Into the Blue (11 page)

Hester nodded. ‘I can't promise, but we'll see. Now I must go up – good night, Mrs Caunter.'

‘Good night, miss.' A definite note of hope brightened the rough voice and as Hester climbed the stairs –
Oh my legs! Thank goodness I'm not Ruby
– she wondered whether Father would be in a good enough mood for her to suggest the installation of a lift. Perhaps not tonight. Wait until tomorrow and a new day. But she had to ask him
why Hugh had come here this afternoon. Her spine was tense as she reached the top of the stairs.

The drawing-room gas spluttered and Stepmother's gentle snores made Hester close the door quietly and seat herself on the corner of the chesterfield nearest to her father.

He was sitting straight in his winged armchair, a newspaper open on his lap, polishing his spectacles with his handkerchief. His eyes followed Hester as she neared, and he nodded at her and then said, quietly, ‘We must talk, Hester. As you know, Hugh Marchant called late this afternoon. Your stepmother was resting after our trip to Jacks' garden, and I have not yet told her what Hugh's call was about. She gets upset very easily, and so you must bear that in mind when you hear what I have to say. I want no arguments, no noisy recriminations. You understand?'

His gaze was fixed and Hester tensed even further. ‘Yes, Father.' But she kept her voice even and watched as he folded the newspaper, put it on the table beside him and then looked back at her. ‘Very well. There's no point in beating about the bush. Hugh Marchant came here to ask my permission to propose marriage to you.'

She caught her breath, felt quick rage flash through her, but said nothing. Her mind was too full, her emotions too unstable.

‘Naturally, Hester, I thought the matter over very keenly. Hugh assures me that his entry into his father's law firm cannot fail – his degree was an excellent one – and I can foresee a good future for him. Although I find this new age difficult to accept, I agree that there are many more opportunities today. Hugh has a private income from a deceased godmother, and excellent prospects of his own family inheritance when – God save him, not yet, I hope – his father passes on. And he considers you will make a good, eminently suitable wife for him. He will, of course, in due time, become senior partner, and so his prospects are very acceptable.'

For an interminable moment they looked at each other. Then Arthur Redding settled himself more comfortably in his chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘Well? You've said nothing. Not surprised, surely? But complimented? He's quite a catch.'

A catch!
Hester flinched, but she could find no words to express all she was feeling How dare Hugh?
Dominating her. How dare he!

Her father frowned impatiently. ‘You know very well that this marriage is something I and your stepmother have been hoping for. You have always been friends with Hugh, and I gather the friendship continues – tennis, for instance, last week. He plans to invite you to visit his newly organised chambers very soon, when you can suggest a day.'

Deep breathing had helped to cool Hester's fury. She must summon up her strength, put aside her pent-up denial of thoughts of any marriage at all. She must keep Father appeased, for to upset him and Stepmother would do no good. But why must this happen just when it was so important to get him to agree to the new plans Emily Watson had suggested?

Go to London? Paint for a living? Father didn't even know that she was studying with Mr Flynn! Oh, what a terrible muddle life had suddenly become. How on earth was she going to resolve it?

‘Father.' She inched to the edge of the chesterfield and looked at his lined, rather grey face and a chill defeated her anger. He was old. He didn't look well. Her heart paused and then rushed on. ‘Did he say... .' She stumbled. ‘Did he say that he loved me?'

‘Loved you?' Arthur Redding's eyes grew deep, irritation pursing his mouth. ‘My dear girl, surely you know that where marriage is concerned, it's the prospects and financial arrangements that are important?' He sniffed, reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud blast. ‘Love, if that's what you want, will come later. Or not, as the case is. It's a minor detail in a marriage.'

‘But you loved Mother. Don't you love Stepmother?' She couldn't help it, the words just raced out. Her face flushed, her hands knotted in her lap.

Arthur Redding's bony cheeks grew patches of red. In a low voice he said slowly and distastefully, ‘That is nothing that concerns you.'

Hester couldn't leave it there. This was almost too painful to endure, yet inside her the determination grew. ‘But you did love Mother – you were always smiling when she was here. You talked, Father, I remember so well, you laughed, you were happy together. And you missed her so much, I know you did.'

Arthur did not meet her eyes. A silence grew, filling the space between them, allowing the gas to emphasize its burbling, letting
Emma's heavy breathing deteriorate into snuffles and then gradual slow movements in her chair.

‘There, you've woken your stepmother,' he said at last, the words full of condemnation, deep and harsh. ‘And I particularly asked you not to. Hester, how can you be so extremely difficult? We'll say no more at the moment. I can only hope that by the morning you will have thought through all that I said, and be prepared to give me a sensible answer.' Painfully, he rose, refusing her offer of a hand as he straightened up from the chair.

