James was speechless. To hear the revered names dropped so casually from Batsford’s lips stunned him so much that he couldn’t even bring himself to question him about them. They entered an inn and Batsford made his way to a rear room where several people were seated at a long table. He introduced James as a friend of Peacock’s from Yorkshire, and dropped random names so quickly that he couldn’t immediately match names with faces. But there were several young men there, two whose names he caught as William Morris and Burne-Jones, who were maybe only six or seven years older than himself, which he found encouraging as he had expected to meet only older persons such as Batsford and Peacock. Two young women were in the company,
one a poet and the other, Eve, a model for Burne-Jones.
He bought supper for Batsford and himself and looked in some dismay at his thin pocket-book when he had paid the bill, but he ceased to worry over finances as he became engrossed in such conversations as he had never dreamed of: of literature and poetry, of architecture and art, of music and symbolic beauty, and his head swam with the wonder of it all. He drank his fourth glass of red wine and leaned his elbow on the table, cradling his head in his hand. He smiled blearily at Eve, who was sitting opposite him, and thought that she must be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He tried to ask her if one day she would model for him, but each time he opened his mouth, nothing but a jumble of muttered words fell from his loose tongue. He was desperately tired and he put his head on the table and closed his eyes.
When he awoke, daylight was streaming in above the bed where he was lying in Batsford’s living-room. There was no sign of Batsford or Miss Gregory, but on the table which had had some of the objects swept aside, was a jug of milk and a fresh loaf of bread. He poured himself a glass of milk and cut a thick slice of bread and as he sat on the edge of the bed, eating and drinking, he wondered how he had got back to Batsford’s rooms, for he could remember nothing. But he had no headache or tiredness. He was simply filled with a joyous expectation of happiness and fulfilment.
I am going to be a painter
, he exulted.
I shall meet Rossetti and talk to him and perhaps ask him his opinions of my work. I might even go abroad to study. Maybe to Paris or Florence or Venice, where I will observe the paintings of the great Masters, and meet with the contemporary painters of today. I shall one day be renowned for my mastery in the techniques of realism or – perhaps – mysticism
. All this he would do, just as soon as he had persuaded Batsford
that he must take him as a pupil, and had found himself a room and bought paint and canvas.
He listened. A faint sound, a creak of a board or a window opening, and he surmised that there was someone in the upstairs studio. He put down his empty glass and brushed crumbs from his shirt and wondered what had happened to his shoes. He opened the door and mounted the steps to the studio, unwilling to intrude if Batsford was working. Which he was. He had his back to James and was completely absorbed with his subject which he was portraying on the canvas.
James drew in a sudden silent breath and his jaw dropped at the sight of Miss Gregory lying languidly on the chaise longue, her eyes closed as they had been yesterday evening. One plump arm was behind her head, her glorious hair covering one abundant breast, whilst the rest of her was completely naked. Once more he gazed at the sleeping woman, but this time he was open-mouthed, as he had never before seen a real woman in nakedness. When painting in school they had only ever used wooden manikins, and Peacock had often bemoaned the loss of real flesh and form, to the amusement and regret of his students.
As he silently observed her, he was in some way reminded of his cousin, Sammi. Not in a lascivious manner, for it wasn’t the woman’s body which reminded him, but the sweep of her hair which was thick and luxuriant as Sammi’s was, and in the complete, innocent repose which surrounded her. At the thought of Sammi, his mind immediately linked with the child, and the reason for him being here, so far from home.
How in heaven’s name? How could I have been with a woman ? How could I have been with a woman and known such beauty, and not remember? It cannot be possible!
As he pursued these silent questions, Miss Gregory opened her eyes. They were large and dark, with huge
pupils which stared right back at him. Her eyebrows raised, and in a single swift movement she drew a muslin shawl, which was lying beside her, around her body, and in doing so portrayed herself, not as a human form, but as a sensual physical woman.
‘I beg your pardon.’ James flushed to his hair roots. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’
Batsford turned, a paintbrush held in his hand. ‘Come in, Rayner, come in. I trust you slept well? Miss Gregory and I have been working for hours, ever since sun-up. We’ll take a break now and a bit of a stretch.’
