Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
And Every Story Has Its Secrets
I did not doubt my decision to marry Winston. The arrangement would bring about my happiness and restore my sister’s health. I would be a fool to decline his offer. But when I decided to marry him, I had to release a sliver of possibility, a pinprick of hope. My love for Winston was sincere and warm, but not irresistible. In my decision to marry him I was closing a door on the forceful, if tumultuous, love which Miss Brontë had described to me over the past two days. As if summoned by my thoughts, the front door opened and Winston’s voice rang out. “Iris? Are you here?” I rose from my seat, not caring that James was in the middle of studying me. “There you are!” Winston stepped into the parlor doorway, his face brightening at the sight of me. Had anyone ever looked so happy to see me? I could look all my life and never find anyone so thrilled by my presence as Winston. I tossed Jane Eyre onto the bergère and ran toward him. His own arms were free—Stanley entered behind him with the luggage—and he wrapped them around me and lifted me off the ground. I broke into a smile. “I missed you,” I whispered into his ear, my feet dangling above the floor. “And I you.” He gently lowered me back to the floor and, to my surprise, kissed me. We had not kissed in front of anyone since our engagement. Though my back was to James, I imagined he was watching us with a condescending smirk. I pushed a curl behind my ear. “Did you finish all your work in Birmingham?” “No, but I came home anyway so I could see you—and bring you this.” He gestured toward Stanley, who handed me a box from the top of Winston’s luggage. It was a hat box, its wood painted emerald green. I slipped its leather handle aside and lifted its lid to find an ivory silk bonnet. Beneath it lay a pair of cream kid gloves. “Do you like them?” he asked, watching my reaction carefully. “I love them—though the better gift is your presence.” He grinned. “Stanley, bring me the mail that arrived while I was away. And take my things to my room.” Winston held both my hands in his and took a step back. “You are lovelier than ever. Have you been out in the sun? Your cheeks are red.” I placed a hand over my right cheek. Sure enough, it was warm beneath my palm. “Or perhaps you’re just blushing,” he laughed.
“It’s been terribly embarrassing to have my portrait painted,” I admitted in a low voice. “Sitting there and being stared at all morning.” And James wasn’t making the process any easier, I thought, as Winston led me by the hand to the parlor. “So the American has decided to accept the commission!” he boomed at James. “Mr. Carmichael.” James straightened behind his easel, careful not to look at me. “Yes, I began on Saturday. I promise to finish as quickly as possible.” “Fine, fine,” Winston said with a disinterested wave of his hand. “As long as you’re finished before the wedding it hardly matters. Perhaps it will keep Miss Sheffield out of trouble. She has little else to do during the day—isn’t that right, dear?” I pricked with resentment at his words. “I’ve read a book since I last saw you. And I went with the cook to Covent Garden on Saturday.” “You did?” Winston’s brows furrowed. “Whatever for?” “I bought an orchid for the conservatory. I enjoy the market, to look around, watch people, you know.” Winston cocked his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know, but then again, that’s never really been my cup of tea.” I ignored the stare I felt from James. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask if you might have any family records that I could read during my sittings.” Stanley returned, carrying a silver tray with four envelopes spread across it. Winston grabbed them and tore open the first. “What type of records do you mean?” he asked, his attention quickly slipping to the letter before him. “Journals, letters, a Bible with family names written in it. You know how I love to study penmanship. Remember when I learned to replicate yours so well? Anything handwritten is a treasure to me.” Winston nodded vaguely as his eyes ran down the page before him. “There’s nothing from my family, is there?” I assumed Papa and Hope would have mailed their letters to the townhouse, but nothing had arrived from them. It was probably too early to expect anything, but the silence still worried me. “No,” he said with a subtle shake of his head. “I’m afraid it’s all for me. And I don’t think we have any family journals, but you may search the library. You’re welcome to anything handwritten you can find. If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to some things. James, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” James nodded. “Perhaps we can discuss the details of the commission after my day’s work.” “Of course,” Winston said, already halfway across the foyer. “Knock on my door before you leave.” Winston closed the library door firmly behind him, leaving me alone once more with James. I returned to my bergère and placed Jane Eyre in my lap, eyeing the cover with a new skepticism. I had had my fiction: heat and passion, arranged for the most dramatic effect. Now I craved something true, something as honest as my warm affection for Winston. I knew of nothing more real than a record written by hand, whose penmanship attested to the writer’s presence as much as the meaning of the words. I wedged Jane Eyre into the cushion of my chair and wondered if, somewhere inside this mansion, I might find the honest record I sought.
~~~
I yanked open the parlor doors and the sounds from upstairs grew: the quartet playing a polonaise; laughter; the gentle thump of dancing feet. James bowed before brushing past me into the foyer. I followed him for three steps. “I’ll see myself out,” he said without looking back. He pulled open the front door, struggling only for a moment with the knob, and slammed it shut behind him. The polonaise ended and the guests applauded. I stayed frozen in place, one shoe on my left foot, the other clenched in my hand. I stared at the closed door and imagined James pulling his jacket tight around him in the snowy London night as he walked down Kennington Road and disappeared around the corner. I do not know how long I stood there, staring at the door, knuckles white around my shoe, but by the time I finally forced myself back to the party the dancing was over.
