Georgiana Cavendish.’
I sat down very abruptly in the little wicker chair by the desk.
We were in the year 1763.
I knew nothing of a John Boydell who published stipple engravings.
As for the china and porcelain, a lady might draw and paint but she did not produce designs for commercial use.
And my cousin was Lady Georgiana Spencer, not Lady Georgiana Cavendish and she was a sweet child of six years.
Then there was I.A.C.B., the artist who had drawn the portrait… I wrapped my arms about myself to drive away the cold that possessed me. Isabella, Ann and Charlotte were my names, and suddenly I knew with the insight of a soothsayer, a witch, that I was the artist. The Isabella whose work was displayed here inhabited my future…
‘My lady? Madam?’ It was Constance’s voice from beyond the doorway. I jumped like a startled cat. The light was fading again and the pale blue walls seemed to shimmer. I gripped the arm of the chair so that the wood scored my fingers. I needed the reassurance of the pain to convince me I was not in a dream.
Light wavered across the floor and then there was Constance, a branch of candles in her hand. ‘There you are,’ she said, sounding so surprised that the deference had gone from her voice. ‘Why would you sit in here in the dark?’
The room, revealed in the soft golden light, was the one that I knew. The window was the same and the beautiful plaster of the ceiling, but here too the furniture was now covered in cloth and there was nothing on the walls other than an oil of a rather angry-looking dog standing over the prone body of a dead hare. I remembered Eustace telling me that it was a favourite of his father’s.
Constance was still looking at me curiously but she had remembered her manners now. ‘There is food in the drawing room, ma’am,’ she said, ‘if you would care to come through. The water is heating and your chamber is almost ready. Mrs Lunt apologises for the delay and will present herself to you directly.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. I followed her out into the grand bedchamber, glancing back over my shoulder at the little dressing room. It had fallen into darkness.
I.A.C.B.… If this really were me then by the time the portrait was published I would have a different surname. I would be remarried. Eustace would be dead.
The thought gave me enormous pleasure. It warmed me, nurturing the flame of revenge that burned deep inside. I felt new life and energy course through my veins again, just as I had when I had held the golden gown. I decided that whilst I planned Eustace’s demise I would start to draw again.
‘I shall set up my easel in that room tomorrow,’ I said to Constance. ‘The light is perfect for my art. Please talk to Mrs Lunt to make sure it is clean and ready for me in the morning. There is much I need to do.’
Chapter 6
Fenella
Present Day
There was a parcel waiting for Fen on the walnut table in the hall when she arrived home from work on Monday. It was unexpected and she felt her heart contract with a little lurch of fear just as it always did when something unforeseen happened. It felt as though these days she had no protective layer. Everything had been stripped away when she had walked out on her past life and as yet she had not been able to reconstruct herself.
Since Friday night she had felt on edge anyway, jumping at shadows. She knew she must have imagined seeing Jake. He lived in Berlin these days, or so she had been told. Yet just the thought that she could summon up his ghost so easily, chilled her. She had spent the day trying to forget, immersed in work, the seminars and tutorials with her students, discussions on design ideas with colleagues, her research. The routine and familiarity had restored some of her equilibrium but term was ending and soon the college corridors would be echoing and empty through the long weeks of summer. She already felt lonely and vulnerable.
‘There’s a special delivery for you,’ her landlord said. He had come out of his own flat when he heard the main door open. He had a mop in his hand but Fen knew he had no intention of cleaning the tiled hall. For a start it was spotless, and secondly, he employed a whole team of cleaners to service the flats. It was part of the rental agreement.
‘It was lucky I was here to sign for it,’ he said. ‘Otherwise they would have taken it away again.’
‘Thanks,’ Fen said. She hadn’t talked to him much in the six months she had been back in Swindon. She knew he was called Dave and that he shared his flat with a male partner and that he ran a small property empire from within the elegant Georgian building. That was about all, other than that he used the mop as an excuse to engage the tenants in conversation whenever he heard the door open.
‘It’s postmarked Norfolk,’ Dave said. He waited, clearly hoping for some information in return.
Fen glanced at the scrawled address which looked as though it had been written in a hurry by someone who couldn’t give a toss whether the parcel arrived at its destination or not. She thought it odd to send it special delivery if they couldn’t even be bothered with a proper postcode. Then she realised that it was Pepper’s writing, which explained everything. Pepper’s life was one long impatient scrawl.
‘It’s from my sister,’ she said.
‘Lives there, does she?’ Dave’s eyebrows waggled with excitement.
‘No,’ Fen said. ‘She’s clearing out my grandmother’s cottage in Hunstanton. Gran died a couple of months ago.’
‘Condolences.’ Dave rubbed vigorously at an imaginary spot on the coloured tiles. ‘I hope she had a good innings?’
‘She did, thanks,’ Fen said. It was hard to speak about Sarah without feeling a multitude of emotions, of which grief and regret were very close to the top of the list. Everything had gone wrong with their relationship. When Fen had reached sixteen she had headed out into the world like a bird freed from a cage. She had only wanted a bit of breathing space after the claustrophobic years of caring for Sarah but no one had understood. Her family had thought she was an ingrate. Sarah wrote her vitriolic letters accusing her of wilful cruelty. Even Pepper had called her selfish.
‘Really, darling,’ her mother had said plaintively, from an archaeological dig in Greece, ‘you’re throwing away all your future chances without a decent education. No one who leaves school at sixteen has a hope in hell of making anything of themselves. And what about your grandmother? Who’s supposed to care for her now you’ve gone? I’ve had to call in an army of carers and that is so expensive!’
Fen had felt bad about that, abandoning Sarah to flea markets and the bottle, but it had felt as though something might snap in her head if she didn’t get out. Jessie, knowing something was wrong even though Fen hadn’t spilled the details, had tried to persuade her to go to stay with them so that she could carry on at school, but Fen had needed to get right away, put some distance between her and Swindon for a while. Kesia had a cousin in London and Fen had gone to stay with her, got a job as a waitress and moved from job to job, rented flat to rented flat, until she had met Jake, an importer of luxury goods, and he had helped her get work as a secretary. It wasn’t what she wanted to do for ever but she had only been twenty and she had thought there would be plenty of time to decide on a proper future, and whatever her
