CHAPTER 12 #2
“My niece stays with me while she studies,” Laura said, “although it gives her mother pause. My sister imagines that artists consort with all manner of disreputable people. Aesthetes, bohemians, opium smokers, and the like.”
Helen laughed. “That only slightly exaggerates my mother’s attitude.”
Julia tried and failed to imagine Miss Herford as a denizen of London’s darker corners. Middle-aged, wearing a black dress with a prim, white collar, she looked like someone’s governess.
Laura said, “I see you’ve hung Down the Rushy Glen. It looks wonderful on that wall.”
Helen Paterson looked at the painting over her shoulder. “From the poem? Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen. We dare not go a hunting—oh.” A smile spread. “Allingham, of course.”
“William is a cousin,” Louisa said. “He’d be flattered that you know his verses by heart. The next time he’s in London, we’ll introduce you.”
Mary said, “He’s our one poetic relative in a family of painters, so Louisa cherishes him.”
Julia asked, “What did you think of the Annual Exhibition, Miss Paterson?”
“Overwhelming. One could hardly take it in, but . . .” Helen smiled. “As a watercolorist, I must lament the Academy’s preference for oils.”
“Oh, I agree,” Mary said. “Watercolors are such a demanding medium. With oils, you can scrape away mistakes and paint over them.”
Louisa put down her cup. “And tinker endlessly. I’ve watched you fiddle with canvases I thought were long finished. And as for varnishing day . . . after months of work, is it necessary?”
Mary waved a teaspoon airily. “Art is never done.”
“Literature is,” Louisa said. “Once it’s in print, that’s that.”
“What about new prefaces?” Laura said. “They’re filled with second thoughts. And even Mister Dickens, genius that he is, doubted, changed his mind, and altered the ending of Great Expectations.”
“I like his happier version better,” Mary said. “It leaves open the possibility that Pip and Estella marry in the end.”
“My dear, you are a romantic,” Louisa said.
“Not at all. I’m a realist. What rational person wants to plow through eight hundred pages of a three-volume novel only to be left heart-sore and depressed by a sad ending?”
“As much as painting and literature feed the spirit, the healing arts most ennoble,” Louisa said. “Did you see the recent edition of The Lancet, Doctor Lewis? On hospital outpatient treatment?”
“It had much to commend it. Sensible proposals to improve care,” Julia said. “I remember seeing a February copy of the journal on your reading table the last time I visited Blenheim Lodge.”
“I’ve always had an interest in medicine,” Louisa said. “If it wouldn’t be an intrusion, may I visit your clinic one day?”
“Of course. I’d be happy to take you on a tour. I’ll give you the address before I leave.”
Louisa said a little sadly, “How I admire your career . . . that you let no obstacle stand in your way. Had I your courage, I might have been a nurse.”
“Obstacles, indeed,” Mary said. “An artist friend I met in Paris once said that the highest hurdle to a woman’s professional success is that she can never have a wife. Someone to darn the stockings and keep the house clean. Someone to do all the other disagreeable things, so she has time to paint.”
Helen said, “I imagine female physicians could use a wife to do the darning, too.”
“I see a look in my sister-in-law’s eye,” Mary said. “Louisa longs to say that I’ve never darned a stocking in my life, so I hardly need a wife.”
“I’ve said nothing, my dear, but now that you mention it . . .”
“After ten years together, my sister-in-law knows me too well.”
“Indeed, I do.” Louisa stood and smiled around the room. “This has been a delightful afternoon, but I’m a little tired now. Will you ladies excuse me?”
The company murmured farewells, and Louisa closed the sitting room door behind her.
Mary sighed. “I’m glad she came down and happy she stayed as long as she did.”
“I spoke to her at the exhibition yesterday,” Julia said.
“It was her first real outing.” Mary frowned. “If only . . . well, I’m betraying no secrets. If only Louisa had the children she always wanted. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so adrift in the world. So many disappointments. It broke my heart to witness her grief.”
“She’s still young,” Laura said, “and so beautiful. Has she ever been painted?”
“Charles tried, but he was never satisfied with the results.”
Laura nodded. “Perhaps life has happiness in store for her yet.”
“Perhaps.”
“And for you, my dear?” Laura said. “I saw Mister Quain squiring you around the East Room. He’s attractive, in a rakish sort of way.”
Mary shook her head. “Are you and Louisa conspiring to find me a husband?”
“Perhaps Mister Quain might be willing to darn your stockings.”
