A Mad, Wicked Folly (19 page)

Y MOTHER WAS
so thrilled with the ring,
you’d have thought she’d been given one herself. To me it felt uncomfortable and foreign, so
I kept it in my pocket or art satchel whenever I
wasn’t around my parents or Edmund.

My mother began to employ her next scheme for
stitching back together my tattered reputation. Or at least
patching it up a bit. This meant making endless rounds
of deadly dull morning calls, and driving the length and
breadth of London in the carriage to the houses of people
Mamma knew would accept me, such as the aristocratic
Dowager Viscountess Somersby and the immensely powerful Mrs. Georgina Plimpton. These were my mother’s
very close friends who had decided to rally round her and
pretend my terrible behavior had not actually happened.

Once word got round that these ladies had returned my
mother’s card with one of their own or with a call during
one of my mother’s at-homes, then all the underlings in
their social circle would follow suit, like sheep following their bellwether. Calling cards for my mother and me
would fill our silver salver in the hall. And so it would go.
In time the horrid behavior of Victoria Darling would be a
faint, distant memory. Or so my mother hoped.

The Monday after the Boat Race we went round to five
houses. While we waited in the carriage, John took my
mother’s engraved calling card, with the corner folded
down to indicate she’d been there personally, with my
name penned in just underneath hers, to the front door to
give it to the butler. At three of the houses, the women had
daughters my age, so my mother included a card for each
of them as well.

As my mother predicted, all five cards were returned
with cards. So we spent the next few days in the carriage
paying calls during the women’s at-homes. I wore my
engagement ring silently, letting the women notice it and
remark upon it themselves. In time, word would get round
that the newly engaged Miss Darling was not as unfit for
society as once thought.

Mamma was very shrewd, paying strict attention to
etiquette by arriving at each house early, between three
and four o’clock, and staying no longer than a quarter of an
hour so as not to presume anything.

But when the Dowager Viscountess Somersby and
Mrs. Georgina Plimpton and her crushingly boring daughter Georgette came to my mother’s at-home on Thursday,
she rolled out the tea table in all its glory, piled high with
French fancies, Battenberg cake, and Victoria sponge. One
by one, as predicted, the other women and their daughters
came to call. Much chatting about the weather and fashions for the upcoming social season ensued. I sat on the
edge of my chair and made charming conversation with
the other girls. After I asked after the health of Georgette’s
little spaniel, Bridie, my mother smiled at me and nodded.

