Page 22

Chapter 21

Emily clutched her sketchbook and box of charcoal sticks to her chest as she rushed through the front doors of the Blake-Fletchley Academy of the Arts and navigated the teeming corridor beyond. February’s bitter wind followed her inside, the draught sending a discarded scrap of paper skating across the floorboards. The distinct scent of turpentine hung in the air, mingling with the muskier odour of young men who smoked often and seldom washed.

The tide of male students parted around her, no longer with the exaggerated shock they’d displayed in January, but still with lingering glances that ranged from admiring to disapproving. She had learned to steel herself against both varieties and held her chin high as she hurried forwards, quickening her pace even further at the sight of a familiar brown bonnet ahead.

‘Jane!’

The other woman turned, her expression filling with relief as she shifted her drawing case from one hand to the other. Emily and Jane were that term’s only new female students, a shared circumstance that had swiftly united them among the sea of dark coats and sceptical stares.

‘I was beginning to think you’d been deterred by the weather,’ Jane said as Emily fell into step beside her. A particularly strong gust rattled the windows, as if to emphasise her point.

‘And miss today’s lesson?’ Emily said. ‘After all Mr Parrish’s hints about a special demonstration, I would have fought through a blizzard to get here.’

Jane laughed, and they hastened in the direction of Room Eight, Emily’s mind racing with possibilities. Throughout the past week, their drawing master had been dropping tantalising suggestions about a novel technique he was eager to share. She and Jane had debated at length over what it might be, and even their fellow students had lost some of their aloofness in their animated speculation.

When they reached the classroom, they found it already crowded and buzzing with an air of expectancy. Their male peers had claimed the prime positions, their easels forming a circle around the open space in the middle of the room. Emily and Jane were forced to weave their way to the back, where they found two spare seats behind a hulking fellow whose broad shoulders obscured half their view.

Mr Parrish swept in moments later and strode to the room’s centre. He was followed by a handsome youth wrapped in a long robe, whose graceful posture drew Emily’s eye at once. He assumed a position to the right of Mr Parrish, his spine erect and his shoulders back, holding himself with seemingly effortless poise.

‘Gentlemen!’ Mr Parrish clapped his hands together, his face alight with enthusiasm. ‘Today, we break from our usual static poses. The human figure in motion—that is our challenge!’

Appreciative murmurs rippled through the room, and Emily and Jane exchanged a glance of excitement.

‘Our assistant in this undertaking’ – Mr Parrish indicated the youth, who arched a delicate eyebrow but didn’t speak – ‘is trained in the balletic arts. He will demonstrate a series of athletic stances, each held for mere minutes. You must learn to capture the essence of movement, the tension in the muscles and—’

The hulking fellow shifted sideways in his seat and the drawing master broke off, his mouth slackening when his gaze landed upon Emily and Jane. The room fell quiet. Emily felt heat creep up her neck as twenty pairs of male eyes turned towards them.

‘Ladies,’ Mr Parrish spluttered. ‘You are not meant to be—highly inappropriate—under no circumstances can you be permitted to…’

He gestured fretfully at the young man beside him, and Emily comprehended that the youth must be naked beneath his robe, or, if not, nearly so. She also realised what an extraordinary opportunity this would be to practise life drawing, not just on a hand or a face but on the whole human form. To study its raw lines and curves, free from the distortion of garments, would be an experience of immeasurable value to her artistic education. Desperately, she looked around, yearning for a champion to intervene on her and Jane’s behalf. The youth appeared unperturbed at the prospect of baring his body to female eyes, but disapproval radiated from every other countenance in sight.

Mr Parrish coughed loudly. ‘Mrs Carey, Miss Lyndon, arrangements have already been made for you in Room Twelve down the hall. Kindly proceed there so we may commence without delay.’

Emily’s grip tightened on her box of charcoal sticks. Words of protest rose in her throat, only to clog there as the hulking fellow swivelled on his seat and smirked at them. The idea of attracting even more attention to themselves, with the same inevitable conclusion, made her stomach churn.

Jane was already getting to her feet and snatching up her drawing case, her movements sharp with suppressed anger. Emily followed suit, sensing the weight of scrutiny and derision upon them. As they made their undignified exit, she was painfully reminded of her former schoolmaster, the repulsive Mr Miller. Mr Parrish might not have taken a leather strap to her palms, but his message was the same: ‘You are inferior. You are unworthy.’

They proceeded in silence to Room Twelve, which was smaller, colder, and smelled of dust. In the centre before two lonely easels stood their consolation prize: a marble statue, its lifeless shape half hidden beneath an artfully draped swathe of cloth. The fabric concealed more of the figure than it revealed, as if even an exposed chest made of stone might prove too shocking for feminine sensibilities.