Glancing across the room, he looked at his wife and walked very slowly towards her. ‘Come, Emma, time for bed. Take my arm. We'll go up together.'

Emma blinked, opened her mouth and shut it again, finally finding a weak smile. ‘Oh, Arthur – did I drop off again? How rude of me. And yes, I'm ready for bed.'

With her arm hooked through his, she moved towards the door, suddenly seeming to notice Hester standing by the chesterfield. ‘Why, Hester – I haven't said anything about your aunt's garden day. Perhaps tomorrow we can have a good chat. Good night, now, my dear.'

Gardens, mountains, flowers, Nicholas
. It was a long moment before Hester could reply.

‘Good night, Stepmother. Good night, Father.' Then she moved quickly and opened the door for them. Arthur avoided her gaze, merely nodded his head, and led his wife towards the curving staircase. They ascended slowly, reached the top, and then the bedroom door clicked shut.

Hester went back to the dying fire and stood, looking down at it. Her mind was too full of muddling, painful, inescapable thoughts for her to focus on any one of them. She collapsed on the chesterfield and shut her eyes.

Tomorrow she must make decisions, but for the moment all she wanted was to escape from the problems that surrounded her, whichever way she looked.

And then she found herself laughing, an unfamiliar, bitter sound. The business of the lift in the kitchen had been completely forgotten. It was just one more thing to put on the list for tomorrow.

‘I think I've found my artist.'

Nicholas, at his desk in the office at the back of the house, looked around. Standing behind him Edward Hayward was smiling, the copy of his manuscript,
Primulas Around the World
, recently accepted for publication, clutched in his hand.

Nicholas prepared to listen. His father's enthusiasm was hard to ignore.

‘Joe Flynn – that artist fellow – came around just now, suggested one of his students as being eager to find work, and I need to find an illustrator, so... .'

Sitting back, Nicholas controlled his impatience. Joe Flynn? He frowned. ‘I've heard that Flynn is less than honest in his dealings – can you trust him, Father?'

Edward waved an arm. ‘Rubbish. The man knows about art and that's all that matters. Anyway, this student is a relative of Jacquetta Hirst, and we can't have a better recommendation than that.'

Nicholas got to his feet, his face tightening. He met Edward's querulous stare with a frown. ‘What's the student's name?'

Edward fished a piece of paper from his pocket, pushed his spectacles closer to his nose and peered at the scribbled writing. ‘Miss Hester Redding.'

He looked up and met Nicholas's startled stare. ‘A good solid family – and I bet the name of a local artist will help sell my book.' He leaned forward, grinning. ‘So you could add her name to the advertising you're working on.'

Nicholas said slowly, ‘But you know nothing about Miss Redding's
work, Father. You haven't seen it. You only have Joe Flynn's words, and he could be saying anything just to get his own name acclaimed. She may... .' Biting off the words, he paused, then forced himself to go on. ‘She may have no talent at all.' He frowned, but honesty mattered.

Edward's grin evaporated. ‘We shall see,' he said testily. ‘Write to her, Nicholas, say I'll see her on Thursday at eleven o'clock. Tell her to bring some work with her. Got the address, have you?'

‘Yes.' Nicholas took the paper and put it on his desk.

‘Good. Now, I must get on.' Edward breezed out of the office, putting on his hat, shouting for Jim and swinging his arms jauntily as he marched down the nursery.

Alone, Nicholas looked at the paper, read Joe Flynn's scribble and wondered what Hester Redding would think of working for his father. If she was good enough. His frown grew. How terrible if she were just an enthusiastic amateur without the necessary talent to take on professional work. He sat down at the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and allowed his thoughts to wander. If she came, where would she sit and paint? How often would she come? Or perhaps she would prefer to work at home?

The act of taking up his pen brought a brief hint of pleasure, appreciated and then dismissed. He knew it would be good, having Hester here. He wrote:

The pen was poised, not touching the paper as he gazed into the whirlwind of his own thoughts. She had called him Nicholas. He had called her Hester. But this was business.

He wrote
Nicholas Thorne
in his upright, firm hand, and then read through what he had written. Folded, put in an envelope and
stamped, it was done. He got up, strode out of the office and down the nursery towards the entrance, on the main road.

There was a pillar-box fifty yards away. Work must wait for this small five minutes of pleasure – communication with Hester. The letter posted, he returned to the nursery, and made himself concentrate on the crate of plants Jim was packing up, due for delivery to a local bigwig's garden this afternoon.

