I looked at him in horror. I didn’t want an audience while I painted. And I certainly didn’t want a man – a handsome man – at my shoulder. I was shy and uncomfortable around strangers at the best of times, and unknown men made me very uneasy.
‘Please carry on,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘I’d love to see how you compose your work.’
Feeling self-conscious, but not wanting to argue, I picked up my brush again. I tried to carry on painting the waves, but I couldn’t concentrate knowing Mr Forrest was watching. I felt his eyes on me, hot as sunlight, and my hand shook as I dabbed the paint on the paper.
I took a breath. ‘I don’t wish to be rude, sir,’ I said. ‘But would you mind continuing on your walk?’
I couldn’t believe I’d spoken my mind so bluntly. But I was horribly aware that the time was ticking on and before I knew it, Father would be home and my chance to paint outdoors would be over.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss …’
I managed a half-smile. ‘Hargreaves. Violet Hargreaves.’
‘Miss Hargreaves, please accept my most humble apologies for interrupting you.’ Mr Forrest patted the rock next to him. ‘I know your time is precious, but I wonder if we could talk a while. I’m very interested in the arts and I think we may be useful to one another.’
He flashed me a dazzling smile and I found myself thinking again how handsome he was. Despite my longing to be painting, I sat down next to him and arranged my skirt around my ankles. It was warm on the beach and I suddenly had an urge to pull off my petticoat and run into the cool sea. I shot a shy glance at my companion, wondering what he would do if I did.
‘I have many friends in London who are interested in art,’ he was saying.
‘Yes?’ I said, politely.
Mr Forrest looked out across the sea, as though he were trying to remember something. ‘There is John Everett …’ He paused and I couldn’t resist jumping in.
‘Millais,’ I said. ‘Do you mean John Everett Millais?’
Mr Forrest gave me another dazzling smile. I felt a bit dizzy and wondered if it was the effect of too much sun.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Are you familiar with his work?’
I was sure my heart stopped, just for a moment. I almost couldn’t speak. He knew Millais? My hero? ‘Millais?’ I gasped. ‘Of course I know his work.’
‘I know he is always keen to nurture young talent. So, I was wondering, do you have more?’ Mr Forrest asked. ‘More paintings like this?’
I nodded. I had three that were finished and many more sketches. My head was whirling.
‘Could I take them to show John?’
‘Show him my paintings?’ I stammered.
‘I think he’d be very interested,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘He and the rest of the Brotherhood are always searching for interesting painters.’
‘I know it’s hard for women,’ I said, feeling like I should be honest from the start. Despite my daydreams, I was painfully aware my options were limited. ‘There aren’t many female artists.’
‘No,’ Mr Forrest said, thoughtfully. ‘But I believe there are a couple. I read just the other day about one Elizabeth …’
Once more, I thought I might faint. ‘Elizabeth?’ I said. ‘Lizzie Siddal?’
‘Yes, she was a model but I read she’s painting now,’ said Mr Forrest, telling me nothing I didn’t already know, but somehow it had more authority when it came from this man. ‘Apparently, she’s even got that critic, Ruskin, interested in her work.’
He glanced at me.
‘John says she’s rather good,’ he said, in an offhand manner. Oh how I longed for someone to discuss my work in such a matter-of-fact way. I couldn’t believe that this man, this handsome, charming man, was talking about my art in the same breath as he discussed my heroine Lizzie Siddal. I felt like all my dreams were finally coming true, as though all the hours painting alone in my studio, listening with dread for Father’s tread on the stairs, were not for nothing. I was not going to let convention stop me telling Mr Forrest exactly how I felt.
With my heart in my mouth, I explained how much I wanted to go to London and become part of the art world. If I could just find a patron, I said, someone who believed in me, and who would take care of the bills while I could paint, then I could go.
Mr Forrest smiled. ‘Dear girl,’ he said. ‘You certainly have the talent. I’m due in London later this month. Perhaps I could take one of your paintings with me then?’
I agreed at once, though I had no idea what Father would think if he found out. Could I possibly do this behind his back?
‘Should I speak to your parents?’ Mr Forrest said.
‘No,’ I almost shouted, before I collected myself. ‘My mother is dead,’ I explained. ‘Father is, well, he doesn’t think I should paint.’
Mr Forrest nodded in understanding. ‘Some older people still think women shouldn’t have a voice.’ He put his hand close to mine where it lay on the rock. ‘I disagree. I think you’ve got something very special, Miss Hargreaves. Let me mould that.’
I was giddy with joy. I looked out at the sea and allowed myself a little shiver of pleasure. This was it. Finally my life was beginning.
1855
Frances
Frances was climbing the stairs when she saw him out of the staircase window. He was sitting on a rock with a girl, who couldn’t be more than twenty, and who was gazing at him with adoring eyes.
She sighed. They’d only lived here a few weeks. Was it really starting again so soon?
Slowly, she carried on up the stairs into her dressing room. She couldn’t see the beach from this window so she couldn’t torment herself by watching him. Instead she sat down at her dressing table and examined herself in the mirror. Tilting her head, she looked at the bruising on her neck. It was definitely fading, finally. She pulled her dress down and leaned closer to the mirror. The marks on her collarbone and chest were fading too. She felt a wave of relief that she’d got away with it again.
She let her hand drift down on to her stomach, still flat, and thought of the tiny life flickering inside her. This time would be different. This time she would be careful. She shuddered as she remembered Edwin’s face when she told him she was pregnant last time. He’d said nothing then, simply stared at her with no expression in his cold, blue eyes. But later, when he came home from his club, brandy on his breath and fire in his belly, she knew she’d made a mistake.
The first punch – to the back of her head as she went to leave the room – sent her sprawling across the couch. And when she begged, ‘Please, Edwin, the baby …’ rage flared in his eyes. He hit her again and as she fell on the floor, he kicked her hard in the stomach. Sobbing, she crawled into the corner of the room and curled into a ball, while Edwin read the paper by the fire and ignored her quiet whimpers.
But when she felt a gush of blood between her legs and, despite her efforts, cried out, he was contrite. Back to his charming self, he carried her upstairs and tucked her into bed, smoothing her forehead and covering her with kisses.
‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll try again. I’m sorry, my darling.’
When the doctor came, Edwin was every inch