‘I’ve never come across the connection before,’ Elodie admitted. ‘That’s one of the strange things about it all.’ She took a sip of her flat white as she decided whether to continue. She was torn between two opposing urges: a desire to tell Pippa everything and draw on her best friend’s knowledge of art history; and an odd sensation that had come over her when she’d handed the photograph to Pippa, an almost jealous drive to keep the photo, the sketch, all for herself. It was an inexplicable and not particularly worthy impulse and so she made herself continue: ‘The photo wasn’t the only item inside the satchel. There was a sketchbook.’
‘What sort of sketchbook?’
‘Leather cover, about so big –’ she demonstrated with her hands – ‘page after page of pen and ink sketches, handwritten notes. I think it belonged to Edward Radcliffe.’
Pippa, who was never surprised by anything, drew breath. She caught herself quickly. ‘Was there anything in it you could use to date the work?’
‘I haven’t been all the way through, not carefully, but Stratton’s document holder was made in 1861. I’ve no way of knowing if they’re related, of course,’ she reminded Pippa, ‘beyond somehow having wound up in the same satchel over the course of a hundred and fifty years.’
‘What were the drawings like? What were they of?’
‘Figures, profiles, landscapes, a house. Why?’
‘There were rumours of an abandoned work. After Radcliffe’s fiancée’s death, he continued to paint, but not with the same spirit as before, and very different subjects, and then he drowned abroad. It was all very tragic. The idea of this “abandoned work”, something he was working on before her death, has taken on a sort of mythology in art history circles: people keep hoping and guessing and positing theories. Every so often an academic takes it seriously enough to write a paper, even though to this point there hasn’t been a lot of evidence to support the idea. It’s one of those whispers that’s so tantalising it refuses to die.’
‘You think the sketchbook might have something to do with it?’
‘Hard to say for sure without seeing it. I don’t suppose you’ve any more tea-towel surprises in that bag of yours?’
Elodie’s cheeks warmed. ‘I could never take the sketchbook out of the archive.’
‘Well, why don’t I drop in next week and have a look?’
Something tightened unpleasantly in Elodie’s stomach. ‘You’d better call first: Mr Pendleton’s on the warpath.’
Pippa flapped her hand, unperturbed. ‘Course.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘In the meantime I’ll get started on your dress. I can already picture it: romantic, gorgeous. Very now –in an 1860s sort of way.’
‘I’ve never been particularly fashionable.’
‘Hey, nostalgia’s very much in vogue, you know.’
Pippa was being affectionate, but today it rankled. Elodie was a nostalgic person, but she hated the charge. The word was terribly maligned. People used it as a stand-in for sentimentality, when it wasn’t that at all. Sentimentality was mawkish and cloying, where nostalgia was acute and aching. It described yearning of the most profound kind: an awareness that time’s passage could not be stopped and there was no going back to reclaim a moment or a person or to do things differently.
Of course, Pippa had only meant to make a light, humorous comment and had no idea as she gathered up her scrapbook that Elodie was thinking along such lines. Why was she so sensitive today? Ever since she’d looked inside the satchel, she’d been unsettled. She felt constantly distracted, as if there were something she was supposed to be doing that had slipped her mind. Last night she’d even had the dream again: she’d been at the house in the sketch, when suddenly it turned into a church and she realised that she was late for a wedding – her own – and she started to run, but her legs wouldn’t work properly – they kept collapsing as if they were made of string – and when she finally arrived, she found that it was no longer a wedding at all, she was too late, it was now a concert and her mother – still only thirty years old – was on stage playing her cello.
‘How are the rest of the wedding plans coming along?’
‘Fine. They’re fine.’ It had come out crisply, and Pippa noticed. The last thing Elodie wanted was to get mired in a deep-and-meaningful that might expose her malaise, so she added, airily, ‘Of course, if it’s details you’re after, you’d best speak with Penelope. I’m told it’s going to be beautiful.’
‘Just make sure she remembers to tell you where and when to show up.’
They smiled at one another, allies again, and then Pippa continued with blistering politeness: ‘And how is the fiancé?’
Pippa and Alastair had got off on the wrong foot, which wasn’t entirely surprising as Pippa had strong opinions and a sharp tongue and didn’t suffer fools gladly. Not that Alastair was a fool – Elodie winced at her own mental slip of the tongue – only that he and Pippa weren’t at all alike. Regretting her earlier sharpness, Elodie decided to wear some disloyalty to let her friend score a point. ‘He seems reassured that Mother is calling the shots.’
Pippa grinned. ‘And your dad?’
‘Oh, you know Dad. He’s happy if I’m happy.’
‘And are you?’
Elodie gave a firm look.
‘Okay, okay. You’re happy.’
‘He’s given me the recordings.’
‘He was okay with it, then?’
‘Seemed to be. He didn’t say much. I think he agrees with Penelope that it will be like having her there.’
‘Is that how you feel?’
Elodie didn’t want to be having this discussion. ‘We have to have some sort of music,’ she replied defensively. ‘It makes sense to keep it in the family.’
Pippa looked as if she were about to say something further, but Elodie got in first. ‘Did I ever tell you that my parents had a shotgun wedding? They were married in July and I was born in November.’
‘A little stowaway.’
‘You know how I feel about parties. Always looking for somewhere to hide.’
Pippa smiled. ‘You do realise you’re going to have to attend this one? That your guests will be expecting to see you.’
‘Speaking of my guests, do you think you could be a dear and send back your RSVP?’
‘What? In the post? With a stamp?’
‘Apparently it’s important. It’s a thing.’
‘Well, if it’s a thing …’
‘It is, and I’ve been reliably informed that my friends and family are bucking the system. Tip’s next on my list.’
‘Tip! How is he?’
‘I’m off to see him tomorrow. Don’t suppose you want to come?’
Pippa wrinkled her nose in disappointment. ‘I have a gallery event. Speaking of which …’ She signalled the waitress to bring the bill and pulled a ten-pound note from her wallet. While she was waiting, she indicated the framed photograph, lying beside Elodie’s empty coffee cup. ‘I’m going to need a copy so I can start thinking about your dress.’
Elodie was seized again by the odd, possessive urge. ‘I can’t lend it to you.’
‘’Course not. I’ll take a pic now with my phone.’ She lifted the frame, angling the picture to make sure her shadow didn’t fall across it.
Elodie sat on her hands, willing her friend to finish quickly, and then she rewrapped the photo in its cotton shroud.
‘You know what,’ said Pippa, inspecting the shot on her phone screen. ‘I’m going to run this by Caroline. She wrote her master’s on Julia Margaret Cameron and Adele Bernard. I bet she’ll be able to tell us something about the model, perhaps even who it was that took the photo.’
Caroline was Pippa’s mentor from art school, a filmmaker and photographer, renowned for her ability to find moments of beauty where they were least expected. Her images were wild and alluring, with lots of lean trees and houses and wistful landscapes. She was sixty or so, with the lithe movements and energy of a much younger woman; she had no children of her own and seemed to look upon Pippa as a daughter of sorts. Elodie had met her a couple of times socially. She had striking silver hair, cut straight and thick across her shoulder blades, and was the sort of woman whose self-possession and authenticity made Elodie feel like a bad fit for her own skin.
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just …’ There was no way of explaining that the photo had been hers alone and now it wasn’t, without sounding petty and, frankly, a bit unhinged. ‘I just meant … there’s no need to bother Caroline. She’s so busy—’