The Crimson Bed (12 page)

    She thought briefly of Alfie and her heart now felt stony towards him. He had not written or bothered with her in all this time. He was faithless and she hated him. Maybe she w
anted
more of those deep-feeling declarations from Mr Ashton Thorpe; it did her heart good. All her other suitors so far had been boring or after her money; too slow, too stupid, too ugly.

    Opening the doors, she went into the drawing room with a peculiar feeling of nervous anticipation. Frederic Thorpe was standing and looking at the Turner over the mantelpiece. He turned to greet her and bowed. Taking her proffered hand, he brushed it lightly with his lips.

    He looked very handsome today, standing in the light of the window, his fair hair shining almost like a halo. He was so unlike the dark, roguish-looking Alfie. Frederic Thorpe's face was gentle, relaxed, his beautiful grey eyes eloquent with feeling and a peculiar tenderness that stirred her heart.

    No, she really did not want to be in love again! It wasn't love she felt, just curiosity. That was all. Playing with fire, with a young man's heart. Let him be hurt as she had been hurt. She didn't care.

    'That's a beautiful picture,' said Fred, indicating the one he had just been studying. 'A Turner, I believe?'

    'You are right, it is a Turner. My father is very fond of that artist and bought this picture from Mr John Ruskin who owed him a favour over some matter or other. It was really surprising as I believe Mr Ruskin doesn't like to part with his Turner collection.'

    'I know that! I've often admired his collection when dining with him at Denmark Hill but he would never sell one to me. I believe Turner will be considered in due time as one of our greatest artists.'

    'More than Mr Millais or Mr Winstone... or Mr Ashton Thorpe even?' she said with a coquettish little laugh.

    'Certainly more than Mr Ashton Thorpe,' he said ruefully, '
he
will never even be exhibited, I fear. Millais already has his place in the hall of fame. And Henry Winstone... who knows? Henry has the making of a great artist. I think we shall see that in time. Do you want your portrait brought in?'

    'I've already seen it and it is absolutely wonderful. It's too beautiful for words. I suspect Papa will hang it in place of the Turner and believe me
that
is an honour.'

    'Not at all. Your portrait will grace this room as nothing else. Except your physical presence, nothing could be more graceful than that.'

    'You're too kind, sir. And bent on flattering me.'

    'Truth could never be seen as flattery.'

    He looked steadfastly at her. She felt a slight flush arise and turned away a little, waving her hand at a chair opposite.

    'Sit down, sir, please do,' she said and took a chair herself. He followed suit and for a brief moment they stared at one another in silence.

    It was odd but a barrier
had
been broken with their last meeting. Words that had been uttered and not rejected hung in the air and they both knew full well what the other was thinking. Yet they both waited, as in a game of chess, wondering what should be the next move.

    She drew her eyes away with difficulty and said, 'Would you care for some tea, Mr Thorpe?'

    'I thank you, no. Just allow me your company for as long as you can spare.'

    Ellie fell silent at this and lowered her eyes. 'You are very kind to bring the portrait over yourself. I hope it wasn't too much trouble for you.'

    'Not at all. I was – just passing Winstone's studio and dropped in and he asked if I'd be so kind as to deliver it. I hope it's no imposition.'

    A slight flush came to his cheeks as he said this. She smiled to herself and felt a good-humoured desire to tease him a little. The man simply could not hide his feelings; she saw him struggle to keep his usual composure.

    Alfie had never been like this. Alfie had joked and laughed, teased and tormented and then he had been hungry to make love whenever they could. Once they had begun their lovemaking, it was as if they both flung caution to the winds. He used to touch her hand under the table or with dangerous daring would fleetingly move his hands over her breasts when he passed her by. A tangible flow of sexual energy would always pass between them even when he stood by her at the piano and turned the pages for her. He was thrilling, he was exciting.

    She felt Thorpe's flow of sexual energy but no response in herself. Perhaps she would never ever feel it again for any other man but Alfie. Yet – this Frederic Ashton Thorpe was an artist, a poet and had all the romantic attributes she required in a lover.
His
passion was deep like some underground spring suddenly gushing forth into a torrent that might just as suddenly flow back down into the depths again and remain hidden and unknown by any other but herself. He gave out a sense of peace, trustfulness, and strength that she now craved.

