‘My littlest sister,’ said Edward, with a smile, ‘Lucy. And Lucy, this is Lily Millington, “La Belle”.’
I had known Edward for six months when the La Belle painting debuted at a Royal Academy exhibition in November 1861. I had been told to arrive at seven and Mrs Mack was eager to ensure that I had a dress befitting the occasion. For a woman of such blowsy self-confidence, she was almost endearingly impressed by celebrity, even more so if it brought with it the prospect of ongoing income. ‘This is it,’ she said, fastening the pearl buttons that ran all the way up my back to the nape of my neck. ‘Play your cards, right, my girl, and this could be the start of something magnificent.’ She nodded then towards the collection of cartes de visite on her mantel, members of the royal family and other well-known and distinguished persons. ‘You could be on your way to being one of them.’
Martin, predictably, did not share her enthusiasm. He had resented the time that I’d spent as Edward’s model, seeming to take my absence during the days as a personal slight. I heard him some nights in Mrs Mack’s parlour, complaining about the diminished returns, and when those arguments failed to sway her – the payment for my modelling services was more than equal to the earnings from my thievery – he insisted that it was a ‘risk’ to let me get ‘too close to the quarry’. But it was Mrs Mack who ruled the roost in the rooms above the bird shop. I had been invited to an exhibition at the Royal Academy, one of the brightest, most important events on the London social scene, and so, tailed by Martin, I was dispatched.
I arrived to find a mass of people, men in shiny black top hats and long evening jackets, and women in exquisite silk dresses, filling the great room. Their eyes brushed over me as I made my way through the thick, warm sea. The air was very close and it thrummed with rapid conversation broken occasionally by barks of laughter.
I was beginning to give up hope that I would find Edward when suddenly his face came into focus before me. ‘You’re here,’ he said. ‘I waited at the other entrance, but I missed you.’
As he took my hand I felt a hot rush of electric energy surge through me. It was novel to see him like this, in public, having spent the past six months cloistered away in his studio. We had spoken about so many things, and I knew by now so much about him, yet here, surrounded by all these other laughing people, he was out of context. The new setting, familiar to him but foreign to me, rendered him a different person from the one I knew.
He led me through the crowd to where the painting was hanging. I had glimpsed it in the studio, but nothing could have prepared me for the way it would look upon the wall, magnified by virtue of its display. His eyes searched mine. ‘What do you think?’
I was at an unusual loss for words. The painting was extraordinary. The colours were lush and my skin looked luminous, as if it would be warm to the touch. He had painted me at the centre of the canvas, my hair flowing in ripples, my eyes direct and my expression as if I had just given a confidence that would not be repeated. And yet, there was something more underlying the image. Edward had captured in this beautiful face – far more beautiful than my own real face – a vulnerability that rendered the whole exquisite.
But my speechlessness was about more than the image itself. La Belle is a time capsule. Beneath the brushstrokes and the pigments lies every word, every glance, that Edward and I exchanged; she bears a record of every time he laughed, that he came to touch my face, shifting it ever so carefully towards the light. Each thought that he had is recorded, each instance that our minds met in that isolated studio in the corner of the garden. Within La Belle’s face there lie one thousand secrets, which together tell a story, known only to Edward and me. To see her hanging on the wall in that room of noisy strangers was overwhelming.
Edward was still waiting for my answer and I said, ‘She’s …’
He squeezed my hand. ‘Isn’t she?’
Edward excused himself then, for he had spotted Mr Ruskin, and told me that he would be back immediately.
I continued to look at the painting and was aware that a tall handsome man had come to stand close by. ‘What do you think?’ he said, and at first I thought that he was speaking to me. I was struggling to find words when another woman answered. She was on his other side, pretty and petite with honey brown hair and a small mouth.
‘The painting is wonderful, as always,’ she said. ‘I do wonder, though, why he insists on choosing his models from the gutter.’
The man laughed. ‘You know Edward. He has always been of a perverse nature.’
‘She cheapens it. Look at the way she stares directly at us; no shame, no class … And those lips! I said as much to Mr Ruskin.’
‘And what did he reply?’
‘He was inclined to agree, although he did say that he assumed Edward had intended to make that very point. Something about contrast, the innocence of the setting, the boldness of the woman.’
Every cell in my body retracted. I wished nothing more than that I might disappear. It had been a grave mistake to have come; I saw that now. Martin had been right. I had become caught up in the energy that surrounded Edward. I had allowed my guard to drop. I had thought us partners in a great endeavour. I had been unthinkably stupid.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment and I longed to escape. I glanced behind me to see how easily I could get to the door. The room was overflowing with guests, one pressed up hard against the next, and the air was cloying, thick with cigar smoke and cologne.
‘Lily.’ Edward was back, his face warm with excitement. But then: ‘What is it?’ as his gaze raked mine, ‘what’s happened?’
‘There you are, Edward!’ said the tall handsome man. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to – we were just admiring La Belle.’
Edward shot me a final glance of encouragement, before meeting the grin of his friend, who was now slapping him on the shoulder. He placed his hand gently in the small of my back and ushered me forward. ‘Lily Millington,’ he said, ‘this is Thurston Holmes, one of the Magenta Brotherhood and my good friend.’
Thurston took my hand and brushed it with his lips. ‘So, this is the famous Miss Millington about whom we’ve heard so much.’ His eyes met mine and I read within them unmistakable interest. One did not grow up in the shady laneways of Covent Garden and the dank streets around the Thames without learning to recognise that look. ‘It is a pleasure finally to make your acquaintance. About time he shared you with us.’
The honey-haired woman beside him held out her cold little hand then and said, ‘I see that I shall have to introduce myself. My name is Miss Frances Brown. Soon to be Mrs Edward Radcliffe.’
As soon as I noticed Edward in deep conversation with another guest, I gave a vague excuse to no one in particular and extricated myself, making my way through the crowd until I reached the door.
It was a relief to escape the room, and yet as I slipped quickly into the dark folds of the cool night, I could not help but feel that I had stepped through more than one doorway. I had left behind an alluring world of creativity and light, and was now returned to the dim, bleak alleyways of my past.
I was in just such an alley, thinking just such a thought, when I felt a grip on my wrist. I turned, expecting to see Martin, who had been lurking all night in the middle of Trafalgar Square, but it was Edward’s friend from the exhibition, Thurston Holmes. I could hear the clatter of noise on the Strand, but aside from a vagrant slumped in a gutter we were alone.
‘Miss Millington,’ he said. ‘You left so suddenly. I was concerned that you were unwell.’
‘I’m fine, thank you. The room was so hot – I needed air.’
‘It can be overwhelming, I expect, when one is unused to the attention. But I fear it is not safe for a young lady by herself out here. There are dangers in the night.’