With her head held high and her heart beating hard, Ellen sailed out of the room

Before Ellen could protest Henry took her hand once more and led her into the villa’s ballroom. The room was huge, filled with people, and Ellen felt as if every one of the Mccallisters’ guests was staring at her. She shouldn’t have come, she thought. She should have cried off, said she was ill – anything but endure all this open curiosity and hostility. Henry seemed blithely unaware of it.

“Mama, this is the lady artist I was telling you about. Ellen Copley.”

A tall, elegant woman with Henry’s blue eyes turned to survey Ellen, who only just kept herself from dropping a curtsey.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” she murmured, and Mrs Mccallister’s eyebrows rose – at her words or her accent or something else entirely, Ellen didn’t know.

“Likewise,” she said, sounding amused, which made Ellen cringe inwardly. Was everyone at this wretched ball laughing at her? Were they all thinking how appallingly obvious it was that she didn’t fit in?

Escape

Henry was talking to his mother about Ellen’s art, but she could barely take in a word. She felt a desperate need to escape the conversation, the room, the whole ball. Finally, when a lull in the conversation came, Ellen made her excuses.

She walked as quickly as she could away from Henry without seeming undignified. It took her a few moments, but she finally found the retiring room for ladies. A few young women were gossiping as they powdered their noses, and none of them paid Ellen any attention as she hurried inside and sat down on a chaise in the corner, her hands pressed to her cheeks.

Could she sneak out without saying goodbye to Henry? She would plead a headache when she saw him again, or perhaps she’d just tell him the truth. She shouldn’t have come here. She should have known where she belonged.

Two young women dressed as brightly as peacocks came into the room with a swish of silk. “Who on earth is that country bumpkin in the green gown?” one of them asked in a carrying voice, and Ellen froze.

“That dress is at least two years old,” another contributed with gleeful malice. “Although Henry Mccallister certainly seems fond enough of her! He always had queer taste.”

“But loads of money,” another woman said, and they all giggled.

“Do you think that’s why she’s here? To set her cap at him and his money?” “Don’t be common, Lucinda.” “Well, why else would he be interested in her?” Lucinda demanded.

With every word they’d uttered Ellen had shrunk farther back into the chaise, wishing she could disappear. But as the querulous Lucinda’s voice rang out, she felt something inside her snap.

She wouldn’t apologise for who she was any more. She wouldn’t hang her head in shame simply because she didn’t have the clothes or the money these young women did. Poor lass from Springburn she might be, but she had more breeding and class than to gossip like a fishwife as these young women were doing.

She rose from the chaise, shaking out her skirts. The movement caught the women’s attention, and Ellen saw their eyes widen as they realised who she was. Not one of them had the grace so much as to blush. Ellen lifted her chin in challenge.

“I’m not here for Henry’s money,” she said clearly, meeting each of their shocked gazes in turn. “But I can assure you, I’m not here for the company, either. I’m afraid I find it sadly lacking,” she finished, and with her head held high and her heart beating hard, she sailed out of the room.

High praise

“Well done, Miss Copley. Your painting is quite competent.” Ellen suppressed a smile as Professor Grieffenhagen moved past her. Competent was, she knew, high praise indeed from her demanding instructor, and the biggest compliment he’d paid her in the four months she’d been at the school.

“You’re coming on,” Amy told her after the painting lesson was over and they were walking towards the refectory. “I’ve never been called competent.” “You can dream,” Ellen teased and Amy grinned. They settled at one of the tables with cups of tea and pieces of cake. Ellen glanced around at the pupils chatting and felt contentment settle in her bones. She’d worked hard these last few months, not just to improve her artistic ability, but to increase her confidence. Besides her days at school, she’d started taking an active part in the Glasgow Society of Lady Artists with Amy.

She’d made more friends among the female pupils at both the art school and the society, and she cherished a hope that she might be chosen to take part in the society’s winter exhibition.

She’d continued seeing Henry occasionally, for tea or a drive in his motor car. Ellen was still concerned that his intentions were more serious than hers, but she enjoyed his company, his wit and easy laughter, and she was not yet willing to sever the friendship.

Henry seemed to respect the boundaries she’d made; he did not invite her again to Dowanhill, only calling for her on the occasional Saturday afternoon.

“Any woman likes to be admired,” Amy had said shrewdly when the subject of Henry Mccallister had come up during one of their breaks from lessons.

“I don’t spend time with him because I like to be admired,” Ellen had replied indignantly. “I enjoy his company.”

“And if he wanted more?” Amy pressed. “Would you be interested in that?”

“Of course not,” Ellen replied, and Amy cocked her head, her gaze sweeping thoughtfully over her friend.

Candid

“Why not? Henry is handsome, well connected, wealthy and a patron of the arts. I think any female pupil at the school would jump at the chance to be with him.”

“Amy!” Ellen could feel herself blushing. Her friend could be too candid sometimes. “And,” Amy went on, “there is no reason why you can’t be a Lady Artist and a respectable married woman.”

“Amy,” Ellen hissed. “I’m not looking to marry!” “Not now, perhaps,” Amy allowed. “But eventually.” Ellen shook her head. The pain of loving Jed and losing him to Louisa had diminished and she could read the news that Aunt Rose sent without flinching, but that didn’t mean she was ready to consider someone else. The risk of being hurt was too great.

“I have more important things to consider,” she told Amy firmly. “I like my friendship with Mr Mccallister just as it is.”

“Mr Mccallister indeed.” Amy snorted, but she thankfully let the subject drop.

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