Keeping the World Away (21 page)

She did not know what had been taken that belonged particularly to her husband. His bedroom and his study appeared untouched, but she could not be sure of this and said she would have to wait until he returned from abroad, which would not be for several weeks. The policeman was perturbed by this, but understanding, and most concerned that Lady Falconer would be alone in a now vandalised house. He advised that at least until the window and door had been repaired she ought not to stay in the house. Jessie was glad to hear this because she herself had no intention of staying a single night until new male servants were engaged and preferably not until the master himself was home. Lady Falconer’s calmness – ‘cool as a cucumber’ as Jessie reported to everyone afterwards – alarmed her. It might mean her mistress was unafraid and about to ignore the policeman’s advice. But she did not. ‘As you say,’ she said to the policeman,
‘the
house must be secured first, if it ever can seem secure again. I believe there are burglar alarm systems, am I correct?’ The policeman said she was, but that they were expensive to install and liable to malfunction.

There was nothing else to do but wait for a locksmith and a glazier to arrive. It angered Lady Falconer that she was obliged to call for them herself when it was surely a man’s job to make the arrangements. But there was no man available, and Jessie had already departed back to Norfolk, anxious to catch the last train. The policeman had toured the whole house, ascertaining that no one lurked in the attics or basement, so Lady Falconer felt able to look into each room herself in case she could recognise any disturbance. A rug had gone from the library – more Afghan loot – and so had some ornaments. Then she noticed that there was also a bare patch on the wall where Sir Edward’s treasured Dutch painting had hung. He would be more upset about that than anything else, but it was his own fault for insisting on closing the house up for such a long time. She knew that to think such a thing was spiteful and petty but that was how she felt. In the dining room everything had gone from sideboard and table – all the silver, as she had told the policeman – but she now saw that there was another bare patch to account for. It was a larger patch than the one on the library wall and this one she did recall. It was a painting of fruit, a tureen heaped with fruit, and it had belonged once to Edward’s aunt who had left it to him in her will some years ago. She had thought it ugly, almost vulgar, but Edward had been thrilled to inherit it. The frame, she remembered, was rather fine, quite the most attractive thing about it. Perhaps the ‘discerning’ burglars had taken it for the frame.

It was only in order to be thorough that she went into Charlotte’s bedroom at all, since there was nothing in it that was of any real value, or at least nothing that could be moved. The wardrobe was a beautiful piece of furniture but would have taken four strong men to steal. Peering into the room she saw nothing untoward, and closed the door firmly. She did not go up to the attics. The policeman had been, and it did not seem necessary even in the
interests
of scrupulous checking. She had only once, in all the years in the house, been up to the attics and that was at least ten years ago during the unfortunate incident involving a maid who had given birth. She trusted Jessie to see that all was as it should be up there. As she descended the stairs again after her tour of inspection, the house was extraordinarily quiet. She paused midway, hand on banister, and listened. It was not that she was afraid, though she would have had every justification to be, but that she felt a sense of surprise. The house always seemed full of noise to her even when only her husband and younger daughter were at home with her. The memory of familiar noises, now shockingly absent, overwhelmed her suddenly. No doors banged, no servant clattered about on the tiled kitchen floor, no grandfather clock ticked (and how had the burglars managed to steal that?). The air felt heavy with dust and the unnatural silence was ominous, making her imagine a bomb about to explode.

Hurriedly, she swept down the rest of the stairs and picked up her coat. She could wait no longer for the locksmith and glazier. Instead, she would drop the key off on her way to Pamela’s and trust them to see to the repairs – the house had been burgled, everything worth stealing had already gone. She had no intention of returning until both Edward and all the servants were in residence.

And she was certainly not returning to Priscilla’s.

*

Charlotte felt a great leap of recognition. This, surely could be the room. The ceiling sloped, the wallpaper was yellow, the window had a lace curtain in front of it, there was a small wooden table and upon it a vase of flowers. But the chair was wrong. It was not a wickerwork chair but an uncomfortable wrought-iron chair. And the floor was not right. It was covered in rush matting. But still, the room spoke to her and she was delighted with it, rushing down to her father to urge him to come and see her quarters. He came willingly, and saw what she meant but said gently, ‘There are many rooms such as this, Charlotte. I doubt if this could be the room itself.’

