Wonders of the Invisible World (19 page)

The artist had positioned Jenny’s father on one side of the little rocky brook winding through the grass. The wedding guests, mostly portrayed by villagers and friends of the painter, were arranged behind him. The wedding party itself would be painted advancing toward him on the other side of the water. A tiny bridge arching above some picturesque stones and green moss would signify the place where the lovers Cupid and Psyche would become man and wife. Papa wore a long tunic that covered all but one arm, over which a swag of purple was discreetly draped. He looked, with his long gold mustaches and full beard, more like a druid, Jenny thought, than a Grecian nobleman. He was smiling, enjoying himself, his eyes on Sarah as the artist fussed with the lilies in her hands. She wore an ivory robe; Mr. Woolidge, a very hairy Cupid, wore gold with a purple veil over his head. At the foot of the bridge, the artist’s younger daughter, golden-haired and plump, just old enough to know how to stand still, carried a basket of violets, from which she would fling a handful of posies onto the bridge to ornament the couple’s path.

Finally, the older children were summoned into position behind the pair. Mr. Ryme, having placed them, stood gazing narrowly at them, one finger rasping over his whiskers. He moved his hand finally and spoke.

“A lantern. We must have a lantern.”

“Exactly!” Papa exclaimed, enlightened.

“Why, Father?” the artist’s daughter Alexa asked, daring to voice the question in Jenny’s head. She thought Mr. Ryme would ignore his daughter, or rebuke her for breaking her pose. But he took the question seriously, gazing at all of the children behind the bridal pair.

“Because Cupid made Psyche promise not to look upon him, even after they married. He came to her only at night. Psyche’s sisters told her that she must have married some dreadful monster instead of a man. Such things happened routinely, it seems, in antiquity.”

“He’s visible enough now,” one of the village boys commented diffidently, but inarguably, of Mr. Woolidge.

“Yes, he is,” Mr. Ryme answered briskly. “We can’t very well leave the groom out of his own wedding portrait, can we? That’s why he is wearing that veil. He’ll hold it out between himself and his bride, and turn his head so that only those viewing the painting will see his face.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Papa was heard to murmur across the bridge.

“Thank you. But let me continue with the lantern. One night, Psyche lit a lantern to see exactly what she had taken into her marriage bed. She was overjoyed to find the beautiful face of the son of Venus. But—profoundly moved by his godhood, perhaps—she trembled and spilled a drop of hot oil on him, waking him. In sorrow and anger with her for breaking her promise, he vanished out of her life. The lantern among the wedding party will remind the viewer of the rest of Psyche’s story.”

“What was the rest, Mr. Ryme?” a village girl demanded.

“She was forced to face her mother-in-law,” Alexa answered instead, “who made Psyche complete various impossible tasks, including a trip to the Underworld, before the couple were united again. Isn’t that right, Father?”

“Very good, Alexa,” Mr. Ryme said, smiling at her. Jenny’s eyes widened. She knew the tale as well as anyone, but if she had spoken, Papa would have scolded her for showing off her knowledge. And here was Alexa, with her curly red-gold hair and green eyes, not only lovely, but encouraged to reveal her education. Mr. Ryme held up his hand before anyone else could speak, his eyes, leaf green as his daughter’s beneath his dark, shaggy brows, moving over them again.

“Who...” he murmured. “Ah. Of course, Jenny must hold it. Why you, Jenny?”

Behind him, Papa, prepared to answer, closed his mouth, composed his expression. Jenny gazed at Mr. Ryme, gathering courage, and answered finally, shyly, “Because I am the bride’s sister. And I’m part of Psyche’s story, as well, like the lantern.”

“Good!” Mr. Ryme exclaimed. His daughter caught Jenny’s eyes, smiled, and Jenny felt herself flush richly. The artist shifted her to the forefront of the scene and crooked her arm at her waist. “Pretend this is your lantern,” he said, handing her a tin cup that smelled strongly of linseed oil from his paint box. “I’m sure there’s something more appropriate in my studio. For now, I just need to sketch you all in position.” He gestured to the dozen or so villagers and friends behind Mr. Newland. “Poses, please, everyone. Try to keep still. This won’t take as long as you might think. When I’ve gotten you all down where I want you, we’ll have a rest and explore the contents of the picnic baskets Mr. Woolidge and Mr. Newland so thoughtfully provided. I’ll work with small groups after we eat; the rest of you can relax unless I need you, but don’t vanish. Remember that you are all invited to supper at my cottage at the end of the day.”

