The Girl in the Picture Read online

Violet’s eyes sparked with defiance. ‘I am not like other girls,’ she said. ‘I have my paintings ready to show Mr Millais.’

  Edwin looked round. They were standing by Violet’s front gate where any passer-by could see them together.

  ‘I will gladly take your paintings,’ he said. ‘But I cannot take you. I will be working.’

  Violet snorted. An unbecoming sound for a girl so beautiful. ‘Are you afraid I will tarnish your reputation?’

  Edwin picked up her bag and took her wrist, holding it hard. ‘Come,’ he hissed at her. He pulled her, quite roughly he had to admit, round the side of her house and into the garden where he pushed her down on to a bench.

  ‘Violet,’ he said, standing over her. ‘I will not take you to London. I am married. What would your father say? I cannot encourage you to socialize in the taverns of the city.’

  Violet gripped her parcel tighter. ‘I can’t stay here,’ she whispered, staring at Edwin over the top of the package. ‘Frances knows.’

  Edwin sat down next to her and smoothed her hair from her face. She stared at him, biting her full pink lips. Edwin felt his groin tighten at the sight of her. Was there time to have her now? Here? He took his pocket watch out and checked. Sadly, no. He had a train to catch. No matter.

  ‘Darling girl,’ he said. ‘Frances knows nothing. She is in a world of her own and I fear her character is weak. She means you no harm.’

  He kissed her softly on those full lips, breathing in her smell of paint and sweat, and wished there was a later train. Over Violet’s shoulder he saw her gardener. He was making the pretence of cutting down a branch but Edwin knew he was watching them through the leaves. He lowered his voice so the surly chap wouldn’t hear.

  ‘You have stolen my heart, Miss Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘We will be together one day. For now, alas, I must take your paintings to London in place of you.’

  He took the parcel from her arms and pulled her along the bench towards him, pressing her body against his. Could she feel how much he wanted her?

  ‘Alas, I must go,’ he said, his breath raspy. ‘I will return next week. I have plans to meet with Mr Millais, and I will show him your work.’

  Violet’s defiance had left her. Edwin was pleased. He seemed to have a way with women. He smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and straightened his tie, preening like a peacock.

  Violet picked the parcel up from the bench and handed it to him.

  ‘Two paintings,’ she said in a faltering voice. ‘There is “King Canute”, and “Daniel in the Lions’ Den”. I have another one, but I thought these were best … for now.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Edwin. He tucked the package under his arm and stood up.

  ‘I didn’t sign them,’ Violet said suddenly. ‘I thought, perhaps, you could show Mr Millais first and see if he likes them. Before you tell them they have been painted by …’

  ‘By a woman,’ finished Edwin. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head as she sat on the bench. ‘That is a wise plan. I will follow your wishes.’

  He didn’t look back as he left the garden. In fact, he didn’t think of Violet again until he was settled on the train. As it powered over the Sussex downs, he took the parcel of paintings down from the luggage rack, and unwrapped it. He propped both works on the seats opposite him and sat back to look at them.

  ‘They’re rather good,’ said an elderly gentleman who was sharing his carriage. He put down his newspaper to look at them more closely.

  ‘Are they yours?’

  Edwin paused while the train rattled under a bridge. Then he looked at his fellow passenger.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes they are.’

  The gentleman smiled at him. ‘You have a talent,’ he said.

  Edwin brushed off his compliments modestly. ‘Oh I’m just a beginner,’ he said. ‘In fact, I have not even put my name to these paintings.’

  ‘You must,’ said the gentleman. ‘Here, I have a pen.’

  He rummaged in his bag and handed Edwin a fountain pen. ‘There should be ink enough for a signature,’ he said.

  Edwin took the pen. Then, before he had time to change his mind, he etched his name on to the bottom of Violet’s painting of King Canute.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ the man said. ‘Now this one. Ah, it’s a self-portrait, I see.’

  Edwin nodded as he scratched his signature on to ‘Daniel in the Lions’ Den’.

  ‘There is a lack of models,’ he admitted. ‘I often have to paint myself.’

