A Mad, Wicked Folly (3 page)

It was last year’s program for the show of students’
work. Bertram had it in a wodge of bumf he was discarding. I wanted some sketches he was throwing out, so I’d
fished it all out of the rubbish, and that’s when I found the
leaflet. The Royal College of Art was one of the most prestigious schools in England; many of the country’s finest
artists had studied there. Bertram had attended the RCA.
Although he left after a year, he said he’d learned a great
deal about fundamentals. Monsieur Tondreau always said,
without fundamentals, an artist would always struggle.

I sat down on the edge of the cot, holding the leaflet. I
could never return to Monsieur’s studio, but I didn’t have
to give up on instruction. I could apply to the RCA. My
drawing book held proof that I understood the technical
challenges of art, especially anatomy. I had a treasure trove
of those forbidden drawings. I would need a letter of reference, but I could get one from Bertram or from Monsieur
Tondreau. I knew Bertram’s address. He worked and lived
in a tiny studio off the village square. I would send them
letters as soon as we docked.

Then I reminded myself that I was in disgrace and my
parents might not be so disposed to let me go to art college. Besides, I already knew what my father thought about
women going to college: there was no reason to educate a
girl like a boy, he believed. The only value to a woman of
good breeding was as a wife and mother.

Forget it
, I thought. I slid my feet under the blanket
and lay my head on the lumpy pillow, trying to ignore the
spring that poked me in the backside.
If I were a boy, this
wouldn’t be an issue. If I were my brother Freddy
 . . .

I sat straight up then. Freddy! Perhaps I could enlist
my brother’s aid. A year ago, he’d defied Papa when he
embarked upon a career in publishing instead of taking
the reins of the family business. Papa did not speak to
him for nearly six months. There was a rapprochement
at Christmas, and now my father behaved as if Freddy’s
career decision had been his idea. If I could get Freddy on
my side, he could speak to my parents for me.

I imagined myself at the RCA show, standing next to my
work of art, wineglass in hand, listening as the president
of the Selection and Hanging Committee told the gathered
crowd why my painting had been chosen and how I was
considered among the best of my generation.

N THE MORNING,
we disembarked at Southampton
and I put my letters to Bertram and Monsieur
Tondreau in the pillar-box. A sailor helped load my
trunks into a hansom cab, and tipped his cap when
I handed him a coin. When Anne-Marie and I arrived at

the train station, a porter hurried out, collar turned up,
shoulders hunched against the rain, and settled me into a
first-class carriage, which heartened me. Even better was
the sight of my brother, Freddy, on the train platform at
Victoria Station in London, leaning on a walking stick, his
homburg hat tilted at a jaunty angle.

I alighted from the carriage and Freddy hurried to
greet me, a look of affection tinged with concern on his
face. “There you are!” He kissed my cheek and then took
hold of my valise. “Welcome home. Mother was going to
send the footman, but I wanted you to see a friendly face
before heading into battle.”

