you.’
‘That’s because Beth is a gem, even though she is constantly grumbling about not being a downstairs maid or a housekeeper. I was going to visit the stationer in Cornhill, but it can wait. Besides, it is raining.’ He sat down opposite her, his very blue eyes hardly leaving her face. ‘Might I enquire what profession will be so fortunate?’
Rhia sighed. ‘I am to be a governess.’
Laurence chuckled as he poured her coffee from the samovar. ‘Surely it will not be so awful?’
‘No, it probably won’t.’ She buttered another roll, feeling self-conscious. She searched for something else to say. ‘MrsBlake says that you make photogenic portraits. That sounds far more exciting.’
‘Oh it is, and I’m a fortunate fellow to have made a career of something so jolly agreeable.’
‘Is your studio close by?’
‘I’m using one of Antonia’s rooms for now.’
‘Then you are making portraits in this house!’
‘Why yes.’ He looked pleased by her enthusiasm. ‘I am recently arrived in the capital from Bristol, you see, though I used to visit regularly. In fact, it was your uncle who urged me to come to London when Josiah … died.’ His lips twitched for a moment and he lowered his eyes, but he recovered his humour quickly. ‘Antonia is quite a devotee of photogenic drawing. Now tell me, Miss Mahoney – Rhia – how does London seem to you?’
How did London seem? She considered this. If London were a cloth …
‘Like devoré, I think.’ Was this being too clever? Did Laurence, too, think this unattractive in a woman?
‘Devoré?’
‘A cloth whose pile is—’
‘Ah, I do know what devoré is, but only because the weaves that allow light to filter through make extremely good subjects. Antonia likes experimenting with lace, for example; it is very photogenic , as we say.’
‘Then Mrs Blake also makes photogenic drawings?
‘Indeed. But tell me why London is like devoré.’
‘It is as rich as velvet, but in parts the bare cloth is exposed.’
‘Poetic.’ Now he was looking at her as though she were some specimen beneath a glass.
‘Can you really make photogenic drawings of cloth?’ she asked.
‘Would like to see one?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘Then you shall, as soon as I return from the stationer.’
Laurence drank his coffee in a gulp, bowed flamboyantly and was gone.
Rhia coiled a strand of hair around her finger thoughtfully. It felt coarse and reminded her that she had still not bathed. She went looking for the kitchen.
Beth seemed proud to inform her that there was a ‘bath room’, and led her to the back of the house. It was a recent addition at Cloak Lane, the maid explained. The piped water came into Mrs Blake’s basement and it was carried upstairs and heated in coppers, then transferred to the porcelain bath. No wonder Beth wanted Mrs Blake to employ a downstairs maid.
The bath was of such a dimension that a small body could easily recline, and the room was warmed by a rotund iron stove in the corner. A brass rail was fixed to the green-tiled wall near the stove and draped with a white linen bath sheet.
Inside it, Rhia sat with her knees to her chest. It felt strange being in a room that contained only a bath. She felt acutely aware of her naked, honey-coloured limbs. Did she feel this way because of Laurence Blake? He had looked at her as though she was something unfamiliar. He thought her uncultivated. He would marry a pale English girl with a demure smile.
The steam hanging in the air reminded her of the Atlantic fog that had wrapped itself around the Irish Mail as it carried her away from Dublin. She hugged her knees more tightly as though to protect herself against homesickness. But now the green tiles reminded her of the Wicklow forests, and she could feel their clean breath in her lungs as though they had taken root in her; inhabiting her blood and bones.
She heard Laurence return, and she held her breath, listening. Did he hesitate outside the
‘That’s because Beth is a gem, even though she is constantly grumbling about not being a downstairs maid or a housekeeper. I was going to visit the stationer in Cornhill, but it can wait. Besides, it is raining.’ He sat down opposite her, his very blue eyes hardly leaving her face. ‘Might I enquire what profession will be so fortunate?’
Rhia sighed. ‘I am to be a governess.’
Laurence chuckled as he poured her coffee from the samovar. ‘Surely it will not be so awful?’
‘No, it probably won’t.’ She buttered another roll, feeling self-conscious. She searched for something else to say. ‘MrsBlake says that you make photogenic portraits. That sounds far more exciting.’
‘Oh it is, and I’m a fortunate fellow to have made a career of something so jolly agreeable.’
‘Is your studio close by?’
‘I’m using one of Antonia’s rooms for now.’
‘Then you are making portraits in this house!’
‘Why yes.’ He looked pleased by her enthusiasm. ‘I am recently arrived in the capital from Bristol, you see, though I used to visit regularly. In fact, it was your uncle who urged me to come to London when Josiah … died.’ His lips twitched for a moment and he lowered his eyes, but he recovered his humour quickly. ‘Antonia is quite a devotee of photogenic drawing. Now tell me, Miss Mahoney – Rhia – how does London seem to you?’
How did London seem? She considered this. If London were a cloth …
‘Like devoré, I think.’ Was this being too clever? Did Laurence, too, think this unattractive in a woman?
‘Devoré?’
‘A cloth whose pile is—’
‘Ah, I do know what devoré is, but only because the weaves that allow light to filter through make extremely good subjects. Antonia likes experimenting with lace, for example; it is very photogenic , as we say.’
‘Then Mrs Blake also makes photogenic drawings?
‘Indeed. But tell me why London is like devoré.’
‘It is as rich as velvet, but in parts the bare cloth is exposed.’
‘Poetic.’ Now he was looking at her as though she were some specimen beneath a glass.
‘Can you really make photogenic drawings of cloth?’ she asked.
‘Would like to see one?’
‘Oh yes!’
‘Then you shall, as soon as I return from the stationer.’
Laurence drank his coffee in a gulp, bowed flamboyantly and was gone.
Rhia coiled a strand of hair around her finger thoughtfully. It felt coarse and reminded her that she had still not bathed. She went looking for the kitchen.
Beth seemed proud to inform her that there was a ‘bath room’, and led her to the back of the house. It was a recent addition at Cloak Lane, the maid explained. The piped water came into Mrs Blake’s basement and it was carried upstairs and heated in coppers, then transferred to the porcelain bath. No wonder Beth wanted Mrs Blake to employ a downstairs maid.
The bath was of such a dimension that a small body could easily recline, and the room was warmed by a rotund iron stove in the corner. A brass rail was fixed to the green-tiled wall near the stove and draped with a white linen bath sheet.
Inside it, Rhia sat with her knees to her chest. It felt strange being in a room that contained only a bath. She felt acutely aware of her naked, honey-coloured limbs. Did she feel this way because of Laurence Blake? He had looked at her as though she was something unfamiliar. He thought her uncultivated. He would marry a pale English girl with a demure smile.
The steam hanging in the air reminded her of the Atlantic fog that had wrapped itself around the Irish Mail as it carried her away from Dublin. She hugged her knees more tightly as though to protect herself against homesickness. But now the green tiles reminded her of the Wicklow forests, and she could feel their clean breath in her lungs as though they had taken root in her; inhabiting her blood and bones.
She heard Laurence return, and she held her breath, listening. Did he hesitate outside the
Similar Books
