A Mad, Wicked Folly (8 page)

“Victoria,” my father said. “Your mother has asked me
to speak with you.”
I set the egg topper down, and tried to arrange my
features in some sort of bland expression that would not
anger him.
“I know you have ideas for your future, but I must
say that further schooling is quite out of the question. A
girl’s duty in life is to be a pretty and entertaining wife to
her husband. She should not outshine him in knowledge,
lest she show him up among his peers. Advanced study is
harmful for women as it makes them discontent and unfit
for lives as wives and mothers. You are quite a pretty girl,
so your prospects are much more promising than Louisa
Dowd anyhow, poor thing. She is but a plain girl, and education is the only option for her.”
I tried not to let an angry remark slip out, so instead I
ate a spoonful of egg. “Thank you, Father.” I smiled, knowing that egg yolk was all over my front teeth. So much for
not angering him, but I could not help it. I hated when he
came out with rot like that.
Father straightened his cravat with an angry tug and
stood up. “This willful behavior of yours will stop, do you
understand me? If you put one toe out of place again, you
will lose your drawing privileges. I will remove your art
things from your room myself.”
I looked down at my plate. The smoked kipper’s murky
eye stared up at me balefully. My stomach churned, and I
pushed the plate away.
“They should have been taken from you directly after
you returned from France. But your mother convinced me
otherwise.”
“Mamma convinced you?” I sat back. Why would my
mother have done such a thing?
He shook his head, and went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “I
don’t understand you, my dear. What possessed you?”
I didn’t say anything. What could I say that would make
him understand? My father, like many people, would only
ever see the tawdry side of the nude figure, which always
confounded me. People flocked to the annual Summer
Exhibition at the Royal Academy. There were many paintings there that depicted the undraped figure. To most
people, the process was unspeakable, but the resulting
work of art was not.
“You will turn your mind away from such pursuits and
to marriage, where it belongs. You will be a wife and a
mother, and that is all.” And then he left, pulling the door
shut behind him a little harder than he needed to.
I slumped in my chair. As if my life was only about
being decoration for a man. Well, that decided me. I wasn’t
going to wait around any longer.
I quickly finished my breakfast and went upstairs to
find my mother in her drawing room. “I’ve decided I’m
going to marry Edmund Carrick-Humphrey.”
My mother looked taken aback at my sudden change of
heart. “I told your father you would see reason, for despite
all your willfulness, you are not a stupid girl—”
“Only I have a caveat,” I interrupted.
Mamma looked at me warily. “And that is?”
“Let’s have it over and done with. I wish to be married
by the end of August.”
Mamma rose and went to look at her diary. “August
twenty-ninth might do; most of society will be back from
the Continent by then. If the Carrick-Humphreys agree,
then I don’t see why we can’t accommodate that request.
Your father and I will discuss it with them when they come
to dinner this evening.” Then she smiled. “I’m very happy
that you’ve learned your lesson and have seen sense. We’ll
announce your engagement after the king’s first court
in June. You will have a wonderful life with Mr. CarrickHumphrey. Just think of it.”
But all I could think about was my college tuition paid.

FTER OUR CONVERSATION,
my mother
invited me to take a turn round the Royal Arcade
with her friends. She suggested we begin looking for things to fill my marriage trousseau, but

I demurred. I didn’t tell her that picking over ribbons and
staring at hats was more than I could bear. After she left,
I collected my charcoal and pastels from my room, took
some paper from my father’s study, and went out into the
garden to find something to draw. At least I could practice until I had purchased a new sketchbook for the RCA
admission.

Things were looking brighter. I knew my marriage
would not be one of love, but I would marry the devil himself if it meant I could pursue my artistic goals. I thought of
the handful of successful women artists. Most of them were
wealthy and could afford to spend their days immersed in
their work. I would soon be filled with the satisfaction of
joining the ranks of Mary Cassatt and Evelyn De Morgan.
Even Lizzie Siddal, an artist in her own right, had money
of her own because of John Ruskin’s patronage. Although
I admired the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, I did not relish
the idea of having to choose between eating and purchasing art supplies, as they often had. As my artist friends in
France had, too.