But all the while I was thinking of the cartoon I would
draw of this day when I found the chance.
When the teapot had gone dry and the last crumb had
been eaten, the visitors left, and my mother sat back in her
lingerie gown and declared my reentrance into society a
success.
“Providing you do nothing more to damage your reputation, my dear,” Mamma said, with a pointed look.
I smiled and assured her I wouldn’t. But I was tired and
fed up. I had not had a single moment to spend on my artwork in three days.
A moment later Emma came into the sitting room,
curtsied, and handed my mother a crystal tray with a
gentleman’s calling card upon it. “Mr. Edmund CarrickHumphrey wishes to know if Miss Darling is available.”
My mother took the card, looked at it, and nodded.
“Show him up, Emma.” She turned to me. “Pinch some
roses into your cheeks, Victoria. You look quite pale.”
I was just rousing myself to do this when Edmund
entered the room. He was dressed in a motoring duster; he
held his bowler hat.
“I wonder if Miss Darling might be amenable to joining
me for a ride in my motorcar?” he asked my mother, and
then flashed a smile in my direction.
My mother looked as though she had been kissed under
the mistletoe. “I see no problem with that, Mr. CarrickHumphrey, as long as Cumberbunch chaperones.”
Emma was sent to fetch Sophie, and I went to put on
a light paletot and collect my gloves from my bedroom.
When I took the jacket from my wardrobe, I saw the edge
of the hatbox filled with my art supplies peeping out.
I nudged it farther back with the toe of my boot.
What I
wouldn’t give to be able to spend one whole day just working
on my art. Soon, soon
, I reminded myself. Only a couple of
months until I was married and I could work whenever I
pleased and however long I pleased.
I pinned on my new hat—a straw chapeau trimmed
with a wide velvet ribbon and black feathers—and since
we were motoring, I secured it with a long chiffon scarf
tied under my chin.
“Pretty as a picture,” Edmund said as I came down the
stairs to the hall. Edmund’s open-topped motorcar sat outside at the curb. It was expensive looking—long and sleek
with a leather settee in both the front and back. It was
painted a cream color, and the fenders and bonnet were
highlighted in black striping. The front of the car shone
with bright chrome.
“Edmund, it’s beautiful,” I said. “I didn’t know you had
a motorcar!”
“It came in from the coach builder’s yesterday. A present from my father for winning the Boat Race.”
“Is it a Daimler?” I asked.
Edmund scoffed. “Better than that. It’s a Rolls-Royce
Forty/Fifty HP—the Silver Ghost! Best motorcar in the
world. I don’t really like the color; my father’s choice. I
wanted blue, but my father said it was too flash. Still, I suppose it will grow on me.”
He opened the back door for Sophie and then the passenger door for me. I stepped up onto the running board
and climbed in. I arranged my skirts around me and pulled
my chiffon scarf over my face. The inside of the motorcar
was luxurious, leather and polished wood everywhere. It
smelled faintly of Edmund’s cologne, that spicy scent I had
come to associate with him.
Edmund put a pair of driving goggles on. He did something complicated to the many levers and dials in the car,
and then drove it out into the London traffic.
“You’re clever to drive,” I said. “It looks ever so difficult.”
“It’s dead easy,” he said. “I’ll teach you.”
“I don’t know. I’m not very coordinated.”
He looked over and smiled at me. “Not to worry. I had a
very good teacher myself and I’m quite sure I can pass on
the skills to you.”
The traffic cleared a little, so Edmund coaxed the motor
even faster. It was smooth and easy, and we went along at
a good clip. The speed was exhilarating and frightening
at the same time. I sat forward and gripped the dash. The
wind tugged at my hat.
“Where are we going?” I shouted over the engine. “It’s
a fine day; perhaps through Hyde Park?”
“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” he said.
“Better than Hyde Park?”
He overtook a hansom cab and blew the hooter. The
