He let go of me at last and I made myself smile. But as I turned to leave, he reached out to grab my wrist, pulling me back fast towards him. ‘You look pretty in that dress. You’re a beautiful woman now. All grown up.’
There was menace in his tone and I could imagine that a young woman accosted in such a way on the street would feel terror shoot up her spine as she met the scrutiny of his gaze, his curled lip, his thinly veiled intentions; and well might she be advised to react thus. But I had known Martin for a long time. He would never harm me while his mother was alive. I was far too valuable to her enterprise. And so, ‘I’m tired, Martin,’ I said. ‘It’s very late. I have much work to catch up on tomorrow and I need to go to bed now. Ma wouldn’t want either of us too tired for a proper day’s work tomorrow.’
At the mention of Mrs Mack, his grip loosened and I took the opportunity to pull myself free and hurry upstairs. I left the tallow candle unlit as I stripped immediately from my velvet dress, and when I draped it from the hook on the back of the door, I made sure to flare out the skirt to cover the keyhole.
I lay awake that night, turning over the things that Pale Joe had said to me, reliving every minute of time that I had spent with Edward in his studio.
‘Does he love you, too?’ Pale Joe had asked.
‘I think not,’ I had replied. ‘For he is engaged to be married.’
Pale Joe had smiled patiently at that. ‘You have known him for some months now. You have spoken to him many times. He has told you about his life, his loves, his passions and pursuits. And yet tonight you learned for the first time that he is engaged to be married.’
‘Yes.’
‘Birdie, if I were engaged to be married to the woman whom I love, then I would talk about her to the man who puts down grit during snowstorms. I would sing her name at every opportunity to every willing set of ears this side of Moscow. I cannot tell you with any certainty what he feels for you, but I can tell you that he does not love the woman that you met tonight.’
It was just after dawn when I heard the knock on the door downstairs. The streets of Covent Garden were already busy with carts and barrows and women with baskets of fruits on their heads trudging towards the market, and I assumed it was the local watchman. He and Mrs Mack had an understanding, such that when he was performing his daily patrol of the streets, rattling out the half-hour marks so that people could tell the time, he would stop to bang the knocker of our door to signal wake-up time.
The noise was softer than usual, though, and when it sounded for a second time, I rose from my bed and pulled the curtain aside to peer down through the window.
It was not the watchman in his slouch hat and greatcoat at the door. It was Edward, still dressed in his coat and scarf from the night before. My heart leapt, and after a split second of indecision I opened the window and called down to him in a half-whisper: ‘What are you doing?’
He stepped backwards, looking up to see where my voice was coming from, and was almost hit by a flower cart being pushed down the street. ‘Lily,’ he said, his face brightening when he saw me, ‘Lily, come down.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Come down, I must speak with you.’
‘But the sun has barely risen.’
‘I realise, but I cannot make it rise any faster. I have been standing here all night. I have drunk more coffee from that stall on the corner than a man should ever drink, but I cannot wait any longer.’ He placed one hand across his heart and said, ‘Come down, Lily, or else I will be forced to climb up to you.’
I nodded quickly and started dressing, my fingers overzealous with anticipation so that I fumbled each button and put a tear in my stockings. There was no time to neaten or pin my hair; I hurried down the stairs, eager to reach him before anyone else did.
I undid the latch and pulled open the door and in that moment, as we faced each other from either side of a threshold, I knew that what Pale Joe had said was true. There was so much that I wanted him to know. I wanted to tell him about my father and Mrs Mack and Little Girl Lost and Pale Joe. I wanted to tell him that I loved him and that everything up until that point had been but a pencil sketch, preliminary and pale, in anticipation of our meeting. I wanted to tell him my true name.
But there were too many words to find, and I did not know where to start, and then Mrs Mack was beside me, her housecoat tied crookedly around her generous middle, the creases of sleep still pressed into her cheek. ‘What’s all this about. What on earth are you doing here at this hour?’
‘Good morning, Mrs Millington,’ said Edward. ‘I apologise for interrupting your day.’
‘It’s not even light yet.’
‘I realise, Mrs Millington, but it is urgent. I must impress upon you my deepest admiration for your daughter. The painting of La Belle sold last night and I wish to speak to you about painting Miss Millington again.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t spare her,’ said Mrs Mack, with a sniff. ‘I rely on my daughter here. Without her I have to pay my maid to do extra and although I’m an honourable lady, Mr Radcliffe, I am not wealthy.’
‘I will make sure to compensate you, Mrs Millington. My next painting is likely to take longer. I propose to pay your daughter double what I did last time.’
‘Double?’
‘If that sounds acceptable to you.’
Mrs Mack was not the type to turn down an offer of coin, but there was no one with a better nose for value. ‘I don’t think double will do. No, I don’t think that will do at all. Perhaps if you were to suggest three times the price … ?’
Martin, I noticed then, had come downstairs and was watching proceedings from the darkened doorway that led into the shop.
‘Mrs Millington,’ said Edward, his eyes now firmly on mine, ‘your daughter is my muse, my destiny. I will pay you whatever you think fair.’
‘Well then. At four times the price I’d say we have ourselves a deal.’
‘Agreed.’ He risked a smile at me then. ‘Do you need to collect anything from here?’
‘Nothing.’
I said goodbye to Mrs Mack and then he took my hand and started leading me north through the streets of the Seven Dials. We did not speak at once, but something between us had changed. Rather, something that had been there all along had finally been acknowledged.
As we left Covent Garden, and Edward turned to look at me over his shoulder, I knew that there would be no going back from here.
Jack has returned and it is just as well; the bones of the past are seductive and I am at risk of picking over them all night long.
Oh, I remember love.
It has been a long time since Jack set out with his camera and his melancholy mood. Dusk has fallen and the purple noises of night are upon us.
Inside the malt house, he connects his camera to the computer and the photographs import at a rapid speed. I can see them all. He has been busy: the churchyard again, the woods, the meadow, the crossroads in the village, others that are all texture and colour, their subjects not immediately identifiable. None of the river, I note.
The shower is on now; his clothes are in a pile on the floor; the bathroom is filling with steam. I imagine he is starting to wonder about dinner.
Jack does not go straight to the kitchen, though. After his shower, with the towel still low around his hips, he picks up his phone and rocks it back and forth, considering. I watch him from the end of the bed, wondering whether he is going to disappoint Rosalind Wheeler with his report about the hiding place and the still-missing diamond.
With an exhalation that lowers his shoulders a full inch, he starts to dial and then waits with the phone at his ear. He is tapping his lips lightly with his fingertips, a thoughtful nervous habit.
‘Sarah, it’s me.’
Oh, good! Much better than a progress report.