Into the Blue (20 page)

She sat there for a long time, tears falling and then drying on her cheeks as she looked at the strong, slanting handwriting, hearing his resonant voice, feeling again the joy of that intimate embrace, and wondering how life could so suddenly turn on its axis, sending her from comfortable commonsense into emotional chaos.

Only when Ruby appeared at her door was she able to control her thoughts and wearily return to the routine of domestic duties. She looked in the mirror, wiped her face, glanced back at Ruby. ‘Thank you for what you're doing. I couldn't have managed the last few weeks without you.' She watched as Ruby nodded, went to the open window and rearranged the curtains.

‘Me and Mr Hugh.' Ruby's voice was calm, more mature, and reassuring.

Hester smoothed her hair, sighed and tried to hide the ever-returning expression of grief, but knew Ruby understood. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘We mustn't forget Mr Hugh. He'll be coming around this evening. We have a lot to talk about.'

They looked at each other, then Ruby nodded. ‘I'll take Mrs Redding upstairs. You can be alone in the drawing room.'

‘Thank you.'

Ruby stood by the door before turning, smiling and saying very quietly, ‘I hope you'll be happy with him, Miss Redding.'

A hint of doubt, Hester thought. She was silent, and then she sighed. So Ruby knew about Nicholas, did she? Of course, every young girl always dreamed of romantic love; she and Ruby were of one mind. But it wasn't to be.

‘If not happy, Ruby, at least I'll know that I've done the right thing. Father would be pleased.'

They went downstairs together and parted in the hall, Ruby heading for the kitchen and Hester going to find Stepmother and continue the seemingly everlasting business of comforting her.

So this was what life was about. Dreams, joys, nightmares, and the ongoing reality of trying to find the right way. One thing sustained her, trying to push aside the pain of Nicholas's last letter. He loved her. And like him, she would never forget.

Aunt Jacks' brisk voice soared through the hallway. ‘Hester, are you there? I have a message for you.'

Hester came down from her stepmother's bedroom, now becoming a cosy boudoir. Ruby had suggested this and so Hoskins and the lift man were arranging the furniture around the new day bed.

‘Wait a minute, Aunt Jacks – I'll come down.'

‘No, I'll come up.'

They smiled at each other, meeting on the upstairs landing, and Jacks opened her arms. Hester flew into them. Comfort was very important now, with Father gone, Stepmother in a constant tizzy of tears, Nicholas forever at the back of her mind and the next meeting with Hugh an uneasy shadow. ‘Lovely to see you, Aunt. Come downstairs and we'll have a cup of coffee. And you must see the new lift – it's going to be so helpful.' She laughed. ‘All thanks to Ruby, whose ideas seem to go on for ever. Now she's suggested we get an invalid carriage for Stepmother so that she can be wheeled around the garden.'

‘A good idea. She's turning out to be a most unusual girl. And Emma's companion now? Well, well! But such a blessing to you, I'm sure. Now, never mind that... .' Jacks set off down the stairs. ‘No coffee, thanks, I can't stay, dear child. Off to Hayward Nursery to get something colourful for the garden because the slugs have demolished all the delphiniums. Yes, I know we're in mourning, and I really shouldn't be out and about like this, but life has to go on. And I've got my rose day in a week or so and must have the June borders looking their best. But I have something to tell you.'

Hester took her aunt's arm. ‘Come into the morning room where it's sunny.'

Sitting down, she looked at her aunt's shrewd eyes and sensed excitement. ‘So what is this message?'

‘Well... .' Jacks produced a folded letter from one pocket and fumbled for her spectacles in the other one. ‘Emily has written. You remember Emily Watson?'

‘Of course I do. The painting lady. She inspired me.'

Jacks chuckled as she opened the letter. ‘Well, it seems that you must have made an impact on
her
, if not actually inspiring her, dear child! She writes that she is a judge for the Kew Painting Competition and has come across an entry which is a watercolour of a flower, and she thinks it could possibly be yours.'

Hester frowned. ‘But I have never entered a competition. Is there a name on the painting? Surely that would tell her.'

‘This is what she says.' And Jacks adjusted her spectacles. ‘ “
This entry reminds me of your niece's work because of the true colours, the grace of the composition and the nice touch of the little grub climbing up the stem. Some painters do this, but not many. Please ask your niece about this. I am not writing to her personally as I imagine she has many letters of condolence to answer at this sad time. My sympathies to her, please, Jacks. And let me know as soon as possible
.” '

Silently, they looked at each other. Aunt Jacks put away her spectacles. ‘What do you think, Hester?'

‘I have no idea. It's a mystery. No one has any of my paintings.' She thought. ‘Except Ruby, and that's in her new bedroom.' She laughed. ‘The dandelion – she took it with her when she moved down. No, it's not that one. And no one else has one.'