horse shied, and the driver shook his whip at Edmund.
Edmund simply laughed and accelerated the car in a burst
of speed.
“How would you like to see our new house?’
“
Our
house?”
He grinned. “Our very own. I went to see my father at
his club this afternoon, and he gave me the keys.”
“Edmund! A house of our own. The idea of it!”
“I thought you’d like that. It’s in Chelsea. Not such a
fashionable address, but on the rise. It’s a large townhouse
and it’s on Paulton’s Square so it has a garden.”
We turned onto a tree-lined road, which was a quiet
oasis after the bustle of the main streets. Edmund pulled
the car up to the pavement and we alighted. We stood on
the walk and looked at the house. It was a three-story brick
townhouse with a green door. Ivy crawled up one side and
window boxes filled with pansies framed the windows on
the ground floor.
Edmund let out a little laugh. “Can you believe it?
In August we will be married and snuggled up like two
pigeons in a roost in this delicious house.”
I slid my hand through Edmund’s arm and we walked
up the brick path to the front door; Sophie followed behind.
Edmund fished for a key in his pocket, slid it into the lock,
and swung open the door.
A small hall led to two rooms on either side: a sitting
room and a study. Then straight ahead was the stairway.
“The dining room is farther back. Bedrooms are
upstairs,” Edmund said.
“Oh, Miss Darling,” Sophie said. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“Servants’ rooms are in the attic. Go on up,
Cumberbunch, and choose your bedroom. My father says
they’ve all been done up recently. Two of them have basins
with running water.”
Sophie went upstairs eagerly, and Edmund and I went
into the sitting room. It was a spacious room with a coal
fireplace and a mantel. Huge Palladian windows let in light
that fell upon the oaken floors. Flowered Victorian wallpaper covered the walls. “Don’t think much of the wallpaper,”
Edmund said, picking at it with his finger. “Those flowers
would give a bee a headache. Still, we can get rid of it.
Father said we could change anything we want.”
“I can’t get my head round it, Edmund. It’s so beautiful.”
The caretaker came inside just then, so Edmund started
talking with him about the changes he wanted. I pushed
open the French doors off the sitting room and went out
to look into the garden. It was a mass of spring flowers:
fragrant sweet peas climbed up trellises, daffodils nodded
their heads in the breeze, and camellias opened their faces
to the sun. A stone wall divided the garden, and there was
a wooden door in the middle. I walked across the lawn and
went through this, and it was like stepping into another
world.
I stopped, staring, unable to believe my eyes, for there
in a little clearing sat a small summerhouse, a tiny little
cottage no bigger than my bedroom in Mayfair. It had a
rounded wooden door with wrought iron hinges, three
large windows framed in flower boxes, and a sweet little porch. Clematis vine blooming with purple flowers as
wide as my palm crawled over the roof. I could imagine
Little Red Riding Hood popping out at any moment, with
her basket over her arm.
I stepped up onto the porch and turned the door’s iron
handle. I expected it to be locked, but it swung open easily.
Inside, the summerhouse was empty save for a couple of
wooden chairs and a desk, but the walls and floor were
lined with polished wood. Best of all, the room was flooded
with north light.
I could not believe it. It would make the perfect atelier.
Mentally, I began to fill it: a model’s dais could go there,
just under that north-facing window, my easel just in front
of it, in the middle of the room. And by the door, a table
where I could place my brushes and paints and such.
And then I realized that I didn’t have to wait. The house
was ours and there was nothing to stop me from drawing
Will here. All I needed was a key.
I heard the door creak open, and I felt a hand on my
shoulder. I turned and Edmund was there. He pulled me to
him and kissed me. And any lingering feelings of doubt I
had about the engagement were gone.

