The Painted Dragon. Katherine Woodfine
in a bored voice; while Nanny grumbled that the charcoal marks on her muslin frock were dreadful to get out, and suggested she might like to learn some nice embroidery stitches instead. But Lady Tremayne was different. On her all-too-rare visits to Winter Hall, she always asked to see Leo’s sketchbooks; and sometimes she even brought her presents – pencils, a new drawing book with lovely paper inside, once a little set of watercolour paints in a neat leather case.
It was to Lady Tremayne that Leo had been able to pour out her dream of going to a London art school. She longed to learn from proper teachers; to work in a real artist’s studio; and perhaps most of all, to see London and explore its wonderful galleries and museums. She had told all this to her godmother, who had promised she would try to help.
Leo was not supposed to have heard Lady Tremayne’s conversation with Mother, but it had been an easy thing to listen in from the secret passage with its discreet ‘peephole’ that ran behind the boudoir sitting room. Leo knew that she ought not to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, but any sense of guilt she might have felt was swept away, as she realised what her mother was saying in her high, whining voice.
‘The truth is that I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with her. She’s so sulky and difficult. I never had any of these troubles with Helen!’
‘Leo’s growing up,’ came Lady Tremayne’s voice, clearer and deeper. ‘She needs something to occupy her. Don’t forget, at her age, Helen was busy planning her coming-out ball, and getting ready for her first Season.’
‘But whatever am I to occupy her with?’ Leo’s mother demanded, sounding even more petulant than usual. ‘A London Season is quite out of the question for her. If she was a different sort of girl, I suppose I might have taken her abroad with me this autumn, but Horace doesn’t like her to be on show. She doesn’t care for society, and she doesn’t take any interest in anything except fiddling around with pencils and paint – and this preposterous idea of going to a London art school.’
‘It’s more than just fiddling, Lucy. Leo has a real talent – I’ve always thought so. Are you so sure that art school is out of the question for her?’
‘Really, Viola! Art school! She couldn’t possibly – what would people think? We couldn’t allow her just to racket about London, all by herself!’
Mother’s voice was shocked, but Lady Tremayne laughed. When she spoke, her voice was warm and amused: ‘Oh, Lucy, don’t be so old-fashioned! She’d be far too busy for any racketing. Why, at the Spencer Institute they have drawing classes every day, and then there are lectures and museum visits. It would be good for Leo to have that sort of occupation, and to meet other young people who share her interests. Far better than moping around here, with only her old nanny for company.’
Mother sighed heavily. ‘I suppose you’re right. Something ought to be arranged. Perhaps a good finishing school might help to rub off her corners?’
Leo’s heart sank to her stomach, but Lady Tremayne had not given up. ‘Finishing school?’ she repeated. ‘I hardly think dancing and deportment are going to be of any use to Leo! Art school would be a much better use of her time. They are perfectly respectable places these days – after all, the Duke of Roehampton’s sister went to the Spencer, you know.’
Leo smiled to herself in the dark. Her mother’s sudden little sound of interest and approval did not surprise her in the least. ‘Oh! Did she really? I had no idea!’
Evidently aware she had an advantage, Lady Tremayne continued: ‘So, you see, it couldn’t possibly do Leo any harm. Perhaps she may become a little more unconventional, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? After, all, it’s not as if . . .’
Her godmother’s voice trailed away, but Leo could have finished the sentence for her. It’s not as if she will marry. Suddenly feeling that she didn’t want to hear any more, Leo turned away from the peephole.
Marriage was something that girls from a good family were supposed to do. It was all that was expected of them – to look pretty, to be charming, and then to eventually marry a ‘suitable young man’ and produce lots of children, exactly like her perfect older sister Helen had done.
But Leo knew that no ‘suitable young man’ would ever want to marry her. For one thing, she was not in the least bit pretty. Pretty girls had curls and rosy cheeks and dimples; Leo was thin and pale, and her hair hung straight and smooth, refusing to curl in spite of Nanny’s best efforts. Pretty girls dressed in dainty gowns with ribbons and lace trimmings. Leo preferred plain things: as a child she had always looked enviously at Vincent’s clothes, admiring the smart cut of his velvet jackets, the shiny leather of his riding boots. Mother had been horrified when she had asked why she couldn’t dress like her brother, and Nanny had told her to ‘hold her tongue’ and to ‘act like a little lady’.
What’s more, she knew she wasn’t charming. She had always spent so much time alone that she never seemed to know what to say to people. Then, just before her eighth birthday, she had been ill, and that had changed everything. The long illness had confined her to bed for months. One of her legs had been badly affected; they had thought she might never walk again but she had been determined, and at last she had been able to manage with the help of a crutch. It was this, of course, that Lady Tremayne was referring to. Far more important than being pretty, marriageable young ladies were expected to be perfectly healthy: as glossy and energetic as prize racehorses. They could not possibly have what Mother referred to, in a hushed voice, as an affliction.
But it had been when she was ill in bed that Leo’s drawing had really begun. She had spent hours drawing anything and everything she could see: Nanny, the medicine bottles by the window, the view of leafless trees outside. When she had at last been able to hobble about the house, she had amused herself by exploring the long passageways, opening doors on neglected rooms and drawing what she found there. She spent hours contemplating strange old oil paintings, sketching the shapes of Chinese vases and marble statuettes, copying the intricate patterns of old carpets, and later painting her own careful imitations of the portraits of her Fitzgerald ancestors.
‘Of course, the Spencer is very competitive,’ Leo heard Lady Tremayne say, as she turned back to the peephole. ‘It’s the finest school in the country – they take only the very best.’
‘She probably wouldn’t even be able to win a place,’ said Mother, more comfortably. ‘I suppose I’ll speak to Horace about it – perhaps he may consent to her writing to them. But really, Viola, that’s quite enough about the matter. I’m longing to hear about your trip to Vienna – is the opera as splendid as they say?’
Now, remembering this, Leo felt hot inside. She knew that Mother had never believed she stood even the slightest chance of winning a place at the Spencer – but she had been accepted. The Spencer Institute of Fine Art, she read again, tracing her fingers along the shape of the letterhead, and murmuring the words to herself as though they were a magic spell. She couldn’t wait to write to Lady Tremayne to tell her the news.
But first, she had work to do. She grabbed her crutch and pulled herself to her feet. She was going to the Spencer, and she would not let Mother or Father or anyone else stand in her way. Moving quickly, she made her way along the secret passageway, and back out into the corridor. So much for Mother’s relaxing breakfast in bed, she thought grimly. She pushed open the door to Mother’s bedroom. ‘Mother!’ she announced. ‘The Spencer Institute have written – and I’ve got in!’
September 1909
It was a wet afternoon in London, and on Piccadilly Circus the windows of Sinclair’s seemed to shimmer. The city’s most famous department store spilled out golden light on to the dull grey street. The people hurrying by under their umbrellas were unable to resist pausing for a moment to look at the glittering displays of glorious autumn fashions in the store window, or to peep through the grand entrance, at the throng of elegant shoppers within.