Page 46 of A Thousand Painted Hours

The fashion that summer of 1913 was very much for the country house getaway. Everyone trooped out to one estate or another and stayed for three days, playing croquet on the lawn, drinking cocktails in the late afternoons, dashing off to swim if it was warm enough. The swimming was the only activity that saved these weekends for me. I’d learned to swim in India and had never lost my taste for it, nor for the evening walks that framed my days.

In this one thing, I liked England better than India. Here, everyone indulged in long walks that looped through gardens, and woods, and over fields, for miles and miles. The mild weather made it possible. On those long treks, I discovered new beauties, the surprise of a sudden mist in a thick forest, a shaft of sunlight illuminating a single flower. I began to fall in love with the rich gardens surrounding every great house, the softer palettes of lilac and rose, white and pale green.

But nothing pleased me so much as the swimming. We swam in ponds and lakes, and even sometimes a sleepy river, though this made my mother quite nervous. We swam in clever pools designed to look like grottos, surrounded with ferns and rocks and topless mermaids spouting water from their lips. Whenever a country house had a pool, I awakened early to swim.

In late August, I was invited to a Saturday-to-Monday party at cousin Nina’s house, or rather her father’s estate. For the first time, the guests were all youthful, no one much over twenty-five orso. I also didn’t see many of the nemesis faces who so plagued me elsewhere.

Nina herself met me at the door, slipping her arm through mine. “There you are, darling! I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you. I think you’ll be much happier here with my friends than you have been. Let’s get you settled and go for a swim.”

The house was sprawling, luxurious. It made me think of Talwarpur Palace, although of course it was entirely different in style. Still, one could see peacocks on the wallpaper and carpets woven in oriental patterns. “What is your family’s connection to India?” I asked.

“My grandfather was some muckety-muck back in the seventies.”

“You’ve never been?”

“God, no. Why would I?”

At my expression, she seemed to remember. “Oh, I am sorry. You miss it, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“Never mind. Here’s your room, and I’ll meet you down at the pool in an hour, shall we say?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t travel with a lady’s maid—my brother, watching pennies, said it was unnecessary because all the big houses would have them, and everyone would forgive me since I’d come so recently from India. I protested that we’d had dozens of servants in India, servants who’d always done everything for me. I hardly knew how to pack, to unpack, to prepare my clothing for travel and then dressing. “Some of my frocks have two dozen buttons down the back!”

He waved away my concerns. A girl would be loaned to me for the duration. “The cost of servants is dear in England,” he said, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one could overhear. “The coffers of Herewich are hardly overflowing, my dear.”

“Then why all these new frocks? I had plenty.”

He gave me a pitying smile. “The clothing you brought from India was entirely unsuitable. You must look the earl’s daughter, Elsie, to attract the right husband.”

I clamped my mouth closed. He had no power to force me to marry. There was no point to arguing with him. But a wave of worry sent ripples through my body, like a pebble into a pond. My mother had influenced my father and brother to allow me to attend art school, but how far would her reach extend? Would she stand with me against marriage? I hadn’t discussed it with her.

Perhaps I wouldn’t. For now.

But for today, I was free, and in the company of my bohemian cousin. My trunk had been delivered, and as William had predicted, someone had cared for my things, the dinner dresses and the day dresses hung neatly, everything else settled in drawers.

The room was well appointed, the walls hung with landscapes rendered in a style popular a hundred years before. I stepped close to admire one of a rolling landscape dotted with sheep, a single black one making a focal point. Nicely done.

My fingers itched for a paintbrush or a pencil. Perhaps there would be a little time over the weekend to sketch the landscape. I’d spied a pond with willow trees bending into it, and the patterns on the water clamored for my attention.

I had not yet heard from the Slade School of Fine Art, and the new term would open in just a month. Would they allow me to study? The possibility swelled through me, vague images of easels and classrooms and the smell of turpentine rolling across my imagination.

Without art school, life looked bleak. Parties and dinners and introductions to the right people until I was successfully married off. The narrowness of that path compressed my lungs.

Have faith, I told myself. Why would I be given such a hunger to create art if I were not meant to fulfill it?

I changed into a swimming costume and made my way to the pool, drawn by the sound of laughter. It sounded robust, not at all faked, asso many of these parties had seemed. I emerged through French doors to an area rocked to resemble a cliff face, with a round pool at the base. Water poured out in little fountains from the mouths of mermaids and cherubs and a wicked Pan, peeing.

Lightly clad young bodies, tanned and glistening, adorned the chairs and sluiced through the water. My eye caught on a young man swimming, his arms and back splendid with power. A willowy young woman lazed on a chaise, her shoulders showing through a diaphanous drape over a silk suit. Nearby her, a shirtless young man rubbed oil on his broad chest.

Everyone,everyoneseemed unconcerned, splashing and dozing in half nudity beneath the warm sun.

I wanted to paint them all.

The youth in the pool swept himself up to the side, lifting his arms to smooth his hair from his forehead. “Hello!” he cried. “You must be Elsie. Nina’s spoken of nothing else.”