The Crimson Bed (10 page)

    Ellie hesitated briefly. A subterfuge if ever there was one! However, she relented and said, 'You may indeed, sir. I shall be very pleased to see you and your mother.'

    At this point, Rosie poked her head around the door, and asked, 'Could you spare your maid for a moment or so, Miss Farnham? I need 'elp with somethin'. A personal matter – what needs a woman's assistance.'

    Fred felt her cockney accent still grated, despite Rosie's efforts to 'talk nice' but Eleanor gave a cheerful smile and said, 'But, of course! Off you go, Mulhall, go and help Miss Gamm in whatever way she requires.'

    Obedient and meek, Lottie Mulhall trotted out after Rosie. She had nothing of Miss Perrin's suspicious mind and considered it was none of her business. Everyone seemed very polite and proper and she had no reason to think anything untoward would happen while she was out of the room for a moment or two. If she felt any resentment at being asked to help a woman like Rosie Gamm, a personage considerably inferior in manners and propriety to herself, she did not show it.

    After a few more minutes that went by in tense silence, Henry suddenly said he had to be briefly excused and the two young people were finally alone.

    Fred knew he had to seize his moment, for there might never be another.

He crossed the room swiftly to Eleanor's side. She dropped her languid pose and sat up, looking at him with a mixture of alarm and excitement. Backing away from him, she put out a defensive hand.

    Fred sank on his knee beside her and seizing that hand, kissed it feverishly, again and again.

    'What
are
you doing?' she said in an agitated whisper, snatching her hand away and half rising from her seat. 'Please don't! Please stop! If someone should come in...'

    'Let them come in, I don't care.'

    Normally a cautious man, he had flung caution to the proverbial winds.

    'Well, I do,' was the firm reply. 'I have not come here to be insulted, sir. Please stand up.'

    He rose and they both stood, staring at one another with a certain tense, animal fierceness. Eleanor had not screamed or called for help and Fred had a sense that she was rather enjoying herself. He wanted to pick her up and carry her off somewhere, anywhere, never let her out of his sight. Oh God, how he wanted to do that!

    He swallowed hard. There was so much to say and no time for playing games. Convention required weeks, months, and years of wooing. He had always believed in convention, thought it the bulwark of civilisation. Now the primitive man in him declared it all so much rubbish.
Put your lady over your shoulder and carry
her off,
that voice whispered.

    He would not dare do so; the primitive man was put to one side.

    'You are so very beautiful,' was all he could say as he stared at her. He had never been this close to her and now he saw how unusual her eyes were. They were light green, with the left eye shading into hazel in the centre. Just now, they were bright and angry with him, the pale lips half-parted.

    She flushed a little at the frank expression of desire on his face and turned her head away. Sitting down again, she primly gathered her skirts about her. Having recovered her equilibrium, she looked at him with an attempt at cold hauteur.

    'Thank you, but I don't need to be told that by a stranger.'

    Fred's cheeks flushed with anger and frustration. 'Why do you keep using that word? We've scarcely met, that's true. However, dear lady, the fact is that I don't feel we
are
strangers. I feel we have always known one another. I feel I know you deep inside myself.'

    'How can you?' was the impatient reply. 'What
do
you mean?'

    'To be honest, I don't understand it myself. All I can tell you is that before I met you here, I knew you. It was when I saw Henry's first sketch of you. Did you know that? I knew you then. Like Dante meeting Beatrice on the Florentine bridge and falling in love at once and never forgetting her. I wanted to know you and be a part of you and your life.'

    He was still staring at her, his eyes trying to bore through into her soul, pull her towards him. However, she would not be willed towards anyone.

    'What a declaration, sir! No wonder my father was worried about my coming along to an artist's studio. I've not even met you socially and here you are, yes, a virtual stranger – please, do not quibble about it – declaring your interest in me. I don't know you. I'm not even sure I w
ant
to know you. I find this whole conversation very strange.'