After an hour I began to get hungry. I hadn’t had much
to eat at breakfast. I could have asked for something to be
brought to me, but I didn’t want the footman hovering. So
I decided to go into the kitchen and snaffle some of our
cook’s pikelets. I loved them, and Mrs. Kipling always
made them up for afternoon tea. My mother didn’t want me
in the kitchen mixing with the servants, but it was nearly
ten o’clock, and Mrs. Kipling would be taking her morning
break. No one would see me.

The kitchen was in the basement, down a set of stairs
that could be gotten to from the breakfast room, through
a door painted white and adorned with a crystal handle
on our side but covered with green baize and a gunmetal
knob on the servants’ side.

My mother would never drag her decorating ideas in
here. The kitchen was for service only. Large wooden sinks
lined one side of the room, and a monstrous oven sat on
the other. A wooden clothes airer hung with stockings had
been hoisted up over it to dry. The only windows in the
room were at street level, and I could see shoes walking
and skirts sweeping by.

I paused at the bottom of the steps. No one was about,
so I tiptoed across the flagstone floor to the cake tin. I pried
open the lid, took out a pikelet, and bit into it. Heaven.

As I leaned against the worktop and ate another cake, a
pair of very shiny black boots paused at our window, turned,
and then walked toward the steps that led to the servants’
entrance. Then I heard the sound of footsteps marching
down the marble stairs. I froze, the cake halfway to my
mouth. Any moment now the person would knock, and if
anyone came through the hallway that led from the scullery
to answer the door, they would see me standing there.