N THE FIFTEENTH
of April, the Thursday after
Easter, I met Will, as usual, at the Royal Academy
on time, as I was now a veteran Underground
traveler. I held up my key ring. “I have a place for
us to work in private in Chelsea,” I said.

“It’s um . . . a friend’s,” I said. “He’s away right now, so
we’ll have it all to ourselves for two weeks.”
Will held out his arm. “Well, then, let’s go.” We headed
off to the Underground and made our way to Chelsea. It
was a short walk from the station to the house. Once inside
the summerhouse, I pulled the door shut quickly. I didn’t
think the caretaker was about, as I’d had a quick look in
the windows when we went past the house, but I wasn’t
taking the chance.
“It’s so peaceful,” Will said. “Jammy whatsit. What luck
to have such a place. This is bigger than my entire flat.”
Will helped me pull the desk and chairs into the middle
of the room. “Let’s get to work on your project first, and
then we’ll do mine,” I said.
My first project in my own atelier
,
I thought with pleasure, looking around the room.
Will worked on writing his next episode, while I finished
my latest illustration. “Dash it. Will, I drew a mustache on
Hoode and he doesn’t have one.” I looked for my kneaded
eraser in my pencil box to fix a mistake, but it wasn’t there.
“My satchel is by you. Can you see if my eraser is in it? Not
the square one; the one I squish up.” I studied the picture
as Will rummaged through my art satchel.
“I was thinking when you draw him at Spitalfields to
hand round the money to the silk weavers, he should definitely . . .” Will’s voice trailed off.
“Definitely what?” I added a touch more shading to the
church steeple. “Definitely what, Will?”
I looked up and saw Will holding my satchel in one
hand, a bit of paper in the other, and it was this he stared
at, his mouth open, a look of shock on his face. Shock and
something else.
It was Bertram’s drawing of me he held. I could feel a
hot flush spread up my throat as Will studied the drawing
of my naked body.
“Is this you, Vicky?” he whispered.
“You know it is! Stop staring at it like that!” My chair
screeched on the wooden floor as I stood up. I snatched the
drawing from his hand and held it tight against my side in
the folds of my skirt.
“It’s beautiful . . . the drawing, I mean. He’s . . . talented.”
Will cleared his throat. He seemed to be nervous, which
made no sense. After all, it was
my
naked self he’d stared
at. “Is this why you had to leave France? Because you let
them draw you without your clothes on?”
I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I was nearly breathless with fear. If Will judged me like other people had, I
would run mad.
But the expression on Will’s face was not one of
judgment; instead he looked as though he was trying to
understand, so I began to tell him what had happened,
haltingly at first, but then I let the story come out. “At first
I was just taking lessons at the art school; I didn’t pose. But
the other artists posed nude from time to time if there was
no model, and so one day I did too. But a girl from finishing
school tattled, and I was expelled. I would do it again, even
though people judge me for having done it. I see no reason
why I should ask anyone else to do something I’m not prepared to do.”
Will was quiet then. He seemed lost in thought. “That’s
fair enough,” he said at last. “If other people are brave
enough to get their kit off for art, then you should be too.”
And then he reached a hand over his shoulder and
pulled his jersey over his head.
I took a step back. “What are you doing?”
“If you are brave enough, then I should be too.” His
voice was muffled from inside his shirt. His head emerged,
his hair mussed up.
“Are you certain you want to do this?”
He tossed his jersey onto the floor.
I watched him unlace his boots, kick them off. Then he
pulled his undershirt off. It was nothing like watching the
other artists disrobe. They tended to make it funny so that
the humor dispelled any tension. It felt different with Will.
I had studied the other models with an artist’s scrutiny.
But with Will, I longed to see him without his clothes. If I
were honest, I’d admit I’d even imagined him without his
clothes on before. Would he look like the other nude men
I’d seen?
He was down to his drawers now. Without even pausing, he hitched his thumbs in the waistband. I squeezed my
eyes shut for a moment, and then I slowly opened them.
My hand unclenched, and Bertram’s drawing fluttered
to the floor.
Will was Michelangelo’s
David
, as I had imagined him
from the first moment I saw him. Like
David
, Will was
finely made, long and lean, with well-sculpted warrior’s
muscles. I kept my eyes to his chest, not wanting him to
catch me looking elsewhere. I tried to calm my nerves, but
it was to no avail.
A life-drawing session is always professional, never risqué
, I reminded myself. But my emotions
took no notice.
Will watched me warily.
I took a deep breath; let it out. “Do you mind if I touch
you?” I asked.
“Eh?” he said, confusion in his eyes.
I gestured with my hands. “To pose you.” I hoped he
didn’t hear the quaver in my voice.
He made a slight shake of his head as if he didn’t quite
trust himself to move.
I laid my hand on his left shoulder; his skin felt warm,
his muscles firm under my hand. “Put your weight in your
right leg and relax the left. It’s called contrapposto, a classic standing heroic pose.” I bent his arm and held it to his
shoulder, shaping his fingers into a cup as if holding a sling.
I turned his chin with the tips of my fingers so that his gaze
was just over his shoulder. “You’re Michelangelo’s
David
,
looking defiantly toward his enemy.”
I chose a conté crayon, turned my sketchbook to a fresh
page, and sat down and began to sketch.
Will did not budge. It was as though he didn’t dare. I
could barely see his chest moving as he breathed. The pastel I had chosen was a rustic bronze color, and it lit his figure
with a burnished glow that seemed from another time. He
was no longer Will. He’d become my muse once more. The
desire to touch him turned into the desire to draw him. We
were artist and model again. I was so inspired it was as
though Michelangelo himself guided my fingers, and I fell
into the dreamlike state that happened when art took me
in this way. And nothing mattered anymore.