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- Herausgeber: Little Tiger Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Serie: Following Ophelia
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
In the gossip-fuelled world of Victorian London, Persephone Lavelle is the name on everyone's lips. As Mary's secret identity is exposed and rumours fly, she flees the scandal by escaping to Venice. Lost among the twisting alleyways and shadowy canals she encounters a mysterious, masked young man. He offers her the world, but at what price?
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Praise for Following Ophelia:
“A vivid portrait of Pre-Raphaelite glamour and the perils of beauty, desire and independence.” Anna McKerrow, author of Crow Moon
“Love love LOVED Following Ophelia. Brilliantly done.” Catherine Johnson, author of The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo
“Sophia has conjured up a world as alive with colour and texture and beauty and rebellion as the paintings that she references.” Perdita Cargill, author of Waiting for Callback
“A dreamy, romantic novel about a young woman becoming embroiled in the Pre-Raphaelite art scene… I’m very happy to learn that this is the first in the series, as … there’s so much more I want to know and see through Mary’s eyes.” Melinda Salisbury, author of The Sin Eater’s Daughter
“This is Bennett’s first historical fiction title, and she does a wonderful job with the glamour, scandal and dresses of the period.” Fiona Noble, The Bookseller
“The pomp. The flair. The excess. The detail. Nothing was missed and it made for such an enthralling read.” Behind on Books
“Following Ophelia paints a vivid tapestry of the world of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood… (Mary) holds her own in a new and intimidating world of flamboyant, talented men brilliantly… I can’t wait for the next book in this series!” Lauren James, author of The Next Together
“Atmospheric and evocative Following Ophelia by @sophiabennett has all the right ingredients and leaves you wanting more.” Rhian Ivory, author of The Boy Who Drew the Future
“In a story filled with glamour and excitement, Bennett paints her own portrait of 1850s London, its fusty interiors and filthy streets, describing Victorian clothes – her own passion – in particularly wonderful detail.” Andrea Reece, LoveReading4Kids
“Sophia Bennett’s familiar tone means that this would be a fantastic start for fans of contemporary who are looking to try something new. The writing is beautiful and slightly decadent, rich with research and passion.” Tea Party Princess
“Adored it. Beautifully written, evocative and gripping. (And I want more.)” Keris Stainton, author of Starring Kitty
To Emily, Sophie, Freddie and Tom. Happy ever after.
Contents
PART I
SERENISSIMA
Chapter One
My dearest Persephone,
Oh, how you must curse me, and how sorry I am! I haven’t written to you in an age. All I can say is I have been so busy! And I have much news. More of which in a minute…
But meanwhile I’ve heard so much about you. Even here in St Petersburg (yes, that’s where Mama has brought me) news travels, if it is worth travelling. And now it is all news of magnificent Persephone Lavelle of Mayfair, who is much admired and is sitting for Millais himself, I hear. Is that really true?
You must be wondering why I’m in Russia. Mama and Papa brought me here to meet a young gentleman they have been in contact with for a while. Indeed, I used to know him as a child. His name is Lord Arthur Malmesbury and he is very grand. His father is a duke (!!) but I always thought of little Arthur as my partner in crime when Iwasa girl in pinafores. How strange to think that now he is twenty-three, a diplomat flitting about Europe for the Queen, and eminently dashing.
Have you guessed? Mama and Papa were hoping that I would like grown-up Arthur, and that he would like me too. He has heard all about me. Much of it good, apparently, because, dear M Persephone, he wants to marry me! And he is so enchanting. Of course, I hardly ever get to see him here in Russia because Mama will not go out in the snow, and I must wait until he calls on us and then it is only for half an hour each day… But half an hour is enough, because he is as handsome as Prince Albert in his youth, and charming and courteous and… oh, I mustn’t bore you. But I am so happy. And I have told him all about you. He loves the sound of your adventures as much as I do (isn’t he a delight?) and he can’t wait to meet you.
Soon we depart for Venice, where dear Arthur (may I call him ‘dear’ yet? I think I shall anyway!) has a mission for the Prime Minister, and has invited us all to come too. How I long for you to join me there! Oh, the larks we could have! Think how much more enjoyable your company would be than that of dear old Aunt Violet, or Mama, who gets seasick and won’t even ride in a gondola! If only you weren’t so busy in London I would positively insist that you come.
