A Mad, Wicked Folly Read Online Free

walls. A moment
later the sea settled and the ship righted itself. I hauled
myself up and rubbed the life back into my tingling elbow.
My sketchbook had come to a rest upside down against
the doorframe. Several pieces of paper had fallen out and
lay scattered over the floor. I was always collecting bits
of things and shoving them into my sketchbook—posters,
leaves, newspaper cuttings. I was a magpie that way. I
gathered them all up to shove them back into the book
when one of them caught my eye.
ROYAL COLLEGE OF ART, ANNUAL SUMMER SHOW, 1908
    It was last year’s program for the show of students’
work. Bertram had it in a wodge of bumf he was discarding. I wanted some sketches he was throwing out, so I’d
fished it all out of the rubbish, and that’s when I found the
leaflet. The Royal College of Art was one of the most prestigious schools in England; many of the country’s finest
artists had studied there. Bertram had attended the RCA.
Although he left after a year, he said he’d learned a great
deal about fundamentals. Monsieur Tondreau always said,
without fundamentals, an artist would always struggle.
    I sat down on the edge of the cot, holding the leaflet. I
could never return to Monsieur’s studio, but I didn’t have
to give up on instruction. I could apply to the RCA. My
drawing book held proof that I understood the technical
challenges of art, especially anatomy. I had a treasure trove
of those forbidden drawings. I would need a letter of reference, but I could get one from Bertram or from Monsieur
Tondreau. I knew Bertram’s address. He worked and lived
in a tiny studio off the village square. I would send them
letters as soon as we docked.
    Then I reminded myself that I was in disgrace and my
parents might not be so disposed to let me go to art college. Besides, I already knew what my father thought about
women going to college: there was no reason to educate a
girl like a boy, he believed. The only value to a woman of
good breeding was as a wife and mother.
    Forget it , I thought. I slid my feet under the blanket
and lay my head on the lumpy pillow, trying to ignore the
spring that poked me in the backside. If I were a boy, this
wouldn’t be an issue. If I were my brother Freddy  . . .
    I sat straight up then. Freddy! Perhaps I could enlist
my brother’s aid. A year ago, he’d defied Papa when he
embarked upon a career in publishing instead of taking
the reins of the family business. Papa did not speak to
him for nearly six months. There was a rapprochement
at Christmas, and now my father behaved as if Freddy’s
career decision had been his idea. If I could get Freddy on
my side, he could speak to my parents for me.
    I imagined myself at the RCA show, standing next to my
work of art, wineglass in hand, listening as the president
of the Selection and Hanging Committee told the gathered
crowd why my painting had been chosen and how I was
considered among the best of my generation.
Maybe bidding France farewell wouldn’t be so unbearable after all.
    three
London, Victoria Station,
Thursday, fourth of March
     
I
    N THE MORNING,
we disembarked at Southampton
and I put my letters to Bertram and Monsieur
Tondreau in the pillar-box. A sailor helped load my
trunks into a hansom cab, and tipped his cap when
I handed him a coin. When Anne-Marie and I arrived at
    the train station, a porter hurried out, collar turned up,
shoulders hunched against the rain, and settled me into a
first-class carriage, which heartened me. Even better was
the sight of my brother, Freddy, on the train platform at
Victoria Station in London, leaning on a walking stick, his
homburg hat tilted at a jaunty angle.
    I alighted from the carriage and Freddy hurried to
greet me, a look of affection tinged with concern on his
face. “There you are!” He kissed my cheek and then took
hold of my valise. “Welcome home. Mother was going to
send the footman, but I wanted you to see a friendly face
before heading into