“What’s the news of home?” I asked as we moved
through the station.
“Oh, the usual. Mother is dragging Dad into the twentieth century, or at least attempting to. She’s had a telephone
installed.”
“That
is
news. What brought that on?”
“Mrs. Plimpton had a sudden rush of blood to the head
and had one fitted, so now all the ladies in her social circle
have to have one, too.”
My mother was ever the trend follower. Years ago she
had taken after Queen Alexandra’s style, which boasted
high collars and tiered pearl chokers, all of which were
really only meant to hide a scar on the queen’s neck. If
the queen’s deformities meant a high neckline, then who
was my mother to argue? At least she didn’t parrot Queen
Alexandra’s limp by shortening one shoe heel as many of
her friends had. When I was home at Christmas, Mamma
had changed our Mayfair townhouse from a dark, old-fashioned abode to one with a more light and airy sensibility,
as was now fashionable. Chintz and pastel fabrics, potted
palms and aspidistras abounded. My father was the opposite, and clung to the old ways like grim death.
“Papa has agreed?” I asked. “I thought he said a telephone in the home was an intrusion.”
“She talked him round, and the thing was installed last
week.”
“Heavens.”
I watched while Freddy saw Anne-Marie onto the next
train, and arranged for a growler for us, so capable and
self-assured. He had not always been so. Our father used
to remark on Freddy’s every movement, correcting him
constantly. My brother was much older than I, ten years,
but I remembered him spending most of his teenage years,
while not at school, avoiding our father.
We settled in the cab and the horse set off, harness jangling. The first signs of spring were about. Daffodils and
narcissi poked their noses through the grass in Green Park.
A weak ray of sunshine broke through the gloom, and several people sat on park benches, faces turned toward the
warmth. Motorcars chugged past our cab, trailing smoke,
tires hissing on the damp tarmacadam. The smell of wet
wool, coal fires, and the tang of horse sweat got under my
nose, but it was a welcome scent. London never failed to
make me happy, so I tried not to dwell on my sadness at
leaving France.
“Well, how grim is it?” I asked.
He frowned. “Fairly grim, Petal. I’m not going to lie to you.”
“Is Papa very angry, then?”
Freddy regarded me in silence for a moment. “Angry?
Vicky, you took your clothes off in front of a group of men.”
“You make it sound so sordid, Fred. It was an art class.
It’s what we do.”
But Freddy was shaking his head. “That makes no difference to our father. He doesn’t care a whit that it was in
the name of art or what have you. Word has gotten round.
Apparently some of the girls at Madame Édith’s wasted no
time writing to their parents, and now Mother’s social circle knows.”
“I care not what her social circle thinks.”
“You should care. Your behavior did much damage,
Petal. You know Dad has lost Hugo Northbrook’s regard?
That is a lot for him to swallow.”
“What does Hugo Northbrook’s regard have to do with
anything? Lily Northbrook is my best friend.”
“Northbrook had been paving the way for Dad to gain
a royal warrant. The royal residences are updating the
plumbing, and he was going to introduce Dad to the procurer. If Dad were able to supply the fixtures then he’d be
on his way, but now, because of your actions, he may have
lost his chance.”
What Freddy said filled me with guilt. Royal warrants
were marks of recognition for those who provided goods to
King Edward. The
By Appointment
stamp was a highly coveted
item; even more was the beautiful royal crest that decorated
the receiver’s place of business. My father had made it his life’s
work to gain one. Thomas Crapper & Company had installed
thirty lavatories in the king’s country seat, Sandringham
House, as well as fixtures in other royal houses years ago.
Crapper was Papa’s bête noire, and the mere mention of the
name sent him into a fury. To lose another royal contract to
that company would be a terrible blow.
Freddy looked at me in sympathy. “Not to worry. I’m
sure Dad will find someone else who can help. He’s already
working the chaps he knows at the Reform Club.”
“Papa probably wants to roast me over an open fire
now,” I said.
“I think that would be the least of your punishments.
He’s very angry. Roasting would be a merciful death, I
should think.”
“Do you have a whiff of anything?”
Freddy shrugged. “No. I do know that another finishing
school is out. No one would have you.”
“It would be nice if someone asked me what I’d like to
do. I’m not a child.”
“Go on,” he prodded. “I know you’ve a wheeze or two
hatching in that mind of yours.”
“I should like to go to college.”
“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “Dad will never
give his permission, even on a good day when all is right
in his world. You know what he thinks about higher education for females.”
“Yes, well, that’s where you come in. You’re going to help
me convince him. Louisa Dowd goes to medical university.
Times are changing.” Our neighbor’s daughter attended a
medical school that had recently begun admitting women.
“You want to be a physician like Miss Dowd, is that
what you’re saying?”
“No! I would not want to have snotty children sneezing