    She knew something strange, silent and secret drew her towards him. It was true that he did not appeal to her physically but she felt a longing for something else he had to offer her, his deepest soul. That was what she saw in his eyes. His soul. She loved his ardour, his adoration and warmth. It wrapped about her like a warm blanket. That she
did
need. She loved his loving her so desperately.

    Looking back on her feelings for Alfie, it seemed now a youthful passion, an infatuation, an inevitable consequence of knowing each other so long and so well. Alfie had always been careless, sure of his good looks, his charm and gracefulness. He simply assumed she loved him and she had done so foolishly and unwisely. Now the memory made her feel shame. She had been imprudent once... she would not allow herself to be hurt again.

    Fred leant forward towards her. His tone was quiet but urgent, 'There's so little time... so little time to tell you my feelings. I keep thinking someone might walk in at any minute and I won't have had a chance to tell you what I feel. I know how presumptuous I must seem and I know that my behaviour is anything but gentlemanly – but I can't help it! I think you understand why I am here, I cannot fool you. You're a person of great perception. I do not try to flatter you but am totally sincere.'

    She lowered her eyes. 'I ought not to be listening to you, sir, not without my father present. I feel you are taking great liberties with me.'

    'I can't explain what it is,' he said, 'just that you are a part of me that has been haunting my dreams all my life and suddenly taken form before my eyes. I'm not making much sense. But you do believe my sincerity?'

    'I do believe
that
, sir,' she replied. 'All the same, we're barely acquainted,' she added with a sigh and moved back in her chair. It seemed to break a spell.

    'Do you
wish
to know me? Could you feel anything for me in time?'

    Her eyes slid suddenly away. 'I'm not sure. We have only just met, scarcely spoken. I can't possibly say such a thing. I can't promise anything.'

    'But you must,' he insisted.

    'Must I? You are so precipitate.'

    'I know I am,' he said humbly, 'suddenly you have turned me into an impatient man who hates the whole idea of long courtships that stretch on for years. I feel it would be soul-destroying.'

    'It
is
soul-destroying,' she said.

    'You see, you think so too! I'm in a position to marry when I please. I can afford to take my time learning to paint and write poetry while so many other artists cannot. I'm lucky, I know, and pity poor fellows like Winstone who struggle to make ends meet and thus find it impossible or hard to commit themselves to marriage.'

    'Does he mean to marry Miss Gamm?'

    Fred looked a little shocked at the directness of this question. 'Well, yes... yes .. . I'm sure he means to. I mean, I believe they are engaged.'

    She smiled at his discomfiture. 'It doesn't bother me a bit, Mr Thorpe, whether he's engaged to her or not. I certainly think he is in love with her. Do you think she loves
him
?'

    'I have no idea. She's not a very biddable sort of girl. However, I think she tries to please him and she certainly knows when she's well off.'

    'Men like "biddable", don't they? D'you think I'm such a girl? Do you hope I will be "biddable", as you put it?'

    'I sense you are a girl with spirit and a sense of your own individuality,' said Fred, 'and that is what I like about you. I saw it immediately, even in that first sketch. Winstone captured something in your face that made me understand at once that you were not a meek, passive creature at all.'

    'I'm glad of that, Mr Thorpe, because it's true and certainly observant of you. I'm impressed by your ability to read me so well. Would
you
like a wife who wants a
biddable
husband?'

    'I suppose not.'

    'I feel sure you would not. Neither would I want such a meek husband. But tell me, why must a woman be expected always to be submissive and passive and a man not so on occasions? To my mind marriage should be a friendship; a giving and taking that is mutual and loving. Things should be discussed as amongst equals and a man should listen to a wife's wisdom, should he not?'

    'Most certainly – but how many wives are truly wise?'

    'Ah, you have me there!' she admitted. 'For that matter, how many husbands are truly wise? I am spoilt by my parent's marriage, which was a true, equal and loving friendship. I can settle for nothing else.'