Briefly, images of mountains, gentians, last year's disastrous accident, Hester Redding and her warm smile flashed through his mind, but he frowned and dismissed them all. Business must go on.

 

Hester sat in her studio two days after Ruby's accident. The girl had appeared next morning, saying that she was better, still in pain, but of course she would do her work; mustn't let Master and Mistress down.

That had been one problem resolved, leaving Hester free to concentrate on her painting. Now, filling in the delicate, branching leaves on a slightly hairy stem of a frothing spray of cow parsley, the local names ran through her mind – Honiton Lace, Rabbit's Meat – and then, smiling, she carefully added the correct botanical name, learned from her recent studies:
Anthriscus sylvestris
. This was the next addition to her flora, to be taken to Mr Flynn for comment in a few days. Mr Flynn – she thought back to the recent conversation with her father that had got her nowhere. She still had to tell her father about studying with him. And if –
if
– she somehow found a professional commission, what on earth would Father say?

Putting the last touch of paint to the tooth-edged leaves, she sat back, considering. Things must come to a head soon. They needed to talk without any more rancour or resentment; she must explain that marriage to Hugh Marchant was not in her plans and he must realize she would soon be legally free to live how she wished.

But leave Father? Tell him that she was going away, to find work somewhere in the outside world? He would miss her, even though his dismissal of her longings was so set in stone. He loved her, as she loved him. But they had never spoken of it. Could they now?

She sighed, returning to the painting. Then there was the business
of the proposed lift from the kitchen to be thought about and suggested to Father. A smile touched her lips. Yes, it was an excellent idea. She should compliment Ruby, but then decided that was foolish. The girl was sly and underhand, and Hester's thoughts slipped away to how Ruby was pushing herself into Stepmother's life.

‘I'll fetch that for you, Madam. No trouble... .' And off Ruby would fly, a satisfied smile on her face.

I don't trust her, thought Hester. Don't know why, but I don't.

A knock at the door, and Ruby appeared, holding a letter. ‘Just come, Miss Hester, afternoon post.' She stared. ‘Oh, isn't that lovely, what you're painting – can I have a look?'

Hester took the envelope and put it down beside her paintbox. She would open it when Ruby had gone. ‘Yes, but don't touch – the paint's still wet.'

She watched the girl's face change, saw the overfriendly expression fade, replaced by something which suddenly struck her as being sincere. ‘You're clever, Miss Hester.' Ruby's voice was low, her eyes no longer sly. ‘That's lovely. Why, you ought to be a proper artist, Miss, pictures in galleries and things.' She nodded emphatically. ‘I'd buy one of your paintings, if I was rich. Hang it on me wall, I would.'

They looked at each other in a new way, with something almost akin to friendship. Hester frowned, surprised. Ruby was smiling, no longer smart and on the edge of insolence, but warm and understanding. Then she too smiled, taken unawares, realizing that her life was taking steps forward in many unexpected directions. She said quietly, ‘I'll give you a picture, Ruby.'

‘Oh, miss, oh, thank you!' Their eyes met. Green looking into golden flecked hazel, smiling, sharing the moment. Then Ruby said slowly, almost unwillingly, ‘Must tell you, Miss, Madam's been ever so nice about my fall the other day. Give me some ointment, she did. And when I asked about the lift—'

Hester shot back to reality. ‘You had no right to ask her, Ruby. I told you I would speak to my father.'

‘Yes, but I thought if Madam agreed with me it would be good.'

‘And what did she say?' The old feeling returned – the girl took too much upon herself – but Hester awaited the answer with interest.

‘Said she'd speak to Master. Said what a good idea. Didn't want Cook or me to have bad legs, she said.' Ruby was back in the doorway, looking over her shoulder, grinning like a cream-filled cat, and Hester couldn't stop herself smiling back, although whether in admiration or amusement, she wasn't sure. ‘All right, Ruby. We'll see what happens.'

‘Yes, Miss Hester.' Another big grin and Ruby disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Hester's thoughts circled. Yes, the girl was too forward. But Stepmother liked her. And if Father could be persuaded into installing a lift, did it really matter that Ruby had engineered it all? It would be something taken off her own shoulders.

And then she remembered the letter. Opening it, she looked immediately at the signature because she didn't recognize the handwriting – black, large and very strong. And then:
Yours sincerely, Nicholas Thorne.

She sat up straighter as she read, and a glowing smile spread over her face. An interview, her work to be assessed. The possibility of a commission. She was swelling with excitement. It was all happening. Life was opening out and the possibilities were infinite. Certainly she would go and meet Mr Hayward. Take her flora and greet Nicholas with the warmth that his letter had built inside her.