Be happy for me, Persephone. As I am for you.
À bientôt. I kiss the paper and send fond wishes.
Your loving
Kitty
Mary risked wearing out the soles of her silk slippers as she paced the carpet of her drawing room, reading Kitty’s letter for the hundredth time. Since it arrived over a month ago she had opened it so often that she had worn holes in the folds. Daylight shone through, underlining certain phrases.
dear M Persephone, he wants to marry me!
How I long for you to join me there!
The crossed-out ‘M’ was telling. When they first met in the spring, she was Mary Adams, scullery maid. But with Kitty Ballard’s help, Mary had transformed herself into Persephone Lavelle, the newest, brightest Pre-Raphaelite artists’ muse and the talk of London. Still, Kitty had not heard all Mary’s news. As autumn turned to winter, London had become a place Mary was desperate to escape.
The city contained Felix Dawson, the only man she really wanted to be with. But thanks to a dark bargain she had made, he was the one man she must never see again. Saved by a young admirer called Rupert Thornton she was now, at seventeen, a kept woman with a rich protector, a wardrobe of fine silks and a broken heart.
Though she had lived there less than a year, London was full of shallow gossip and memories that chafed like grazes on her skin. By contrast, Venice glistened exotically in Mary’s imagination. She had written back instantly, offering to visit Kitty as soon as she could. But that had been in November and now Christmas was approaching. Kitty must have received her note ages ago but still there was no reply.
Mary retrieved the letter from its hiding place each morning. Last summer Kitty had been her fondest companion, the society girl who enjoyed the company of an artists’ model. Then Mary’s life had unravelled. Professor Aitken and his wife, for whom she worked as a scullery maid in Pimlico, had discovered her secret artistic assignations and sacked her on the spot. With nowhere else to go she had been taken in, against all propriety, by Rupert. And Kitty had gone silent. After weeks without contact, Mary had assumed the worst. What well-brought-up, rich Mayfair girl would stay loyal to such an outrageous creature? But the letter had made it clear – Kitty was loyal, and merely busy with her own love story. Mary had been wrong ever to doubt her.
So, Kitty was to marry a duke? Or at least the son of one. Was he the eldest? She didn’t say. Dear, sweet Kitty who was caught up so much in the romance that she neglected to mention whether or not she was set to become a duchess one day.
Mary was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear footsteps on the stairs. The sudden knock at the apartment door startled her. She was about to slide the letter back in its usual spot – between the pages of a book of Shakespeare plays – when her housekeeper appeared.
“Mr O’Bryan, ma’am.”
Mary relaxed. She had no secrets from Eddie O’Bryan. His big sister Annie had been her fellow maid in Pimlico. Despite the fact that he had once tried to blackmail her, he was now her favourite visitor. A ‘lady’, she reflected, did not receive young gentlemen unaccompanied. But Persephone Lavelle was no ‘lady’ and had no reputation to defend. She may as well take advantage of it.
“Show him in, Mrs Howard.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary suspected the housekeeper disapproved but she didn’t show it.
Eddie strode into the parlour with his usual swagger, dressed in natty tweeds whose cut and style belied the fact that they were cheap and second-hand. Following Annie, he had come to the big city from Ireland to make something of himself. He was still working on it, scraping a living as a bare-knuckle boxer and in various jobs Mary didn’t want to enquire about too closely. He bowed so extravagantly low that he brushed the floor with the cap clutched in his hand.
“Milady.”
He was being ironic, as usual. Eddie still thought it funny to see the girl his sister used to boss around in the scullery now dressed in coral silk, with turquoises in her ears. Mary smiled and shook her head. “Don’t tease me.”
“That wasn’t teasing! I am the soul of politeness, I think you’ll find. And how are you, this fine morning? Ah. She has a letter. She clutches it to her bosom. It is from her long-lost lover…”
“Eddie! Stop it!” Mary couldn’t help laughing. Eddie knew the miserable state of her love life, yet still he mocked her. “You know who it’s from.”
“Not Kitty Ballard?”
Mary nodded.
“The same note as last time?”
“Yes, the same.” Mary looked down, embarrassed. “I haven’t received another.”
