The Christmas Retreat

Arwen

The Spanish flu was no respecter of youth or strength: it preyed on the young and healthy as avidly as on the frail and elderly.

My mother had been a good twenty years younger than Papa, a tall, sturdy, fair Yorkshirewoman, full of vitality, yet her life blew out like a snuffed candle within days of contracting the vile illness.

Papa, shattered by her loss, did not even try to put up any resistance.

After his death, I discovered that he had given some thought to what might happen to me, his only child, although when the solicitor, Mr Browne, explained things to me after the funeral, I wished he had not!

Mr Browne, a small, wiry man with frizzled hair the colour of dust, and with eyes to match, accompanied us back to my lodgings, together with my friend Milly, who was staying with me, and Mama’s friend Mrs Clark, who had been providing support and good advice.

There, once Mrs Clark had made tea and then tactfully retired, the solicitor proceeded to explain things to me.

He had already taken on himself the arrangements for the funeral and used what little money my father had left to disburse the more urgent of our debts.

Everything other than my personal possessions was to be sold off to pay the rest, and our lodgings and Papa’s studio taken over by another artist, a friend of his.

I had begged Milly to stay with me while Papa’s will was read, and once I had thrown off the borrowed black coat that Mrs Clark, a stickler for observing proprieties, had insisted upon, Mr Browne eyed my short, bright blue plaid dress with some disapprobation.

I was sure he was equally shocked by Milly’s emerald-green skirt and blouse, and our daringly short cropped hair.

He cleared his throat, which I expect was just as dusty as the rest of him, after sitting in an office full of ancient papers every day, year after year, and began.

‘I have your father’s will here, Miss Madoc, which is a simple document stating that once all debts have been repaid, the residue of his estate goes to you.

Since, as I have already informed you, most of his income derived from an annuity, which ceased at his death, I am afraid there will be very little money left over, even after everything is sold. ’

‘I knew about the annuity and of course, with his deteriorating health over the last couple of years, his portrait commissions had dwindled,’ I said.

I did not add that ever since I turned fourteen and the tremor in Papa’s hands had begun to be a problem, I myself had taken an increasing role in completing the final details of his portraits, for I had a great facility for copying any style of painting or artist.

In Papa’s case, while he was still much influenced in his work by the Impressionist style of his youth, he was not unaware of the various more avant-garde groups of young painters that had sprung up around us in London.

A Post-Impressionism exhibition he had taken me to in 1910 had inspired great admiration in my young mind, and he had also frequently let me accompany him on visits to the studios of his friends.

Of course, I had no desire to pursue a career as a mere copyist, for I aspired to develop my own style and become an artist in my own right, and to this end had been studying at the Slade School of Art for the last two years, since I was sixteen, although I had been largely absent since Mama died in February.

I felt a yearning to escape from my grief back into my work and, now the war was finally over, there were so many exciting things going on as newer and younger artists explored our modern world. I wanted to be part of that.

Mr Browne gave his dry cough again to get my attention, and I realized I had let my thoughts wander a long way from the reason we were here. I was suddenly struck once again by the devastating blow of my double loss and I blinked away tears and said: ‘I’m so sorry – did you ask me something?’

He looked at me more benignly: clearly a rush of womanly tears was more to his taste than stoicism.

‘I was merely remarking that it was convenient that your father’s friend wishes to take over the studio and lodgings and purchase the furnishings, once you have removed any personal effects you wish to keep.

And Mr Timmins, the art dealer, will shortly come to examine your father’s remaining artworks and make an offer for them. ’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, but did not tell him that I had already removed to my own room certain treasures from the studio, including Papa’s large Japanned tin paintbox and two small oil portraits, one of Mama, and the other of myself at fifteen.

‘Mrs Clark is being so kind, helping me to sort what must be disposed of, and what to keep – as has my dear friend Milly.’

I smiled at Milly, whose square and somewhat pugnacious-looking face broke into a gamine grin, although Mr Browne cast her a doubtful look.

