Page 42 of A Thousand Painted Hours

I filled a shallow dish with milk and offered it, remembering that Tanveer had said cats did not thrive on milk as the only part of their diet, but needed meat all the time. I didn’t know what we had to feed her. In the icebox, I found some fish soup, and turned to offer it, but she was already yelping, kittens left in a tumble, as she scrambled to beg.

“There you are, sweetheart.” I watched her eat, feeling a sense of hope. “What shall we call you, hmm?” It should be something honoring her bravery.

“I know,” I said, stroking her back as she ate, “I’ll call you Bastet,” an Egyptian goddess.

She ignored me. I sat on the floor with her, happy when she returned to her kittens, warm in their basket next to the stove. It made me remember the kittens at Herewich Manor, the first winter we arrived in England.

A Cold, Wet, Miserable Country

Autumn and Winter 1911

Herewich Manor, England

—23—

The first few weeks in England did not endear me to the place. Everything about it was wrong, opposite, empty. My brother, for whom I’d longed forever, was no longer the boy I remembered, but a crisply dressed man with a marbled accent and a way of looking down on everything I liked or wanted or was.

“You’re turning out to be quite pretty,” he allowed one evening when it was only the family at dinner. We dined at home alone quite often, as my father had been poorly on the journey over, his lungs giving him trouble, and it had not appreciably improved in the cold, damp weather. My mother made potions of ginger and turmeric, which he dutifully drank. “You should be presented to court this summer.”

“No one does that anymore,” I said.

“Says the expert in English manners.”

I scowled.

“You’ll need a good match, Elsie,” he said.

“Why must it be me? Why not you?”

“I shall. First let’s get you settled, and then I shall seek a bride.”

Mother said mildly, “Leave her alone, William. She’s only fifteen. There’s plenty of time.”

“Fifteen is winsome,” he said, inclining his head with a faint smile.

I glared at him. “I don’t know that I ever wish to marry.” I stabbed a slice of roast beef and sawed it mightily. “If I marry, I shan’t paint.”

“Painting will not contribute to our fortunes,” Will said.

“How do you know? Perhaps I will prove to be a generational genius.”

He snorted. “I’ve seen your work, and while I’ll allow you’ve a fine eye, I hardly think you’ll make your fortune. The little orientalist things you’re doing have been out of style for years.”

“I’m not an Orientalist,” I cried. “My paintings are tribute, born of my true love of the home I had to leave.”

“Call it what you will,” he said. “That does not alter the need our family faces for you to marry.”

“Father,” I said. “Will you please intervene? He is not the head of this household.”

He huffed, and took a long swallow of water. “William, the matter can be tabled for a year or so, surely. Let the girl sow her wild oats. In my experience, a girl finds her way to marriage soon enough.”

I barely resisted sticking out my tongue, even though it would be childish and therefore lend weight to my cause—I was too young for marriage.

Mother said, “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind meeting other people your age, Elsie. We’ve been invited to a number of fetes.” She raised one perfectly arched brow. “We could get some frocks made in London, so you’d feel at home with the new crowd.”

I knew what she was doing—smoothing the waters between siblings, and dangling the delight of new frocks in front of my greedy eyes. I had discovered my clothing to be quite horrifically out of fashion. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Wonderful. We’ll make a week of it.”