The heavy iron knocker fell against the door.
I darted a look down the hallway, but no one was coming. I set the cake on the worktop and went to the door,
peering through the bull’s-eye glass.
The owner of those boots was a police constable. He
stood in the door well, looking across the road and toward
Berkeley Square.
Blast!
I took a step back. Had the judge changed his
mind? Had the constable come to arrest me? But how could
the police trace me here without my real name or address?
They would have gone to Freddy’s house first. Rose!
I’ll bet
it was she who told them.
I thought about running out of the kitchen, ignoring
him altogether. But if I answered the door, I could send him
on his way before he had a chance to speak to a servant. I
lifted the latch and opened the door.
“May I help you?” I said. I tried to keep the alarm from
my voice.
The constable turned around. And you could have
knocked me over with a feather. It was PC Fletcher. A
paper sack was tucked under one arm. His chin sported a
dark-purple bruise.
“Good day,” he said, bowing slightly.
I must have looked a gormless ninny, staring at him
with my mouth dangling open.
“We meet again.” He leaned against the doorframe as if
he planned to stay awhile.
I finally found my voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I believe I have something that belongs to you. I
thought you might like it back.”
He handed me the bag. I opened it, and inside was my
sketchbook. It was completely undamaged.
“Your address was inside. Along with your name. It is
Victoria Darling, right? It’s not Smith after all?”
“You have no idea what this means. I feel as though
my life has been handed back to me.” I tried very hard not
to squeal with glee, like the girls at my school when they
made a goal on the hockey pitch. But instead I did something equally embarrassing. Without even thinking about
what I was doing, I stepped up and kissed his cheek. He
smelled the same as he had the previous day, of a mixture
of green grass and fresh laundry.
“Well, it’s much easier to make you happy than I would
have reckoned!” he said, laughing. “I thought you’d have
my guts for garters.”
“Did someone turn this in to the station?”
“No, I found it.”
“You found it?” I glanced at the cover again. Not a raindrop on it. “But when?”
“I . . . um.” He looked sheepish. He scratched the side
of his face and gazed across the street for a moment. And
then he turned back to me and shrugged. “Just after you
were arrested,” he finally said.
“When I was in the police van?” My smile faded.
He nodded.
“But at the station you said you hadn’t even seen me
drawing. And when we were walking home, you said you
knew nothing about my book. I don’t understand.”
A flush began to darken PC Fletcher’s face. “Let me
explain. I found your sketch pad after you were arrested
and hid it in the police box by Parliament. If Catchpole had
found it, he would have destroyed it. Or the judge would
have taken it off of you. I hate that they do that. It’s not
right.”
I remembered the way PC Fletcher had rolled up the
poster so carefully and handed it to Lucy, and how the
other officer had ruthlessly torn the other poster. From the
short time I’d known PC Catchpole, I felt certain he’d probably have thrown my sketchbook into the trash.
“I was going to take it to the WSPU headquarters, but
then at the station you said you weren’t a suffragette. You
were going on about it, and you seemed angry with the
other girl, so I guessed you were with the Anti-Suffrage
League. I thought maybe you were drawing a cartoon, to
make fun of the suffragettes—like the ones in the papers
lately
.
I think the antis are wrongheaded, so I didn’t want
you to have the book.”
“So that is why you were so foul to me?” I said.
He nodded. “Then I looked through the book and found
you weren’t an anti, just an artist like you claimed. I saw
your address and your real name and I felt ashamed at
what I’d done. I’d hate for someone to nick my work. Now I
know why you ran off like you did. I would have done the
same. Come to think of it, I’d probably have put up a hell
of a fight. They’re really good, your drawings. I hope you
don’t mind me looking?”
“No,” I said. I did, a little, because an artist’s sketchbook is a personal thing, but a part of me was happy that
he had. “You’re very kind.”
“My favorite’s the cartoon of the girls with the books on
their heads. I had a right laugh over that one.”
The cartoon he meant was a satire I did of a crushingly
boring comportment class at finishing school. Madame
had us swan around the room with books on our heads
to teach us to stand straight. I had captioned the picture
Young Ladies’ Literature Lectures
.
“Are you an artist, too?” I asked, curious about what
he’d meant when he referred to his own work.
“I’m a writer,” he said. “Well, I want to be a writer, that is.
I write serials, like the ones in tuppenny novelettes. I want
to get them published, but I haven’t had any luck so far.”
I remembered how he had remarked about my brother’s novelettes and carefully put his card in his pocket.
“Would you like me to recommend you to my brother? I’d
be happy to, if it’s a favor you’re after.”
A confused look skittered over his face. “No, not a bit
of it. I was going to ask if you’d collaborate with me and
illustrate my stories, like Charles Dickens and Cruikshank
did. I’ve been told that publishers prefer illustrated stories.
I’ve been looking for an artist, but I never found one good
enough until you. I would submit them to your brother’s
company, yes, but I don’t expect you to speak to him. I’m
not looking for any favors.”
Illustrating PC Fletcher’s stories appealed to me greatly,
and I was just going to say yes when I realized how impossible that was. How would I leave the house to help him?
Just then I heard the clop of Mrs. Kipling’s heavy
steps approaching. “Is someone there?” She called. “Miss
Darling? Is that your voice I hear?”
“I have to go!” I whispered, throwing a look over my
shoulder.
“Wait!” he said. “What do you say?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’d best not. It’s tempting,
but truly I cannot.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed.
The cook’s footsteps grew nearer.
“I really have to go. Thank you so much for bringing the
book. Best of luck!” I waved good-bye, shut the door, and
dashed for the stairs, hugging my sketchbook to my chest.

WAS STILL THINKING
about PC Fletcher later that
evening as I waited for my mother’s maid, Bailey, to
dress me for dinner with the Carrick-Humphreys. I so
wanted to illustrate his stories, and perhaps I could
have come up with some ruse to do so, but I was taking

enough chances applying to art school without my parents knowing. Besides, getting caught in the company of
a working-class boy would send my father into a frenzy of
anger from which he would probably never recover. Silly
really, as my father had once been middle-class, but that
was a faint and distant memory to him. Stepping down the
social ladder to consort with someone below me, as I had
done before with the artists in France, was out of the question. As Mamma said,
They know their place and we know
ours.

No matter. I had my sketchbook back, and my own art
was what mattered, no one else’s. I had so much to look
forward to now. I would submit my sketchbook to the RCA
acceptance panel at the end of April and sit for the exam
in July.