A Mad, Wicked Folly by Sharon Biggs Waller Read Free Book Online Page A

legacy. I admired them so, and I longed to paint like them,
but I wanted to portray men in myth and legend instead
of women.
    This painting before me appeared to be inspired by
John Everett Millais’s Ophelia . Millais, one of the PRB
founders, had portrayed Shakespeare’s character floating
in her watery grave, but in this one, the painter had chosen
to depict the doomed Ophelia running toward the stream.
He had caught the movement of the devastated girl and the
light that fell upon her hair beautifully.
    I stepped closer to the work to inspect the brushstrokes.
The sunlight streaming through the trees was filled with so
many different colors. It was astonishing. How did he do
that? This painting illustrated perfectly the reason why I
had to attend the RCA. I wanted to know what this artist
knew.
    Footsteps came from the back of the room. I turned
around to see a balding man dressed in a morning suit and
spectacles walking quickly toward me. He looked annoyed,
as though I had interrupted him in some important task.
“We aren’t open for viewing today, miss.” He held his hand
out toward the door. “If you’ll just come back on Saturday,
we’re open to the public from morning to teatime.”
    “No, no. I . . . I’ve . . .” My face blushed hotly. “I’ve not
come to view, although the paintings here are extraordinary. I’ve come to inquire about the application process.
And the scholarship,” I hastened to add, seeing the growing look of disinterest on his face. “I’m just inquiring as to
when I can submit my sketchbook. I, uh, have it here if I can
submit now.” I fumbled for it in my art satchel, and held it
out to him. To my dismay, my hand trembled. “Um . . . what
do I do?” I broke off. I sounded so daft, and not at all like
the sophisticated artist I wanted to appear.
    His gaze flickered to my book briefly and then away.
“The application window is not open.”
“Oh,” I said. I pulled my sketchbook back and clutched
it to my side, embarrassed.
“It opens in April. All work must be submitted for
consideration by the end of April, along with a letter of
reference from an instructor or one from an artist alumnus
of the school.” He regarded me over his half-moon spectacles. “I should warn you, though, we only accept very
serious students of the highest quality. This school turns
out professional artists. If you plan to get married and
have children, this may be a waste of time for you. Perhaps
you should discuss things further with your parents to see
what would be best for your future.” He inclined his head
and started to leave.
Before I knew what I was doing, my hand shot out and
grabbed his arm. His eyes widened.
“I do apologize, sir,” I said, finding my voice, even though
it wobbled. “I plan on completing my course of study, and I
very much look forward to attending the school. I’m quite
serious about my work and someday I plan to see it hanging here among the works of these alumni. And not high
up, sir, where no one will notice it. Right on the line of
sight, in pride of place.”
Goodness gracious, where did all that come from? I
didn’t give a fig because the look of disinterest fell from
his face, and now he was listening. “Now, what is required
for submission?” I let go of his arm. My voice cracked, and
tears of frustration were only an inch away.
“I have some information I can give you.” The gentleman went out of the room and then came back with a
leaflet in his hand. “This explains it all. You must drop off
what’s listed by the date there. We’ll review it and then
contact you if you’ve been chosen to sit for the examination. My name is Mr. Earnshaw. If you have any problems,
ask for me.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish you the best of luck, Miss . . . ?”
“Darling. Victoria Darling.”
“Miss Darling. And I do look forward to seeing your
work hanging amongst our alumni’s.”
“On the line.” This time I did smile.
“Of course,” he said,