Beautiful Little Fools, page 2
‘Elizabeth? Is everything all right?’ I hear my mother’s polite voice call from the hallway. ‘Charles, why don’t you go through to the conservatory? I’ll go and fetch her.’
I look down in dismay. I am absolutely covered in paint and the peach dress is ruined. Mother screams from the hallway and I realise that Astrid may have just given the game away.
‘Elizabeth!’ my mother screeches from the hall.
I sigh and carefully lift myself off the floor, avoiding the broken glass and ignoring the dull ache in my lower back. I walk slowly to the head of the stairs, preparing for the worst, but the sight that greets me causes me to produce an involuntary splutter of laughter. I smack my hand over my mouth as my mother stares on in horror. Astrid is still looking around excitably, her tail wagging as she sniffs at the feet of our guest. Charles Bonham is standing with a slightly dazed look on his face, his navy suit jacket now covered in canary yellow paw prints, and every time Astrid wags her tail, she flicks more paint up his trouser leg.
I can’t tell if Mother is more upset about the state of the hallway and poor Charles’s suit or the fact that I allowed him to see me looking such a mess. I have since washed most of the paint off, brushed as much of it out of my matted hair as I could, and changed into another dress, but it is all too little, too late in my mother’s eyes.
‘We will, of course, pay the dry-cleaning bill,’ she insists to Charles again, and I feel another twinge of guilt at the thought of the extra expense. It has started raining outside and it is making the air in the conservatory thick and muggy, as if we weren’t all uncomfortable enough already, and Charles pats at his glistening brow with a monogrammed handkerchief.
‘It’s really quite all right,’ he chuckles merrily. ‘These things happen.’
I must admit, I am pleasantly surprised by how well he has taken everything. In truth, I know very little about Charles Bonham, only that he is the heir to some sort of plastics company and he knows my father. He is what is referred to as ‘new money’, but Father says he couldn’t care less about how old his money is, just so long as he has some. Despite being ‘new money’, Charles has impressed a lot of the right people, and I have seen his name in the papers plenty of times, referred to as some sort of rising star in industry, but other than that he is a complete mystery to me. He is far more handsome than he looks in the newspaper but he is older than I had expected, at least ten years my senior I would guess. His caramel hair is swept back off his forehead with wax and his deep-set eyes are the same shade of blue as the cornflowers that are currently blooming in our garden.
‘How’s business, Charles?’ Father asks, joining us in the conservatory with Aunt Clarice, who barely conceals her snigger at my rather bedraggled appearance as she hobbles towards a chair.
‘Not bad, not bad,’ Charles muses. ‘I do wish we could squash out these damn socialists once and for all … Just when you think you’ve got rid of the last one, another rears its ugly head. But they don’t really provide much of a threat. They’re not skilled workers, you see.’
Father nods sagely, but I don’t understand what they are talking about. ‘What do the socialists want?’ I ask. Charles looks slightly taken aback and my parents’ eyes bore into me while Aunt Clarice just disappears behind her teacup in another fit of giggles. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I was just curious.’
Charles laughs again, only this time it feels rather condescending. ‘Strange little thing, aren’t you? Socialists are just looking to cause trouble, never happy with their lot basically. Always asking for more but they aren’t willing to work for it.’
‘More what?’ I probe and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, a crease forming on his smooth brow.
‘Higher wages, shorter hours, more time off …’
‘Oh,’ I say contemplatively. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’
My father chokes on his tea, his eyes popping in their sockets as he reaches for a napkin, and my mother shoots me a warning glance.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ Charles chuckles again. ‘You’re quite right, Elizabeth. It isn’t wrong to want more, but you have to earn it. That is how society works. You can’t just have everything handed to you on a silver platter. If you work hard, you get to reap the rewards, and these folks just aren’t willing to put in the hard work. Does that make sense?’ he asks, smiling in what I am sure he thinks is a kindly manner.
‘But didn’t I read in the paper that you inherited your business from your father?’ I ask, genuinely curious if he is aware of the hypocrisy in what he is saying, or if he has never considered it before.
A look of fury flashes over his face for the briefest second, transforming his pleasant features into something quite grotesque, and I recoil in shock. He quickly composes himself and plasters a pleasant smile on his face, then rather than answering my question, he turns to my father and laughs. ‘Looks like you have quite the little communist on your hands!’
‘I assure you she is nothing of the sort. She doesn’t have a clue what she is talking about, do you, Elizabeth?’ I open my mouth to respond, but Father continues to speak over me. ‘Charles, why don’t we retire to my study and leave the ladies to finish their tea?’
Without another word, he sweeps Charles out of the conservatory, leaving me alone with Mother and Aunt Clarice. I let out a long sigh and fan myself with a napkin. It feels like there is no air left in the hot room.
‘Well, I think that went quite well,’ my aunt says pleasantly and I shoot her a dark look. ‘Oh, lighten up! You didn’t like him anyway. Now, shall we discuss this art school?’
‘Elizabeth, go to your bedroom and start cleaning up the mess you made earlier,’ Mother says sternly, ignoring Aunt Clarice. ‘And if that floor needs re-waxing, you’ll be doing it yourself!’ she calls after me.