all over me and people complaining of piles and digestive
difficulties. And Lord knows the places on a person she’ll
have to look to make her diagnoses.” Freddy screwed his
mouth up, trying not to smile. I could always make him
laugh. “But I should like to go to art college.”
“Why? You already know how to draw and such. Why
do you need to go to college?”
“I want to learn more, and I want to paint, and if I’m
going to be able to exhibit my work, I need the contacts in
the art world who will help me along that path.”
“Exhibit?” Freddy looked dubious.
“Just, leave it, Freddy. I want to go, and my reasons for
going are my reasons. I’m not going to explain myself.” I was
growing frustrated. What if Freddy refused to help me?
“Fine then, you’ll also need Dad’s coin. University is
expensive.”
“I’ll earn a scholarship.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I can earn money . . . somehow.”
“Oh, give over, Vicky; how?”
“Can you pay me to illustrate your novelettes?”
“Oh, no. Not a chance. Penny dreadfuls aren’t the place
for women’s pictures of bowls of fruit and bunches of flowers. We print drawings of highwaymen and demon barbers
of Fleet Street. Not appropriate subjects for a girl.”
I pinched him on the arm. “I don’t draw bowls of fruit!
Nor do I draw bunches of flowers!”
“Ow!” He rubbed his arm. “All right, then. You don’t
draw fruit. You needn’t resort to violence to make your
point.”
“Just let me have a chance. Please, Fred.”
“No. It’s utterly absurd.”
“Why is it so absurd? I can illustrate as well as any
man. These are modern times, and women are still treated
as nothing but pretty dolls or lapdogs!”
“Nevertheless, Dad would never forgive me if I
allowed such a thing. I’ve just returned to his good graces,
and what with Rose in her confinement, I simply can’t
risk another row.”
“What does Rose’s lying-in have to do with it? Papa cares
not a fig about babies. I doubt he’ll even make the journey
across town to see it when it’s born. Much too taxing for
him, I’d say. And then when it starts yelling and squalling,
as babies are wont to do, he’ll be first out the door.”
“It?” Freddy tilted his head toward me.
“Very well. Her! Charlotte would love a little sister.”
“Him, I’d prefer.”
I opened my mouth in retort.
He held up his finger. “A sister needs a brother’s guidance to rub along in life.”
I shot him a filthy look. He laughed.
“I feel very sorry for your future husband, my dear. I
can picture him now, living his life so innocently, unknowing of the mischief his future wife will create for him.”
“Ha-ha. Very amusing, Freddy.”
“But the point is, Vick, that Dad will be happy to cut
my allowance again if I should stray. No. Sorry, I cannot
risk it.”
“But you make your own money!”
“A publisher of a start-up tuppenny novelette company
makes very little. Certainly not enough to feed a family
and keep home and hearth together.” Freddy grew quiet.
His face was pinched with strain. Suddenly I understood
what it had cost him to break from our father’s expectations. I took his hand. “It maddens me to admit it,” he said.
“But I need the old man’s money, too. I suppose I’m just as
much of a lapdog as you, Petal, when it comes right down
to it.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll mention
this art college idea of yours to Mother, but that’s it. The
rest is up to you.”
“Thank you, Freddy!” I kissed his cheek. “I’ll never ask
anything of you again.”
“I highly doubt that, Petal,” Freddy said.
Big Ben rang out three o’clock as the cab reached
Parliament. I was surprised to see a crowd of women in
front of the gates near the House of Commons. London
was a city of men, and women did not loiter. They traveled
through on their way home or to the shops. Women who
stood about were considered of ill reputation. But these
women didn’t seem to be concerned with their reputation,
ill or otherwise.
The cab stopped for traffic, and I leaned toward the
window. What was most unusual was that the women were
of various classes, from upper-class to working. I could tell
by the way they were dressed. A woman handing out leaflets wore an expensive-looking fox stole around her neck;
her wide-brimmed hat was trimmed in feathers. A woman
in lesser fashionable dress, probably middle-class, stood
talking to her. She was tiny, and as thin as a rake. She wore
a plain navy face-cloth suit, called a tailor-made, with a
gray bow tie. There were several working-class women
too, who looked as though they had just left the factory
floor, feet in clogs and shawls around their shoulders. I had
never seen a collection of mismatched women so united.
My mother, and every woman in her social circle, would
have fainted dead away if forced to mingle with such a
mixed group.
The men on the street seemed as curious, gawking at
the assembly as they walked by. I noticed several posters
hanging on the iron railings, bracketing the women. On
one was a stylized drawing of Joan of Arc. She held a trailing green banner with the word

Just as I was thinking this, a police constable ripped
it down and tore it in half. A younger constable stepped
forward to deal with the second poster, but he didn’t rip it.
Instead, he removed it carefully from the railings, rolled it
up, and handed it to the tiny woman.