    Having moved himself this far, Fred was now unstoppable. He would break down this solid barrier of convention, the very barriers with which he had surrounded himself all his life. He
knew
she belonged to him. He just knew it. He had to fight his way through those damned thorns somehow to wake his Sleeping Beauty.

    He knelt beside her again and took her hand in his. This time she let him hold it without protest.

    'Please, please don't be offended. Have you any idea how I have felt sitting here, longing to speak to you? It was as if something was holding my heart in a tight grip. I was ready to burst. I know you must think me mad, and mad I am. I assure you, I have never been so bold with a lady in my life before. Will you at least let me come to see you?' he pleaded.

    'No! – No... well, perhaps,' she said with as much decorum as she could and hearing steps and voices in the other room hastily withdrew her hand. Reluctantly he felt her fingers slide away from his and could not bear the anguish it made him feel. If this was what they called falling in love, then it was unbearable agony. She said in haste, 'Now be good and go and sit over there. Someone's coming. Come on Tuesday afternoon that is my day in for callers. Come with your mother, sister, or whoever. My father will never countenance it otherwise.'

    'I will be there, I promise it.'

    Fred went back to his seat and when Henry walked in, his eyes quizzing and laughing at the pair, they seemed to be as grave as statues. Ellie was resting her head against the back of the sofa, Fred staring at the floor, but the flush in both their cheeks spoke volumes.

Henry smiled and felt satisfied.

As luck would have it, it appeared that Fred's father, James Thorpe, was quite well acquainted with Eleanor's father. Joshua Farnham was, he said, a very good barrister, much admired and respected in the City. For Fred this revelation was very good news. A few days after this conversation and while they were all seated at dinner one evening, Fred asked his mother if she would like to pay Miss Farnham a call on Tuesday next.

    'I'll take you there and bring you back, Mama. The young lady asked if you would call and take tea with her. Weren't you a friend of her mother's?'

    This was a crafty shot in the dark but to his amazement Beatrice replied, 'Oh, yes, Maria Farnham. Not a friend exactly, but I did meet her a few times while she was alive. She seemed a pleasant, clever sort of woman but Lord, always of a sickly disposition and such people are wearisome, don't you know. They talk about nothing but their ailments all the time. There is nothing I dislike more, I assure you.'

    'Well, she had reason, it seems. The poor woman is dead now,' said her husband dryly.

    'Indeed she is! Moreover, she ignored my advice to her and that was not to be so anxious about everything all the time. On the surface, she appeared calm enough. However, I can always tell, you know. She struck me as a highly-strung woman, full of nerves and starts and alarms. I never felt her to be at peace.'

    'Well, no one can say that about you, my dear.'

    'No, indeed, they cannot, sir. I believe in taking life as it comes. What is the point of getting upset over everything?'

    'So will you call?' Fred persisted.

    His mother looked put out. 'What is the necessity, my dear? I ain't acquainted with the gel and have no wish to be so. Why should she want to see me?'

    'I think... I think...' the young man cast about for a good reason, 'I suppose she wants to talk about her mama with someone who knew her. She was very distressed by her mother's death.'

    'Well, that may be so. Oh, I shall be pleased to speak as kindly as I can about her mother if that is what she wants. I have no anecdotes, I scarcely knew the woman. I know some gossip, mind you, but I certainly don't intend to repeat that.'

    Her husband frowned at her, 'No, Beatrice, we do not need to repeat gossip. You will say nothing detrimental to the young lady. By the way, I hear she is a very charming and attractive young woman. Frankly, my dear, I suspect that the motive for this call is more likely to be connected with your son, don't you?'

    Walter, Fred's younger brother, sniggered at this remark.

    'I guessed that long ago,' he said.

    'Shut up, will you!' muttered Fred, giving his brother a hearty kick under the table which was returned with interest.

    'Would you two behave more like gentlemen!' their father snapped.

    Beatrice Thorpe looked up from her well-filled plate and ceased munching for a moment as the idea sank in.