“Would this be of interest, by any chance?”
She glanced up at him. Eddie was holding out an envelope between two extended fingers. He must have been concealing it behind his back.
“For me?” she asked.
“Who else? I passed the postman on the steps outside. Told him I’d save him the trouble. It’s fancy writing. A lady’s script, I’d say…”
“Eddie O’Bryan! Hand it over this minute!”
He faked a wounded look. “I was only being helpful.” He grinned as she snatched the letter from him.
Seconds later she was sitting at her writing desk, sliding a silver opener through the paper with shaking hands. It was Kitty’s handwriting. A more tactful man might have withdrawn and left her to it but Eddie stayed and watched while she raced through the close-packed lines.
“So? What does she say?”
“Shh. I’m reading.”
“Come on! I can see it’s good news. Tell me.”
Mary put down the letter and looked up. “She’s already there, in Venice. It took an age to get my reply – it arrived in Russia just as they were leaving. She’s thrilled I said yes. She wants me to come as soon as we can arrange it.”
Eddie laughed and Mary realized her voice had gone up an octave. She was breathing fast.
With Eddie looming over her shoulder, she read the rest. The Ballards had taken “a rather decrepit-looking palace on the Grand Canal”, rented from an impoverished Venetian aristocrat they’d met in St Petersburg. Now, with her father’s help, Kitty would organize Mary’s journey for her. And there would be plenty of space for her to stay in the rented palazzo, “if you don’t mind the damp and the songs of gondoliers beneath your window”. No, Mary didn’t mind. She really, really didn’t. She thought the whole thing sounded idyllic.
The only worry was Kitty’s brother. Mary had not parted with him on good terms. But neither of Kitty’s letters mentioned Roly. Perhaps he had not travelled with them? In fact, Mary was sure she had heard reports of him being in London.
“So you’re going?” Eddie asked, as soon as she put the letter down.
“Of course I am! How long do you think it takes to get there?”
“You’re asking a boy from County Cork. As if I’d know. Days, I should think. Weeks, perhaps?”
“Surely not? I’m right to go, aren’t I?”
She paused, her green eyes huge against her freckled skin as she gave Eddie a look of serious hesitation. When she needed it, the one man who had helped her was Rupert. He paid for this apartment and everything in it. She owed him more than she could repay, and already she was planning her escape.
Eddie shrugged and smiled. “Oh, you’ll go. You’ll go whatever the rights and wrongs. There’s no holding you back.”
“You make that sound like a bad thing…”
“Not me. I happen to think it’s very good. You don’t suit life in a gilded cage. There’s nothing for you here right now but tittle-tattle. Let it calm down for a while. Go and amuse yourself with the Italians, why don’t you?”
“So you agree!”
“It’s hard to disagree with you, Mary.”
There was a ruefulness about his smile that made Mary rub the side of her thumb with her nail. It was a habit she had got into recently, since she had stopped scrubbing floors and grates, and started to grow long fingernails again. She did it when she was nervous about something, or embarrassed. It wasn’t the Italians but thoughts of her relationship with Rupert that made her feel this way.
Eddie held her gaze. “Nothing’s changed, has it?”
Mary shook her head. She was friends with Rupert. She enjoyed his interests and conversation, but he didn’t make her heart race. Though she had tried to turn her gratitude into love, it hadn’t worked. He had agreed to wait, and three months later he was still gallantly waiting. Half of London assumed she was his mistress, but London gossips were not always as accurate as they liked to pretend.
“Promise me one thing,” Eddie said.
“What?”
“Tell him to his face. Treat him decently. He’s done as much for you.”
Mary nodded. Then Eddie was all grinning playfulness again. His teeth flashed white. He really was a handsome man, she reflected, for one who made a living being punched in the head. And it was amazing he had any teeth at all.
“Ha! Imagine!” He laughed.
“Imagine what?”
“If anyone knew what a good girl you are, behind the scandal!”
She faced him, unsmiling, and played with her hair, which hung loose to her waist and glowed like fire against the light. “No one will ever ask, and no one will ever know, and no one will ever care.”
“I know. I care.”
“You don’t count, Eddie. Now you’d better go. You’re not helping my reputation by staying here so long.”
“Ah, but as you say, I don’t count, fine lady. Nobody would picture the likes of you with the likes of me.”
