The Girl in the Picture. Kerry Barrett

people who have moved into Willow Cottage. We should introduce ourselves.’

      I felt a thrill in my solar plexus that could have been nerves or could have been something entirely new, as I led Father over to where Mr Forrest stood.

      ‘Ah,’ said Reverend Mapplethorpe. ‘These are your new neighbours. Marcus Hargreaves and his daughter, Violet.’

      Father shook Mr Forrest’s hand vigorously. I bowed my head slightly as I’d done on the beach.

      ‘Edwin Forrest,’ said Edwin. ‘And my wife, Frances.’

      ‘A pleasure,’ said the woman, in a deep, pleasant voice. I looked at her in surprise. I was confused. His wife? I had assumed she was his sister. I’d felt a connection between him and me when we’d met on the beach – a connection that surely wouldn’t have been there if he were married. Would it? I felt myself blushing as I worried I had misread the situation.

      Mr Forrest was talking. ‘Frances has been ill, you see, so we’ve not had a chance to meet anyone,’ he told Father.

      I looked at Mrs Forrest. She didn’t look ill. She was neatly dressed, with a large skirt and a tidy waist. Her dark hair was tightly pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck.

      ‘Much better, thank you,’ she was saying to Father. She didn’t smile. I felt a rush of sympathy for vibrant Mr Forrest. To be married to such a dull woman must be difficult.

      ‘Have you been to the beach?’ I asked Mr Forrest’s wife boldly.

      Mrs Forrest looked at me, sharp eyes piercing my face, but Mr Forrest smiled.

      ‘It’s very beautiful,’ I went on, not sure what I was hoping for her to say. ‘A walk on the beach is very good for the constitution, Mrs Forrest.’ I stared at Mrs Forrest in defiance, as though daring her to admit she wasn’t ill.

      ‘You are very kind,’ Mrs Forrest said, lowering her eyes from my gaze. ‘I will take a turn as soon as I am able.’

      ‘But not today,’ Mr Forrest said, his firm tone suggesting there would be no argument. ‘Today you must rest.’

      Mrs Forrest simply nodded and Mr Forrest turned to Father.

      ‘I am very fond of the outdoors,’ he said as we began to walk out of the churchyard and bade farewell to Reverend Mapplethorpe. Mr Forrest leaned towards Father, as though he were telling him a secret. ‘I fancy myself as an artist. Wildlife sketches, mostly. I will enjoy drawing the seabirds here.’

      They continued – Father asking surprisingly knowledgeable questions about Mr Forrest’s hobby, while I fumed quietly. Father had never shown such interest in my art, or at least not for years, and not without a patronizing pat on my head to accompany his questions.

      Mrs Forrest and I walked behind my father and Mr Forrest, not speaking, and as they approached the Forrests’ house, the men paused to let us catch up.

      ‘I was just saying to your father that I think I will take your advice and go for a walk on the beach later,’ Mr Forrest said. He looked up at the sky. ‘Though it’s hot now. I feel later would be better – perhaps around five o’clock.’

      He looked intently at me and I dropped my gaze. Was it an invitation? I looked up at him through my eyelashes and he gave a tiny, barely noticeable nod. I felt myself begin to blush again and turned away so he wouldn’t see.

      Father said our goodbyes, then he led the way to the house, and Mr Forrest walked up the path to his cottage. But as I turned to go, Mrs Forrest glanced at her husband’s back, then caught my hand. I gasped in surprise but Mrs Forrest didn’t let go.

      ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ Mrs Forrest said in a low, urgent voice. ‘Please, be careful.’ Then she turned and walked quickly to the cottage.

      I was bewildered. I wondered if the ailment that had afflicted Mrs Forrest was in her head, instead of her body. Perhaps she was hysterical. I’d read of that in Father’s Times. How difficult things must be for poor Mr Forrest.

      I followed Father home, barely listening as he told me how I should wear my skirts fuller like Mrs Forrest, and wear my hair neatly like Mrs Forrest, and speak softly like Mrs Forrest. I could only think about how I would sneak away later to meet Mr Forrest on the beach.

      After an unseasonably heavy lunch of roast mutton and treacle tart, Father and I retired to the drawing room. Father read the paper, while I picked out a tune on the piano. I was not a natural musician and I could feel Father’s irritation growing as I hit the wrong keys. Eventually, I sat opposite him and read his newspaper out loud until I saw his head droop and his eyes close.

      Quietly, I folded the paper and rested it on the arm of his chair, then I crept out of the room and closed the door behind me.

      ‘Mabel,’ I called to our housekeeper, as I tried in vain to tease my unruly hair into a roll. ‘I left my gloves at church. It’s such a beautiful day, I’m going to walk up and retrieve them.’ I was surprised at how easily the lie fell from my lips, but not ashamed. So keen to begin my art career was I, that I felt almost anything was justified.

      I pulled my hat on, then calmly strolled down the path, shutting the gate behind me. Then I walked towards the church, but as soon as I was out of sight of our house, I ducked down the side of a cottage, hitched up my skirts, and ran along the path to the beach.

      I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting on the rocks, a little way from where we’d met before. Out of sight from Father, I noted with relief.

      ‘And his wife,’ a disloyal voice in my head added. I pushed the thought away and concentrated on scrambling down the steep path to the sand.

      As I reached the beach I paused and smoothed my hair where it poked out from under my hat – in vain, I feared – and caught my breath. Mr Forrest had his back to me, watching the waves, and I studied him for a second, admiring his broad shoulders and the way his hair curled under his hat.

      As if he sensed me behind him, Mr Forrest turned, and my heart lifted at his smile.

      ‘Dear Miss Hargreaves,’ he said. ‘I feared you wouldn’t get away.’

      I flushed at his informal greeting. ‘Father went to sleep,’ I admitted.

      Mr Forrest smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘Then let’s make the most of the time we have,’ he said. He offered his arm and I took it. I felt very grown up and very young at the same time. We strolled across the sand, by unspoken consent hugging the low cliffs that flanked the beach and ensured we were unseen from above.

      Mr Forrest asked questions about my painting and, heady with the joy of talking about it, I explained – or at least I tried to explain – why I loved it so much.

      ‘It’s as though I haven’t chosen it,’ I said, struggling to find the right words. ‘It’s like breathing; it’s part of me.’

      Mr Forrest studied me, and I turned away feeling self-conscious.

      ‘I only wish I had your talent,’ he said. ‘But what I lack in ability I make up for in passion. I am certain you have a great future ahead of you.’

      ‘In London?’ I breathed.

      ‘If you wish,’ Mr Forrest said. ‘I flatter myself, but I have been told I have a good eye and I know if your work excites me, then it will undoubtedly excite my friends in the PRB.’

      He took my hand. His touch was hot like the sun. The only man who’d ever touched me before was Father.

      ‘This is a way out for you, Violet,’ he said, gripping my fingers. It was as though he could see into my soul and I suddenly felt raw. Stripped bare. How did he know what I was thinking? Confusion flooded me.

      ‘I must go,’ I stammered. ‘Father …’

      I pulled my hand away abruptly. Mr Forrest didn’t object. Instead he tipped his hat.

      ‘Miss