‘Well,’ Jane said, her voice tight, ‘we’re certainly guaranteed that this model won’t move from his position.’

Emily stared at the statue’s blank expression, thinking of the dynamic poses they were missing, the vital knowledge denied them. How were they ever to capture the true essence of the human form when they were restricted to studying this cold, partial echo of it?

‘True, he won’t move,’ she said. ‘And neither shall we, if we continue to endure the limitations put upon us.’

She tried to say it with audacity, as though she might whirl around, march back to Room Eight and insist on being allowed to participate in the lesson.

But her courage failed and she just stepped up to one of the easels in resignation.

Later that day, she scurried along the busy streets of Harrogate, heading north-east in the direction of the nearby village of Bilton, where her friend Louise Shelby resided. The icy wind stung her cheeks with the promise of imminent snow, and she hoped she would make it back before it started to fall. Perhaps if it had arrived earlier, she would have been obliged to remain at Louise’s home that morning and thus would have avoided the day’s humiliation.

How she yearned to confide in Rory. She knew he would be outraged on her behalf, even though what had happened was in reality nothing more than could be expected. The fact that Blake-Fletchley had opened its doors to her and Jane at all was remarkable enough – of course the institution’s grudging acceptance would come wrapped in constraints, their presence merely tolerated and not deemed equal to their male counterparts. Still, in his unwavering loyalty, Rory would dismiss such rationalisation and call her drawing master a ‘bloody idiot’.

Then she felt a twinge of guilt for being so engrossed in her personal concerns when Rory was carrying heavy burdens of his own. The previous week, on her first visit back to Bewley Hall since she had commenced her studies at Blake-Fletchley, he had divulged the dreadful truth of Tommy Jones’s abuse and the confrontation that had taken place at Penny Close. She had beheld the lingering bruises on his throat with horror and thanked God that he and her father had escaped with their lives. Now, having uprooted Maud and her three children from their home, Rory was anxious to see them safely settled. Emily’s father had secured them a cottage in Gildham, which had been recently left vacant after the passing of its elderly occupant, a neighbour of the redoubtable lacemaker Ethel Cobb. Rory hoped that Maud’s sewing skills might serve her well in this new situation – Ethel’s granddaughter had agreed to help her learn the intricacies of machine lacemaking, while Maud’s children were to attend the small school in the village. Emily deeply admired her husband’s compassion towards the woman, even as she comprehended how uncomfortably it conflicted with his fierce loyalty to his mother.

A few snowflakes swirled in the freezing wind and she tucked her sketchbook inside her cloak to protect it…not that today’s sketches had been particularly inspiring. Dusk was descending quickly; loath to be out unaccompanied after dark, she pressed onwards into the quieter, more rural area of Bilton. Louise dwelled there in her parents’ modest home, to which she had returned following the death of her husband, Roger, in America, not long after they had emigrated together.

Emily could have afforded to bring her lady’s maid to Yorkshire and to lodge somewhere more refined, perhaps even nearer to the academy, but the chance to strengthen her friendship with Louise, and to spend time with her adorable daughter Philippa, outweighed most other considerations. Louise’s parents, Mr and Mrs Fielding, had welcomed Emily with great kindness, aware of how she and Louise had become close companions aboard the Integrity . They politely rebuffed her offer to pay rent, but they were amenable to accepting odd gifts here or there, such as a new rug for the hallway or a footstool for the parlour. Emily’s father had also arranged for a steady supply of coal to be delivered by the local merchant throughout the colder months. The result of this arrangement was a pleasantly warm house in both temperature and atmosphere.

The snow grew thicker just as Emily opened the front gate of the Fieldings’ little garden. She paused to brush the accumulating flakes from her cloak before letting herself into the house. The first sound she heard when she entered was the unmistakable cry of a fractious child.

‘Won’t!’

The pitch of distress was enough to pull at her heartstrings. She hastened into the parlour to find Louise sitting at the square table, a plate of mash cooling in front of her as she tried to coax four-year-old Philippa into opening her mouth for a spoonful. The child, however, twisted sideways in her chair, her curls bouncing as she shook her head vigorously, her lips sealed tight.

‘Please, pet,’ Louise implored, and Emily detected the frayed edge to her voice. ‘Eat your dinner and I’ll tell you the story again about how you were born on the big ship.’

Philippa pouted in a manner quite unlike her usually sunny nature. ‘It’s lumpy.’

‘It’s not,’ Louise said, holding the spoon steady. ‘I made it for you myself. Just two more bites.’

‘Not hungry!’

Louise glanced over her shoulder, caught Emily’s eye, and gave her an exasperated grimace. ‘I hope your day’s been going better than mine.’

Emily laughed lightly. ‘I can assure you it has not.’

Footsteps sounded out in the hall and Mrs Fielding came bustling into the room, carrying an armful of clothing.

