Chapter Eleven #2
‘The columns, of course, will be elaborate, the capitals gilded. There will be settles between the columns with rich velvet cushions, above them ropes of roses and trailing ivy, all very sumptuous. In the background hints of gilded furniture, urns and so on, quite shadowy – enough to suggest fabulous luxury. We don’t care about the background.
Like Cupid, what we can’t take our eyes from,’ he went on, his voice growing warmer, ‘is the water, so still it is like a mirror.’ He looked round at her with a glint of mischief.
‘It’s a tease, you see. At first, only Psyche’s back view with its innocent curves, so far so conventional.
But a second glance takes you further into the picture, and you see in reflection her face, her breast – all her secret loveliness.
That’s what Cupid’s after – he makes love to her in total darkness, so he never sees her body.
He is stealing this glimpse, as we, the viewers, are: we are complicit.
Of course,’ he concluded, his voice becoming brisk, ‘for decency’s sake there will be a single fallen petal in the water creating a ripple that conceals what must be concealed, otherwise I’m afraid the committee would reject it out of hand. What do you think?’
She was surprised and flattered to be asked her opinion. ‘I think it’s very clever. It will be a beautiful thing.’ In her head she added, Only you could make it work. The reflection would be hard to manage.
He looked pleased. ‘I think so too. I hope it will be the sensation of the exhibition, with the collectors fighting over it like cats. You are wondering why I have told you about it beforehand.’
She had been so interested she had not got as far as wondering, but now she did. She liked it – he was treating her like a colleague. She felt herself blush with pleasure. These private lessons…The trouble he was taking with her…Had she become important to him? Was he falling in love with her?
He was watching her face. ‘Miss Partridge, as you know,’ he said, ‘is my usual model. But she won’t do for this.
I need someone who will inspire me – who will become Psyche for me.
I need to see the dream of her lover in her eyes as she contemplates her face and form in the water, as she readies her perfection for one she believes will never see it.
It is the essential tension between knowing and not knowing.
The sadness of unattainability, which is at the heart of love – the yearning that can never be fulfilled. ’
He came a step closer, looking down into her face. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, ‘I see you know it, you feel it. You are my Psyche. I must have you. You will be my inspiration.’
She stared into his eyes, hardly believing. ‘You want me to model for you?’ she managed to say.
‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Will you? Will you be part of this? I can’t do it without you. Together, we can make something that will last for ever.’
Her mouth was dry. She tried to say yes but no sound came out.
She nodded. His smile was her reward. He was so close she could feel his breath on her face.
For one dizzying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
But then he withdrew, moved away, and his voice became brisk and practical again.
‘Good. We begin next week. Go home now. Dream Psyche’s dreams until then. ’
After a meeting at the Royal Academy, Mawes Morris had stopped in Bond Street to pick up a package for Isabel, intending to cut through Stafford Street to the Underground station.
He paused at the corner to light a cigarette, and as he raised his head from his cupped hands he stiffened in surprise.
A young woman had just come out from a house halfway along and went away down the street.
For one clear moment he had seen her face with its enraptured smile.
He knew the house from which she had emerged, because he had often been there, for gentlemen’s dinners and other social engagements; and he knew that look because he had seen it before.
What had surprised him was the identity of the young woman.
‘Up to his tricks again?’ he muttered. He shook his head, thought, None of my business, and started on his way. But when he reached the house, he thought again, imagined the repercussions, and sighed. He couldn’t quite turn a blind eye.
The street door, as he had expected, was unlocked.
Rather than trouble the housekeeper, he went straight upstairs, tapped at the open front-room door and went in.
Wentworth was standing at his desk by the window looking through a sheaf of drawings.
His eyebrows rose at the sight of his visitor. ‘Morris? This is a surprise.’
‘I was just passing, and the thought came to me that I should drop in and see how my friend Wentworth is getting along. Are you busy? I was heading for my club – care to come along and have a wet?’
‘In the ordinary way I’d be delighted,’ Wentworth said, ‘but I’ve a meeting in half an hour at the school. And a dinner engagement afterwards. Some other time, perhaps?’