The villa was on a hillside outside Florence, near to Fiesole, and he had been directed to it by an old friend in London before he left. The landlady took English visitors and there was the atmosphere of a private home rather than an hotel which greatly appealed to her clientele, especially Sir Edward. He himself had been given a charming room with a superb view in the direction of Florence. Her view was, if anything, even better than his own and they stood for a moment, lace curtain drawn back, admiring it.

‘I am going to try to draw it, Papa,’ Charlotte said.

‘What, the view?’

‘No, no, this room. I will sit on the bed and try to draw it and perhaps paint it.’

‘A good idea,’ her father said. ‘When will you begin?’

She began the next day, after they had returned from the Uffizi, and discovered at once how hard it was to capture what she wished to capture, and which had been captured for her in the little painting at home. Nothing came out right, either in pencil or charcoal or water-colours. All she produced was a corner of an undistinguished room, rather depressing in its flat ordinariness. Light was the problem. She could not convey the quality of the light, how it made the flowers glow and the table’s surface shine and the wallpaper recede into shadows. There was no sense, either, of herself in this room, or of anyone else. It was empty, of feeling, of human presence, of everything.

She tore her attempts up day after day. It began to hang over her, this self-imposed task, which at first she had been eager to embrace. All she could think of was the painting back home, its perfection, its powerful simplicity, and she yearned to have it with her. But her failed efforts were not entirely in vain. Lying in bed at night, the window before her open and the stars shining in the dark sky, she thought she had learned something about herself on this trip. Art could not give her everything she needed. There was, for her, no real fulfilment in striving to draw or paint. She did not, after all, want to go to the Slade School. She could be moved by art, she could admire and value what artists produced.
She
cared about great art passionately, but she was not an artist. At first, she felt distressed at this growing realisation, and almost panicked at the gap which now opened up in her young life: if not art, what? She felt troubled, trying to invent other ambitions. The romantic image she had been able to envisage for so long was being denied her – she would never, now, starve in a garret or succeed in expressing herself in art.

Emerging for breakfast on the terrace at the end of the week with red eyes, she presented a woeful sight.

‘Why, Charlotte, whatever is the matter, child?’ her father asked, dreading the answer (that Charlotte might fall ill was his greatest worry).

Charlotte sat down at the table and waited until the coffee and fruit and pastries had been brought, and then she shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ she said, and then, ‘everything. I am not an artist, Papa, I am nothing.’

Sir Edward did not mean to, but he laughed. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘someone who is not an artist is not therefore nothing or no one. You did not manage to draw your room to your satisfaction, I take it?’ Charlotte nodded. ‘Well, that is not so surprising, and proves nothing. You are untaught, untrained, only sixteen, and yet you imagine you can match the best. Have some sense, do. And eat up, we must be off.’

‘It is not about failing to paint my room,’ Charlotte protested, a little sullenly.

‘What are these red eyes about, then? They are not becoming.’

‘I cried …’

‘I can see that. And did not sleep, I am sure, very foolish when we have a long day ahead.’

‘I cried out of despair, Papa.’

‘Despair? With what, pray?’

‘Myself, of course. Art is not the answer. I have just realised it.’

‘Try, try, try again.’

‘No. That is my point. I do not wish to try any longer. I think I hate trying.’

‘Then give up, and be done with it. It is not a tragedy.’

‘But it
is
, because now I have nothing to aim for, and I
must
have an aim, something to strive for.’