He bowed and left with another flourish of his hat. Mary listened thoughtfully as his boots clattered down the stairs. Not true, she thought. People think anything of the likes of me, and if they saw that glint in your eye, who knows what they’ d think of the likes of you?
Chapter Two
Rupert was due to dine with Mary that evening. The time had come to tell him everything. So far, she hadn’t mentioned Kitty or Venice because she felt disloyal to him even thinking about going away. It was why that first letter had ended up hidden in the pages of Shakespeare. But now plans were afoot and she couldn’t keep them secret.
However, at the last minute he sent a message to say his parents had important guests to dinner and he was obliged to attend. Rupert lived off a generous allowance from his father. He did as he was told. Mary ate alone.
The next day, he was sent on business to Chatham in Kent, where one of Mr Thornton’s ships was having problems in the docks. By now he hadn’t seen her for a week. She began to feel rather neglected.
“He’ll be back soon, no doubt,” Mrs Howard said, noticing Mary staring glumly out of the drawing-room window at the dull, leaden skies.
As two more days went by, she wondered whether Rupert’s father was acting deliberately to keep his son busy out of town. Mr Thornton, she knew, disapproved of his son setting her up in this apartment. The situation was never openly discussed, but the way Rupert flushed whenever he referred to his parents made it all too obvious. The issue, she suspected, was not morality but money. Since mixing with the upper class, she had learned that the lives of women born outside it were not valued much, but property and inheritance were taken very seriously. These furnished rooms would be considered a waste of funds; her presence in them somewhat incidental.
Mary distracted herself by going out. She had various requests from artists who wanted to sketch or paint her. She had to be careful where she went, as most of the artists she knew also knew Felix Dawson and if she saw him, there would be desperate consequences. She liked to sit for Dante Gabriel Rossetti, but her most regular patron was John Millais, who was doing endless studies of her head, hair and hands, drawing her as a disembodied, ethereal beauty.
While she posed for Millias she updated his wife, Effie, on the new letter. Effie was thrilled. She had once been married to John Ruskin, one of Venice’s greatest admirers, and though the marriage had been unhappy, her honeymoon there with him had been enchanting. She talked little of the man but her eyes lit up when she thought of the city.
“You’ll love it, my dearest! St Mark’s … the Grand Canal … the strange little alleyways. They call it La Serenissima, you know. Isn’t that beautiful? It will be winter, of course, so cold and damp, but there is nothing like Venice in the mist…”
La Serenissima? The words alone made Mary shiver with anticipation.
When she got back that evening, rosy-cheeked and refreshed from her walk across Hyde Park, there was a new letter waiting for her in that familiar handwriting. It would be hard to guess that Kitty Ballard, a willowy, nineteen-year-old beauty, should also be a master of cross-continental administration. But so it proved. The paperwork was already under way and a date was set for Mary’s departure. She must worry about nothing – it was all taken care of. She would join the Ballards in their palazzo in January.
So far, the furthest Mary had ever travelled was from her childhood home in Kent to London, and that was ten times as far as anyone in her family. She reread The Merchant of Venice in anticipation of the trip, and some translated stories from Dante, which she had thought would be set in Italy but which turned out to be set in Hell and Purgatory. She would have given up, but the stories were very good.
By now, Christmas was only days away and telling Rupert had become an urgent necessity. To her frustration, he sent another apologetic note saying he could not visit over the holiday – his mother demanded absolute attendance at home.
However, my dearest, I think of you always. I enclose these trinkets as a token of my devotion. Happy Christmas, from one who loves you more than words can say…
The package contained two large gold bangles. They looked expensive, even for a young man on Rupert’s allowance. Mary cursed them as they glittered on the desk in front of her. What kind of man sent bangles instead of risking his mother’s wrath to keep her company? She was not made for such a life. She could have written to explain her plan but she had promised Eddie to do it in person. She would just have to wait.
On Christmas Eve Mrs Howard left to visit her family in Essex. Mary dreaded spending Christmas Day alone. She briefly considered going home to Kent but the thought of her father put her off the idea completely. If Pa ever found out how she was living – and somehow, he would – he would beat her beyond endurance and she had vowed she would never let him touch her again.
