Had she just embarrassed herself in front of Henry by behaving in such a prissy fashion?

Ellen could not believe that Henry would invite her to a ball and she was uncomfortable. He was trustee at her art school, after all, and their stations in life were entirely different. Henry leaned forward and Ellen thought he might reach for her hands again, so she quickly put her teacup down and clenched them together in her lap.

“Ellen,” he said earnestly, “why do you think it’s so impossible for you to attend this ball? Plenty of young ladies will be there –”

“Young ladies I have no acquaintance with,” she returned. “Ladies of society, who, as you said, will be arrayed in their finest and looking for husbands –”

“Is all that stands between you and this ball – a gown?” Henry asked and Ellen swallowed a laugh.

“No, of course not, though in truth I certainly don’t have a gown that would be suitable for the occasion.” “That is easily remedied –”

“Don’t you dare,” she warned him. Suddenly she felt furious with how obtuse he was being. “I can’t accept gifts from you, Henry. Surely you see that?”

Nonsense

“I see that it’s priggish nonsense,” Henry returned with spirit. “The world is moving on, Ellen. You must move with it.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never been good at that. I don’t like change.”

“And yet you moved all the way across the Atlantic,” he observed. “Twice.”

Ellen thought of the girl she had been, standing on deck with her father as they sailed past the Statue of Liberty eight years ago. Things had changed so much since then – her father leaving, Aunt Ruth dying, being sent from Seaton to Amherst Island . . .

There had been many joys along the way, but it hadn’t been easy. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure just how much she’d actually changed on the inside.

“Even so, I must be firm on this,” she said to Henry. “It would not be appropriate for me to attend this ball as your guest. I’m quite sure your parents would not approve.”

His eyes flashed. “I am a grown man, not beholden to my parents,” he answered. “I don’t care what they think.”

“But perhaps I do.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You care about the opinions of people you’ve never met?”

“Oh, Henry, are you trying to be difficult?” Ellen exclaimed. He smiled a bit at that, but she could still tell he was both hurt and irritated by her refusal.

“I do not wish to embarrass myself, or be an embarrassment to a bunch of strangers! I don’t even know why you want to ask me to such a thing!”

“Don’t you?” he said quietly, and Ellen felt as if her heart was suddenly suspended in her chest. She looked away, not wanting to answer.

“It’s quite impossible.”

“You won’t be the only art student there, if that makes a difference,” he said after a moment. He lounged back in his chair, speaking lightly, that brief moment of intensity thankfully past.

“I won’t?” “No, of course not. My parents support the school, as I do. So it’s not as inappropriate as you think.” She felt unsettled by that, and wished he’d been forthcoming about such details when he’d first asked. Had she just embarrassed herself in front of him by behaving in such a prissy fashion? “I don’t know, Henry. It still seems –”

“Think on it,” he said easily, and leaned forward to pour her more tea. “You don’t need to give me an answer now.”

Solitude

Ellen was no nearer an answer an hour later when Henry dropped her off back at Miss Gray’s – she still could not think of her as Norah. The house was quiet as Ellen came in; Norah was, no doubt, in her studio. Ellen tiptoed upstairs and closed the door, grateful for a moment’s solitude.

Except she did not feel peaceful, with Henry’s invitation rattling around in her mind. Should she accept? Her gaze fell on the letter she’d been reading earlier from Aunt Rose. She thought of how Louisa was adjusting to island life. Couldn’t she change too?

If Louisa could become a farmer’s wife, then perhaps she could embrace this strange and wonderful new life she had in Glasgow. She could embrace all of the opportunities.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she dashed off a letter to Henry accepting his invitation to the ball and put it downstairs on the hall table to be taken out with the morning post.

All night Ellen tossed and turned, unable to sleep for the thought of the letter she’d left downstairs. She wondered if Henry would read more into it than she meant and if she were being dangerously forward in agreeing to attend as his guest.

What would she wear? Even her best dress was not the sort of thing one wore to a society ball. Sometime near dawn she fell into an uneasy, dreamless sleep, only to wake suddenly to a rapping on her door.

“Ellen?” Norah called. “Breakfast is on the table. You’ll be late for your lessons if you don’t hurry.”

Blearily Ellen rose from the bed and quickly washed and dressed. A glance at the timepiece she wore pinned to her shirtwaist showed her that she was indeed very late.

Intimidating

She hurried downstairs, resolving to take the letter from the hall table and consign it to the fire.

She’d accepted Henry’s invitation in a moment of foolish pique, but in the cold, bright light of morning, she knew it wasn’t sensible to attend. As she came into the hall, however, she saw the silver salver that held the post was empty. The letter was already gone.

She could not settle to anything in her lessons, and was given a dressing down by the intimidating Grieffenhagen in her painting class, which left Ellen burning with shame.

“You must commit to your subject, Miss Copley,” he said, his voice ringing out through the classroom, so the other pupils perched on their stools could hear.

Ellen stared down at her lap, her cheeks flaming, as Grieffenhagen continued his diatribe. “An artist feels and believes in what he – or she – is doing. We are not making pretty pictures. We are creating life.”

She bit her lip and managed to murmur her apology, and with a sigh the tutor moved on. Ellen stared at her half-finished painting of a copper jug and a few oranges and sighed inwardly. How could she have committed to painting such a bland scene?

But even though she hated being humiliated in class, she knew Grieffenhagen had a point.

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