome, and I couldn’t think why Roland would take issue with the truth. “With Julian? No.”
Roland went so suddenly pale, I nearly offered him my shoulder to lean against. “He didn’t answer when Huxley brought his tray.”
His dismay was catching. I’d left Julian just after our row, abandoning him and the painting. Clearly, the turnabout was my doing, an apology overdue.
“Thanks all the same,” Roland said. He gave a weak smile and ventured deeper into the room, stepping gingerly over paint stains he couldn’t tell were weeks old. Something caught his eye and he bent over, snatching a bit of paper from the floor. “You will have dropped this.”
I set down the jar and sighed. “Bloody wind. The weather has done nothing for me today.”
Roland handed me the sodden paper and I turned it over. An envelope—the letter Mrs. Lemm had sent weeks ago that I’d failed to reply to. Or read. Leaving viridian fingerprints, I opened it absently, pulling out wrinkled stationery.
Dear Bertie,
I skimmed quickly:
I hope this letter finds you well, and enjoying your holiday in Wiltshire. How splendid it was to call on your mother and learn that you are off painting for the Earl of Wakeford! All of us here in Brickyard Lane are so proud of you, and look forward to hearing about your stay at Castle Braemore.
I wondered if you could find the time to step away from your work for an afternoon. My niece will be visiting from London come August with her new husband. He is a most prominent art dealer, apparently . . .
I looked up at Roland with wide eyes as if he had any idea what I was reading.
“It isn’t bad news, I hope?” he said.
I shook my head. I couldn’t speak just yet.
. . . and keen to represent young artists with (what he calls) ‘a modern style.’ Naturally, I thought of you straightaway and wrote to them in your regard, sparing no detail about where you have been painting these past months. He was fairly impressed, and has agreed to see more of your work. They are stopping the second week of August, remaining from the seventh to the thirteenth. I wondered if you would like to join us for tea . . .
“Crikey,” I said.
“What?”
Oh, yes—Roland was still here. “What day is this?”
“Saturday. The Glorious Twelfth.”
I beamed so fully it pained my cheeks. “The Glorious Twelfth indeed!”
I shook the letter and turned to look at the chaos of my studio. There were a few smaller canvases I could manage to carry on my own. Were they the best of the bunch? Hardly. But hey ho. I’d need to dispatch a telegram or phone Mrs. Lemm before getting on a train. I could hardly call by unannounced . . .
Roland appeared at my shoulder. “What have I missed?”
“There’s an art dealer who wants to see my work. But I must go today.” I gave him the letter. “I have to put some things together; I must dress—” Lord, I was covered in paint from chest to toes.
Roland kneaded his forehead and let the letter fall to his side. “This doesn’t mean you’re leaving—?”
“I am.”
Without a recommendation from Julian, I needed some promise of more work at summer’s end. This art dealer could find collectors or even galleries who might be interested. I would start making the wages I needed for a room. It hardly mattered if Mother never allowed me home—I’d be a working artist. How perfect that it should have been Mrs. Lemm to rescue my career!
“It’s Gwen’s party today.” I looked up at Roland. He was taller than his brother, but for a moment their similarities were so staggering I nearly thought the other man had appeared in his place. “And Julian . . .”
Yes, Julian. After last night, it was clear he was not able to discuss his future, let alone imagine me as part of it. It was as though time stopped when I entered the room, and there was no need to discuss my leaving, for the day would never come if we stayed tucked away inside his apartments. But with autumn quickly approaching, I had little choice but to assume we’d part ways indefinitely when I left Braemore.
Roland’s eyes rounded as he waited for an answer.
“I’m sorry to miss the party,” I said. “But I really need this chance.”
Roland nodded, folding the letter. “Yes—of course. I’ll drive you to the station myself and send a footman here to help you get sorted in the meantime. Ought one of us to escort you?”
The boy looked so earnest, and it was lovely to know he was willing. No matter what might happen with Julian, I knew I had friends to count on.
But if I ever hoped for a career of my own, I would need to start going it alone.
It was properly tipping down by the time Roland and I left the house, huddled under a single umbrella. A footman had been sent ahead of us with a sampling of my smaller canvases, stowing them safely in the passenger row before the rain. We were taking the family landaulet, as they wouldn’t have fit in Roland’s boot, though he insisted on driving me to the station himself.
Roland held the umbrella over me while I got into the passenger side, then went round and fell into his seat, spraying me with droplets as he fought to shove the closed umbrella under our feet.
“Nice weather for ducks,” I said.
He started the engine with a huff. “And a fine day for a garden do.”
“It wasn’t meant to be outdoors?”
The choice between attending a child’s birthday party or a meeting with an art dealer had been a simple one. Though I had to admit I felt a bit guilty now.
“Oh yes—quoits and coconut shy and all sorts.” Roland wiped a raindrop from his chin. “Now it’s to be bored children confined to a stuffy reception room and no way to escape Richard’s family.”
“Are they that awful?”
He licked his bottom lip, considering. “Richard was one of a kind—a perfect match for Gwen. But his mother and sisters have never forgiven her for bringing a foundling into the family, and his brother resents Richie, I think, for arriving just in time to snatch the inheritance.”
“My! What fun.” I’d yet to consider other aristocratic families might possess as much controversy as the Napiers.
“A real knees-up bunch, that lot. Not to worry, though, we’ll look after her.” Roland squinted through the windscreen at the deluge. “Though I daresay Gwen was planning on using your work as a talking point. Anything to move the conversation from Julian . . .”
As the car rolled forward, I felt suddenly hot and removed my hat. Only simple nerves. This might be my second chance at a real break. And what if this art dealer did not like my paintings? Did it mean I showed no promise? That I was hopeless to find other commissions, or be admitted to display a piece at the Royal Academy? That Julian was truly the only person who saw potential in me?
I fanned myself with my hat, looking back at the house through my window, as if I could see Lord Wakeford there, see he was out of bed, see he was well. What had gone wrong that morning? What had prevented him from rising at his usual time, dressing, and answering the door for his breakfast? Roland minded Julian’s eating habits so closely, sending for Gwen if need be. He couldn’t do that today; she was busy with the party. Julian would be alone in the house.
“Damn.” Roland thumped the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. I turned around to see we had stopped just in front of the great iron gates, which remained closed. “Looks like I’m going swimming.”
Roland opened his door, his sleeve immediately darkening as the rain drenched it. He took a deep breath as if he were about to plunge into the ocean, and I grabbed his elbow.
“Wait!”
“What’s the matter?” He closed the door again. “I must be quick or you’ll miss your train.”
I didn’t know how to explain what was going on inside of me, the sudden fear that leaving Julian today would be a mistake. A few months ago, I should have given anything for such an opportunity. I’d gone against my parents to accept the Braemore commission. Now I felt leaded to my seat, desperate to return to the dry warmth of Castle Braemore. What if our quarrel last evening had upset him more than I imagined? What if something happened to him and it was all my bloody fault?
It was more than love. He might have been the only person I’d throw away such a chance for.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said to Roland.
Roland leaned towards me. “Bertie, you must be mad. It’s only a children’s party.”
Maybe I was mad.
I opened my door, returning my hat to my head, and held it as I ran blindly through the rain.