Effie and John Millais were away, and Mary didn’t know her other artistic friends well enough to invite herself to stay. Besides, Felix might be with them. Eddie and Annie had gone to see a sister of theirs in Liverpool. There was, however, one person she could count on for company: her cousin Harriet, who worked as a laundress in Chelsea. Mary sent a boy along with an invitation, and he came back with a note brimming with gratitude.
With the ground two inches deep in snow that morning, she sent a cab to collect Harriet and her baby. Mary waited in her bright parlour, picturing it pulling up at the big grey house, set slightly back from the King’s Road, where Harriet worked. The house belonged to Mrs Lisle, a patron of the arts who had set up Felix in his studio. It was she who was entirely responsible for Mary’s ruined reputation and broken heart.
When she fell in love with Felix, Mary had hardly spared a thought for the widow who paid for his paints and clothes. She should have done. Mrs Lisle had turned out to be a jealous woman and a brilliant adversary. Far cleverer than me, Mary thought bitterly.
While Felix painted Mary with increasing obsession over the summer, Mrs Lisle must have sensed his growing attachment to his muse. Patient, cold and calculating, she had waited to discover the one thing that could tear them apart. Then Harriet was thrown out on the streets, pregnant with the child of the son of the house who had seduced her. Mary knew that if she did nothing her cousin’s fate would be the workhouse or the river. If she was to be saved she needed a place to stay, food – the basic things – all of which required money. First Mary turned to Kitty but her friend had no funds of her own to give. When no man would help – not Roly Ballard or even Felix – Mary had run without thinking to the rich widow. She was generous. She was a woman. She would understand.
Mrs Lisle understood perfectly, in fact. And so she had made her pact. She would take Harriet and her unborn child into her home, and in return Mary must agree to give Felix up instantly and forever, and never speak to him again.
Harriet was safe. It was done. No point in raking over the ashes.
Shaking herself out of her sad reverie, Mary set about arranging the dining table with a feast of festive treats for her cousin. She filled the prettiest china bowls with fruit and gilded walnuts, and hung garlands of popcorn and red berries from the candle sconces on the wall. It seemed only a few minutes before she heard the wheels of a hansom in the street outside.
Mary flew downstairs to find Harriet standing on the doorstep, clutching a parcel tied with string. After a brief, close hug, Mary led her up to her apartment. Once inside, Harriet looked around with eyes on stalks. Mary guiltily reflected that this was her first visit here.
“My goodness, your furniture! Which chair do you sit on?”
“All of them!”
“And who polishes this floor?”
“I have a housekeeper,” Mary admitted, embarrassed. “Where’s Aileanna?” she asked. She had hoped to spend today doting on her little god-daughter, but there was no sign of her.
“Mrs Lisle wanted to look after her,” Harriet said with a wobbly smile.
“On Christmas Day? Without you?”
Harriet nodded and chewed her lip. “There’s a wet nurse who feeds her. Mrs Lisle insisted. My own milk is poor.” She looked down at her plain black dress, which hid a slim body back to its usual shape only two months after the birth, or thinner, even.
“You hardly look like you have the strength,” Mary said, observing the collarbones sticking through her cousin’s shabby clothes.
“I’m perfectly well – the better for seeing you. And that table. It’s positively laden with delights. We can’t possibly eat them all.”
Mary sensed that Harriet didn’t want to talk about the baby, so she led her cousin to the table instead. After some chicken and jellied eels, Harriet brightened and Mary saw a glimmer of the girl she used to know. They drank a little beer and exchanged presents. Each had embroidered handkerchiefs for the other. Mary had also made her god-daughter a matching dress and cap, smocked with thousands of impeccably fine stitches.
“She’ll look like a princess!” Harriet grinned.
Mary shook her head modestly, though she privately doubted that any child at Buckingham Palace had clothes better made. It was one of the advantages of all those evenings spent alone.
The afternoon ended on a jolly note, even though Mary admitted it might be months before she saw Harriet again.
“I’m glad,” Harriet said, with spirit in her eyes for once.
“Oh, really?”
Harriet laughed. “Not for me – for you. You need this trip to feed your soul, Mary. Go and have a wonderful time in Italy and don’t think of England once.”
“I can’t promise that!”