Then all the joy turned to dismay. She would have to tell Father about Mr Flynn and her plans to leave home. But even the thought of such a confrontation could not quite dismiss the feeling of elation that still floated through her. Quickly she wrote a note of acceptance to Mr Hayward, sealed and stamped it, ran down into the garden and asked Hoskins to make sure it caught the last post.

The small scree garden was calling her, the bed where she had planted the gentian Nicholas had given her. Now opening into wide, brilliant flowers, its rosette leaves spreading out into the slatey soil, she thought the low sun, reflecting on the rocks and pebbles surrounding it, brought an even brighter tone to the blue of the petals. She stood, thoughts flying to places far away, and then returned to the man who had brought this gift. She would see him when she went to the nursery. Would he be pleased to see her? Or had he forgotten her, except as a possible illustrator for his father's book?
She went back into the house, hoping that those eyes, which seemed to be as blue as the gentian flowers, would soften when he saw her. That he would smile and make her welcome.

To live.

 

On Wednesday she walked around to Brook Cottage with her bag of painting things, ready for Aunt Jacks to drive them into Newton Abbot to attend the botany class. Then she would be dropped at Mr Flynn's studio while Aunt Jacks passed an hour of shopping or visiting, before driving them both home.

Hester knew she was taking a new step towards freedom today. Everything looked fresh and exciting. The hedges, as she walked down the lane, were fuller and greener than yesterday. Dartmoor's long lines, with an occasional tor rising up into the sky, were misty and inviting, and she realized yet again how much the country and its flora meant to her.

When she left, she would miss this wonderful natural life. Briefly her optimism thinned. Living in a city, among thousands of other people, having to wait for a chance to visit the countryside – what would it be like?

But, as she walked into Aunt Jacks' garden, she dismissed the foolish fear.

Life would be what she made it and the country would always be there, wherever she ended up. London parks, village greens, hills and dales and rivers and meandering lanes.
Mountains
, whispered a quiet voice, and she blinked at the excitement the word engendered.

 

Aunt Jacks walked with her to Mr Flynn's studio. ‘You mustn't rely on gaining Edward Hayward's commission tomorrow, Hester. Your work might not be quite right for him. Just be prepared to wait until the right one comes along. And tell Mr Flynn how grateful you are.'

‘Yes, Aunt.' Hester watched the small upright figure march away, intent on some personal project, and thought yet again how lucky she was to have this caring woman upon whom she could try and model herself. If only Father understood as Aunt Jacks did.

Joseph Flynn smiled and she thought his manner more pleasant
than usual. ‘I've done my bit, Miss Redding – now it's up to you to impress Mr Hayward.'

Hester unpacked her paintbox and palette and put her picture on the sloping board already set up on the table. ‘I'm very grateful to you, Mr Flynn.' She looked up, met his small, veiled eyes, and said spontaneously, ‘And I'd like to show my gratitude.' Could she offer a fee? How embarrassing. But even as she stumbled over the words, his smile broadened and his usually rough voice took on a smoother tone.

‘It's been a pleasure to help someone with your talent. But if you really feel you should repay me, Miss Redding, then one of your paintings will do. I like to keep a record of my students' work.'

Relieved, she said, ‘Of course. Please choose which one you would like.' And then, ‘Should I sign it? I don't really know—'

He cut her short. ‘No need. I'm familiar with your work – quite different from my other students. Thank you. I'll look through your portfolio and choose one. Most kind.'

She passed him the large black portfolio and then turned to her work. The cow parsley was finished, but no doubt Mr Flynn would want it polished. She was right. ‘A pale wash for the background would let the flower tones stand out more. But it's good. Another page of your proposed flora, I suppose. Keep working and you may well get somewhere.'

 

That afternoon, she sat with Stepmother in the summerhouse chatting about domestic things. ‘Ruby,' said Emma brightly, ‘has finished sewing her patchwork cushion and it's really very good. She has an eye for colours and the stitches are neat. I've suggested she should start on something else – a nightgown case, perhaps.' Her smile widened. ‘She may well be able to deal with the household sewing. The girl is becoming such a help. I mean, her excellent idea of the lift in the kitchen – I talked to your father about it yesterday and he is thinking it over.' Emma's innocent eyes found Hester's. ‘I don't know how I would get on nowadays without Ruby's helping hand. I mean, she's always here, which is so useful when you're away... . Oh dear, I didn't mean to scold you, or anything, please don't think that—' Her drooping cheeks grew pink and she straightened herself stiffly in
her chair, looking at Hester anxiously. ‘What I mean is that you have so many interests which take you out of the house these days... .' The thin voice died away.