Free Elijah’s Mermaid by Essie Fox Page A

shawl – a lovely embroidered Chinese silk that my uncle had sent some weeks before, though I felt much less sure of the yards of blue muslin that seemed to protrude a good yard ahead and lifted too high above the ground by the wooden cage of my crinoline. Such a contraption it was. But the draper in Leominster, he would insist that it was quite ‘the London thing’, showing me several fashion plates in which ladies appeared to float like bells. I felt more like a bobbing boat, and I dreaded more teasing to come from Elijah, but my brother was much too busy to look, what with having to do all that eating again, chewing great mouthfuls of kippers and eggs.
    Once seated and offered a plate of the same I found I still lacked appetite and only nibbled a corner of toast, almost feeling as if I had two heads – the one full of worry about Papa, the other fizzing up with excitement, wondering what theday might hold – what Freddie’s mysterious surprise could be. And almost as if he could read my mind Uncle Freddie set down his knife and fork and gave a small cough to clear his throat, which must have been some sort of cue, for one of his maids then entered the room and there on her tray was a brown paper parcel – which Freddie placed into my hands.
    ‘What is it, Lily?’ My brother set down his cutlery while I tore my way through the wrappings. He looked on with curiosity, his eyes grown wide and the twitch of a smile to see me uncover two brand-new editions of Papa’s mermaid storybook which, after much deliberation, had been titled
Of Lost Mermaids ~ and Other Salty Wanderings
. It had proved to be very popular, now having sold for several years; this new edition with green leather bindings, the letters and patterns embossed in gold, and its surface as soft as velvet when stroked beneath my fingertips. In excitement I handed the spare to Elijah, my arms stretched across the tabletop before settling back in my chair again to flick through the pages of my own, where I saw my name as clear as day right there on the dedication page, and underneath it, there was my brother’s, and something that made me cry out loud, exclaiming, ‘Elijah! Did you know?’
    As he swallowed the food that remained in his mouth the surprise on his face soon answered that, no, he really had no idea that some of his pictures were printed inside, those swirling visions in sepia tones that my brother had worked on the previous year, that Ellen Page had considered dull – she always preferring a vase of pink rosebuds, or a robin’s nest filled with forget-me-nots, the sort of pretty clichéd thing that Elijah might have painted once, when he was very much younger, when Ellen liked to save each one and pin them on our kitchen walls. But Papa was Elijah’s champion, encouraging originality, taking Ellen Page to task for making such blinkered crude remarks. And although I knew nothing about such things I did know those pictures were beautiful – menacing, dark, but beautiful, each beginning with simple pencil lines upon which the washes of colour were built, creating such depth andtranslucence – all now reproduced in this brand-new book, the sight of which rendered my brother dumb, blushing to his very roots when Uncle Freddie smiled and said, ‘Dear boy, you should be immensely proud. Everyone here at Hall & Co. has been most impressed with your workmanship . . . so much so that we might discuss future commissions. And perhaps we should think to get you enrolled you in the Royal Society of Artists . . . at the very least to arrange for a tutor. It’s not only the education. It’s the contacts you’ll make along the way, all so crucial to forging a future career.’
    ‘Oh, Uncle . . . that would be wonderful!’ Elijah’s eyes glittered with excitement, bathed in his uncle’s adoring gaze. But to think of my brother going away – well, mine were cast down in sudden dismay, pricked with the sharpest sting of tears. I can only say I was