‘Of course, old fellow. It was just a thought. How is Augusta? And the children?’
‘All well, thank you.’
‘Looking forward to having you back for the summer, I dare say? It must be almost the end of term.’
‘Next week is the last week, thank God,’ Wentworth said. ‘We should get together before I go down. Are you going to the Alma-Tademas’ on Friday?’
‘Yes, Isabel and I have been invited. Lepida too, but it’s rather an elderly gathering for her so I shall let her off. You’re going? Even though it’s in far-flung St John’s Wood?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t miss it. Everyone will be there. I want to tease Lawrence about his latest work – Ask Me No More. Have you seen it? What did you think of it?’
‘Perfection, as always,’ Mawes said.
‘Yes, as always! I’m trying not to mind that he rather steals my thunder.’
‘He thinks you steal his.’
‘Well, thank God the public appetite for marble and roses never flags,’ Wentworth laughed.
Mawes smiled too, and said, ‘I suppose I’d better let you get on, if I can’t tempt you out to play. By the way,’ he added, as if casually, ‘I saw a young woman leaving your house as I was approaching.’
‘A pupil of mine – one of my specials. She’s just agreed to model for my new work for the Academy’s autumn exhibition, The Bath of Psyche.’
‘Modelling nude, of course?’
‘Naturally. Part of my scheme to strip away the middle-class conventions that hold her back. You know my methods. She’s coming along nicely – has definite potential.’
‘Ah. This young lady – you know who she is?’
A slight frown touched Wentworth’s sculpted features. ‘What do you mean? Of course I do. She’s a Miss Tallant. Have I missed something?’
‘I fear you may have. Tallant is the family name of the earls of Stainton. She’s the sister of the present earl, and in his charge. Favourite niece of Lady Manningtree. Her mother’s the Princess Usingen – a great stickler.’
Wentworth stared. ‘Oh, good grief! I wasn’t told.’
‘I did rather wonder, when I saw her leaving your house with that look on her face, as though you’d been making love to her,’ said Mawes, feeling for another cigarette.
He offered the case to Wentworth, who waved it away distractedly.
‘You know, it’s all very well in the normal way, old fellow, but if it should get out, I fear the fur will fly.
’ Wentworth was raking a hand through his hair, and Mawes could see he was visualising it.
‘You don’t actually need her as a model, do you? ’
‘Oh – no! I have a regular girl. But my plan!’
‘If she should talk…Girls do.’
‘I know. There was the little Fernhurst chit a couple of years ago. And Miss Sanger last year…But she wasn’t connected. You’re quite sure? You couldn’t be mistaken?’
Mawes shook his head. ‘Lady Alice Tallant, Stainton’s sister. I’ve met her at her aunt’s house.’
‘Damn these people,’ Wentworth said, in frustration. ‘Why do they send them to us? Using us as a finishing school! Wasting my time! By next year she’ll be married to some milk-faced scion of the upper crust, and spend her life opening village fêtes. Such a waste, when she has a real talent.’
‘I don’t suppose they have any idea of that,’ Mawes said, puffing serenely.
‘Or would care, if they did! Well, thanks for warning me, old fellow. Decent of you. I shall cut all ties immediately, of course.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Oh, Lord, look at the time! I must get cleared up.’
‘I’ll take myself off. Good luck with it, Wentworth. And we’ll see you on Friday, at Lawrence and Laura’s.’
After a sleepless night, Rachel had spent a restless day wondering what to do.
She had walked from room to room until even her patient aunt had said, ‘Can’t you settle down with a book to read, dear?
You’re making me nervous.’ So she had picked up a book at random and taken it into the morning-room for privacy, and stared unseeing at the pages, worrying at the problem.
Gone back to Scotland. Not just a visit.
That would be ‘Gone to Scotland,’ or ‘He’s in Scotland. ’ Gone back to Scotland was final.
Could she write to him? Explain it was all a horrible misunderstanding?
But she didn’t know where in Scotland, and how could she find out?
And he had gone without telling her, without even taking leave of Aunt Caroline, as mere politeness would dictate.
He must have been so disgusted with her he had seen no point in such gestures, given he’d never see any of them again. She brooded miserably.