I think her independence of manner, combined with her bright red curls, green eyes and the brevity of her skirt, a scant two inches below the knee, all combined to alarm him.

He said: ‘It is a relief to me that you already realize how little you will have to live on once everything is settled, but I am here to reassure you that you need have no worries for the future, for your father had put arrangements into place in case he should die while you are still a minor.’

‘I’m eighteen and quite capable of fending for myself,’ I said indignantly.

The solicitor’s smile was infuriatingly like one you would give to a child.

‘But my dear Miss Madoc, you will not be of age until you are twenty-one, and until then you will have a guardian – your father’s distant cousin, Cosmo Caradoc.’

In the stunned silence that followed Mr Browne’s announcement, Milly turned and stared at me.

‘I never knew you were related to Cosmo Caradoc.’

I had been vaguely aware of it and, since he was a renowned artist, I’d always supposed painting ran in the family … although, of course, Papa was much older than he, and less well known.

‘It isn’t a close connection. Papa used to spend the school holidays at the family home in North Wales and told me stories about it. Mama and Papa used to dine with Mr Caradoc on the rare occasions when he was in town, but I have never met him.’

‘They say he has become quite a recluse now,’ said Milly. ‘I did once see him at a Royal Academy exhibition – very tall and handsome, with curling black hair and deep-set dark eyes. Of course, he must be quite old now.’

‘I believe Mr Caradoc to be little more than forty, at most,’ put in Mr Browne quellingly. That did seem quite a great age to me.

‘Your father wrote to Mr Caradoc at the time he made this will, and he agreed to be named as your guardian in the event of your father’s demise before you reached your majority.

I immediately wrote to him when this sad event happened and he was most prompt in his reply, also enclosing a letter for you. ’

He took out a heavy cream envelope, the flap sealed with red wax imprinted with a strange symbol – three rabbits or hares, seemingly connected together by their ears, inside a circle.

‘As your guardian, he wishes you to reside with him at his family home, Triskelion, in Wales. He is a widower with one daughter of around your own age. An elderly female relation lives there also.’

I stared at him, my letter unopened.

‘Go to live in Wales?’ I echoed.

I knew of my Welsh heritage, but it was a foreign country to me, who had ventured no further from London than could reasonably be reached for a day’s sketching with a party of friends.

Recovering from my surprise I said firmly, ‘But that is quite impossible – and in any case, I have already made my own plans.’

‘My dear Miss Madoc, you are only eighteen and have no income, or nearer relatives, so you should be grateful that your guardian offers you a home.’

‘I expect it’s very kind of him, even though unnecessary.’

‘I have finished my own studies at the Slade,’ put in Milly, who was two years older than I.

‘My brother, who is also an artist, and I intend moving to Cornwall, where we find the scenery very inspiring and where we know of several artists settled near St Ives. Arwen will make her home with us there. We are looking for a suitable property and, until then, the aunt with whom we live in London is happy for Arwen to stay at her flat, too.’

‘And will this aunt also move to the country with you?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Milly. ‘She never stirs out of town.’

Mr Browne looked quite taken aback. ‘I am afraid that sounds perfectly unsuitable, Miss Madoc, and I am very sure your guardian would not agree to it! I think,’ he added, ‘you had better read his letter.’

I broke the strange seal and read the letter, finding that although the tone was somewhat autocratic, my new guardian did seem to know about my desire to become an artist and was in sympathy with it.

He began by expressing his condolences, but also his willingness to offer me a home at Triskelion.

‘I know from your father’s letters that you are a talented artist and I think you will find the scenery of North Wales quite inspiring. The nearby fishing village of St Melangell and our own small hamlet of Seren Bach seem to be becoming quite a little artists’ colony.

My daughter, Beatrice, looks forward to welcoming a companion of her own age.

Arrangements for your transport here have fallen out fortunately, for the relative who resides with us, Mrs Maude Fry, happens to be passing back through London on Friday the 30th, after paying a visit to a connection in Sussex, and I will make arrangements for you to travel here with her.’