When Harriet was gone and the apartment was quiet again, Mary was surprised how much she missed her. It had been like going back to their childhood days for a few hours. She promised herself that someday, when she could, she would entertain her cousin in such style again.
Chapter Three
By the end of the first week of January, the paperwork Mary needed for her travels was complete. The journey was to take a week, passing through France and Switzerland. Her accommodation along the route was arranged. She would leave the following Tuesday.
She sent a message inviting Rupert to dine with her on Monday night. He had visited once already since Christmas, but that evening had quickly descended into petty argument after so much time apart and he left before she could tell him anything.
Tonight he was due at seven. She wore his favourite dress: a luscious olive-green velvet one she’d made herself, which he said reminded him of Rossetti’s favourite model, Lizzie Siddal. Was the dress a good idea or a bad one? She didn’t know, but she wore it with the bangles he had sent and hoped it would put him in a favourable mood.
Mrs Howard had cooked a roast beef dinner with treacle tart to follow. The apartment smelled invitingly delicious. There was red wine on the table and two pots of sweet-scented lily of the valley that she had bought from Covent Garden. Mary wanted to make the evening as pleasant for him as she could. A bitter pill should come in sugar-coating.
Rupert took off his coat and hat, and threw them on a chair. The memory of their last, brief meeting seemed to have gone, thank goodness.
“You look divine,” he announced, running his fingers through her hair. He dipped his head to kiss her on the cheek and she tried not to stiffen at his touch.
“You look tired,” she said. “Was your day enjoyable?”
“Enjoyable? Ha! Father insisted on sending me to the docks again this morning. He wants me to learn every last detail about loading procedures. Can you imagine? Shipping is the most boring business on earth.”
Shipping, Mary noted, paid for her clothes and this apartment. To her, it seemed full of risk and adventure. As so often, she found herself privately disagreeing with her protector but her role was to entertain, not criticize. She smiled. “Can I pour you some claret?”
“Please do. A lot.”
She waited until the meal was over and Rupert was chasing the last spoonful of treacle tart and custard around his plate. He was happy and slightly drunk, which suited her perfectly. She took a breath. See, Eddie? I shall keep my promise.
“Rupert. Dearest. I have some news. It’s about Kitty.”
“Kitty who?”
“Kitty Ballard. You remember?”
“What? Pretty Kitty? I thought she’d gone to India to meet some dashing suitor. That’s what the talk in the club was.”
Oh, Rupert. Why hadn’t he told her this? It would have saved her a lot of heartache two months ago, when she thought her friend had abandoned her. “Not India. Russia,” she said mildly. “But now she’s in Italy.”
“Italy, eh? Why?”
“Her suitor’s working there, as a diplomat.”
“And she’s following him around the globe? Like a lovesick pup? Poor Kitty.”
Mary hadn’t thought of it this way. Surely it was romantic? “They’re keen to spend more time in each other’s company. She’s with her family but she needs a chaperone. She’d like me to join her.”
“You? You? You’d be the worst chaperone in the world!” Rupert threw back his head and laughed.
“What d’you mean?”
“Admit it. An unmarried girl? Not yet eighteen? Kept by a dashing…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Lover? Not that. But still. She felt the familiar flush creep up her neck.
“Not chaperone exactly,” she conceded. “Companion.”
Rupert laughed again. “Kitty Ballard always had the strangest ideas! I remember when she let that intolerable brother of hers take her to the races. The races of all places! No sign of a chaperone then – except Roly himself, who’s a reprobate of the highest order. So who is this brave young knight who wants to take her on?”
“Lord Arthur Malmesbury.”
At this, Rupert’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Arthur Malmesbury, by God? You must be mistaken. He’s one of the biggest toffs in the country.”
“Yes, she said.”
“And he wants Kitty? Kitty Ballard? How extraordinary. He must be one for a pretty face and not mind the reputation.”
Reputations were a sensitive subject in this household. Mary pushed back her chair and stood up, trying to stay calm. “She needs me. Lord Malmesbury is busy and she’s lonely. I’ve told her I’ll go.”
“To Italy? You can’t.”
“Why?”
“My God. You’re serious.” So far, Rupert had been leaning back in his chair, grinning at her story. But now he paled and stood up too. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t suddenly go halfway across Europe on a whim.”