Mary laughed. “You met him, Laura. Does he look like a man who mends his own?”
“I am in earnest,” she said. “Marriage between professional partners is one solution to the challenge of matrimony for working women. Sharing life and labor, as it were.”
“If my friend in Paris is correct, he shares the life. You do the labor.” Mary waved in dismissal. “He’s amusing company, that is all.”
“Aha,” Laura said. “Sharing laughter. You’re well on your way.”
“Quite a few painting couples have made it work,” Helen said. “Henrietta and Edward Ward. Joanna and Henry Wells. You’re a professional woman, Doctor Lewis. What do you say?”
Julia smiled, shaking her head. “I say it sounds like the conversations I have with my great-aunt all the time. But shared work might increase the chance for success.”
Mary waggled her teaspoon. “I’m remembering. You are a medical examiner for Scotland Yard . . . and the policeman you work with, Inspector Tennant. Very attractive, and not in a rakish sort of way.”
Julia laughed. “Now you sound conspiratorial—in league with my Aunt Caroline.”
It was getting late. Cups were set aside, wraps and hats gathered, and coachmen signaled. Julia hung back at the front door and handed Mary a card.
“For Mrs. Allingham. It’s the address of my clinic in Whitechapel. I assume Doctor Scott is still treating her, but if she ever wishes to make a change, please tell her I would be happy to see her.”
“Thank you, Julia. I hope she will. About Inspector Tennant. . . Forgive me. I only brought him up to divert the conversation from Will Quain.” Mary smiled impishly. “But there’s no denying it. The man is handsome. It’s no wonder he was one of Louisa’s old beaux.”
“No wonder.”
Mary took Julia’s arm and walked her to the front door. “About the case . . . is there anything new? The inspector seems focused on painters. I only wondered . . .”
“We mostly discuss the medical side of things. Still, I wouldn’t worry too much about the artists. The investigation is heading in many directions.” Julia offered her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid there isn’t more I can tell you.”
* * *
Mr. Ogilvie nosed the carriage into the Kensington Road traffic. Lost in thought, Julia noticed none of it.
They made good points, she thought. But the married women artists they mentioned combined domesticity with their profession. Julia guessed that many, like Mary, painted from studios in their homes. My case is different. She left the house every day for her clinic in Whitechapel.
Even if her private practice were to thrive, about as likely as my becoming head of the medical board, it wasn’t enough.
Her important work happened at the clinic.
What husband wants an absentee wife? What about children, what then?
How would a doctor-mother balance their needs with her medical commitments?
Aunt Caroline often reminded her that life involved risk and reconsideration. After the dinner party with Mister Lloyd and his sister, her aunt had said, “My dear, that hymn might have been written for you.”
“I know you believe things are simple, Aunt. I’m not as certain.”
She’d kissed her niece’s cheek and climbed into her carriage. Before the coach rolled away, her aunt let down the window to have the last word. “You have many gifts, but it is a gift to be simple. Stop analyzing and listen to your heart.”
Heart, mind, and senses . . . and taking a chance.
Julia closed her eyes in the rocking carriage.
She pictured a summer morning at the pond, her grandfather in water up to his chest, arms outstretched, and her ten-year-old self hesitating.
He’d said, “Jump, Julie,” and she’d vaulted from her perch.
She recalled the rush of air, the weightlessness of the water, and her grandfather’s strong arms encircling her.
Julia remembered the fear of that leap. She also recalled its thrill.
At ten, she had hurled herself into the void. Nearly twenty years later, she stood on another brink, hesitating.
* * *
Monday, the second week of April, opened at the Yard with two promising lines of inquiry.
Arnie Stackpole’s imminent release from prison offered them a potential trail. The seaman would finish his sentence in three days, and plans were in place to follow him.
Stackpole and Margot Miller were confederates in a criminal cabal linked to prostitution and pornography. At least, that was the inspector’s theory. And God knows what else, Tennant thought. Somehow, it had led to her murder. And he believed Rawlings, still in the wind, was deep in the scheme.
Chief Inspector Clark was less convinced of the linkages, and he’d made that clear in their meeting that morning.
It had been weeks since Margot Miller’s murder and longer since the body of Franny Riley was found.
Clark wanted arrests, not a Byzantine conspiracy.
For Tennant, the connections held. He had murder victims linked to two criminal enterprises; either one could have led to Margot’s death.
More immediately, there were the pictures to explore. How had salacious versions of recently painted works ended up in Allingham’s collection?