Miss Gregory slipped on a robe and walked up and down the room. She was perhaps in her middle or late twenties, and James wondered what compelled her to such an occupation. She must be very poor, he thought, to submit to displaying her body; allying in his naïvety the art of modelling with that of prostitution.
‘Well, now, Rayner. Could you paint such a subject as Miss Gregory? And how would you portray her? She is one of the best models in London, so if you should want to paint her you will have to speak very nicely to her.’
James swallowed hard, but took heart when Miss Gregory smiled at him. ‘I, er, I think I would portray her as a country girl with flowers in her hair, or perhaps sitting in a meadow or walking by the sea.’
Batsford pursed his lips and then nodded. ‘Yes, she could have that quality, perhaps. What do you think, Miss Gregory, could you see yourself as a country maid and not a siren or Muse as some do?’
Miss Gregory shrugged. ‘Right now,’ she said, ‘all I can think of is a nice cup o’ tea and a biscuit.’
‘Alas, it is merely a job to her,’ Batsford sighed as she disappeared down the stairs. ‘She has no higher feelings than wondering what is for her lunch or supper.’ He looked James over appraisingly and then nodded. ‘We’ll see what you can do. Have you materials with you?’
‘I have my drawing pad and pencils in my bag, sir.’
‘Good. Then you can start now. Go off and do a sketch and come back in an hour. By the way, Rayner, don’t keep calling me sir, there’s a good fellow. You’re no longer at school. Batsford will do.’
‘Yes, sir – Batsford, I mean. Thank you. Thank you very much.’
With his pad beneath his arm and his pencil bag clutched in his hand, he ran down the steps and across the road to the river. The morning was warm and he had left his jacket inside. He put down his pad and pencils on a seat and rolled up his shirt sleeves; he was beginning to feel such freedom, even with such a simple act as being out of doors without his coat.
He put his hand to his forehead and with narrowed eyes looked at the bright rippling water as it flowed beneath the bridge. He knew what he would sketch. He would sketch his first memorable view of London. He would draw, and then later paint, a picture of Battersea Bridge crossing the Thames. He sat down on the seat and closed one eye and, aligning his pencil against the outline of the bridge, he sought the proportions and started to draw. Thoughts of home, his parents, his reason for being here, were gone. He was totally absorbed.
I am going to be an artist. I
am
an artist. I shall hyphen my name as Burne-Jones does, and sign myself Foster-Rayner; and all the world will know me
.
Sammi was puzzled by her cousins’ demeanour when she asked if she might stay for a little while. Betsy, whilst proclaiming that she was overjoyed to have Sammi visit, appeared nervous and ill at ease, and kept looking through the window or wandering to the door and looking out across the yard.
Tom seemed stunned at her request to stay, and hardly said a word to her, and Mark was positively aggressive, muttering under his breath something about a Rayner brat, and she wasn’t sure if he was referring to her or to James’s child. Uncle Thomas said he didn’t mind so long as her mother agreed, and George seemed pleased about the arrangement, although she suspected that he thought they might get their supper on time if she was around to organize it. She was surprised, too, and just a little hurt that her mother or father hadn’t come hurtling over to Tillington the same day, to try to take her back or to ask for further explanations, which she had rehearsed over and over again.
At least Mrs Bishop was pleased to see her when she visited her the next day, especially when she said that she would take the child off her hands for part of the day.
‘What name has this bairn been given, Miss Rayner? I can’t keep calling him,
him
.’
‘He hasn’t got a name yet, Mrs Bishop. At least, not so far as I know. What should I do?’ she asked anxiously. ‘No-one has thought about it.’
‘What? Tha’s not saying poor bairn hasn’t been baptized? That’s a sin! Tha must see to it straight
away. Tha’ll not be able to tek him into anybody’s house till tha does.’
‘But you have him in your house, Mrs Bishop.’ Sammi looked at her in alarm. What if she refused to feed him any more?
‘Oh, aye. But there’s not so many heathen such as me. Most of good Christian folk round here wouldn’t have him inside of ’house door. Besides,’ she added, ‘I put a screw o’ salt in his crib to keep ’Devil away.’ She unbuttoned her dress and started to suckle her own child. ‘So, I’m telling thee, miss. Go and see ’parson now whilst ’bairn is sleeping, and see if he’ll do him straight away.’