‘Evening, Emily, love. I’m glad you got back afore the worst of that snow sets in.’ She surveyed the battle being waged over the plate of mash. ‘Still not eating?’ She tutted. ‘Reckon she’s coming down with a cold. She’s been sniffing ever since you took her walking on the Stray without her scarf—I’ll tell you that for nowt.’

Louise closed her eyes briefly and Emily sensed that this was not the first time today that Mrs Fielding had aired her opinion. Taking a controlled breath, Louise turned back to her daughter.

‘Philippa, pet, if you don’t eat up, you won’t get anything else until breakfast tomorrow.’

‘Fine!’ Philippa agreed.

Mrs Fielding crossed the parlour to her chair by the fire, murmuring, ‘Might as well starve the poor lass.’

Louise threw her a sharp look but Mrs Fielding didn’t seem to notice as she sat down, propped her feet up on the footstool in front of her, and started to sort through the pile of clothing in her lap. Emily perceived the anomalous current of tension within the room and wondered just how bad Louise’s day had been. Mumbling an excuse about putting away her belongings, she retreated to her bedroom – a tiny room on the ground floor that smelled like it had once served as the pipe-loving Mr Fielding’s sanctuary – to set down her sketchbook and remove her cloak and boots. As she withdrew the box of charcoal sticks from her pocket, she resolved to push her own disappointment to the back of her mind and endeavour to bring some cheer to the household.

Half an hour later, the snow was falling in earnest beyond the window, but the cosy room within resounded with giggles as Philippa delighted in the amusing sketches Emily created for her: the little girl’s curly head topped with a crown of fluttering birds, her mother flying above the grassy Stray with a pair of wings instead of arms, her grandfather smoking a pipe ten times larger than himself. The mash still remained uneaten, but Louise’s expression was nonetheless full of gratitude as she sat in the chair opposite her mother, working on the mending which Mrs Fielding had identified from the pile of clothes.

‘Another one!’ Philippa chirped, her small finger pointing eagerly. ‘Do Gran!’

Emily smiled. ‘Good idea. While I’m drawing her, will you have a spoon of mash?’

‘Not hungry!’

Emily peered over at Louise, who shrugged as if to say, ‘Well, it was worth a try.’ With an answering nod of resignation, Emily began her next sketch. Philippa sniffed and swiped the back of her hand under her nose before leaning her arms on the table to follow Emily’s progress.

As the charcoal stick darted across the page, Louise cleared her throat. ‘Did something unpleasant happen today at the academy?’ she asked, glancing from her darning needle up to Emily and back down again.

Emily grimaced. ‘I suppose you could say that.’

Not wanting to dampen the newly cheerful mood, she kept her tone as blithe as possible as she described what had taken place in Room Eight at Blake-Fletchley. She chose her words carefully so that Philippa’s young ears wouldn’t pick up on the gravity of the incident, while she privately wondered whether such female constraints would have eased at all by the time the girl became a woman. She supposed that a more liberated future was doubtful so long as women continued to wear their shackles without protest, just as she and Jane had done.

Shame pricked at her, and yet she didn’t know how else she could have responded to the situation. Had she planted herself on her seat and refused to move, she likely would have been expelled for her misconduct.

Was she greedy to crave equality with the male students as part of her admittance to the institution? It wasn’t as though all artistic avenues were closed off to her – she had other options aside from life drawing that could be just as fulfilling.

‘I am resolved not to be discouraged,’ she said aloud, looking up from her sketch. ‘I have passionate interests in other areas such as portraiture and still life, and perhaps even landscapes. I’ve also been practising a great deal with oils and I mean to continue to improve my technique.’

‘You seem reet determined,’ remarked Mrs Fielding, as she examined a smock of Philippa’s with a rip at its hem. ‘I wager nowt will get in your way in the long run.’

‘Indeed!’ Emily said with spirit. ‘I am prepared to devote my entire life to my art.’

Louise blinked but didn’t comment, her gaze focused on threading her needle through the heel of a stocking.

With a final sweeping gesture, Emily completed the sketch – a depiction of Mrs Fielding pouring a cup of tea for a fox wearing a smart waistcoat – and Philippa clapped her hands with glee. Snatching it up, she ran over to show her grandmother, smudging the charcoal in her haste.

‘Look, Gran!’

‘Well now, isn’t that reet grand!’ Mrs Fielding exclaimed. Then she clicked her tongue. ‘You’ve got charcoal all over your fingers, you silly lass. Between that and your runny nose, I reckon we need to fetch you a hanky.’

She pulled herself up out of the chair with a grunt and ushered Philippa from the parlour, the little girl still clutching the sketch and beaming as her nose dripped. Emily couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of loss at her departure – it seemed like the light in the room dimmed without her bright presence. When Emily looked away from the parlour door, she found Louise observing her.