I kneel on the floor to pick up the tiny shards of glass and toss them into the bin. The prospectus for the St. Agnes School of Art is still lying on the bed and I pick it up again. The ocean calls to me from the front cover. I wish I could see it in person, feel the sand between my toes, climb to the clifftop while the bracing salt air whips around me … I close my eyes and I can almost imagine myself there, almost but not quite. I have never been to the seaside, only ever seen it in pictures like the one before me, and it is a lifelong dream of mine to lay my eyes upon the boundless water just once. I sigh and sweep the last few shards of glass into the bin, then flop down on the bed to flick through the prospectus once more.
I am still poring over the details when the door opens to reveal my mother standing in the hallway. ‘I thought I told you to clean this mess up,’ she says sternly as I shoot off the bed and begin dabbing at the paint, but she simply sighs. ‘Just leave it. Your father wants to speak to you in his study.’
I rise to my feet, my stomach tying in knots as I make my way back downstairs. I stop outside the door and steel myself. ‘No matter what happens … I am all right, I ought to be all right, and I will be all right,’ I chant quietly to myself. It is a mantra I have relied on for as long as I can remember to soothe my nerves when everything feels too big to fit inside my head. I repeat the words again, feeling instantly calmer, then knock on the door.
My father’s voice calls for me to enter from the other side, so I push open the door and sidle in. I don’t often get to go in his study, and my eyes roam over the mahogany shelves that line the walls, filled with uniform leather-bound books. The air is musty with the faded smell of smoke, and two empty tumblers stand on a trestle table next to an ashtray where the remains of two cigars still smoulder. Father is sitting behind his desk, rifling through various papers with a very serious look on his face. He doesn’t look up as I approach so I linger awkwardly a few feet away.
‘Has Charles left already?’ I ask, hoping to keep the mood light. His eyes finally meet mine, grey on green, and he gives me a long, surveying look.
‘Yes, Charles has gone,’ he says finally, giving the papers one final tap on the desk before filing them away. ‘He is quite taken with you, despite your little attempts to sabotage the afternoon.’
‘Father, I wasn’t trying to sabotage—’ I start, but he holds up a hand and I fall silent.
‘Charles is a decent gentleman. He doesn’t want to rush you into anything. He was very understanding that it is probably worth waiting until the new year before you marry. In that time, he has recommended an excellent finishing school for you to attend.’ He looks at the calendar on his desk and flicks through the pages. ‘That gives you eight months to clean up your act.’
‘Before I marry?’ I sputter over the rushing sound in my ears. I start to feel light-headed as panic floods through me. ‘You can’t possibly mean he has proposed an engagement?’
‘He has, and I have accepted on your behalf. Charles will make a very fine husband, and you will make an excellent wife to him after a little training, I’m sure.’
‘I’m nineteen years old. Isn’t it a little late for finishing school? And I don’t want to marry Charles Bonham either. I want—’
‘I know what you want, Elizabeth. You want to be an artist, you want to be the next big thing, you want to go forth and live your bohemian dream. However, you are not some artistic genius, and your dreams are not realistic. You are not supposed to be a painter, you are supposed to be a wife.’
He leans across the desk, focusing his attention on me properly to make sure I have understood, but all I feel is dumbfounded as I stand limply in the middle of the room. My father has always been a little on the austere side, but I can’t believe that he would promise me to someone without consulting me first. I am still struggling for words when the door to the study bursts open and Aunt Clarice comes bowling in, followed by my mother.
‘I’m sorry, Arthur, I tried to stop her …’ Mother starts, but Aunt Clarice is louder.
‘What is this nonsense?’ she booms, pointing her cane at Father. ‘You can’t really mean to marry Elizabeth off to that awful man?’
‘That is none of your business, Clarice. There are certain things of which I remain sole proprietor, and that includes my children,’ he responds curtly, his brow furrowing. ‘I get to decide what is best for them, and no amount of money from you will change that.’
‘This isn’t what’s best for me!’ I try to insist, but he simply looks at me in amusement.
‘Is that so?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘Do you have some other plan to support yourself? What reasonable parent would let their daughter run off with a bunch of radical socialist artists?’
My mouth opens and closes a few times as I search for the right words to change his mind, but I can barely breathe. It feels like my world is shrinking by the second and the weight of it all is crushing my lungs.
Aunt Clarice takes a step forward and places a hand on my shoulder and I feel myself relax a little under her touch. ‘If she could support herself, would you let her? Is this about reputation or money?’
‘Both!’ he snarls. ‘I can’t afford to support her forever and I won’t let her become a spinster either, not when there is someone perfectly willing to take her.’
‘How about a compromise?’ Aunt Clarice says gently, though I feel her grip tighten on my shoulder. ‘Instead of sending her to finishing school, let her go to the art school instead. Give her a chance to experience life a little before she marries Charles.’
‘That is absolutely out of the question.’ Father sniffs, and Aunt Clarice looks down at her wrinkled hands, folded over her cane.
‘Elizabeth, dear, would you mind leaving us for a moment?’ she says calmly. If anyone else had asked, I may have kicked up a fuss, but I catch her eye and she gives me a quick wink, so I nod and excuse myself from the study.