    'Our marriage would be just that!' he said earnestly. 'That would be my sincere desire also. You echo my own thoughts.'

    'Ah well...' she sighed and looked down for a moment. 'But you're racing ahead, you know. You are going too fast for me. You tell me, for instance, that you have an income that enables you to marry when you like and presumably, that's something in your favour. Is that what you are trying to tell me? You can tell my fa
ther
about it, he would be delighted to hear it. As for myself, why should I care? You know I too have an income and wait on no man. Marriage isn't always such a good thing, is it? Not for an independent person like myself. '

    Fred looked dashed by her determined reply. He looked down at the floor for a while.

    'Why are we speaking of these mean mundanities?' he said at last. 'I don't even want to think of such things at this moment. It's our souls, our hearts that matter. Forgive me! In my impatience, in my ardour, I rush ahead. I assure you I am not normally so precipitate. Don't be alarmed into thinking me some callow youth without any sense of proportion. Allow me to call on you again, allow me to talk with you and then you may feel you want to know me more.'

    She hesitated. There was a sound at the front door and bustling in the hallway and she knew her father had arrived home. Fred saw the alarm on her face.

    'Yes, call again... but you will have to go now, sir,' she said hastily, 'better still, why not write what you think. Let us correspond and get to know one another that way, perhaps. To begin with at least.'

    'That's a wonderful idea,' he said and taking her hand, kissed it again. She snatched her hand away, half afraid, half irritated, and led the way to the door just as her father opened it and came in saying jovially, 'Eleanor, have you seen your portrait! Isn't it wonderful?'

    He stopped and looked at Fred in surprise. Ellie introduced him and Fred bowed while Joshua inclined his head.

    'This is Mr Frederic Ashton Thorpe, Papa. He is a friend of Mr Winstone and he kindly delivered the picture for us. '

    'Winstone was unable to get his fellow to bring it over tonight, so I took the liberty of calling myself, 'said Fred, looking like a rabbit caught in a snare.

    Joshua looked at the young man narrowly.

    'I believe I know your father, sir,' he said, 'Are you not the eldest son?'

    'I am, sir. My younger brother is Walter Thorpe.'

    'Hmm.' Joshua looked at Fred with a frown. 'I thank you, sir, for bringing over the portrait. Very good of you,' he replied. His words were polite but his manner frosty. 'Very good of you indeed. You may tell Mr. Winstone I am delighted with his work. I may even sit for a portrait myself some day but doubt I would ever present as charming a study as my daughter.'

    Ellie found that Fred kept his eyes fixed on her during this speech from her father, noted too her father's intense look of disapproval and wished her suitor a hundred miles away. She felt instinctively that Papa was not going to approve at all and sighed deeply.

A month later Fred and Ellie met once more, this time by secret arrangement. Fred had written and suggested that she might join him for a stroll in Kensington Gardens. He had made up his mind that he would ask her to marry him as soon as he was able but it was important to see what her true feelings were towards him. The thought of tackling Joshua first and asking him for his daughter's hand daunted him considerably. It would be no easy task.

    Ellie came accompanied by her maid, Lottie Mulhall. That was some relief for Fred. He knew that the redoubtable Miss Perrin looked upon any young man who came close to her mistress with deep suspicion. Mulhall, on the other hand, kept a polite distance behind them as they walked along. She looked the kind of faithful old servant who would never give away her mistress's secrets, indeed, might even collude in them.

    Fred loved being with Eleanor in this intimate situation, loved the feeling of her so close by his side, occasionally bumping into him, the rustle of her skirts as she walked and the scent that came from her on the breeze. To have this wonderful creature always beside him!

    'These are such beautiful gardens, Miss Farnham, do you not think so?' Fred said as they came towards the curving white waters of the Serpentine and stopped to watch the bathers for a while.

    Ellie twirled her little parasol and looked up at him with a smile. She was dressed in a simple white lawn dress, flounced over her petticoats, a little shawl cast over her shoulders, her hair artfully arranged in ringlets. Her slender figure with its tiny waist was so appealing; Fred longed to put his arm around her.