Into the Blue (2 page)

Arthur Redding made no reply, but she saw he was listening and not contradicting her. Hope surged. ‘So, you see, I haven't got time to go making calls on people with Stepmother – I have my painting to do, my plans for the future to sort out.' She stopped. So far so good, but this, as she well knew, was the barrier that she feared would never be overcome. Her future. Her plans.

Smile fading, hands locking in her lap, she waited for the usual condemnation of all she had just said. It came after a pause in which Arthur Redding again stretched his leg before resettling himself.

His voice was sharp. ‘You've always been inclined to want more than you need, Hester. When you were a small child I remonstrated
with your mother when she allowed you unnecessary freedoms. And now you seem to think you can walk away from the duties to which you are heir, as a girl of good breeding and upbringing. Isn't it enough for you to run the house? Entertain our friends? Look after your parents who, let's face it, have given you the means of a good life with no hardships?'

She had no answer, bowed her head, and looked down at her hands, waiting for the next familiar words. She knew them by heart. For years he had repeated this unwelcome mantra.

‘I have hoped that you would settle down, enjoy a social life and find a suitable man who will offer you marriage and his care for the rest of your life. Isn't that enough for you, Hester?'

His stare was steady. Hester breathed deeply, intent on finding some way of making him understand. Her voice was uneven, trying to control the passion surging inside her. ‘Father, I understand what you want. And of course I wish I could live as you expect – but I can't. You must' – she tightened her lips – ‘you must let me go. Let me do what I want.' This was terrible. She was hurting and disappointing him. But freedom was vital. ‘Please, let me go.'

They looked at each other and she knew that it was no good. He would never give in. He loved her, just as she loved him, but he had no understanding of all her passionate needs.

Rapid, desperate words rushed out. ‘I want a career. I've been told I could become a commercial artist if I work hard enough. I want to do it, Father, I want to use my painting to earn my living.'

Silence. A log in the fire crumbled. Outside in the garden a blackbird sang. And then, ‘You cannot do that, Hester, without my consent.'

Her stomach knotted: that same old authority.

Continuing, his voice was even more determined. ‘You're still under age and under my control. When you are twenty-one perhaps things may be different. You may even have decided on marriage instead of this rackety sort of bohemian life you seem to be dreaming of. But until then I hope you will have the goodness of heart to bear in mind that your stepmother and I are growing older and need your loving and helpful presence here at home.'

‘Yes, Father. Of course. And I'm sorry. So sorry. But—'

The door opened and Emma looked into the room. ‘May I come in? It's nearly tea time and, Hester, if you wouldn't mind, Mrs Caunter needs help to bring in the trays.'

It was over and there was no happy outcome. Hester got up and went down to the kitchen. Trays of sandwiches, sponge cake oozing with jam, a pot of China tea for Father and one of Indian for herself and Stepmother, just as yesterday.

Just as last year. And the year before that. Just as it would be for ever.

She had to get away.

Leaving the house, a heavy shadow fell from her shoulders. Breathing in the soft evening air, Hester felt thankful for her love of nature. The high hedges, winding along beside her, were sturdy walls of green foliage, and looking upwards to the oak trees, she saw them pushing out their enormous branches to form a tunnel above her head. The joy of her passion for all this rose inside her like a bird about to take wing. Gone was the tension of knowing that her parents would never agree to her leaving home and finding a place for herself in a world which they thought of as vulgar, dangerous and quite unacceptable.

She knew strongly that she was right in aiming her life in a new direction. Somehow freedom would come. She had no idea how, but believed her instinct telling her that life was pulling her and so she must follow.

As the valley flattened out, she reached Brook Cottage and opened the gate into Aunt Jacks' garden. She walked up the brick path towards the front door, taking in every flower that blossomed in the narrow beds edging the path. Pink and white daisies, purple larkspur and towering blue delphiniums that swayed in the breeze. She paused, smelling the fragrance of the honeysuckle sprawling against a couple of old lilac bushes. Aunt Jacks' garden always banished care and doubtful thoughts. Hester smiled as she knocked at the half-open door and then walked into the cottage. ‘Aunt Jacks?'

‘Hester, how nice. I'm in here, in the kitchen. This is the best place for my sketches and plans. Not enough light in the sitting room. Come in, my dear.'

Aunt Jacks sat at the table, which was spread with large pieces of
paper. She seemed even smaller as she leaned forward in the wooden chair, pencil in her hand, spectacles on the end of her nose. Her eyes were dark, shining with energy.

Instantly at home, Hester slipped into a chair on the opposite side of the table, looking down at the plans before her. ‘So, Aunt, what are you planning? Digging up the roses and growing vegetables?'

‘Don't be ridiculous. My roses are the best in the county. No, I've had this idea for years and this is the time to bring it to fruition. I shall turn the barn into a room where gardeners can meet and discuss their problems.'

‘Which you, of course, will resolve for them?' Hester chuckled.