I looked up from this, feeling like a mere parcel whose delivery must be arranged as conveniently as possible and said, firmly, ‘I’m afraid Mr Caradoc’s plans are quite impossible, even though I am sure kindly meant. I’ll reply, informing him that I have made other arrangements.’

‘My dear child, I don’t think you have entirely grasped the situation,’ Mr Browne said. ‘Cosmo Caradoc is now your legal guardian and you must fall in with his wishes. Indeed, I think you should be grateful that he offers to take you into his home.’

‘Well, I’m not, because I have no need of his generous offer,’ I said stubbornly. I was finding being addressed like a half-witted child very wearing to the temper. ‘I will write and tell him so, and I expect he will be quite happy to be relieved of the responsibility.’

Of course, Mr Browne had a lot more to say, but once he had finally taken himself off, I settled down to write to my new, and unwanted, guardian, stating my own plans, although thanking him for his offer.

Milly, once she had read Mr Caradoc’s letter too, was just as indignant as I was, but much less sanguine about the outcome.

‘Here we are in the twentieth century, with the fight for female emancipation by brave women like my aunt and your mama well advanced, yet Mr Browne made it quite clear that you could still be legally handed over to a guardian like a parcel, until you are of age!’

‘We will see what Mr Caradoc says in reply to my letter. Perhaps he has as little desire to have me foisted upon him as I have to go there and will be glad to hear that I have already plans in place of my own.’

*

Unfortunately, Milly’s doubts proved correct, as Cosmo Caradoc’s reply to my letter made very clear.

He did, however, soften the tone of his reply by saying that he understood my desire to continue with my studies, which I could well do in his own studio.

‘Maybe it won’t be so bad, although I hate to think of you going so far away,’ Milly consoled me. ‘But perhaps Edwin and I can come and stay nearby for a week or two in the early autumn, once we have made our move and settled in.’

Edwin had recently viewed a Cornish property, Smuggler’s Cottage in Lamorna, and declared it just what they wanted, so once Milly had been to see it, and approved, they might very soon be moving there … and I so wished I was going with them.

‘That would be wonderful,’ I said, for as well as missing my best friend, I had had a secret crush on Milly’s tall, languid and handsome elder brother for quite some time and of late, now he was not so much occupied with his work as a war artist (he had been unfit for active service), he had seemed to regard me as something more than just his sister’s younger friend …

Mind you, I found his ideas on the subject of Free Love rather alarming and, as Mama had sensibly said when I’d broached this topic to her, love was only free for men, for women would pay the price in social ostracism and children born out of wedlock.

Papa, who was of an older generation, most certainly would not have approved, even though he had been as one with Mama over the subject of female emancipation.

‘I suppose it is a great opportunity to work in the studio of Cosmo Caradoc,’ I conceded. ‘But not for a whole three years, till I come of age! I will have to make that quite plain from the outset.’

Milly grinned, knowing my stubborn and opinionated nature. ‘I expect he will very soon be glad to get rid of you, and since you will be able to make your home with us in Cornwall, he can do so with a clear conscience.’

‘I wish I could just move there with you straight away. It would be such fun,’ I sighed.

‘Perhaps by the time we visit you, Mr Caradoc will have had quite enough of you and be happy to let you come back with us,’ she suggested.

‘I will be glad of your company, for although I intend living in Cornwall all year round, it seems Edwin now means to divide his time between there and London for the sake of his career.’

I knew Edwin was ambitious and aspired to be elected a member of the Royal Academy one day, so despite his bohemian views this was not altogether a surprise. Milly had begun to make her own way with her brilliant woodcut illustrations and could, as she said, work anywhere.

‘I will miss both of you so much,’ I said, blushing a little as I always did at the thought of Milly’s brother.

‘But I am determined we will not be separated for long. After all,’ I added, ‘I could always wind all Papa’s elderly friends around my little finger and I don’t see why Mr Caradoc should be any different. ’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Milly said doubtfully, ‘but nor do I want to be parted from you for three years – that would be quite unbearable – so if the worst comes to the worst, we will just have to aid and abet you to run away to Cornwall!’