Jenny spent her breaks under the willow tree, practicing historical dates and French irregular verbs with Miss Lake, who seemed to have been recalled to her duties by the references to the classics. At the end of the day, Jenny was more than ready for the slow walk through the meadows in the long, tranquil dusk to the artist’s cottage. There, everyone changed into their proper clothes, and partook of the hot meat pastries, bread and cheese and cold beef, fresh milk, ale, and great fruit-and-cream tarts arrayed on the long tables set up in the artist’s garden.

Jenny took a place at the table with Sarah and Mr. Woolidge. Across from them sat Papa and Mr. Ryme, working through laden plates and frothy cups of ale.

“An energetic business, painting,” Papa commented approvingly. “I hadn’t realized how much wildlife is involved.”

“It’s always more challenging, working out of doors, and with large groups. It went very well today, I thought.”

Jenny looked at the artist, a question hovering inside her. At home, she was expected to eat her meals silently and gracefully, speaking only when asked, and then as simply as possible. But her question wasn’t simple; she barely knew how to phrase it. And this was more like a picnic, informal and friendly, everyone talking at once, and half the gathering sitting on the grass.

“Mr. Ryme,” she said impulsively, “I have a question.”

Her father stared at her with surprise. “Jenny,” he chided, “you interrupted Mr. Ryme.”

She blushed, mortified. “I’m so sorry—”

“It must be important, then,” Mr. Ryme said gently. “What is it?”

“Psyche’s sisters—when they told her she must have wedded a monster...” Her voice trailed. Papa was blinking at her. Mr. Ryme only nodded encouragingly. “Wouldn’t she have known if that were so? Even in the dark, if something less than human were in bed with her—couldn’t she tell? Without a lantern?”

She heard Mr. Woolidge cough on his beer, felt Sarah’s quick tremor of emotion.

“Jenny,” Papa said decisively, “that is a subject more fit for the schoolroom than the dinner table, and hardly suitable even there. I’m surprised you should have such thoughts, let alone express them.”

“It is an interesting question, though,” Mr. Ryme said quite seriously. “Don’t you think? It goes to the heart of the story, which is not about whether Psyche married a monster—and, I think, Jenny is correct in assuming that she would have soon realized it—but about a broken promise. A betrayal of love. Don’t you think so, Mr. Newland?”

But his eyes remained on Jenny as he diverted the conversation away from her; they smiled faintly, kindly. Papa began a lengthy answer, citing sources. Jenny felt Sarah’s fingers close on her hand.

“I was wondering that, myself,” she breathed.

Mr. Woolidge overheard.

“What?” he queried softly. “If you will find a monster in your wedding bed?”

“No, of course not,” Sarah said with another tremor—of laughter, or surprise, or fear, Jenny couldn’t tell. “What Jenny asked. Why Psyche could not tell, even in the dark, if her husband was not human.”

“I assure you, you will find me entirely human,” Mr. Woolidge promised. “You will not have to guess.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” Sarah answered faintly.

Mr. Woolidge took a great bite out of his meat pie, his eyes on Sarah as he chewed. Jenny, disregarded, rose and slipped away from her father’s critical eyes. She glimpsed Miss Lake watching her from the next table, beginning to gesture, but Jenny pretended not to see. Wandering through the apple trees with a meat pie in her hand, free to explore her own thoughts, she came across the artist’s daughter under a tree with one of the village boys.

Jenny stopped uncertainly. Mama would have considered the boy unsuitable company, even for an artist’s daughter, and would have instructed Jenny to greet them kindly and politely as she moved away. But she didn’t move, and Alexa waved to her.

“Come and sit with us. Will’s been telling me country stories.”