    'Oh, good heavens!' she said. 'It ain't to do with me, at all, you sly young dog! Are you interested in this young woman then, Fred? So that's what's behind all this dragging your poor mother out for calls that are always so boring, so exceeding boring. You know I would sooner sit and read a book.'

    'Yes, mother, I do know, but please do come.'

    'Make this call, Beatrice,' said her husband sternly, 'give your son a helping hand if this young lady pleases him. I doubt you'll need to converse that much. Let the young people do all the talking and sip your tea.'

    'Very well then, 'said Beatrice but not with good grace.

    Fred was relieved and the rest of the meal passed in an uncomfortable silence. He excused himself as quickly as he could. Walter dropped his napkin hastily and followed him out.

    'Have you really got a girl?'

    'It's none of your business. And if you breathe a word of this conversation, or mention Miss Farnham's name in connection with me to anyone, I'll strangle you with your own choker.'

    'No need, no need! Mum's the word, beloved brother. Not a whisper will pass my lips.'

    Fred glowered at him. 'I wouldn't trust you for a minute. You're as bad a gossip as Ma.'

    Walter looked hurt. 'Hardly. Takes something to be worse than Ma. She knows what's happening on the moon.'

    Fred stared at his brother for a moment. There was little love lost between them, too far apart in age to have ever truly bonded. A sister inbetween the two of them had died of measles at a tender age. He felt regret for the lost sister and would far rather have preferred a girl nearer his own age than the loud, uncouth creature, five years his junior, that was his brother. Sometimes he wondered if Walter knew about his own horrible hidden secret. Surely, he had been too young? But Walter had always been troublesome, all eyes and ears, the image of his mother.

    'The governor's on your side anyway,' said Walter as the two brothers parted in the hallway. 'Frankly, I think he wants to be rid of you.'

    'Don't call Father "the governor" – show some respect!' Fred scolded. But his brother had bounded half way up the stairs and cocked a snook from this safe distance.

James Thorpe, looking thoughtful, remained at the table with his glass of port after the two young men had excused themselves and left the room. Later on, when he joined his wife in the drawing room, he remarked, 'It's about time Freddie married and time he found himself a sensible occupation too, rather than hanging about the studios of that crowd of penniless, foolish young men he associates with so often. It would be a very good match.'

    'You really think so?'

    'I do. Her father is a wealthy man and very respectable. Fred couldn't do better. We must encourage this as much as possible, it would be the making of the fellow. As it is, he does nothing but drifts around, plays at painting, writes poems and suchlike nonsense and shirks any sort of responsibility. A wife and children would wake him up nicely. Yes, you shall make that call, Mrs Thorpe; you shall make that call next Tuesday.'

Chapter 8

Beatrice Thorpe had been a beauty once but her looks had long gone. She was now fat and overblown like a rose whose petals quivered on the stem, ready to fall ignominiously to the ground. Her eyes were half-hooded by fallen flesh, her lips now thinner and lost in the mounds of fat that were her reddened cheeks, the onetime elegant slenderness beyond the hope of any corset. She no longer wore the restricting garments, for they were acutely uncomfortable these days, and thus she spilled out in all directions.

    Fred found it hard to admire his mother now. He had thought her wonderful when she had been young and lovely and he often looked at the early portraits of her in the hallway and in the dining room. Hard to believe that it was the same person. How did people alter so much? Youth seemed such a fleeting evanescence. Beauty, too; so fragile and easy to corrupt and destroy by lack of measure and care. Yet in those rolls of flesh, he sometimes still saw a flash of the sweetness that had once been his mother's great charm. A flash like a tiny light on the side of a mountain; a glimmer of a candle in the dark. Would Ellie one day look like this, her beauty lost?

    Beatrice Thorpe was by no means the model wife either. Obedience had never been one of her virtues and she seldom did anything that did not appeal to her. So when Tuesday came and Fred, looking smart enough to charm the Queen, came to fetch her for the proposed call, he found her not properly dressed, lounging on her sofa in the parlour, reading Thackeray's V
anity Fair.

    A sense of deep exasperation overcame him and he felt a real