Page 104 of The Quiet Wife
Jemie’s eyes closed. “Dear God.”
“I know. I have a headache with it all.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised. What will you do?”
“What can I do?”
“Will you tell Leyland you know?”
She massaged her temples. “I don’t know.” It was true. She had absolutely no idea what to do.
***
Jemie found it even harder to be civil with Leyland after Frances’ revelations. On top of that, the faux betrothal to Lizzie, the one that was supposed to be a quiet, low-key affair to divert attention and nothing more, had grown and was frankly, out of control. And what none of them had considered in the initial planning, too delighted at their cleverness, was the effect on the rest of the family.
The children were beside themselves with excitement. It hurt him to see how much they wanted him to be part of their little world. So much so, he almost abandoned the pretence on the spot, not ever wanting to deceive them.
And his mother… God, she could spot a lie at a hundred paces. She made him feel ten years old again. She didn’t believe for a moment he’d fallen violently in love with Lizzie Dawson. She’d not gone so far as to say it was a sham so he could spend time with Frances, but he sensed it was a close-run thing.
He dealt with it all by shutting his ears and throwing himself into working on the dining room at Prince’s Gate. It was coming together well, and he felt increasingly excited by his latest venture as the days wore on. The verdigris on the walls was stunning against the cabinetry, complimented brilliantly by the gold he’d applied, but as the project grew, so did his ideas and enthusiasm. Had he paused, he might have noted that the energy he felt was partly — more than partly—anger at his patron and his treatment of his wife, but he pushed this aside, embraced the energy he felt coursing through him and decorated with flair. Rather more flair than he’d normally expend and burning… anger disguised as excitement. It made for an interesting piece of work with scant acknowledgement that he was beset by a festering sense of extreme helplessness that if he paused to consider it,might just undo him.
He was leaning precariously to apply more gold paint on the far wall, and mentally patting himself on the back for his excellent choice, when the door opened, and the butler announced there were some gentlemen to see him. He longed to tell them to go away because he was deep into the next phase of the plan but felt curious enough to find outjustwho it was.
“I’ll see them now.”
“In here, sir, or the drawing room?”
Jemie grinned. Why not? “In here.”
He climbed down, dusted himself off, delighted to see Rossetti amble in. He entered, followed by Prinsep, Burne-Jones, and a couple of fellows he recognised but couldn’t put names to, and all of them stood in the room, eyes wide, staring as they turned about to survey his work.
“Hope you don’t mind, old thing,” Rossetti smiled, “but we’ve heard so much about this commission we thought it high time we paid a visit to see how things were progressing.”
“Be my guest,” Jemie gestured around, and there followed a thoroughly pleasant hour with fellow artists proclaiming him a genius, having seen the panels he’d completed in the hallway and on the staircase, and the work in the dining room. It was exactly what he needed. They took tea in the drawing room, and then helped themselves to Leyland’s exceptionally good brandy and he judged the visit a roaring success. So much so, morning calls were arranged for the rest of the week. He did pause to wonder what Leyland would make of him entertaining in his house, but decided what he didn’t know about wouldn’t hurt.
CHAPTER 33
London – Kensington
Word spread rapidly about Jemie’s work in the Prince’s Gate dining room with his apparent bold and wild designs catching the imagination. In fact, they had people calling at all hours to see if they might be permitted to catch a glimpse of the artist at work. Frances had initially baulked at this, but Jemie thought it wonderful and welcomed them with open arms so reluctantly, she agreed.
“Do you know what I found yesterday?” Frances confided in Lizzie and Edith over tea at the Queen’s Gate house.
“Do tell,” Edith said with no small amount of relish, always one to enjoy a spot of gossip.
“Miss Thackeray. You know Miss Thackeray?”
Lizzie frowned as she thought. “Hyde Park Gate?”
“The very one. She came up to the house with her walking companion, bold as you like, and asked to see Jemie and the paintings. The footman called on Jemie, so of course he let her in. Apparently, they knew each other of old and when I went to the dining room to welcome her, I found them waltzing around the room. It would seem they haveParis in common. Whatever that might mean.”
Edith’s eyes widened. “It’s a little… bold for him to be receiving visitors in your home, is it not?”
Frances sighed. “It is, but…” she shrugged. “That’s Jemie all over. He’s American. They are, I’m discovering, quite different.”
They laughed at that. It was true, Jemie was different, and he had settled himself into the Prince’s Gate house. Although he was working, it was as though he’d taken ownership. He stayed there. Nay, lived there. More staff had moved over, and gradually, the family were all gravitating to the house simply because that was where Jemie was. Even Aunt Agatha and Miss Woodgrove had announced their imminent arrival for the betrothal party and suggested that they might like to stay at the Prince’s Gate house. There were plenty of rooms that could be used as a dining room whilst Jemie painted what she now considered the porcelain room, and without Frederick’s oppressive presence, the entire family and household were flourishing in his absence.
***