Sammi took the child in her arms and wrapped him in a blanket. He was warm and smelt of milk and she hugged him and put her face next to his.
‘Tek care, miss. Tha’ll ’come over fond on him like I keep telling, and won’t want to let go.’ She called Sammi back from her door. ‘Bring him back when he’s hungry – and Miss Rayner?’
‘Yes?’ Sammi turned to her and smiled. Mrs Bishop looked the picture of contentment as she sat by her low fire. The room was clean though sparsely furnished, another child slept in a cot in a corner and two more were by her feet on the floor. She had a glass of ale by her side which she kept sipping as she fed her baby.
‘Think on how tha names him. It’s with him all of his life, and think too how tha names his parents.’
I know what she is telling me. What a good woman she is. The villagers will think he is mine if I say that his name is Rayner
.
She passed a group of women standing outside their cottages, some of them dipped their knee as she passed, but she felt all eyes upon her and their curiosity.
They all knew her, she worshipped at Tillington church where the family had their pew; she visited those in need with her mother, and she was known
as a member of the Rayner family who had lived all of their lives at Monkston. But what were they thinking now, and what would be the gossip when she was out of hearing? She lifted her chin and walked on. They could think what they liked.
The vicarage was opposite the church just down the hill from the mill, but she hesitated at the entrance to the large redbrick house, and on impulse turned back, crossed the lane and went through the lych-gate into the churchyard. She cut across the winding path and made her way up the sloping grassy area to the highest point where her grandparents’ grave was laid. Here was the spot which her grandmother, Sarah Foster Rayner, had chosen when her husband John had died. She had chosen it especially, knowing that one day she would lie here with him, and that together they would be within the sight and sound of the German Ocean which washed the cliffs below their beloved home. How they loved the sea, Sammi thought, though they loved the land more; Grand-mama, especially, was devastated each time the sea claimed more land. What an appetite it has, she used to say. What hunger.
Sammi looked down at the grave, neatly kept and garlanded now with flowers from the Fosters’ garden.
What would you do, Grandmama? What would you do about this child?
She heard the creak of the church gate and glanced up to see Luke Reedbarrow coming across to her. He touched his hat. ‘How do, Miss Rayner. Grand morning.’
‘Yes.’ She prepared to move away, down to the gate, her reverie disturbed. ‘It’s very pleasant indeed.’
‘Taking ’bairn for a walk, is tha?’ He opened the gate for her and stood back as she went through.
‘Did you want something, Luke? You didn’t come into the churchyard to chat about the weather?’
‘By, tha’s that sharp, Miss Rayner.’ He glanced at her sheepishly from beneath his long lashes and she
wondered why she had the impression that he was mocking her. ‘How did tha guess?’
‘What is it then?’ she said. ‘I must be going.’
He took off his hat, and his fair hair ruffled in the breeze, and she mused that Betsy was right, he was quite handsome, not in a gentlemanly way with fine chiselled features, but with broad, strong cheekbones and a winning smile on his wide mouth.
‘Will you give Miss Betsy a message for me?’ he asked. ‘Will you tell her I waited? And I’ll do ’same again.’
Sammi stared. What was this? A tryst between Betsy and Luke Reedbarrow? Uncle Thomas would be furious if he knew.
‘Please.’ His blue eyes were appealing. ‘I’d be grateful.’
She swallowed. Would it do any harm? Betsy never had any fun. A mild flirtation wouldn’t go amiss, surely? ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘But I won’t promise.’
He grinned and put on his hat again. ‘Thanks, Miss Rayner. I knew I could rely on thee. I’m much obliged.’
She watched him go back down the lane.
What an infuriating fellow
, she thought.
I’m sure he was laughing at me
.
The bell on the vicarage door jangled and she asked the maid who answered if she could speak to Mr Collinson. Mrs Collinson crossed the hall as she waited and invited her into her husband’s study.
‘What have we here, my dear? Whose child is this?’
Sammi felt some reluctance to discuss the baby with her. She had always found the vicar’s wife an overbearing, condescending woman who habitually lectured her husband as well as his parishioners.