They were arguing again but she couldn’t help it. “It’s not a whim,” she said fiercely. “It’s a serious invitation. I’ve accepted.”
“Without asking me?” He was astonished. “I forbid it. You can’t go without my permission.”
“I have another man’s.” She glared at him.
“What?” Rupert stepped back in such shock that he knocked his chair over. A candle fell out of the candelabra on the table, spilling hot wax on the mahogany.
Mary realized how her words sounded. “It’s not what you think. He’s an older gentleman.” She meant Kitty’s father but she had suddenly decided to give Rupert no more details. Anything she said might be used to stop her and she could not let that happen. “It’s too late,” she said. “Everything’s decided.”
Rupert took two steps towards her. His breath smelled of red wine. For a moment, fear flickered inside her. But his anger melted away as swiftly as it had come.
“Please don’t go,” he said softly.
“I must.”
“I’ve neglected you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not just that…” she murmured. “I can’t depend on you for everything.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
He shook his head as the news sank in. Taking another step closer, he put his hands gently either side of her neck, under her hair. His eyes scoured hers for hope. “Think again. Please. I… I come into money soon. I won’t be so dependent on my father. I can spend more time with you. Give you more money for dresses.”
“Oh, Rupert! I don’t need more dresses.”
“Art lessons, then. You love those. Piano lessons… What do you want?” Mary prised his hands away and stepped back, losing a bangle in the process. It rattled on the floorboards. He looked across at her. “Please, Mary.”
“I’ll come back,” she said, glancing down at the remains of the dinner on the table. But they both knew she was lying. Once she had tasted her freedom she would be gone for good.
He stood there for a while, breathing deeply and trying to master himself.
“I know what you think of me,” he murmured. “You think I want your gratitude and we both know what that means, but I don’t. Not necessarily. You’re so beautiful, Mary. I just want to make you happy.”
“This is how,” she said with a catch in her voice.
His shoulders slumped. She felt more tenderness for him then than she ever had. She wanted to rush over to him and comfort him but that would only make it worse.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Don’t be.” Summoning what dignity he still had, he called for his coat and hat, and walked out without trying to kiss her goodbye, or even to right the fallen chair.
Mary stayed where she was, listening to the sound of his feet on the stairs and his carriage pulling away into the street. To her surprise she was shaking so hard that Mrs Howard had to wrap a cashmere shawl round her and lead her to an armchair to sit down. She could only watch as the housekeeper quietly cleared the table and cleaned up the melted wax.
She wished Rupert had stuck with his sudden, imperious rage. It would have made it easier than the pitiful sadness of letting her go.
She was certain she had never loved him and never could. She wasn’t even sure that he loved her, exactly. He loved the look of her, and wanted to please her, but can you really love someone just because you think they’re beautiful? She didn’t think so but it didn’t make her guilt any easier to bear. He had saved her from the streets, and she had repaid him like this. She hadn’t even managed to tell him how soon she was leaving.
There must be flint in my soul, she thought. But a mind knew what it knew. A body felt what it felt. She had loved Felix. And what she felt for Rupert was not enough. However guilty she might feel, she would be gone by morning.
The coach to Dover was due to pick her up at dawn. Mary packed by gaslight, after Mrs Howard had gone home for the night, and agonized over what to take with her. It felt like stealing to take any of her new possessions acquired through Mr Thornton senior’s funds.
In the end the trunk was very light. First in was Little Miss Mouse. After that, she packed only the dresses she had made herself, her toiletries, the anthology of poetry that Felix had given her, her sewing box and the watercolours Rupert had bought her for her art lessons. She hoped he wouldn’t mind her bringing those. She left behind all the jewels and trinkets he’d given her, which she wouldn’t miss, and her dancing shoes, which she would.
Before she left, she sat at the desk and wrote him a letter in the looped handwriting she’d learned in the village school. She thanked him excessively for everything he’d done for her, and finished as kindly as she could.
I thank you too, dear friend, for all you did not do. For your reserve and respect, which was more than I deserved and which I treasure.
Forgive me for what I must do. My coach leaves soon.