Jenny glanced around; Miss Lake was safely hidden behind the apple leaves. She edged under the tree and sat, looking curiously at Will. Something about him reminded her of a bird. He was very thin, with flighty golden hair and long, fine bones too near the surface of his skin. His eyes looked golden, like his hair. They seemed secretive, looking back at her, but not showing what they thought. He was perhaps her age, she guessed, though something subtle in his expression made him seem older.

He was chewing an apple from the tree; a napkin with crumbs of bread and cheese on it lay near him on the grass. Politely, he swallowed his bite and waited for Jenny to speak to him first. Jenny glanced questioningly at Alexa, whose own mouth was full.

She said finally, tentatively, “Country tales?”

“It was the lantern, miss.” His voice was deep yet soft, with a faint country burr in it, like a bee buzzing in his throat, that was not unpleasant. “It reminded me of Jack.”

“Jack?”

“O’Lantern. He carries a light across the marshes at night and teases you into following it, thinking it will lead you to fairyland, or treasure, or just safely across the ground. Then he puts the light out, and there you are, stranded in the dark in the middle of a marsh. Some call it elf fire, or fox fire.”

“Or—?” Alexa prompted, with a sudden, teasing smile. The golden eyes slid to her, answering the smile.

“Will,” he said. “Will o’ the Wisp.”

He bit into the apple again; Jenny sat motionless, listening to the crisp, solid crunch, almost tasting the sweet, cool juices. But these apples were half-wild, her eye told her, misshapen and probably wormy; you shouldn’t just pick them out of the long grass or off the branch and eat them...

“My father painted a picture of us following the marsh fire,” Alexa said. “Will held a lantern in the dark; I was with him as his sister. My father called the painting
Jack O’Lantern
.”

“What were you doing in the dark?” Jenny asked fuzzily, trying to untangle the real from the story.

“My father told us we were poor children, sent out to cut peat for a fire on a cruel winter’s dusk. Dark came too fast; we got lost, and followed the Jack O’Lantern sprite, thinking it was someone who knew the path back.”

“And what happened?”

Alexa shrugged slightly. “That’s the thing about paintings. They only show you one moment of the tale; you have to guess at the rest of it. Do you want to see it? My father asked me to find a lantern for you in his studio; he won’t mind if you come with me.”

Jenny saw Miss Lake drifting about with a plate at the far end of the garden, glancing here and there, most likely for her charge. She stopped to speak to Sarah. Jenny swallowed the last of her meat pie.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I’d like that.” It sounded wild and romantic, visiting an artist’s studio, a place where paint turned into flame, and flame into the magic of fairyland. It was, her mother would have said, no place for a well-brought-up young girl, who might chance upon the disreputable, unsavory things that went on between artists and their models. Jenny couldn’t imagine the distinguished Mr. Ryme doing unsavory things in his studio. But perhaps she could catch a glimpse there of what nebulous goings-on her mother was talking about when she said the word.

“You come, too, Will,” Alexa added to him. “You don’t often get a chance to see it.”

“Is there a back door?” Jenny asked, her eye on Miss Lake, and Alexa flung her a mischievous glance.

“There is, indeed. Come this way.”

They went around the apple trees, away from the noisy tables, where lanterns and torches, lit against insects and the dark, illumined faces against the shadowy nightfall, making even the villagers look mysterious, unpredictable. Alexa, carrying a candle, led them up a back staircase in the house. Jenny kept slowing to examine paintings hung along the stairs. In the flickering light, they were too vague to be seen: faces that looked not quite human, risings of stone that might have been high craggy peaks, or the ruined towers of an ancient castle.

Will stopped beside one of the small, ambiguous landscapes. “That’s Perdu Castle,” he said. He sounded surprised. “On the other side of the marshes. There’s stories about it, too: that it shifts around and you never find it if you’re looking for it, only if you’re not.”

“Is that true?” Jenny demanded.

“True as elf fire,” he answered gravely, looking at her out of his still eyes in a way that was neither familiar nor rude. As though, Jenny thought, he were simply interested in what she might be thinking. He was nicer than Sylvester, she realized suddenly, for all his dirty fingernails and patched trousers.