A memory touched her indistinctly, slowly growing in reality. The art room in Newton Abbot. The tutor with his black coat and outlandish hat. ‘But yes, I offered Mr Flynn one of my paintings because he'd so kindly arranged for me to meet Mr Hayward. I let him choose it from my portfolio.'

Aunt Jacks tutted. ‘Did you sign it?'

‘No, should I have done?' Hester looked askance at her aunt, who was getting to her feet.

‘If the painting really is yours, then clearly he's played a disgusting trick on you, entering it as his own. Go and see him immediately and demand an explanation.'

‘But—'

‘My dear girl, be sensible. It's possible that this man is cheating you, so you must do something about it. When I'm in town I'll telegraph to Emily, tell her that you will see this man and then be going to London to sort it all out.' Aunt Jacks walked briskly to the door, turning to look back at Hester who sat on, eyes wide with surprise.

‘But I can't just go to London—'

‘Whyever not? The train only takes three or four hours to reach Paddington and then you can get a cab to Emily's house in Kensington. Here's her letter so that you can see her address. I'm sure she would be delighted to give you a bed for the night. Go to the bank when you're seeing this Flynn man and make sure you have enough money.'

‘Yes, of course, I suppose I could, but... .'

Aunt Jacks heaved a sigh. ‘Hester, really! Do you need a nursemaid to help you live your life? Surely you understand that women can do anything these days?' She threw the letter onto the table. ‘Dear child, just go. Sort out this muddle and then come home again. It's as simple as that. Now I must dash. Let me know when you come back, won't you?'

Hester followed her aunt out of the room. ‘Yes, of course, Aunt.'

‘Goodbye, then.'

‘Goodbye.'

The front door opened, Aunt Jacks climbed into the trap and Hester began to laugh as excitement raced through her.

Yes, she would go to London. But first she must find Mr Flynn. Her shock had gone now, and she felt a heated anger rising in its place. If he really had stolen her painting, then how dare he? And if Emily Watson, one of the judges of the competition, thought her entry was good – surely that meant her talent might be recognized.

Passion mounted. So she was back to painting. Colours – cerulean blue, smoky ochre, all the crimsons – and flowers; the slow build-up of form on white paper; the instinctive knowledge of how to do it.
Those timeless moments of creativity when she was in a different world. It was all coming back. This was what she was meant to do. Never mind Hugh and his imminent proposal, never mind worrying about Stepmother and how to run dreary Oak House, her muse was calling her, demanding full attention now. She must sort out her dreams and ambitions and take this new, wonderful step forward.

And then, out of the blue, came another thought, sharp and joyous even though it was tinged with sadness: she wished Nicholas could know about her return to painting.

Upstairs, she put on her veiled black hat, flung on a black coat, picked up her reticule and went down into the hall, calling for Ruby as she went.

‘What is it, Miss Redding?' Ruby, also in black, but with her brilliant hair lightening the sombre dress, came out of the glass pantry, a list in her hand.

‘Please ask Hoskins to get the trap ready, I have to go into town.'

Ruby's eyes widened. ‘Of course. I'll tell him straightaway.' At the top of the kitchen stairs she paused and looked back to where Hester was standing by the hall mirror, adjusting her hat. ‘Is there anything I can do, Miss Redding? What's happened?'

The familiar curiosity made Hester smile. ‘Yes, something has come up. And I may have to go away for a night—' She stopped, thoughts whirling. ‘A few days – I don't know, it all depends.' She met Ruby's eyes. ‘I can't tell you what all this is about, but I will, when I know myself.' Conscience struck then and her voice grew tight. ‘One other thing, Ruby. If Mr Hugh calls this evening, please just tell him that I've been called away urgently.' They looked at each other. ‘On business. That's all he needs to know.'

Ruby said unexpectedly, ‘He won't like it, Miss, will he?'

‘No, he won't. But I have to go.'

‘Yes, Miss.'

Hester turned away. ‘And Ruby, please pack my valise, will you? And don't tell Mrs Redding anything – she'll worry too much.'

Disappearing, Ruby said, ‘Leave it to me. I'll see that everything's all right.'

Waiting for Hoskins to bring around the trap, Hester, on an impulse, went down to the summerhouse and looked at her painting
things, still lying where she had left them on the day of Father's death.

In the gentian picture, she had been painting the last infinitesimal antenna of the blue butterfly on the point of flying off the page. How strange, she thought, Father passing on and the butterfly ready to fly.

She wrapped the picture carefully before returning to the house and putting it in the hall. It could come to London with her. She was uncertain why, but perhaps Emily Watson would like to compare the two works.