Your affectionate
Persephone
She spent a full minute considering the signature. Rupert usually called her by her real name, but she felt that she was changing in a new and irrevocable way. Mary Adams had been a country girl from Kent with no education and no future. Persephone Lavelle was a mysterious, risk-taking adventuress. It was the name written on the passport Mr Ballard had acquired for her in Italy. Goodness knows what information he had given to get it, but there it was.
I am Persephone Lavelle. I am no one’s plaything. I go where I please.
Next to the envelope, she left Rupert a sketch of herself that Millais had given her, with her long copper mane swirling sumptuously around the page like liquid fire. It was her hair that Rupert had noticed first. She hoped he would be pleased that Millais had done full justice to it.
The coach came at first light. Persephone left London shrouded in early morning fog, unable to see the streets beyond the carriage window or hear anything except the muffled clop of horses’ hooves. But as she sped down country lanes towards the coast, the sun came out to create a glistening blanket of light on frosty fields.
Persephone cast her past off like a cloak, and let it disappear down the road behind her.
Chapter Four
The journey across the Continent, which Persephone had looked forward to with such high hopes, was thoroughly miserable. It drizzled in France for three days solid, and teemed down even more bleakly, if such a thing were possible, in Switzerland. The interior of each new diligence smelled of wet wool intermingled with cough elixirs. Though the passengers changed on each leg of the journey they all shared the same rheumy-eyed, glum expression and the same cold. The food in the wayside inns was awful. Persephone didn’t know what half of it was, and couldn’t eat it.
By the fifth evening all she could face consuming was red wine, and the next day on the road was by far the worst. Her head promised to explode at every pothole in the road and now they were in Italy, and Italy was made of potholes. She had thought she would spend the journey either consumed with guilt for leaving Rupert or mad with joy at the idea of seeing Kitty again. Instead, she was simply hungry, cold and unwell.
Finally they reached Milan, and from here Kitty had arranged that the last leg of the journey would be by train. It was not much faster, and the damp was merely replaced with steam and soot, which hung heavy in the acrid air. But each hour brought Venice closer.
At first Persephone sat in the middle of a bench seat, squashed between a priest and a nun. The priest tried and failed to engage her in conversation in Italian. Then he stood up and bowed, pointing to the spot he had just vacated. “Prego, prego,” he insisted.
She didn’t know what the words meant, but realized that he was offering her the window seat with its view of the Italian countryside. She smiled her thanks as she took it. He blushed and smiled back, like a schoolboy. Could priests really blush in this country? Truly, she was in a foreign land.
Looking out of the window, she began to notice properly how different the landscape had become. Hills had a softer shape and fields grew different crops to those in Kent, marking them with unexpected shades of brown and green. Inside, the language spoken by her fellow passengers sounded like bright, fast music, trilled expertly and energetically by adults and children alike.
Persephone pulled her shawl about her for warmth and eventually she slept, sitting upright in her seat. She woke to the sound of the people about her trilling at each other even more vigorously than usual. They were looking out of the windows, where there was… nothing!
Persephone pressed her face to the glass and looked out more closely. The ‘nothing’ was water, far below, choppy and grey. They must be travelling along a narrow causeway over the lagoon. Their destination was out there ahead of them, through the mist.
La Serenissima.
She didn’t know what to expect, but as the train finally ground to a stop Persephone found herself in a busy railway station full of smoke and grime. She jostled her way through the disembarking passengers, her trunk clutched tightly in her hand, and fought off the attempts of various porters to take it from her. All around her was noise – mostly words she did not understand. For a few moments, she felt afraid.
And then, among the throng of people waiting to greet the new arrivals, a small, moustachioed man rushed toward her.
“Signorina Lavelle?”
She nodded.
“Ah! I thought it be you. Benvenuta! Welcome. I take you. My name is Nico. Come.” He took the trunk and led Persephone outside.
“Oh!” She stopped in her tracks. Suddenly, her world was transformed.
Nico looked back anxiously. “Signorina? Problema?”
But there wasn’t a problem at all. She was simply blinded by the light that bounced off the water ahead of her. The mist was lifting and a whole new world was emerging through it.
They approached some steps that led down to a wide canal, as busy as Piccadilly, where boats of all shapes and sizes crowded together to ply their trade. Boats! Persephone knew, of course, that Venice was built on water, so it would not have roads in the normal way. But still, the reality of travelling everywhere by foot or boat was astonishing.
