‘The first one, of course, was Charles.’ The full-length photograph showed a rather stern-looking man—the man from the sketch Jocelyn had shown them earlier. ‘And Harriet.’ Again, she was the image of the sketch they’d seen. ‘But this is the one I think you’ll really like.’ She skipped over a couple of pages. ‘Meet Alice Fisher.’
The photograph matched the sketch and the portrait in oils, albeit in the photograph Alice was clearly a couple of years younger—and that tied up, too.
‘The Girl in the Window. She’s definitely Alice. You’ve just given us the final bit of proof to tie them all together. Thank you so much!’ Mariana said, and threw her arms round Jocelyn.
Then she turned to Angelo and hugged him, too. ‘We’ve done it. We can prove your grandfather’s painting is a Carulli.’
Thanks to Mariana’s persistence, they’d beaten the ticking clock. His grandfather still wouldn’t be with them at Christmas, but Leo would die happy, knowing that he’d been right about his painting.
Angelo held her close, unable to speak and hoping that she’d understand how overwhelmed he felt right at that moment.
‘The story gets a lot more interesting,’ Jocelyn said with a grin. ‘You wait until you see Harriet’s diary. I’m guessing Charles didn’t know about it—it’s in tiny handwriting, and in a tiny, tiny book, a bit like Jane Austen writing her novels on tiny sheets of paper she could hide easily. I took a photocopy for you, but obviously we can make the original available if you need it.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Angelo said. ‘Really wonderful. Thank you.’
A mobile phone shrilled, and Jocelyn groaned. ‘Sorry, I’m expecting this and I really have to take it. It’s my granddaughter, having wedding panics, and she’s fighting with my daughter, and I need to go and smooth all the ruffled feathers. Can I leave you to look at the diary on your own?’
‘Of course,’ Angelo said.
‘Sweetie? Yes, I’m here,’ Jocelyn said, blew them a kiss and left the room.
* * *
Mariana looked at Angelo. ‘It seems a bit unfair, reading this without Jocelyn.’
‘She suggested we look at it,’ Angelo reminded her. ‘I vote we start at June 1863.’
‘Agreed,’ she said.
They flipped through the photocopied sheets until they found the right date.
‘Jocelyn wasn’t kidding. Harriet’s writing is minuscule,’ Angelo said.
They pored over the sheets of paper, and because the handwriting was so small they were forced to move closer together. Angelo couldn’t resist sliding his arm round her.
‘We’re meant to be working,’ Mariana said, but the sternness in her voice was completely fake and totally undercut by the gleam in her eye.
‘Of course we’re working. It’s just more comfortable like this.’ Angelo drew her a tiny bit closer to him.
‘You might be right,’ Mariana said, and her smile made his heart feel as if it had just done a somersault.
They turned back to the diary. ‘Here’s Signor Carulli arriving again, in June,’ Angelo said.
‘He’s engaged as the drawing master, and Alice’s sketching is coming on well. Her father’s pleased with her accomplishments and he’s planning to marry her off to the son of one of their neighbours,’ Mariana said.
There was nothing of real note during the rest of June and July. Then Angelo frowned. ‘Look at this one in August. “Alice has been pale every morning,”’ he read. ‘“I fear she has ceased to be unwell.” Does that mean she’d stopped having morning sickness?’
‘No, it means she’s stopped menstruating,’ Mariana said. ‘See here, on the next page. “I fear she is in a delicate condition.” Harriet obviously thinks Alice is pregnant.’ Even saying the word made her feel guilty. This must be so hard for Angelo, reading about a pregnancy, when his marriage had broken down because of his infertility.
The next page was heartbreaking. ‘Poor Alice,’ Mariana said. ‘She really got swept off her feet by Carulli. A lot of models fell for their painters. And here she’s obviously confessed to her mother. “She told me she posed for him...one thing led to another.” Poor Alice. That must’ve been so hard for her. She must’ve been terrified of being thrown out and left to deal with everything alone.’ She grimaced. ‘And it wasn’t just the scandal. In Victorian times, pregnancy was dangerous. Women died in childbirth—and so did the babies. Harriet had seven children that we know of, so she knew the risks.’