  The lies came easily after that. He and his companion chatted about art and London, and Edwin found himself repeating things Violet had said as though he’d just thought of them.

  By the time they reached London Bridge Station, Edwin almost believed himself to be an artist. He bade farewell to the gentleman with a cheery wave and set off to his club with a spring in his step. Life was good.

  Chapter 34

  Edwin’s Hackney coach dropped him at the corner of Jermyn Street just as the sun was setting. He tipped the driver and sauntered along the road, then climbed the wide stairs to the imposing building that housed his club, to reserve himself a room for the week.

  He had chosen this club because of its reputation for attracting men of worth in literary and artistic fields. Edwin hadn’t been lying when he told Violet that he loved art. Just as he’d not been lying when he told Beatrice that he loved music.

  He did love art; that was true. What he really loved, though, was the world of art. He had, in fact, met Millais but if he were truthful it was a brief introduction and he knew Millais would struggle to remember him. And he had not been lying when he told Violet he fancied himself to be an artist, though he lacked talent and perseverance. His chosen profession of the law suited him much better. He was a man of rules and regulations – and often of finding legal loopholes for his clients to slip through. He loved nothing more than tying someone up in an argument based on logic and trickery and he was very good at it.

  He had made a decent living from the law, but he still wanted to be revered the way artists were revered. He came from a modest background and despite his humble beginnings, he’d worked hard, and – every now and then – lied and cheated his way to success. He was a good businessman, he knew that, and Frances’s father had thought enough of him to leave him in charge of the family firm. But he still didn’t feel appreciated and he didn’t feel secure. Always lurking at the back of his mind was the worry that one day someone would point out that his parents weren’t the respectable people he pretended they were, that his carefully constructed house of cards could come tumbling down.

  He hadn’t been to boarding school or received the good start in life enjoyed by his peers, and so he pretended. He’d taught himself to draw because other chaps had had art lessons at school or from their tutors and he wanted to be like them. And to his surprise, he found he enjoyed it, though he was sadly lacking in technique. He occasionally sketched seabirds and when he and Frances were first courting he drew her. Once, he drew her naked, which he’d found very erotic and she’d found terribly embarrassing.

  He felt his good mood abating at the thought of his wife, so he paused at the entrance to the club, congratulating himself once more for winning membership there and letting the beautiful architecture soothe him. Then, with the parcel of paintings under his arm, he went inside.

  ‘Edwin, dear fellow!’

  Edwin turned from the desk, where he’d been signing the visitors’ book, as a plump gentleman with a mop of white hair greeted him.

  ‘Laurence,’ he said, shaking him firmly by the hand. ‘It has been a long time.’

  Laurence Cole was an old client of Edwin’s firm, a jovial man who was a well-known patron of the arts.

  They exchanged pleasantries and Edwin was pleased when Laurence invited him to dine later.

  ‘What do you have there?’ he asked, nodding at Edwin’s parcels as they walked along the hall to their rooms.

  Edwin smiled in a f
ashion he hoped was self-effacing. ‘Oh just a couple of paintings,’ he said. ‘I am merely dabbling, really …’ He let his voice trail off and hoped Laurence would jump in. He didn’t disappoint.

  ‘May I?’ he said.

  Edwin protested, but not too loudly and not for too long. He invited Laurence into his room, and poured them both a drink. Then he unwrapped his parcel and propped the paintings up against the wall.

  ‘The light in here is not so good,’ he said as Laurence peered at the work, but Laurence brushed aside his worries.

  ‘My dear boy,’ he said. ‘These are marvellous. Really something.’ He sipped his whisky and settled himself into the leather chair at the side of the fireplace. ‘I wonder …’

  Edwin glanced at him. ‘You wonder?’

  ‘I have a friend, John Ruskin. He is an art critic. Do you know him?’

  ‘Of course. Though we have never been formally introduced.’

  ‘I should like to show him these, if I may. I think he would enjoy them. They’re of a style I know he favours.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Edwin said. ‘I am simply a beginner, still learning.’

