What do you want out of life?” Amy asked frankly and Ellen blinked, surprised

Ellen knew she was not entering into the spirit of the art school because she was afraid – that she didn’t fit in, that she was in the wrong place, that she’d be exposed as a fraud. She’d spent so much of her life in fear, she reflected during the afternoon tea break. Most of the other students were chatting in little knots of people, but Ellen had chosen to sit alone. She felt as she had when she’d first moved to Seaton and had stood alone in the school yard. She seemed doomed never to fit in.

“Why so glum?” Amy plopped herself down next to her, adjusting her voluminous skirts. Unlike many of the female students who preferred the new, less formal style of dressing, Amy Mcphee was a regular Gibson Girl, with her hair pinned up and her dress, underneath her smock, trimmed with ribbon.

“Do I look as glum as all that?” Ellen asked and Amy inspected her, her lips pursed. “You have an expression like curdled milk. You aren’t taking old Griffy to heart, are you?”

Humour

“Griffy?” Ellen repeated with a choked laugh. “He can’t hear,” Amy replied with a shrug. “In any case, I’m not studying for a certificate. What can they do to me? Fra Newbery wants my father’s money, so he’ll let me stay and sit in on lessons.”

“You sound terribly cynical.” Amy smiled. “Merely pragmatic, my dear. But what’s wrong, really?” Ellen sighed. “I just wonder if I really belong here.” “Because you’re not taking yourself seriously all the time?” Amy answered, her hazel eyes glinting with humour, and Ellen let out another reluctant laugh and shook her head. “You really are irreverent.”

“Look, Ellen, I’ve seen some of your drawings and paintings, and I wish I had your ability. You’ve got more raw talent in your little finger than I’ll ever have in my whole body. You have the real thing and that’s what matters.”

“You’re kind to say so.”

“What do you want out of life?” Amy asked frankly, and Ellen blinked, surprised. “What do you mean?” she asked, mainly to stall for time.

“I mean, what are you here for? To get the certificate and be a professional artist? To better your skill? To make friends? Decide why you’re here and go after that goal. Then perhaps you’ll start to feel as if you fit in.”

Why was she here? Because she’d wanted to leave Amherst Island. Because her life had been at a crossroads and she’d thought it was time to pursue her dream. But she wasn’t pursuing it, even though she’d come this far. She was still holding back, hiding in the shadows.

But she knew she wanted to be. “Thank you,” she said to Amy. “That’s good advice. I will think on it.”

“Good. In the meantime you can join the Glasgow Society of Lady Artists. They have a house on Blythswood Square, and plenty of the female pupils here are members. They do exhibitions and parties and all sorts of things. You’d be most welcome, and you might make some friends as well.”

“That’s very kind.” Amy held up a hand. “I warn you, I won’t take no for an answer. We have a meeting next week.” “All right, I’ll come,” Ellen said, smiling.

Impressive

The society was housed in an impressive building. Inside, there was a large room for lectures, studio space, and a long gallery with sofas and chairs where women came to socialise.

Amy swept in with Ellen, and after listening to a lecture by a lady sculptress from Edinburgh, she moved around the gallery with Ellen, introducing her to everyone. Ellen was surprised to see Norah there, chatting with a few other artists she recognised.

In this informal gathering, however, when all the women were chatting and laughing, Ellen didn’t feel as intimidated as she usually did. By the end of the evening, she actually felt a part of things, enough to tell Amy about Henry’s invitation.

“The Mccallister ball?” Amy said, her eyebrows raised. “Oh, it’s splendid. My family goes every year.”

“You’ll be there?” Ellen felt a rush of relief. “I’m so glad. Henry, that is, Mr Mccallister, said there would be a few lady artists in attendance.”

“I suspect so,” Amy said after a moment, but her expression had turned shrewd and Ellen could feel herself starting to blush. “I have heard a rumour,” she continued, her voice light although her eyes were narrowed, “that Mr Mccallister called for you for tea last Saturday.”

“We’re friends,” Ellen said. Her face felt fiery now. “We met in Chicago last year. How did you hear?”

“You can’t go to Miss Cranston’s tearooms and not be noticed! Just be careful, Ellen. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I have no intention of getting hurt, or encouraging Mr Mccallister in any way,” Ellen said, her voice sounding stiff. “And yet you accepted his invitation.” “Do you think I shouldn’t have?”

“I don’t know.” Amy sighed, a frown furrowing her forehead. “I think you could have a lovely time at the ball, and I shall be glad to have you there. But if Mr Mccallister has developed an affection for you, you must be sure his intentions are honourable.”

Affections

“I wouldn’t return Mr Mccallister’s affections in any case,” Ellen answered, and Amy cocked her head, her gaze sweeping over her thoughtfully. “Why not? He’s a handsome man, and he has prospects.”

“I’m not of his class, Amy,” Ellen said, her voice coming out more stiffly than ever. “Surely you realise that?” “If Mr Mccallister does not find that an impediment, then neither should you.”

“Someone needs to be realistic,” Ellen returned with spirit. “And in any case, I’m not...” She took a deep breath, realising why Henry’s possible interest held no excitement for her. “I’m in love with someone else,” she admitted, her voice flat now. “Back in Canada.”

“Oh, are you?” Amy’s gaze brightened with curiosity. “And yet you came all the way here? Will he wait for you?” “Certainly not. He’s married to someone else.” “Oh.” Amy sat back, clearly scandalised, and Ellen hurried to explain. “Nothing ever happened between us. But I fell in love with him, and he fell in love with someone else.”

“Well, if nothing happened, I hardly think you should keep a candle for him! Go to the ball, Ellen, and see if it can’t distract you from moping after this man.” Her eyes danced and she leaned forward. “Now on to far more important matters. Have you got a dress?”

More tomorrow.

On Renfrew Street was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. For more great fiction, get The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Dave Young