to my daughter, Jessica, who played Yann Tiersen’s Rue des Cascades on the piano as theme music while Cameo raced through the streets of London to find Benedict, and to my husband, James, who always makes London magical.
Contents
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Historical Note
‘Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’ (1842)
‘On that veil’d picture—veil’d, for what it holds
May not be dwelt on by the common day.
This prelude has prepared thee.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
London 1852
Cameo pressed the letter to her lips.
Beneath her carefully crafted, polite phrases would he read her hopes and dreams in each line?
Through the open window she stared out past the silhouette of the ash tree into the starry night beyond, as if by will she summoned him to reply. Beyond, by the light of the moon, she made out in front of the house the darkened grassy garden of the square with its plane trees, the high black wrought-iron railings encircling the snowdrops and daffodils. She felt caged in the house, like a bird who longed to be free. She wanted to be out in the world, to be part of it all. To learn. To paint. To live.
With a sigh she closed the velvet curtains and retreated into her bedroom. On her dressing table the candle flickered. The flame leapt high, with its orange, red and yellow tongue, its vivid blue centre. If only she could learn to capture such passionate colours with her paints!
He did.
Benedict Cole.
That was his name. She’d stared at it, scrawled in black paint at the corner of the canvas.
She’d discovered his passion and power when she’d seen his painting at the Royal Academy of Art. It had stopped her in her tracks, her breath shuddering.
The work was marvellous. The subject was simple, a woman holding sheaves of wheat. But the subject of the painting wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the strokes of his brush.
As if his paintbrush stroked her skin.
As if it touched her heart.
There was a secret in that painting, as if it held a message, as if it spoke directly to her. She...recognised it. That was it. Somehow, she understood the soul of the artist who had painted that picture. The effect on her had been extraordinary. She wanted to stand in front of it for hours, soaking in the colours, the textures, his use of light. She returned again and again to view it.
Benedict Cole must teach her. She knew it. She needed to learn everything he knew. Only he could free her hands and the emotions locked inside her. Only he could show her how to put them on paper, on canvas, with charcoal, with paint, until the work came to life.
She must find a way.
Now at last she’d gathered up her courage to write to him.
She yearned to pour out all her hopes and dreams in the letter, her longings and desires. But her phrases remained stilted. Draft after draft, pen staining her fingers, she’d tried to find the right words to ask his consent to give her lessons and that she would pay him handsomely for his time.
And