  ‘Dear boy, you do yourself a disservice. You have talent. I think this could be the start of something for you.’

  Edwin smiled. And after some protestations – but not too many – he agreed to give Laurence the paintings to show Ruskin.

  There followed two days of uncertainty. Edwin met with clients and got a lot of business done, but his mind was never far from Laurence; wondering whether he’d yet met with Ruskin.

  He hadn’t intended to pass the paintings off as his own. That had simply been a spontaneous act, inspired by the man on the train. He’d not really had a plan beyond seducing Violet though he had vaguely thought he might be able to sell the paintings and pocket the proceeds. But now he had claimed ownership of Violet’s work, he was plotting. If he could somehow encourage Violet to keep painting and pass off her work as his own, he would become the toast of the art world.

  He imagined a stream of men wanting to be just like him, and of beautiful women desperate to get closer to him. He’d be respected around town, and Violet need never find out. She hardly ever left Sussex, so the chances of her stumbling across one of ‘his’ paintings were very low.

  He wasn’t sure how much money these artists made – he had a vague idea most of the Pre-Raphaelites were men of means masquerading as starving for their art – but he fancied it could be a rather nice second income. Perhaps even enough to take some rooms in London permanently. That would certainly make entertaining easier, he thought. He drifted off into a lascivious daydream, as he walked downstairs towards the dining room for dinner.

  ‘Edwin,’ he realized someone was talking to him.

  ‘Laurence, I’m sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘No matter,’ Laurence said, falling into step beside him as they entered the dining room. ‘Shall we sit together or do you have guests?’

  ‘No, no guests,’ Edwin said, thinking surely if Laurence wanted to dine with him, he must have good news.

  They sat down and the waiter poured them wine.

  Laurence took a sip. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘So, Edwin, how is the law treating you?’

  ‘Well, well,’ Edwin said, wishing he’d get to the point. Laurence always had been full of hot air.

  ‘That is a shame because I fancy the legal profession may soon have to do without you,’ Laurence said, sitting back in his chair and looking very pleased with himself.

  Edwin suppressed the urge to reach across the table, grip Laurence’s tie, and smash his smug face on to his plate.

  ‘How so?’ he asked politely, imagining Laurence’s mutton chops dripping with gravy.

  ‘Because, my dear chap, I have sold your paintings.’

  Edwin stopped with his wineglass halfway to his mouth. ‘Sold them?’

  ‘Well, with your agreement, of course,’ Laurence said.

  Edwin merely stared at him. He wasn’t sure how one was supposed to react in these situations.

  ‘Shut your mouth, boy,’ Laurence said with a smile. ‘You must know how good your work is?’

  Edwin bowed his head in false modesty. ‘So, who …’ he began.

  ‘I was unable to show them to Ruskin,’ Laurence said. ‘Because as it turns out, he is in Italy. But it was probably for the best, considering he has just paid out a large sum to Miss Siddal.’

  Edwin scowled. He didn’t altogether approve of Ruskin’s patronage of Elizabeth Siddal, who he considered to be nothing more than a whore.

  Laurence saw his expression. ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I showed them instead to a friend of Mr Ruskin – a Mr Henry Hughes.’

  Edwin didn’t know the name.

  Laurence understood his blank look. ‘Factory owner,’ he said with a wave of his hand that dismissed poor Mr Hughes and everyone like him. ‘Extremely rich. Knows nothing about art.’

  Edwin thought he could see where Laurence’s story was going. ‘So this Mr Hughes …’

  ‘He buys whatever he likes,’ Laurence said with a smile. ‘He offered £300 for the Daniel painting.’

  Edwin stared once more. He earned £600 a year and that bought him a very comfortable lifestyle indeed. And this Hughes was offering him half that amount for one painting?

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Laurence. ‘It’s almost insulting, no? Anyway, I talked him up to £450.’

  Edwin drained his glass. His hand was shaking. You talked him up to four hundred and fifty,’ he breathed.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Laurence. ‘And, as I did the negotiating, I thought I would take my commission in kind.’

  ‘Of course,’ Edwin stammered. ‘Do you need legal advice?’