I close the door softly, and as soon as the latch clicks, I hear the murmuring of voices. I am desperate to know what they are discussing, and although every bone in my body tells me it is rude to eavesdrop, every Agatha Christie novel I have read tells me otherwise. I press my ear against the cold, hard wood of the door and listen intently. It is Aunt Clarice’s voice I hear first.
‘If you expect me to provide a dowry for her, the least you could do is grant me this one wish,’ she says sternly. ‘Why are you so against the idea, Arthur?’
‘It isn’t proper for a young lady,’ he insists again. ‘And I won’t allow you to bribe me with the promise of a dowry, Clarice.’
‘I am not trying to bribe you!’ she sighs. ‘I just want you to do what is right for Elizabeth.’
‘What you think is right,’ Father interjects.
‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘I understand she is not my child, that she is yours and the decision ultimately lies with you, but please believe me when I say I only want what is best for her. One summer at art school is not likely to turn her into the next Artemisia, but it will give her some well-deserved freedom and a bit of life experience.’
I can’t hear Father’s response and I barely breathe as I press my ear harder against the door. I hear Aunt Clarice let out an exasperated sigh.
‘Come on, Arthur. Let her go and I will pay her dowry, I will pay the art school fees, and I will even pay for the wedding. What have you got to lose?’
The door swings open suddenly and I almost topple into the study as Father casts me a disparaging look. ‘I presume you heard all of that?’ he sighs.
‘Only bits of it,’ I reply bashfully as Aunt Clarice rolls her eyes in dismay.
‘So, is this really what you want?’ Father asks. ‘To go to this art school for the summer?’
‘Yes, more than anything.’ I breathe. My heart is fluttering so quickly it feels like it might take flight.
He glances between my mother and aunt, then back to me, his mind trying to weigh up the best course of action as quickly as possible. ‘And you promise you won’t give me any more grief about marriage if I let you go?’
‘I promise.’
‘Very well,’ he says firmly, returning his gaze to the paperwork on his desk. ‘You have until the end of summer, then you will come home and marry Charles in the new year.’
Chapter 2
Two weeks have flown by since Charles’s visit, and after much last-minute organising, I am on the nine o’clock train from Paddington to Penzance. My parents decided it was best to let Charles go on believing that I am still going to finishing school, but if I get my way, it won’t matter if Charles finds out or not. I finally have a shot at my dream, and I have no intention of marrying him. I feel full of anticipation as I sit alone in the carriage. I can’t quite believe I am finally on my way and out from under my parents’ rule for the first time in my life. I feel my future stretching out in front of me and it is almost dizzying. I don’t know if I am more excited about my studies or about all the new experiences that await me. I pull my feet up onto the seat and wrap my arms tightly around my legs. I rest my chin on my knees, and have a stupidly large grin on my face as I stare out of the rain-streaked window. The landscape transforms from the tightly packed grid of the city with its overbearingly tall buildings, to sprawling towns and finally lush green fields as I hurtle away from everything I have ever known. It should be a daunting feeling, but my overwhelming emotion is one of relief.
The train slows as it pulls into another station and I glance down at my watch. Despite how quickly we have been storming through the countryside, the minute hand seems to have barely moved. I sigh and settle myself in for the long journey as a middle-aged gentleman enters my carriage, sits down opposite me and opens his newspaper. I return to staring out of the window, my eyes flitting back and forth in my head like a woman possessed as I try to keep up with the blurring countryside as the train takes off again. I refuse to look away, waiting eagerly for the moment when I will finally see the sea for the first time. I have already eaten the jam sandwiches I packed for the journey and my stomach growls expectantly for more food.
After several hours, my eyes start to droop, the rocking motion of the train almost lulling me to sleep, then suddenly the vast expanse of the ocean bursts out of nowhere. The train rattles right alongside the water’s edge, shaking violently to and fro as the sea wind whips inland. I press my face to the window in awe of the iron-grey expanse which stretches all the way to the horizon. My breath steams up the glass, distorting my view, and I have to keep wiping it with my sleeve for a better look. I have never seen anything quite like it. Water stretches as far as the eye can see and my fingers twitch, eager to paint, but I know it is no good trying to capture the view at this speed.
A few hours later, the train slows once again as it pulls into Penzance and I disembark, stretching my stiff legs with relish. We left the rain back in Somerset, and the Cornish sun beams down on the platform, casting blinding rays off the gleaming train as I relocate my suitcase. I have rented a room from a widow in St. Agnes as she seemed to pass all of my parents’ suitability checks (that is, she only rents her rooms to girls and doesn’t allow parties or overnight guests). The bus drops me off in the village square and I take a moment to get my bearings before trundling down the lane, following the directions which I have scribbled up my arm. I glance down the steep lane at a slanting row of cottages that descend like a giant’s staircase into a wooded valley, and I plod down the hill until I reach the right one. It looks slightly rundown from the outside, but the small garden is neat and well-kept. I prise open the gate and brush my fingers against the bobbing heads of golden daffodils on my way to the front door, then knock twice and hold my breath in anticipation.