‘You’re very good with Philippa,’ said Louise. ‘So kind and patient.’

‘She’s a gem,’ Emily replied softly. ‘What a joy she brings to your life.’ She tried but failed to keep the longing from her voice.

Louise let her mending drop into her lap. ‘You so dearly wish to be a mother.’

‘I do,’ Emily admitted.

‘But do you understand what that entails? What you’d have to sacrifice?’

Emily stared at her blankly.

Louise leaned forwards in her chair, her expression tender. ‘I consider you a beloved friend, and so I feel compelled to alert you to the blind point in your vision. You cherish two distinct ambitions, but can’t you see that you’ll only ever be able to realise one of them? If you pursue excellence in your art, it will demand so much from you that you will have no time to raise a family. If you choose motherhood, your artistic dream will wither from neglect.’

Emily opened her mouth to object, but Louise shook her head to cut her off.

‘What do you think I have been doing all day?’ she said, throwing her hands up in mild exasperation. ‘My daughter woke me before the sun rose, and from that moment I gave her every ounce of my attention: I made her breakfast, washed her clothes, brought her out for a walk, read to her. More than an hour was taken up with our struggle over dinner. Right now, I am mending her stockings. Tonight, we must set up the bath before she goes to bed and that is an ordeal of its own kind. Has there been even a minute of my day devoted to myself?’

Emily’s insides shrivelled. She comprehended Louise’s well-intentioned reasoning for speaking her mind, but how her bluntness stung – not least because Emily could recognise the truth in her words, the truth to which she had unconsciously turned a blind eye.

Before she could find her voice to respond, Louise hurried on. ‘I’m not saying this to hurt you, nor because I feel sorry for myself. My life is very different to what I’d once imagined it would be—there’s no denying that. I’m a widow living with my parents and sometimes that is stifling.’ Her posture slumped. ‘Every now and then, when I have a particularly difficult day, I do wonder whether I might have thrived if I had stayed in America, even after Roger died. I was educated to a greater degree than my parents, and I think I could have been a good teacher. But I came back home to Yorkshire and have long since resigned myself to that choice.’ She stroked the stocking in her lap and her expression lifted with fondness. ‘Still, when all is said and done, Philippa is my beginning and my end, no matter where I live, and I wouldn’t change that for the world. I don’t have any grand ambition beyond being the very best mother I can be.’ She glanced up. ‘You, on the other hand…’

Emily swallowed. ‘I understand what you are saying,’ she said, scarcely louder than a whisper, ‘and I have to confess that it had never occurred to me before now. Gracious, how utterly foolish of me.’

‘I didn’t mean to imply that you are foolish,’ Louise said, her gaze earnest. ‘I don’t believe that at all. Only a bit short-sighted, perhaps.’

Emily wished she could laugh it off, but she didn’t feel capable of mustering even a weak chuckle. Her stomach twisted as she realised that she had never given proper thought to how she would balance both of the aspirations she had nurtured for so long. Was it, as Louise stated, impossible? Would she either have to put her art aside to raise a family, or sacrifice family to fulfil her own potential?

She gulped as a memory stirred: her mother admiring her still life painting in the parlour, gently urging her to find time to nurture her gift even when other blessings came into her life. At the time, Emily had taken the remark at face value, missing the quiet caution tucked within it. Now, with Louise’s words echoing in her ears, she finally comprehended what her mother had been trying to tell her.

‘I know your circumstances are different to mine,’ Louise said delicately, ‘and maybe when you have a baby you intend to hire someone to take care of all the daily time-consuming tasks on your behalf. But then why would you desire a child so much if not to relish looking after every aspect of his or her wellbeing?’

Emily flushed at the idea that her privileged situation might lead her to transfer the more burdensome parts of motherhood to a servant. Before she could ask herself whether she would be prepared to do this, Mrs Fielding and Philippa re-entered the parlour and her heart leapt at the sight of the little girl. It was uncanny how the child prompted such a visceral reaction of tenderness and protectiveness in her.

How could she ever forego the possibility of bearing one of her own?

And yet, how could she give up the artistic dream she had yearned to attain since she was a child herself?

Dispiritedly, she had to acknowledge that both of her goals were, at present, beyond her control. Her body refused to cooperate in one pursuit, while the gatekeepers of the art world dictated the other, leaving her powerless to shape her own destiny in either realm.

Her breath snagged in her throat.

What if she would accomplish neither in her lifetime?

Philippa trotted across the room, her curls bobbing gaily about her head. She climbed into Louise’s lap, knocking her mending to the floor, and wrapped her arms affectionately around her mother’s neck.

‘I’m hungry,’ she declared.

Louise sighed and cast Emily a lopsided smile. Emily did her very best to smile back.