“No,” said Sargent, “hold it above your head. We want the sense of desiring to be crowned, not being so.”
“Excellent,” said Terry, holding the crown up. “But it’s tiring to hold this way.”
“For art, my dear,” said Sargent, and Terry ceased complaining.
“How’s Henry?” asked Henry, referring to Henry Irving.
“He’s fine,” said Terry indifferently. She had had so many male companions in the course of her career that she had ceased to think much about any of them.
“I suppose he’s always on the lookout for new talent,” Henry continued. He had a fleeting thought of his own talent, since he had long wanted to write a play and had drafted a dramatization of one of his novels, as he had told Alice a few days earlier. He did not mention this, however. Instead he said, “I was telling William about a wonderfully talented young man I saw the other night performing a musical hall turn with Wilde. They say he’s a painter. I didn’t catch his name.”
“I wonder who it could be?” said Sargent.
William and Henry looked at each other. Sargent did everything so naturally that when he did something calculated, as in the present instance, the effect was ludicrous.
Terry, fortunately, was too preoccupied with holding the crown to notice. “You must mean Walter Sickert,” she said. “He and Oscar perform all the time. He’s the one who lent me the wig. He has loads of them.”
Sargent, William, and Henry looked meaningfully at each other.
“Tell me about him,” said Henry casually. His ability to be disingenuous was much more developed than Sargent’s.
Terry sighed. “Walter could be a great actor, but he refuses to be patient, so he’s turned to painting, where he says he won’t have to wait as long. Perhaps he’s right. He may be as great a painter as he could be an actor. He is also handsome and charming. And professes to be madly in love with me, which means he has excellent taste.” She had assumed a wistful expression, suggesting a dalliance in that quarter and confirming that Sickert’s appeal to the ladies was impressive; Terry had her pick of aspiring actors.
“Is there any area in which he falls short?” asked William.
She considered the question. “He’s not reliable. He disappears, and one doesn’t know where to find him.”
“How mysterious,” said Henry.
Terry shrugged. “I imagine it’s a strain for his wife. It’s one reason I’m content to have him adore me from afar.”
“You suspect…romantic trysts?” asked William, an unaccountable tremor passing through him at the mention of the idea of illicit lovemaking.
“I suppose.” Terry shrugged. “Though I don’t know why he needs to be so discreet. I once saw him in the East End with a woman, and he turned the corner to avoid meeting me. It seemed silly. Even if she were a disreputable sort, he could always pass her off as a model.”
Henry, William, and Sargent exchanged another look. Not, their eyes said, if she happened to be Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, or Catherine Eddowes.
“When did this happen?” asked Henry.
Terry had had enough of the conversation. “God knows! Gossip is such a bore; I really can’t abide it. Speaking of tiresome—how long do you want me to hold this crown, John? My arms are beginning to ache!”
Chapter 32
The guest list for the party at Henry’s flat, scheduled for Sunday night, had taken some work to assemble. Henry, though he had originally balked at the idea, had predictably gone overboard once he got used to it, and Alice and Katherine had to persuade him to curtail the number of guests, given the limited space and the need for a certain degree of intimacy. Reducing the list had then involved some bickering and hairsplitting as to who should be included. Du Maurier and Wilde had been forwarded, but their wit was judged to be dangerous in such small quarters. Also suggested was Emily’s friend Flora Priestley, who was known to be enormously shy and finally deemed expendable, since she would say nothing. There had been some dispute about inviting Violet Paget (who had lately, in rebellion against her femininity, renamed herself Vernon Lee), but for the opposite reason that she was never silent. It was eventually decided that Violet (or rather Vernon) might be useful in keeping the conversation going. Henry had wanted to invite Henry Irving for the sake of his dramatization, but that would have necessitated inviting Ellen Terry, who might find it odd to see Sickert among the guests, when Henry hadn’t known his name a few days earlier. Instead, they settled on the infirm but gentle Fanny Kemble, who could be counted on to talk about theater if that were necessary to draw Sickert out. Unfortunately, Edmund Gosse, always a dependable staple, was out of town. Constance Fenimore Woolson, known for mysterious reasons as Fenimore, was forwarded as his replacement, since she was in love with Henry and thus would make an effort, along with the Sidgwicks, because they were so fond of William and could distract Vernon Lee with talk of philosophy, if she became too voluble. Emily and John Sargent would round out the guests—Emily would be cheerful and accommodating, while John would be calm and observant, being the only person outside the family privy to their suspicion of Sickert.
Sickert had been sent a note saying that the Jameses had heard much of his developing talent and were eager to meet him and his wife, whose father, Alice made sure to mention, had been a great friend of their own. By Thursday, all the invitations had been sent, and by Saturday, the responses had been received. Everyone could come, except Ellen Sickert, who, Sickert wrote in a large, easy hand, sent her regrets; she was assisting one of her sisters during her confinement.
“From what I hear, she is often indisposed,” noted Sargent. “I don’t think he likes to be hampered on the social front.”
“Why marry, then?” asked Alice.
“My sentiments exactly,” said Henry.
Katherine had come to Henry’s flat on the morning of the party to confer about the dinner. She drew a diagram of the table and tried to explain it to Mrs. Smith. “Note the arrangement of the silver,” she said. “Make sure to place the smaller pieces on the outside and the little spoon at the top here, as I’m sure you know.” She glanced at Mrs. Smith, who it was doubtful knew anything of the kind. “Napkins, wineglasses, water goblets,” continued Katherine, pointing to her diagram, to which Mrs. Smith appeared not to be paying attention. “The condiments here, the ices here; please take care to keep the trifle away from the fire, or it will get soggy. Wash the strawberries thoroughly; you don’t want any dirt. And have your husband be sure to pour the wine from the left.”
Katherine was a calm, mild-tempered woman, but even she was beginning to grow irritable at the other woman’s lack of attention. After Mrs. Smith had left to go into the kitchen, presumably to start preparing the trifle, Katherine voiced her disapproval. “What does she do?” she asked Henry.
“Oh, this and that,” he said with some confusion. “I assure you she keeps busy.”
“I have no doubt that she keeps busy,” said Katherine, “but does she do any work?”
“Work, well…” Henry began to sputter.
Katherine felt it best to drop the subject. She would send Sally over to help in the kitchen, though Sally, who had just turned sixteen, could only do so much.
Alice had been preoccupied for several days with the question of what she would wear. She had feared at first that she had nothing and would have to resort to the dressing gown of the séance. But a bit of digging had located the black dress she had worn to her father’s funeral, and that could be made to look less funereal by removal of the material around the neck and the addition of a panel of pink and gray lace that Katherine found in a shop on Oxford Street. To this was added a set of pearls and black slippers. When she was finally done—dusted with rice powder, cheeks pinched, hair put up with a set of silver combs—she viewed herself in the large mirror in the sitting room and was so enamored of what she saw that she couldn’t take her eyes away. “It’s not that I look good,” she explained, “it’s just that I look so much better than I thought.”