Free Ironbark by Johanna Nicholls

his own wife … I say therefore to the unmarried … if they cannot contain, let them marry, for it is better to marry than to burn!’
    From the corner of his eye Daniel saw that Saranna was blushing.
    Daniel caught his breath. Marriage to Saranna would secure my future as an artist. Why do I hesitate to press my advantage? When I first met her I burned to paint her. I’m flattered by her adoration – no one in my whole life ever loved me. But is that enough? Could I face spending the rest of my life with her?
    After the service Aunt Georgina took matters into her own hands. Daniel was to escort Saranna home – the first time they would be together without a chaperone. Daniel seized the chance to take a detour along the towpath beside the canal. When they reached the Bridge of Sighs he only half listened to Saranna’s tales of condemned prisoners who had crossed the bridge from Northgate prison to St John’s Chapel for final absolution. He caught her by surprise when he said, ‘You realise, don’t you, Saranna, that if I marry I can record no father’s name in the church register. The whole world will know what you know. I am a bastard.’
    Saranna looked so flustered, so pathetic to have her fear thrust out in the open, that Daniel felt a rush of anger.
    â€˜I thought as much. The rules of society mean everything to you but you might as well accept that they mean precious little to me. I’ll make my own name.’
    Before she could deny her embarrassment, Daniel decided to test himself.
    He pressed her hard against the stone wall. His kiss was rough and determined – the first time he had ever kissed a girl. He needed to explore the sensation. That it clearly excited Saranna gave him a pleasant sense of power.
    She hastily withdrew at the approach of a middle-aged couple who wore identical expressions of disapproval.
    Saranna was breathless. ‘Oh Daniel, does your kiss mean that we are—?’
    â€˜It simply means I kissed you! Great artists aren’t bound by conventional moral codes. And I intend to be great. Art will always be my mistress. An artist’s wife must accept that.’
    He strode off leaving Saranna to follow meekly at his heels. She caught at his sleeve. ‘I promise to respect your mistress if you want me for your wife.’
    Daniel nodded but he was not sure if he had won or lost.
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    The largest art exhibition Daniel had ever seen was crowded with families on a guided tour. As a sop to his pride Saranna had paid their entrance fees. He was aware of her trailing behind him, more absorbed in him than the paintings.
    Suddenly Daniel stopped, transfixed by an oil painting of a near naked girl with long brown hair, kneeling with her arms raised to the sky in supplication. It’s her face!
    â€˜Clytie painted by Thomas Linton Hayes. The year before my birth!’
    Saranna’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. ‘The same initials as your mother’s portrait! The program says he died ten years ago.’
    Daniel sank to his knees, his eyes glassy with tears. Saranna turned chalk-white with embarrassment but Daniel did not give a damn who saw him as he drank in the portrait.
    â€˜Just look at her. Clytie. Sensual yet innocent. My mother was brave enough to pose for an artist just as God made her.’ He turned to his fiancée with a tone of mild contempt. ‘Are you , Saranna?’ He gave a wry smile when he saw her confused expression and he strode off, content that he had made his point. If I marry you, little mouse, it will have to be on my terms.
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    The clock struck midday as Daniel hurried back to the gallery from the bank. He felt a growing sense of trepidation about his approaching wedding day, 15 July. He waited for a cart that lumbered across his path and then he froze at what he could see through the gallery’s window.
    Like a mime performer in a dumb