In the trap, Hester looked at the countryside all around her as they trotted down the lanes. The hedges were full and starred with wild roses, while Farmer Bartley's fields grew green and rich as summer continued. In the distance Dartmoor shone under a brilliant sun, its age-old history punctuated by dramatic hills and tors. Passing the gate of Brook Cottage, she caught a glimpse of a foam of flowers, and by the gate where Nicholas had given her a spray of honeysuckle, the memories were almost too strong to face. She sighed, then, bravely, thought ahead. Yes, London would be so different.

In town, she went from the bank to the Reading Room. No one knew where Mr Flynn was, so she ordered Hoskins to take her to his house. Outside the small, rather dilapidated cottage where she had studied with him, she said, ‘I shan't be long, Hoskins,' and heard new authority in her voice.

No reply to her knock at the door. She knocked again, then walked around the side of the cottage and rapped on the shut back door. Only when she was returning to the trap did a man's head appear, looking over the hedge separating the two gardens, saying, ‘The Flynnses is gone. Went a week or so ago. Never said – don't know where.' He nodded. ‘Funny lot, anyway. Didn't pay their bills, so I 'eard. Best be rid o' them, eh?'

Hester thanked him. The mystery was deepening but she felt excitement and readiness for what came next. The trip to London. It was an adventure and one that she suddenly knew she was ready for. As Aunt Jacks had said, women could do anything these days. Well, she would prove that to herself – and to anybody else who thought that she was just a country girl, bred to domesticity and a dull marriage. And that brought her back to Hugh. He would have to wait
a few days longer for her answer; a sense of guilty relief filled her at the thought.

 

After luncheon Ruby waited in Hester's bedroom, the valise half packed. ‘Only put a few things in, Miss Redding. Your nightdress, toilet things, wrapper, and a dinner dress; don't know where you're going to stay, or for how long. Will this be enough?'

‘I think so. I'm not sure when I shall be back.'

Ruby neatly folded a paisley shawl, putting it into the valise before closing it. ‘You might need this – they say London's colder than down here.' She met Hester's eyes. ‘I hope everything goes all right, Miss Redding.'

A moment of unexpected intimacy, and Hester suddenly wished she and Ruby could talk more openly. It would be good to have someone to confide in – if the girl really had been her sister, things would be different. Then she remembered the scribbled name on the birth certificate and banished the thought, but her voice was warm as she said, ‘Thank you, Ruby. You're being very helpful.'

‘I'm pleased to be able to do so, Miss Redding, and don't worry – I'll look after everything while you're gone.'

Hester felt unexpected emotion pricking behind her eyelids and turned away. ‘I must go. The train leaves Newton at 2.20,' she said, and hurried downstairs.

 

London was certainly different. Here, in the metropolis, with seeming millions of people bustling all around her, Hester felt out of her element. Standing outside the station, trying to summon a hansom cab, she wished she were back in safe Oak House, with Alice, the new maid, bringing up the tea, and she and Stepmother and Ruby in the drawing room, trying to find cheerful topics of conversation to while away the long hours.

And then she saw something bright, almost garish, on the pavement just ahead of her; a chalk picture of a country scene, tall trees crowned with unlikely-shaped leaves, a blue river flowing past, and a group of colourful children playing tag. Something deep inside her leaped and she felt the old passion ignite, hot and thrusting as it seared her mind. She approached the artist, a bedraggled young man
with thin cheeks and a skeletal figure, bending over the pavement, putting finishing touches to his picture. She put some silver in the cap lying on the kerb. ‘Keep drawing,' she said, voice firm, and had the pleasure of watching him smile as he put a finger to his forehead. ‘Thank'ee, lady. I will.'

A cab stopped then and she ran for it. ‘Campden Hill Road, Kensington, please. Number twenty.' And then she felt in the right place, and at home in this new world where art welcomed her, even there, in the street.

 

Emily Watson's smile offered a warm welcome. ‘Come in, Hester. I had your aunt's telegram and we have a room prepared for you. Are you ready for a meal? Take off your coat, my dear, and come and sit down. That's it. You look tired – well, now you can rest.' She went to the stairwell and called down to the kitchen. ‘Tea, please, Sally, and that lemon cake you made yesterday.' Returning, she took Hester into the drawing room, a pleasant room elegantly furnished and with a homely atmosphere. ‘We have a lot to talk about, Hester.'

They talked late into the evening after dinner served in the dining room at the back of the house, overlooking a long, green, shaded garden. New life surged through Hester once she was fed and rested, and she listened, fascinated, as Emily talked about her latest project – the book that she was completing – and the imminent expedition to the Dolomites to return to a site and check a particular painting she had made, which must be included in the book.

‘We go as a party,' Emily told her, sitting by the fireplace in the drawing room. ‘I pick my friends very carefully, and have a reliable courier to organize our accommodation as we travel. Last year it worked well and I have every faith in it being a good experience this time.'