Aunt Jacks put down her pencil and sat back, straight and upright. ‘Naturally. I have more experience than many so-called experts. And I shall bring in other knowledgeable people. Gardening is a popular hobby these days, and I have a mission to educate those in need. We will grow seeds, prick out plants, prune shrubs, keep lawns looking immaculate, and, most importantly, learn about using manure to help the blessed earth to keep its fertility and health.' She took a long breath, and looked across the table. ‘What do you think of all that?'

‘I think it's a wonderful idea. And I would love to help.'

‘I don't see why not. If I included a class for flower painting you could take that for me.' Her eyes were sharp. ‘How are you getting on with Joseph Flynn?'

Hester heard again his rough voice uttering those magic words and her reply came out in a rush. ‘He thinks I might be good enough to become a commercial artist.'

‘Splendid! I always said you had talent. Have you told your father of your plans?'

Suddenly the joy inside Hester somersaulted and she felt the same dismay she had encountered in the drawing room before tea. ‘He said it's out of the question. I must stay at home and behave like a lady. I'm legally a minor and under his control. So there can be no running off to a possible career... .' Her voice died and she saw her aunt's face tighten.

‘The old fool! My brother was always a fuddy-duddy, no idea about living a real life apart from his dusty old legal papers and court appearances. Now, my child, buck up and make some plans. You'll
soon be of age and then you can do what you like.' Aunt Jacks rapped the table with a tiny, hard fist. ‘And in the meantime you must start creating your own flora – a collection of the wild flowers in the village. Now, look at this sketch of the barn and tell me what you think.'

 

Hester walked home in the twilight, knowing she must be there to help Mrs Caunter dish up and serve the dinner, but her earlier resentment had receded. Yes, she would keep painting. And, like Aunt Jacks, she would make some plans. In early autumn she would be twenty-one and by then she would know exactly what she planned to do with her life.

Returning to Oak House, she decided that two things could be done already, without Father's knowledge: start painting her flora, and ask Mr Flynn to advise her about a possible career. Words began to arrange themselves. ‘
Mr Flynn, could you please tell me where I could go to study botanical painting?'
Then, hair brushed and neatly arranged around her head, green dress rustling as she ran downstairs, she went kitchenwards with a new feeling of anticipation, of excitement, and helped Mrs Caunter arrange dishes on the inevitable trays.

Thinking about Katy leaving, she asked, ‘When is the new maid coming?' and Cook stopped stirring the gravy to turn and answer.

‘Tomorrow morning, Miss Hester. Ruby Jones, she's called. Hope she'll fit in here and work proper.'

‘Of course she will, Mrs Caunter.' But Hester's thoughts were elsewhere, and she was thinking about painting as she carried the first of the trays into the dining room where Father and Stepmother were already seated.

 

Ruby Jones shouted a sharp rejoinder to the driver's saucy comment as she got off the omnibus in Chudleigh, put down her carpet bag and stared around her. What a quiet village, not the busy town she was used to in Newton Abbot. But she mustn't grumble. She had every reason in the world to be glad of the new situation at Oak House. And she had a secret.

Confidently, she asked a woman coming down the street, ‘Where's Oak House, then?'

The woman looked her up and down. ‘Past that pub on the corner, then turn into the lane and it's halfway up the hill.' Curiosity filled her face. ‘New job, is it, eh?'

Ruby scowled. ‘Mind yer own, can't yer?' She picked up her bag and marched off in the direction the woman pointed.

The lane was a rough track with grass growing down the middle. Such high hedges – Ruby couldn't see what was going on all around. Cows were mooing; she frowned and hoped they wouldn't appear. The country was a new sort of place, and they might be savage. She'd seen a picture of one, big and threatening.

Suddenly a sound behind her made her stop, nearly falling into the hedge to get out of the way of a horse and cart. It rattled closer and closer, bringing with it a smell of manure that was almost overpowering. She clutched her bag to her chest and shrieked at the boy who seemed to have no control over his huge, puffing black horse.

‘Watch it! Get off – I'll give you what fer if you hit me!'

The boy, mousy haired with untidy curls framing his tanned face, grinned down at her and waved his stick, nearly touching her nose. ‘Keep yer hair on, Miss! Prince won't hurt no one – jest keep out of the way, see?'

Ruby scowled. ‘Mind yerself, you great mump'ead.' She tossed her head, watching him continue on and then smiled. She had no time for impudent farm boys. Her sights were set on better, richer things. She lifted her head an extra inch, finding herself at a gate that told her she had reached Oak House, and then walked up the long, imposing gravel drive towards the house.

The shrub-lined drive opened into a circle in front of a tall, splendid-looking house with large windows and an imposing dark brown front door. Ruby paused on the steps leading to the door and thought hard.

‘Mind as you go down to the kitchen entrance, Rube,' her landlady, Mrs Beer had said when she left her lodgings this morning, but now Ruby decided on the spur of the moment to tackle this enormous building with all the confidence and courage she could muster. The secret, always at the back of her mind, produced fresh strength, and she walked up the steps, put down her bag, took the bell-pull in her
right hand, and tugged – hard.

She heard the deep clang echoing into the silence of the house and felt a moment of fear. It was all so unknown. Was she really doing the right thing coming here? Then footsteps approached, the door opened, and she took a deep breath as a woman appeared, looking at her with decidedly critical eyes.