~~~
When I was first reading and became selective on what I wanted to read, Gothic was my choice. If you don't know what I mean by that genre, then you have missed some of the greatest women's literary books of early history. For instance, Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier and Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte are two of the most known and loved... And while others have likened this book to those, I found only a little--maybe the main character's as to how she dealt with a man who was brought into her life by her fiance! Other than that, I found the most dramatic part was the totally different suspense of the story... And the blatant actions of the three main characters seemed much more in tune with today's actions. Or, perhaps, I just haven't read as many historical novels that dwelled on the significance of what was to occur and each of the individual's reasons for doing what was done. It was fascinating, sometimes exhilarating, and, frankly, totally unexpected! I loved it as I would not normally "love" just a romantic novel... Kudos to the author!
Set in 1850, Iris had met Winston at the time when her younger sister had become gravely ill. The doctors had said that the London air was what was causing her problems. Winston had from the very first provided care and support to Iris and her family and soon Winston was talking marriage. Iris knew that her love for Winston was as a friend, even realizing that the love described in the books she had read was not what she felt for him. Still, they were close and Winston offered her everything, even volunteering to cover the cost, when they had decided, that her father would take her sister to Nice, France, where the doctor had recommended...
But, the discussion of when the marriage would take place had already begun and Iris felt torn as her only living family would be leaving just as a major change was happening in her life. Finally, Winston had agreed to schedule the wedding in the spring, hoping that her sister would be able to come back. In fact, she had forced a promise that there would be no wedding without her family able to return...
Iris found she had a hard time sleeping in their London home, and Winston had offered to have her stay there, even though they both knew that nobody would accept that as proper... Soon, though, Winston was inviting her to come for meals and he wanted to give her a tour of his entire home. She was thrilled to find that a conservatory had been added at the back of the house. Soon she was working there to clean out all plants that had died and enjoyed selecting new ones to enjoy. Often she would go directly there when she came to visit...
Because Winston often was not yet home from work. Winston's father had built a glass factory that was new and had spent most of his life on location working to get business started. In fact, it was his having a designer build the conservatory and its being so well received that he had begun to expand and get word-of-mouth attention. The designer, Mr. Paxton had made Carmichael Glass a respected company...
Now, after his death, Winston was working long hours to take over the business, almost fixated on doing a better job than his father... While Iris understood, she was often left for long hours without her family, without Winston...But, during the tour Winston had hosted for Iris, he had especially pointed out the portrait of his father, first, then, his mother, and his as well. Even though Winston talked about one day adding hers, Iris was really not interested. The idea of portraits being made was mostly, at that time, for the rich elite families. Iris' background was a good one, but the financial part had long ago disappeared...
Still, Winston persisted and talked to people to learn who was the best portraitist now in the area. Soon Winston's friend brought Mr. Thomas James to their home. Even at the beginning, after learning what Winston wanted, Mr. James was not interested. He'd had many bad experiences with the women who had sought his attention to paint them. Iris was just another one, although she would make a beautiful portrait. Finally Winston offered to double his normal fee and James (as he wanted to be called) agreed. Later he had told Iris that many of the rich and famous often were hard to have sit still, often talking without regard to what James had asked...
In fact, Iris was really not impressed with Mr. James... And, she really didn't want to sit for a portrait either. Readers will delight as these two snarl at each other or remain silent, barely looking at each other... Still, as time went by, as we all know, some type of relationship will and must develop. It started when James started telling him how he would be working, that he would start with her face. And, to do that, he must spend considerable time staring at the various parts, starting with her eyes... This was harder than he imagined. Why? He needed to get to know about Iris--her personality, see various emotions play over her face and learn about the individual he was to paint. At the same time, neither of them wanted to be caught looking at each other... You get the idea... That interaction would continue through several months...
In the meantime, Iris had asked Winston, when he had led her to the Library, whether there might be any family documents that were handwritten--perhaps the Family Bible, diaries, or letters. She was interested in getting to know his family, but she also had a personal fascination with handwriting--learning about the writer, seeing their handwriting and, often, like she had started with her mother's letters, attempting to, through, study and trial, to copy that individual's words and style. As she talked about this, I flashed back to my early working years as a secretary when I did the same thing and often signed my boss's signature in his absence... I have learned, however, that handwriting deteriorates as we grow older...
Winston had told her that he knew of no such personal documents, but she was welcome to read any that she might find...
What he didn't plan on was that, one night, when there was a storm, Iris was forced to stay overnight at Winston's residence. She was shown to a guest bedroom... Sometime during that night, her foot caught on something sharp in the bed. When she looked under the sheet at the bed's bottom, she found what looked like a diary... She opened and saw that it was handwritten, but was prevented from reading it immediately because of other events... But she was frantic to do so... Because in a woman's handwriting, the name Winston was written...
Kelly is especially skilled in weaving the various characters in and out of the scenes--bringing in Winston's mother just a few times, but she always leaves immediately, claiming she can't stand the smell of the house. Iris always thought it was that she missed her husband... but... Iris, herself, could not smell anything strange until much, much later... I had to admit that the Prologue was lost to me as I fell deeper and deeper into the story, captured into the triangle that was developing for Iris.
And, I must say that the climatic ending was a total surprise! And you all know I love it when I don't guess the ending... The scope and depth of the story is as complex as many I've read, intriguingly presented so that my emotional responses went back and forth automatically as each character spoke and acted out their individual stories... Thankfully, and that's why it became a personal favorite, the book ended just the way I wanted it to, without being able to see how events could lead to that astonishing tale! Again, Kudos to Emilia Kelly...
A Romantic Suspense Novel at its very finest! Highly Recommended!
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