‘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 she hoped that he would understand. It meant so much more.
Her heart beating fast, she picked up the letter.
Sealing it with a drop of wax, she blew out the candle.
She could only pray for his answer.
‘This morning is the morning of the day.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘The answer is no!’ Gerald St Clair, Earl of Buxton, threw his newspaper down on the breakfast table. ‘Don’t ask me again, Cameo!’
Cameo leaned forward. She clutched the carved stone of her necklace so hard it dug into her skin. ‘Please, Papa, please.’
The earl shook his head, his whiskers quivering. ‘I’ve had quite enough of this. You’re Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. You have a place in society to uphold. All this nonsense must stop immediately. No daughter of mine is going to be an artist.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Being an artist isn’t so unsuitable. I’m asking for some proper painting lessons, that’s all.’
The vein on the earl’s forehead popped out. ‘It’s quite ridiculous. I blame myself. I should never have allowed you take up art in the first place. It’s all you talk of, all you do.’
And all she thought of, Cameo reflected guiltily. At that very moment she wished she had her sketchbook and pencil with her, to make a study of her father’s irate expression.
‘Listen to me, Cameo. Painting may remain your hobby, but nothing more. I’ve been too lenient with you, I see that now. It’s time to think of your future.’ Her father’s gruff tone had softened. She knew how much he loved her and he always sounded particularly gruff when he was trying to protect her from the outside world. But she didn’t want to be protected. Not from the world. Not from art.
‘I am thinking of my future, Papa.’ She took another huge breath. ‘My future is as a painter.’
The earl choked on his bacon and kidneys. ‘Your future is marriage.’
From the other end of the long, polished table Lady Buxton spoke in her soft voice. ‘You’ll forget all about painting lessons when you’re married, Cameo dear. Take our Queen Victoria. She and Prince Albert are an example to all those who seek the happy estate. Even though she is queen, she believes the best place for women is home and family.’
Cameo turned to her mother, sat behind the silver coffee pot. ‘I’m not against a home and family, Mama. It’s just I’ve discovered there’s more to life. There’s art. Art is real life.’
‘Art! Real life!’ blustered Lord Buxton. ‘You’ll put off your suitors with all this nonsense.’
‘Lord Warley asked especially if you were to attend Lady Russell’s ball,’ the countess chimed in with a smile. ‘He’s such a lovely young man. So well mannered.’
Cameo shuddered, as if Lord Warley had taken her hand to bow. Even the slightest touch of Robert Ackland, Earl of Warley, always turned her stomach. He came from a similar background to hers. Their fathers held the same rank in society. But couldn’t her mama sense what lay beneath Lord Warley’s good manners? Perhaps because Cameo spent so much time sketching, always trying to capture character, she had become more attuned to what was hidden behind propriety. ‘Oh, no, Mama. Not Lord Warley. Never.’
‘Our family has been friends with their family for years,’ her papa reminded her. ‘I was very fond of my old friend Henry Ackland. I don’t know his son well and he doesn’t seem much