Gossamer Cord

Did I really look like that? What had I been thinking of when I sat for Mary Grace? That subject, which was always uppermost in my mind? Dorabella and Dermot…their marriage…Mrs. Pardell who did not believe that her daughter had died as it was said she had…that sly old man who was watching us all the time as though we were spiders in a basin from which we could not escape. Those were the thoughts which had dominated my mind as I sat there.

I looked at Mary Grace in wonder. Her talent really did amaze me.

I said severely, trying to introduce a light note, for she looked very emotional: “Mary Grace, you have been hiding your light under a bushel. Have you heard of the Parable of the Talents? You have been given this talent and you have hidden it away. If you have such talent you must surely use it.”

“I can’t believe…”

“You have to believe in yourself. I am going to buy this miniature from you. I am your first client.”

“No…no…I shall give it to you.”

“I shall not accept it as a gift, but I very much want it and will have it. Listen. You have solved a problem for me. It is my sister’s birthday in October—mine also. I have been wondering what I am going to give her. Now I know. I can’t accept a gift from you which I am going to give to someone else. This is a blessing. She does not see me so often now, though we were always together until she married. This will be the ideal birthday present. You and I will go out and buy a beautiful frame for it, and that shall be my birthday gift to her. She will love it. It is beautiful and it will be so unexpected. Oh, Mary Grace, thank you so much. You have made a beautiful picture of me and at the same time solved my problem.”

She was staring at me, her lips parted in sheer astonishment.

“My dear Mary Grace,” I cried. “You look piskymazed, as they say in Cornwall.”

I carried her along on my enthusiasm. She was a most unusual artist. The few I had met had an inflated idea of their own excellence and a word of criticism could make an enemy for life. Mary Grace was modest and genuinely surprised. She was that rare creature—a good artist and a modest one.

I was already imagining Dorabella’s face when she saw the miniature. She would surely want one of herself. A commission for Mary Grace, I thought delightedly.

Mary Grace and I announced that we were going shopping that morning. There were certain things we wanted to get. We took the miniature with us and went to a jeweler’s shop in the High Street. I had noticed it before because there were several unusual pieces in the window—secondhand, some of them, rare and beautiful.

A bell tinkled over the door as I pushed it open and we went in. An elderly man came toward us to stand behind the counter.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“We want a frame—a small frame—to fit this.” I laid the miniature on the table.

He looked intently at the miniature and smiled at me.

“Very nice,” he said. “An excellent likeness.”

I glanced sideways at Mary Grace, who was blushing.

“Have you anything?” I asked.

“It has to be small,” he said. “There are not too many of this size around. Small and oval-shaped, of course. Most frames are the more conventional types. A piece of work like that needs something special, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it is going to be a present.”

“It’s lovely.” He was thoughtful. “A pair of silver frames came in the other day. Excuse me a moment. Thomas,” he called.

A man appeared. He was considerably younger than the one who was serving us.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

“What about those frames that came in the other day…with the Marlon lot.”

“Do you mean those small silver ones, sir?”

“Yes. They’d take a picture like this, would they?”

The man came and looked down at the miniature.

“Beautiful,” he said, smiling at me. “You’d want something really nice for that.”

“Can you put your hands on those frames, Thomas?”

“I reckon so, sir.”

The older man turned to us. “They came in only the other day. We haven’t had much chance to look at all the stuff that came with them yet. Secondhand, you know. From a sale of one of the stately homes. Been in the family for years, then someone dies and everything’s up for sale.”

He chatted awhile until Thomas appeared with the frames.

They were beautiful.

“They’d be some two hundred years old,” we were told. “They knew how to make things in those days. Craftsmen. We could do with more of them nowadays. Well, I reckon we could make that picture fit. Trouble is, they’re a pair.”

I had an inspiration. “It might be that we should want the other one as well,” I said. For if Dorabella wanted a miniature of herself to match mine, the frames should be similar.

“Unfortunately,” I said, “I am not quite sure about the other one.”

“Well, you could take the one and let me know, eh? I’ll put it on one side for a while—say to the end of October? After that I’d let it go. They should go together, of course, but as it fits…”

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Could you fit the miniature into the frame for us?”