The Girl in the Picture. Kerry Barrett
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work.’
‘I know he is always keen to nurture young talent. So, I was wondering, do you have more?’ Mr Forrest asked. ‘More paintings like this?’
I nodded. I had three that were finished and many more sketches. My head was whirling.
‘Could I take them to show John?’
‘Show him my paintings?’ I stammered.
‘I think he’d be very interested,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘He and the rest of the Brotherhood are always searching for interesting painters.’
‘I know it’s hard for women,’ I said, feeling like I should be honest from the start. Despite my daydreams, I was painfully aware my options were limited. ‘There aren’t many female artists.’
‘No,’ Mr Forrest said, thoughtfully. ‘But I believe there are a couple. I read just the other day about one Elizabeth …’
Once more, I thought I might faint. ‘Elizabeth?’ I said. ‘Lizzie Siddal?’
‘Yes, she was a model but I read she’s painting now,’ said Mr Forrest, telling me nothing I didn’t already know, but somehow it had more authority when it came from this man. ‘Apparently, she’s even got that critic, Ruskin, interested in her work.’
He glanced at me.
‘John says she’s rather good,’ he said, in an offhand manner. Oh how I longed for someone to discuss my work in such a matter-of-fact way. I couldn’t believe that this man, this handsome, charming man, was talking about my art in the same breath as he discussed my heroine Lizzie Siddal. I felt like all my dreams were finally coming true, as though all the hours painting alone in my studio, listening with dread for Father’s tread on the stairs, were not for nothing. I was not going to let convention stop me telling Mr Forrest exactly how I felt.
With my heart in my mouth, I explained how much I wanted to go to London and become part of the art world. If I could just find a patron, I said, someone who believed in me, and who would take care of the bills while I could paint, then I could go.
Mr Forrest smiled. ‘Dear girl,’ he said. ‘You certainly have the talent. I’m due in London later this month. Perhaps I could take one of your paintings with me then?’
I agreed at once, though I had no idea what Father would think if he found out. Could I possibly do this behind his back?
‘Should I speak to your parents?’ Mr Forrest said.
‘No,’ I almost shouted, before I collected myself. ‘My mother is dead,’ I explained. ‘Father is, well, he doesn’t think I should paint.’
Mr Forrest nodded in understanding. ‘Some older people still think women shouldn’t have a voice.’ He put his hand close to mine where it lay on the rock. ‘I disagree. I think you’ve got something very special, Miss Hargreaves. Let me mould that.’
I was giddy with joy. I looked out at the sea and allowed myself a little shiver of pleasure. This was it. Finally my life was beginning.
1855
Frances
Frances was climbing the stairs when she saw him out of the staircase window. He was sitting on a rock with a girl, who couldn’t be more than twenty, and who was gazing at him with adoring eyes.
She sighed. They’d only lived here a few weeks. Was it really starting again so soon?
Slowly, she carried on up the stairs into her dressing room. She couldn’t see the beach from this window so she couldn’t torment herself by watching him. Instead she sat down at her dressing table and examined herself in the mirror. Tilting her head, she looked at the bruising on her neck. It was definitely fading, finally. She pulled her dress down and leaned closer to the mirror. The marks on her collarbone and chest were fading too. She felt a wave of relief that she’d got away with it again.
She let her hand drift down on to her stomach, still flat, and thought of the tiny life flickering inside her. This time would be different. This time she would be careful. She shuddered as she remembered Edwin’s face when she told him she was pregnant last time. He’d said nothing then, simply stared at her with no expression in his cold, blue eyes. But later, when he came home from his club, brandy on his breath and fire in his belly, she knew she’d made a mistake.
The first punch – to the back of her head as she went to leave the room – sent her sprawling across the couch. And when she begged, ‘Please, Edwin, the baby …’ rage flared in his eyes. He hit her again and as she fell on the floor, he kicked her hard in the stomach. Sobbing, she crawled into the corner of the room and curled into a ball, while Edwin read the paper by the fire and ignored her quiet whimpers.
But when she felt a gush of blood between her legs and, despite her efforts, cried out, he was contrite. Back to his charming self, he carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed, smoothing her forehead and covering her with kisses.
‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll try again. I’m sorry, my darling.’
When the doctor came, Edwin was every inch the caring husband. But the doctor wasn’t fooled. Edwin left the room, and the doctor looked grim-faced. He lifted her nightgown to feel her tender stomach and saw the livid bruise to her side.
‘Does he have a temper, your husband?’ he asked, pushing gently on her lower belly. Frances winced but said nothing. Shame flooded her.
‘You must be more careful,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s a busy man. An important man. Don’t anger him.’
And with that, Frances knew she was alone. Which was why she’d come up with her plan. As soon as she’d realized she was expecting again she knew she had to get away. Edwin had gone from regarding her with a kind of benign disinterest when they were first married to vicious contempt and she knew if he realized she was pregnant – and desperate to be a mother – he’d punish her. As far as she knew he had no strong feelings either way about becoming a father but if he realized motherhood would make Frances happy, he’d take it away from her. Just to be cruel.
She was keeping money aside, squirrelling it away from the housekeeping and hiding it under a loose floorboard she’d found in her dressing room when they moved in. She’d been saving for years, if truth be told. She’d started putting some coins away almost as soon as she and Edwin had married. She knew from the start what sort of man he was, but her father was determined to see them wed and Frances couldn’t disagree.
Since her father’s death, and since Edwin took over the family law firm started by Frances’s grandfather – the one he’d always had his eye on and the one, Frances thought, that had sealed her fate as his bride before he’d even met her – he’d felt no need to keep his true nature hidden any longer.
When they’d moved and she realized her nausea each morning was because she was pregnant again, she’d started working out a proper plan. As much as she wanted this baby fiercely, she felt the same passionate determination that Edwin would never know his son or daughter. She needed to get away – and that was what was driving her now. She thought she’d stay as long as she could, loosening her corset as much as she was able before her condition was obvious, and then she’d act. It was good to have everything in place before she went, because she couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong.
After talking to some of the people in the village, she’d decided what to do; though it seemed drastic she wanted to be sure Edwin couldn’t – or wouldn’t – try to find her. So, she planned to take some clothes to the beach and leave them by the rocks. Maybe throw a hat into the waves and hope it washed up in the right place, or snag a piece of a gown onto a sharp stone. There was a nasty current in the sea, which had claimed the lives of many people over the years – she could easily be washed into the water as others had before. If she were lucky, she’d just become one more sad story of an unfortunate