  Laurence chuckled. ‘No, Edwin,’ he said. ‘The other painting. I will take the other painting.’

  Somewhere deep in Edwin’s bewildered mind, an alarm bell rang. ‘For nothing?’ he said, his business brain finally catching up with events. ‘That’s one hundred per cent commission.’

  Laurence had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Ah, it was worth a try,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you £100 for it.’

  ‘Two hundred,’ said Edwin, topping up both their glasses. His composure regained, he noticed with an approving glance that his hand wasn’t even shaking the slightest amount.

  ‘One hundred and fifty,’ said Laurence.

  ‘Done.’

  They shook hands across the table. Edwin’s mind was reeling. He had just made his annual salary in five minutes. For a moment he thought about what that money could do for Violet – pay for art lessons, buy her time to paint – then he dismissed the thought. Women and money were a dangerous mix.

  He watched, incredulous, as Laurence got out a fat billfold and counted out £100 in cash.

  ‘If you care to accompany me to the bank in the morning, I can get the rest for you,’ Laurence said.

  Edwin took the money and folded it into his pocket.

  ‘Don’t you want to know where they are?’ Laurence asked.

  Edwin looked surprised. He’d almost forgotten about the actual paintings. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. It’s been a whirlwind.’

  Laurence patted his hand like a kindly father. ‘It will sink in soon enough,’ he said. ‘Mr Hughes will hang “Daniel” in the office of his factory. And I rather thought I might hang mine in here.’

  Edwin was pleased.

  ‘It will get you noticed,’ Laurence warned. ‘Can you produce more?’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ Edwin said, thinking about how prolific Violet was. He sent up silent thanks to a god he didn’t believe in that he’d moved to Sussex and met her. His whole life was about to change – and it was all because of Violet.

  Chapter 35

  Present day

  Ella

  It was strange being back in London. I’d not been away that long, and we’d been into Brighton a few times so we were hardly country mice,
but already I’d got used to our slower pace of life in Sussex.

  It was nice, though, to be on the train by myself. I read my book, drank a coffee, and stared out of the window.

  George was coming to London for some lecture at one of the universities. He had booked himself on an earlier plane so we planned to go to the private members’ club and see Violet’s painting for ourselves. I’d brought all the sketches I’d found, and George was confident that he could determine if the same artist had created them and the painting in the club.

  I got on the bus from Victoria, enjoying watching London slide past the windows, and jumped off at Piccadilly Circus. I was meeting George at the café in the big bookshop there but I knew he was bound to be late, so I settled down with an iced bun and another coffee and waited.

  He rang me, ten minutes later, flustered and full of apologies. ‘I’m stuck on the bloody train,’ he said. ‘I knew it was a mistake to fly into Luton. Where is Luton anyway?’

  I giggled. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I can wait.’

  ‘No, darling, you go ahead and charm their socks off and I’ll meet you there. I’ll be about an hour max. The manager is a guy called Scott something – I’ll forward you the email so you’ve got all the details. He’s expecting us.’

  I shrugged. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let me know if you’re going to be any later, though. I need your expert eye.’

  I waited for the email to arrive, then I drained my coffee, pulled on my cardigan – summer was definitely in its last gasps – and wandered out of the shop’s back door on to Jermyn Street.

  The club was in a white stone building, with steps leading up to the entrance, flanked either side with pillars, and a heavy, black front door.

  ‘Crumbs,’ I said. It was very imposing. I wondered if Violet had ever been here but I thought she probably hadn’t. I imagined she stayed in Sussex most of the time, and I didn’t think establishments like this were very welcoming to women back then.

  Nor, I quickly discovered, were they welcoming to women now.

  The front door was open, so I went straight in. Inside it looked a bit like a hotel reception, with a heavy wooden desk to my left where a youngish man sat at a computer screen. In front of me were two glass-panelled doors and through them I could see a dining room straight ahead, what looked like a bar to the right, and a large sweeping staircase on the left, lined with paintings. I felt a glimmer of excitement that I was going to see Violet’s finished work in the flesh.