 

Hester saw a slender girl in shabby but clean clothes, with fair hair knotted back under a straw boater decorated with a bright ribbon. Her first impression was agreeable. Could this be the new maid? Well, she looked as if she might suit. But presenting herself here, at the front door? Aunt Jacks' words rang in her mind –
servants don't know their places any longer
– and she had to conceal the smile trying to spread across her face. ‘Good morning,' she said crisply. ‘Can I help you?'

The girl fidgeted but held her glance. ‘I'm Ruby Jones, I've come to fill the empty situation. My landlady, Mrs Beer, knows Mrs Caunter.'

Hester heard determination in the burred Devon voice, saw almost insolent intent in the green-grey eyes, and felt herself react very sharply. ‘Then you must go round to the back door and tell Mrs Caunter that you have arrived, Ruby,' she said calmly. ‘The kitchen is in the stable yard. Knock and Mrs Caunter will take you in.'

They looked at each other for what Hester thought was an unseemly few seconds before the new maid nodded, picked up her carpet bag, went down the steps and disappeared around the side of the house. No thanks. No expected bobbing at receiving her orders. Hester closed the door and went into the morning room to find Stepmother and tell her about Ruby's arrival.

Strangely, she felt as if something explosive had made its way into the house. Foolish, of course, for Ruby Jones was just a servant and would soon learn the manners and duties expected of her. But there had been a very unsettling expression in those bright eyes.

Waiting for Stepmother to finish writing her letter, Hester sat down by the window and cleared her mind. This afternoon she would take the first step towards her new career, picking flowers and grasses to paint and so create her own flora. Every botanical artist she had ever
read about always created a flora. And so would she.

 

It was such joy, wandering the lanes in the afternoon sunshine, walking through Mr Bartley's field where the footpath skirted the growing corn before it reached the woodland. As she went, she picked dandelions, and the last of the primroses. On the edges of the pasture she found cowslips, and red dead nettle, while along the damp part of the wood ladies' smocks grew in a pale pink blanket. A tendril of honeysuckle completed her specimens, and then, putting them carefully into her basket and reluctantly looking at her fob watch, she knew she must get home for tea.

The house was cool and quiet and she went up to her room, wondering what Stepmother had thought of the new maid's appearance at luncheon. Ruby, in a dull but neat print dress, a white cap on her blonde hair, had served the dishes in silence, keeping her eyes down, nodding when Stepmother had said, ‘We'll have coffee in the drawing room,' and carrying the tray out to the kitchen. But, passing Hester, Ruby had looked up, and those keen eyes had seemed to interrogate her in some odd way. Hester returned the brief stare, and then banished the girl from her thoughts, for the idea of the flora was taking precedence over everything else.

She painted until the light began to dim, then laid the flowers on a large sheet of blotting paper, well out of the sunlight streaming through the open window, filling the desktop as she spread them out. Once painted, they would dry here until they could be arranged in sheets of thick paper, forming a slowly growing book.

My flora. I'll tell Mr Flynn next week.

At teatime, Emma, fresh from an afternoon nap, said pleasantly, ‘The new maid appears to know her duties. I told Mrs Caunter we were pleased with her.' She hesitated, then looked nervously at Hester. ‘I hope I did right?'

It was strange, thought Hester, that although Stepmother was Father's wife and in charge of the household, most small problems were passed to her to resolve. But she stifled her annoyance, saying, ‘Yes, Stepmother, of course,' and then looked at Ruby, who came in with the first of the tea trays.

She wore a dark dress and a small white apron tied with a big bow,
while a little white cap decorated her tightly knotted hair. Streamers drifted down at the back of her head when she moved, and Hester, watching, saw the girl deliberately flick a glance at herself in the gilt-edged mirror over the fireplace as she placed a tray on the table in front of Emma. Hester's mouth tightened and she gave Ruby a hard look as she said, ‘Thank you, that will be all,' after the last tray had been unloaded.

Teatime was filled with details of Mrs Marchant's invitation to a tennis party. Stepmother was full of it. ‘Hugh will be home – such a nice boy, and doing so well with his studies – and then the two Misses Wellington from Bovey will be there. And no doubt some other young people – and of course you, Hester. I'm sure that Hugh will be delighted to see you again.'

Stepmother caught Father's glance, nodding with a purposeful smile, and Hester knew exactly what thoughts were passing between them. Hugh Marchant, whom she had known since their childhood days of sharing a governess, was being proposed as a likely suitor. Indeed, a husband. Marrying into the Marchant family, with all their gentrified relatives and financial connections with the retailing world of the town, would be a good catch for someone who was being unseemly in her thoughts of escaping domesticity and living a vulgar, common life away from the family home.

Hester felt the trap being loaded and put down her cup with a clatter, which made both Father and Stepmother stare at her. Rapidly she said, ‘I may not have time to accept the invitation. I am starting on a new project, creating a flora, a collection of the wild flowers that grow in the village. Mr Flynn' – she stopped briefly, crossing her fingers at the white lie, and praying she might be forgiven – ‘has said this is what I should be doing.'