Edward had a theory about beauty. He said that the turn of the nose, the cheekbones and lips, the colour of the eyes and the way that the hairs curled at the nape of the neck were all well and good, but that what made a person radiate, whether as oil on canvas or as an albumen print on paper, was intelligence. ‘I don’t mean the ability to explain the workings of the internal combustion engine, or to conduct a lesson on how the telegraph sends a message from here to there; I mean that some people have a light inside them, a facility for enquiry and interest and engagement, that cannot be fabricated and cannot be counterfeited by the artist, no matter his or her skill.’
One morning, though, Edward had arrived home with the dawn, an agitation in his step. The household had barely roused when he threw open the door, but as always the house itself registered his arrival. The stillness of the entrance hall, ever sensitive to his presence, began to reverberate as he tossed his coat onto the hook, and when Lucy, Clare and Mother appeared in their nightdresses at the top of the stairs, he held his arms out and declared, with a joyous smile spread wide across his face, that he had found her, the one that he’d been looking for.
There was much relief all round as they gathered at the breakfast table to hear his story.
The fates, he began, in their infinite wisdom, had put her in his path at Drury Lane. He had spent the evening at the theatre with Thurston Holmes, and it was there, in the crowded, smoky foyer, that he had first caught sight of her. (Lucy would later glean, during a wine-infused dispute between Edward and Thurston on another matter entirely, that it was Thurston who had noticed the fine-limbed, red-haired beauty; he who had observed the way the light caught her hair and rendered her skin alabaster; who had realised that she looked exactly like the subject of the painting that Edward had been planning. It was Thurston, too, who had pulled on Edward’s shirt sleeve, swinging him around, thereby breaking off the conversation he’d been having with a fellow to whom he owed some money, in order that his own eyes might lock upon the woman in the deep blue dress.)
Edward had been spellbound. In that instant, he said, he saw his painting complete. While Edward was experiencing this revelation, however, the woman had turned to leave. Without a thought as to what he was doing, he began pushing through the crowd, powered by a spirit quite outside himself; he knew only that he had to reach her. He threaded his way across the busy foyer after the woman, slipping through the side exit and into the street. And thank goodness he had, Edward said, glancing around the breakfast table, for when he finally caught up with her in the laneway, he was just in time to rescue her. At the precise moment that Edward was wending his way through the crowds inside the foyer, a man dressed all in black, a man of a most deplorable character, had noticed her alone in the alleyway and hurtled past, ripping an heirloom bracelet from her wrist.
Clare and Mother gasped, and Lucy said, ‘Did you see him?’
‘I was too late. Her brother had already set off after the fellow, but did not catch him. He returned just as I came upon her in the alley: he thought at first glance that I was the perpetrator, returned to finish the job, and called, “Stop! Thief!” But she explained quickly that I was no thief and his demeanour changed at once.’
The woman had turned then, Edward said, and moonlight illuminated the features of her face, and he saw that he had been right when he had glimpsed her from afar: she was indeed the one that he’d been waiting for.
‘What did you do next?’ Lucy asked, as the parlour maid brought in a fresh pot of breakfast tea.
‘I’m afraid that I have no talent for polite intimations,’ he said. ‘I simply told her that I had to paint her.’
Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘And what did she say to that?’
‘More importantly,’ said Mother, ‘what did her brother say?’
‘He was caught by complete surprise. He asked what I meant and I explained as best I could. I fear that I wasn’t as erudite as I might have been, I was still somewhat dazzled.’
‘Did you tell him that you had exhibited at the Royal Academy?’ said Mother. ‘Did you tell him that you have Mr Ruskin’s favour? That your grandfather is titled?’
Edward said that he had done all of that and more. He said that he may even have exaggerated their position a little, naming all of the ancient land and titles he had heretofore done his best to ignore; he had even offered to have his own mother, ‘Lady’ Radcliffe, come to call on their parents to reassure them that their daughter would be in good hands. ‘I felt it was important, Mother, for the brother made a point of saying that they would need to speak with their parents before any commitment was made – that a respectable woman’s reputation could be damaged by her employment as a painter’s model.’
The meeting had been agreed and the parties had said goodnight.
Edward had walked along the river afterwards, and then through the dark London streets, sketching the woman’s face in his mind. He was so enamoured with her that he had managed to misplace his wallet as he wandered, and had been forced to walk all the way back to Hampstead.
When Edward’s spirits were elevated, no one could avoid being swept into his orbit and while he related this tale, Lucy, Clare and Mother had listened avidly. As he reached the end, Mother needed to hear no more. She said that of course she would visit Mr and Mrs Millington and vouch for Edward. Her lady’s maid was set immediately to repairing the moth holes in her finest dress, and a carriage hired to take her down into London.
A metallic scream, a fog of smoke, and the train began to slow. Lucy put her face up to the open window and saw that they were drawing into a station. The sign read, ‘Swindon’, which she knew was where they were disembarking. The platform was patrolled by a punctilious-looking man with a smart uniform and a shiny whistle that he was not timid in using; a number of porters were milling, waiting for arriving passengers.
They alighted from the train, Edward and the other men going straight to the luggage compartments to see about the suitcases and art supplies, all of which (except Lucy’s – she refused to be separated from her books) were loaded into a horse-drawn coach and sent on to the village of Birchwood. Lucy had assumed that they would all go by coach, too, but Edward said that the day was too perfect to waste; besides, the house was far better approached from the river than the road.
And he was right, it was a glorious day. The sky was a lustrous blue, with a clarity that was rarely seen in London, and the air was tinged with country smells like seeding grasses and the tang of sun-warmed manure.
Edward led the way and he did not stick to the roads, taking them instead through wildflower meadows spotted with yellow kingcups, pink foxgloves and blue forget-me-nots. Delicate white sprays of cow parsley were everywhere, and at times they came upon a meandering stream and had to look for stepping stones in order to cross.
It was a long walk, but they did not rush. The four hours passed in a flow, broken up by lunch, and a paddle in the shallows near Lechlade, and a few spots of sketching. The atmosphere was one of frivolity and laughter: Felix had a cloth-wrapped bundle of strawberries which he took from his bag to share; Adele wove wreaths of flowers for all of the women – even Lucy – to wear like crowns; and Thurston disappeared at one stage, only to be found with his hat on his face, fast asleep on the soft green grass beneath a great weeping willow. As the day reached the peak of its heat, Lily Millington, whose long hair fell loose down her back, wrapped it into a shimmering knot and fastened it on the top of her head with Edward’s silk scarf. The skin revealed at the nape of her neck was smooth and white as a lily and made Lucy look away.