Sir Edward stared at her. Was there ever such an exasperating, infuriating child? Any other girl would be content to sit in a sunny garden in Florence and simply enjoy being where she was, with an exciting day to look forward to, being squired round the city’s marvels. But not Charlotte. Ludicrous though her tragic face was, he could see her feelings were genuine. He thought back to himself at sixteen and was dismayed to be unable to recall any dissatisfaction with himself at that age. Life had seemed to stretch before him in a set pattern he was content to follow – he had no recollection of the kind of restless, all-consuming desire to know what he should and could make of himself. How old had he been before questioning what he was doing with his life? Thirty, at least. And now here was his youngest daughter driven endlessly to question her path in life – it did not seem right. This tour was not helping her in the least. If anything, the more she travelled, the more she saw, the more anxious about her future she became, and he did not know what to do with her.

‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘perhaps it is time to go home. Rome will keep for another day.’

*

A telegram had arrived from Florence, announcing the early return of the travellers, so Lady Falconer was there to greet them. The few servants who had been retained were summoned back and the process of engaging others had begun. But there was, as Jessie put it to John, ‘an atmosphere’. How would the master react to the burglary? Lady Falconer herself had seemed hardly perturbed, even though all her jewellery had been taken. They were astonished by her evident composure. But the master? Hard to tell. ‘She’ll blame him,’ Jessie said, ‘for going off, you’ll see. She never wanted him and Miss Charlotte to go. She never wanted the house shut up.’

It was early evening when the cab drew up. John rushed to
open
the door and help Miss Charlotte out. He noticed straightaway that she looked different – thinner, but there was some other difference he could not discern. He took hold of some of the luggage and staggered into the house with it. Lady Falconer was standing in the hall, looking almost regal, hands clasped in front of her and back rigidly straight. Sir Edward walked up to her and kissed her cheek. ‘Welcome home,’ she said, but in a distinctly unwelcoming tone.

‘What’s wrong?’ Sir Edward said, immediately. ‘Is Priscilla well? And the baby?’

‘Both well.’

‘Good. And the boys? Yourself?’

‘Perfectly well.’

‘Why, then, the tone?’

At that point, Charlotte came in, setting down the bag she was carrying with a thump.

‘Charlotte! Your hair!’

‘Hello, Mama. My hair? Papa likes it like this.’

‘That is hardly the point. You look quite wild, quite … you look disorderly.’

‘We have been travelling a long time, Mama.’

‘That is no excuse for slovenliness.’

‘It was not meant to be an excuse, merely an explanation. I am so tired and hungry, I might faint at any moment.’

Sir Edward, meanwhile, was staring at the blank wall where the mirror had been. ‘Are you redecorating, Hettie?’ Then he turned and saw that the grandfather clock had gone, and at the same time peered down at the floor, where once the carpet runner had been.

‘No, Edward. The redecorating was done for us.’ Lady Falconer smiled, pleased with her own sarcasm. But her husband was quick. He looked at her sharply and read her expression. She nodded, though he had not asked her a question. Leaving her in the hall he strode off to the library, and she heard his ‘Damn!’ echo through the house.

There was an attempt to keep things calm and controlled, but
Sir
Edward’s fury and distress made this almost impossible. He did not want to hear about the jewellery or the silver or the items of furniture – his sole concern was the theft of his Dutch painting. He would never, he said, be able to replace it. He had been so fortunate, in the first place, to acquire it and would never have another opportunity. It was, his wife thought, though was not so crass as to remark, such a fuss to make about a missing painting. She did, however, venture to point out that no one was dead. And then Charlotte reappeared, to announce that her painting had also been taken. Lady Falconer noticed at once that she did not seem as extravagantly upset as would have been expected.

‘A mistake,’ Sir Edward said. ‘They confused it, they thought it was another Dutch masterpiece, I dare say.’

‘Are thieves so clever?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Do they
know
about art? And what is valuable?’

‘The policeman said that our burglars were clearly discerning,’ Lady Falconer volunteered. ‘He even suggested that they may have stolen to order, as it were. Such thieves do, apparently, exist, taking only the best things.’

‘And what do they do with them?’ Charlotte asked.

‘For heaven’s sake, child,’ snapped her father, ‘what on earth do you suppose they do with them? They sell them, of course. They have buyers waiting. It is all a racket.’