The proposal was wholly unexpected, the suggestion of parents and a home so very quaint, and I confess to being much taken with the idea of myself as the sort of young lady whose modesty might require such protection.
I agreed, and when upon leaving he asked me my name, aware that Martin was watching, I told him the first thing that came to mind: ‘Lily,’ I said, ‘My name is Lily Millington.’
Mrs Mack, always able to smell a profit, was inspired to immediate action. She began at once the process of turning her parlour into the picture of domestic gentility. One of the newer children, Effie Granger, who was eleven years old but big for her age, was outfitted in a maid’s black-and-white uniform, snatched by Martin from a drying line in Chelsea, and given a quick and brutal course in the basics of service. Martin and the Captain were instructed in the roles of upstanding brother and father, and Mrs Mack began a process of embodiment as she turned herself into a Doting Mother Fallen on Hard Times with a commitment that would have put the actresses down on Drury Lane to shame.
When the auspicious day arrived, the younger ones were tucked away upstairs, under strict instruction not to so much as twitch the lace curtains with their spying if they knew what was good for them, and the rest of us waited downstairs nervously for the doorbell to ring.
Edward and his mother, a woman Mrs Mack described later as being of Continental looks and manners, were shown inside, the latter unable to resist a curious glance around as she unpinned her hat. Whatever she thought of ‘Mr and Mrs Millington’ and their household, her son was her pride and joy, and in him she had invested all of her artistic aspirations; if he believed that Miss Millington was what he needed to complete his vision, then Miss Millington would be his. And if that meant drinking tea from the pot of a strange couple in Covent Garden, then she was more than willing to do it.
During the meeting I sat upon one end of the sofa – a position I was rarely granted – with Edward at the other, Mrs Mack intoning, in what I can only suppose she imagined a decorous manner, as to my goodness and virtue. ‘A proper Christian girl, my Lily. Innocent as the day.’
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said Mrs Radcliffe, with a charming smile. ‘And so she shall remain. My late husband’s father is the Earl of Beechworth and my son is a gentleman of most noble character. You have my word that he will take the utmost care of your daughter, returning her to you in the condition that she arrives.’
‘Harrumph,’ said the Captain, who had been schooled in the role of Reluctant Paterfamilias. (‘When in doubt,’ Mrs Mack had said, ‘grunt. And whatever you do, don’t remove that leg.’)
Permission was eventually won, and a price agreed, the payment of which, Mrs Mack declared, would make her feel comfortable that her daughter’s virtue would remain intact.
And then, as I finally allowed myself to meet Edward’s gaze, a date was agreed on which the initial sitting would take place.
His studio was at the back of his mother’s garden, behind her house in Hampstead, and on the first day he took my hand to help me down the slippery path. ‘Cherry blossoms,’ he said, ‘beautiful but deadly.’
I had no experience with painters, having learned all that I knew of art from Pale Joe’s books and the walls of his father’s house. And so, when Edward opened the door, I had little idea what to expect.
The room was small, with a Persian rug on the floor and an easel upon it facing a plain but elegant chair. The ceiling was made of glass, but the walls were wooden and painted white; along two of them ran a purpose-built bench with shelves beneath, filled with wide drawers. The top was covered with tiny jars containing pigments, bottles of assorted liquids and pots of brushes in every size.
Edward went first to light the furnace in the far corner. He did not want me to get cold, he said; I was to tell him if I became uncomfortable. He helped me to remove my cloak, and when his fingers brushed my neck I felt my skin heat. He indicated that I should sit upon the chair; he would be working on studies today. I noticed then that the wall at the back of the room was already covered with a haphazard array of pen and ink sketches.
Here, now, in this strange betwixt-and-between existence that I lead, I can see but no longer be seen. I did not understand before how fundamental an act it is to exchange glances: to look into the eyes of another human being. I did not understand, either, how rare it is to be afforded the opportunity to devote one’s entire attention to another person without fear of being caught.
While Edward studied me, I studied him.
I became addicted to his focus. And I learned, too, the power of being watched. If I were to move my chin, even a little, I would see the change reflected in his face. The slight narrowing of his eyes as he took in the new spill of light.
I will tell you something else I know: it is hard not to fall in love with a handsome man who pays you his complete attention.
There was no clock inside the studio. There was no time. Working together, day after day, the world beyond its walls dissolved. There was Edward and there was me, and even those boundaries came to blur within the strange envelopment of our endeavour.
Sometimes he asked me questions about myself that came from nowhere to disrupt the dense quiet of the room, and I answered as best I could whilst he listened and painted, concentration making a faint line appear between his brows. At first I was able to skirt the truth, but as the weeks wore on, I began to fear that he could see through my shadows and embellishments. More than that, I felt a new and troublesome urge to lay myself bare.
And so I steered the conversation on to safer subjects like art and science and the sorts of things that Pale Joe and I discussed, about life and time. This surprised him, for he smiled, a slight quizzical frown, and stopped what he was doing, considering me over the top of his canvas. These topics were of great interest to him, too, he said eventually, and he told me then about an essay he had written recently about the connection between places and people, the way certain landscapes were more potent than others, speaking to the present about the happenings of the past.
Edward was like no one I had met before. When he spoke, it was impossible not to listen. He was wholly committed to whatever it was that he was doing or feeling or expressing at the time. I found myself thinking of him when we weren’t together, remembering a sentiment that he’d expressed, the way he’d thrown his head back and laughed freely at an anecdote I’d told him, and yearning to make him laugh like that again. I could no longer remember what I’d used to think about before I knew him. He was the music that gets inside a person’s head and changes the rhythm of their pulse; the inexplicable urge that drives a person to act against their better judgement.
We were never disturbed, except briefly, on occasion, by the arrival of a hot teapot. Sometimes it was his mother who brought the tray, eager to glance over her shoulder and to gauge Edward’s progress. Other days it was the maid. And one morning, after I had been meeting Edward daily for a week or two, when the knock came at the door and he called out, ‘Yes,’ it was opened by a young girl of about twelve years old, holding her tray very carefully.
She had a nervousness that immediately endeared her to me. Her face was not pretty, but I glimpsed strength in the set of her chin that made me feel that she should not be underestimated; she was curious, too, her eyes darting around the room from Edward to me to the sketches on the wall. Curiosity was a trait with which I identified and which, in truth, had always seemed to me a prerequisite for life. What purpose could a person find in the long trudge ahead, if they hadn’t curiosities to light the way? I knew at once who she must be and sure enough: