The Hidden Legacy

by Julie Roberts

  In less than an hour, Mr Fox had taken over her professional tuition. And as for Miss Weston, she couldn’t think why he had bothered to bring her; other than he was taking away her charcoal drawing.

  But she replied, ‘Yes, sir, I will agree to that.’ Now was not the time to upset the apple cart and lose her only client.

  Miss Weston was so excited she couldn’t keep still and hopped from foot to foot, her fair curls bouncing with each hop. ‘Thank you, Uncle Adam. Oh, I can’t wait to paint like Miss Sanders.’

  The man who had given her the chance to fulfil her dream stepped into the doorway. ‘I have taken up most of your morning, so you may include today in your bill. Shall we say payment bi-weekly?’

  Meredith felt she should stand to attention and salute, but his generosity deserved an appreciative reply. ‘Thank you, Mr Fox. I’m sure Miss Weston and I will fare well together. I am confident you will see much improvement in her drawing and painting by the end of our trial period.’

  She accompanied him through the gallery to the door. ‘Thank you for your faith in me, Mr Fox.’

  ‘I hope we will both benefit, Miss Sanders. Good day to you. Come, Sarah, Jackson will take you and Betsey home.’

  Meredith saw Mr Fox speak to his coachman and, presumably, Betsey, the nursery maid standing beside the horses. A moment later, Miss Weston and her maid climbed into his coach and the rattle of the horses’ harness faded as the coachman steered the two greys towards the city. Mr Fox walked away in the opposite direction to St Pauls.

  Mr Fox was arrogant, but underneath this he had displayed kindness to both his niece and her. Wealth, however, did not give him the right to treat her as one of his servants – even though she did need his money.

  Bright light blazed through a high window and sunshine filled the studio. The bareness of the walls had not seemed a disadvantage until Mr Fox started his inspection. Seeing it from a client’s point of view, she needed a few of her paintings to add colour. And what better way to encourage students than by example – her watercolour landscape, the ruined castle in oil, she had charcoal and pencil drawings. Perhaps she should tell them painting didn’t only go on paper and canvas – she had climbed a ladder with a bucket in one hand and a brush in the other and sloshed the whitewash on the walls. She wouldn’t mention that her work apron didn’t protect her dress, or her face and hands being spotted white.

  Mr Fox intrigued her. Who was he? Definitely a gentleman of financial standing; but what business was he engaged in?

  She glanced at her clock on the table, it showed eleven o’clock – only an hour left, but there was still time for the doorbell to tinkle again. She really did need one more pupil.

  Meredith sat down at a table and stared at the blank sheet of paper. She picked up a charcoal stick and started to sketch Mr Fox: his dark hair, eyes black with sparks of white. His nose was firm and straight and the angular chin gave his face a determined expression. She remembered his indulgent smile to his niece and stroked the charcoal to form his mouth. Her gaze lingered on the parted lips. She wasn’t sure her decision to give private lessons was a wise choice. What would have happened if she had asked for two pounds a week? Would Mr Fox have agreed? She most certainly needed to improve her negotiating skills.

  At twelve o’clock, Meredith locked the front door. She was both elated and disappointed and just a little frightened that there had been no other client. She couldn’t afford another advertisement until Mr Fox made his first payment. But she must be grateful to him, some money was better than none; after all, artists were renowned for being poor.

  Meredith climbed the stairs to the first landing and stopped in the doorway of a square room that had been equipped as a kitchen. It overlooked the back yard and would be hot come summer, but today the warmth from the fire was most welcome.

  Mrs Clements was a rotund woman and almost filled the space between the sink and table. She was straining water from a pot, the rising steam tinting her face a rosy red. Meredith loved the old lady; she was more than a paid servant, she was her dearest friend.

  ‘Whatever you’re cooking, Clemmie, it smells good. I need something nice to cheer me up.’

  ‘Did you not fare well, dear?’

  ‘I have one client and I agreed to go to his home to give private tuition to his niece.’

  ‘Isn’t that good?’

  ‘Yes, but I will need to sell a painting before my next allowance.’

  ‘Of course you’ll sell one. Now, off you go into the parlour. I’ll be five minutes. I have your favourite, boiled ham and bread.’

  Meredith went back along the landing into a room with a window overlooking the busy shopping street. She leant her forehead on the glass and watched the stagecoach leave the Belle Sauvage Inn and weave through the carriages that were vying for a place to stop. Doubts about the success of her venture plagued her again. The world of business was run by men; they made the rules. A spark of rebellion surged through her. She had challenged them before when a girl; she could do it now as a woman.

  Clemmie came in and she turned round. All the furniture had come from Appleton House: the yellow brocade sofa from her bedchamber, the two brown wing chairs from Frederick’s study, and the mahogany table and chairs from the dining room. The red and yellow carpet made it homely.

  Inside this building she was safe, locked in a world provided for her by Frederick and because she had called herself Meredith Sanders from the day he found her.

  Outside was the world she feared. She was caught between the two places that had haunted her for the past ten years – Newgate Prison and Blackfriars.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Adam Fox re-read the report he had received from his agent a month ago.

  I beg to report that a stevedore has dropped one of our imported crates from Portugal and that it did split open. Inside was a painting wrapped in canvas and bound thickly with fine fabric. The shipping papers record the crate contains cambric cotton. The receiving address is Sanders Studio, Ludgate Hill. During the night the crate disappeared from the warehouse.

  He had immediately visited the premises, only to find the door locked. He had peered through the window, expecting to see an artist’s studio, but the room was completely empty. Enquiries at several premises proved useless and no one knew where the owner had gone.

  Adam tapped his fingers on the leather panel of his desk and read again the advertisement in The Times newspaper – the same address as on the import papers. In the space of a few weeks it was now a renovated art studio, gallery, and school owned by the deceased owner’s daughter, Miss Sanders, who was promoting herself as his protégé. This coincidence he could not brush aside. Sarah’s desire to draw and paint gave him the perfect opportunity to look into what may not have been a careless clerical error.

  He slipped the report and the newspaper into the long drawer of his desk and sat pondering what today would be like for his niece. He got up and went to the mantel shelf and picked up the charcoal drawing of Sarah. He touched her curls and smiled. She had been so happy and excited when he had returned home, her chatter full of expectation of her lessons with Miss Sanders. He would have it framed as a keepsake.

  He turned to the wall behind his desk and looked at the portrait of his sister, Beatrice. Her death had been sudden and tragic and Victor had been heartbroken. When his brother-in-law pleaded with him to take on the guardianship of Sarah, he had not realised the great responsibility it entailed. Victor, free of his obligation to his daughter, had packed his trunks and sailed away to Europe. In the four years he had been gone, his infrequent letters from foreign ports revealed nothing of his future plans. Adam sighed. He should not judge Victor too harshly when he, himself, had never known the love and comfort of a wife.

  His thoughts turned back to Meredith Sanders. He had expected a gentleman artist and had been put to odds with being curtsied to by a young woman. As an art tutor she was far too young and probably had little expe
rience in teaching. But her sample drawing of Sarah did show her talent. Without a doubt she fascinated him – a lady presenting herself as a professional artist in a male-dominated world? He looked out of the window at the newly leafed trees and they reminded him how her emerald-coloured eyes dimmed in the shadows or sparkled in the sunlight. And her gown! He laughed aloud at how she had tried to disguise her shapely figure. He had, perhaps, been a little too severe in his manner, but she had been so proud and independent. Yes, there was something about Miss Sanders he couldn’t quite get out of his mind – whether her young innocence was true or false, her fierce bravery was real and the feminine authority quite extraordinary – without a doubt she had the spirit of a filly not yet tamed.

  And living in the country, what manner of upbringing had she received? Certainly in a style that encouraged free speech. A wicked thought passed through his mind; what would it feel like to pull the clips from her dark hair and let it tumble through his fingers … She was coming today, her first visit to his home. For once he was grateful of Sarah’s strong personality. The woman and child were indeed kindred spirits.

  He glanced at the mantel clock. Business called; he had no more time to think about the mysterious Miss Sanders.

  At nine o’clock Mr Fox’s coach stopped at Tallow House in Great Ormond Street.

  Meredith surveyed the town house with trepidation. The only grand home she had been in was Harlington Manor. Frederick and she had dined there once a week when he was at home in Appleton House. Both Squire Norris and Frederick had a great passion for playing chess and would spend the evening closeted together battling strategies.

  It had been rumoured Mrs Norris had brought a considerable dowry to the marriage. Unfortunately the union had not produced any children and Emily Norris had taken to teaching her the skills of household management and the social graces of society. Now she would put that tuition into practice.

  Meredith took a deep breath. This was just another moment when she had to step into the unknown. She accepted the offered help of a footman and stepped out of the coach. Sarah came running through the front door, her face flushed and full of excitement.

  ‘I’ve been looking through the window for you. Come and see what Uncle Adam has bought for us.’ Taking Meredith’s hand she pulled her in and towards a central staircase. ‘We have a studio room next to my schoolroom. You’ll love it, Miss Sanders.’

  ‘Miss Weston! Please. Wait a moment.’

  A door opened and a petite woman, dressed in a travelling pelisse, stood in the doorway. ‘Miss Sanders. Good morning. I am Miss Thomson, governess to Miss Weston.’

  Meredith curtsied, ‘Good morning.’

  ‘May I have a moment of your time?’ Meredith followed her into the room. ‘As you can see, I am about to leave. Mr Fox’s coach is taking me to the staging point. My brother’s wife has died. He has three small babes.’ Her voice broke, and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Mr Fox has left to go to his warehouses at the docks; and Miss Fox does not rise until noon. She has requested I see you before I leave.’

  ‘My condolences, Miss Thomson, I am so very sorry to hear such tragic news.’ Meredith wanted to comfort her, tell her she knew how she felt and how the death of a dear one left an inner coldness that only another human can warm away. But such a display from a stranger would be unwelcome.

  ‘Thank you. Miss Fox has kindly consented to help Miss Weston in her reading and arithmetic.’ A smile softened her tight lips. ‘I have set two new times tables for her to learn. This will cause a great deal of frustration for Miss Fox. Miss Weston is an intelligent child, but she is also very impatient.’

  ‘Please be assured, I will encourage her too.’ At least this was one small task she could do for the governess.

  ‘I hope to return within the next few weeks after my brother has come to terms with his grief. And, of course, he must find a housekeeper who is willing to take on the children.’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘I have no need to show you to the studio; Miss Weston has been waiting with great anticipation to do that herself. I asked Mr Simms, the butler, to provide a jug of lemonade on your arrival.’

  A jangling of harnesses sounded through the open front door.

  ‘The horses are getting restless. I must go. Good bye, Miss Sanders.’

  Meredith bowed her head and stepped aside.

  In the hall, Miss Thomson clasped Sarah’s hands. ‘Be good, child. I will think of you every day.’

  Sarah rose up on her toes and kissed her cheek. ‘I promise to learn the times tables before you come back. I know Aunt Izzie will insist.’

  Miss Thomson touched her cheek where Sarah had kissed her. ‘I hope you will, dear.’ Then she turned and went out to the waiting coach.

  This was not what Meredith had envisaged: Mr Fox not in residence, his aunt indisposed, and her only contact was a distraught governess. She was now an unattended art tutor left to proceed as she saw fit.

  ‘Can I show you our studio now, Miss Sanders?’

  The boisterous child of five minutes ago had deflated into a sad little girl sitting on the bottom stair tread. Meredith looked round the circular hallway that was filled with daylight coming through a cupola roof window spreading to every corner of the chequered tiled floor. A small table, with a silver bell and salver on it, were the only decoration against the cream walls.

  ‘I think I should see someone, Miss Weston, other than your governess. Oh dear, this is all very strange. So be it, show me the way, Miss Weston.’

  Formal manners seemed very lax in this household. She would have to reassess Mrs Norris’s teachings.

  ‘Will you not call me Sarah?’

  ‘Your uncle may not approve of that, especially here.’ Meredith waved her free hand as she was pulled up the stairs. ‘But, when we are alone together, then yes, I will call you Sarah.’

  The stairs ended at a circular landing. A door stood open and they entered a room overlooking the rear garden. Meredith drew in a sharp breath and stopped. This was a studio fit for the finest artist in town.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Miss Sanders?’

  ‘I am amazed. Your uncle must be expecting great things of you. Is your mother interested in the arts?’

  The little girl’s happy manner melted away like butter left in the sun. ‘Mama died and Papa has gone away. Uncle Adam looks after me now.’

  She knelt and took Sarah’s small hands into hers. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. We must try very hard to please your uncle and repay him with the best paintings ever. Tell me, what would you like to draw for your lesson today?’

  ‘I want to draw the flowers in the garden. Don’t you remember that is why I asked if you would come here? I watch it a lot from my window. Miss Thomson frowns and says I am daydreaming instead of learning my numbers.’

  ‘Then we must make a bargain. When you are in the schoolroom, you pay attention to Miss Thomson. When you are in here, we will dream about all the lovely pictures you will paint.’ Meredith squeezed her hands, ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Yes. But it will be very hard to do.’

  Meredith stood up and looked around the studio: an easel, a table and two chairs; a six-drawer chest, brushes, and a palette of watercolours.

  ‘There’s paper and canvases in the long drawers and smocks for us both in the small drawers. Has Uncle Adam forgotten anything?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ There was far more here than on her list. ‘Shall we begin? First put on your smock and get your sketch book and a pencil.’

  Meredith closed her eyes; she needed a few moments to assess this unexpected situation. Most of the equipment would not be required for years. Sarah was a child, not a professional artist. Did Mr Fox think she was going to work miracles? She thought back to her early days with Frederick. Drawing had been her first joy, the flowers in the garden, the meadows and farm animals …

  Lost in her reverie, she didn’t see Sarah kneeling on the window-seat looking in
to the garden until she asked, ‘How do I draw it, Miss Sanders?’

  ‘Not from a window. We will go down into the garden. You can decide when you find the flower you like most.’

  Sarah jumped from the seat and took hold of Meredith’s hand. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

  Her excitement had returned and she pulled Meredith out of the room, down the stairs and through a rear corridor out of the house.

  Beyond a neat area of flagstones, a stepping-stone path skirted a glossy-leafed holly bush and Meredith saw an enclosed country garden stretching long and narrow before her. Dandelions and daisies floated like jewels in the untamed grass, and a pink flowering cherry tree shaded a seat in the farthest corner. Against the boundary walls a profusion of climbing roses waited to bud and burst into colour. ‘Isn’t it lovely? Last year Aunt Izzie planted a hollyhock and it grew taller than me.’

  Meredith couldn’t believe her eyes. Here was a haven of nature’s greenery in a London town house garden. And, hopefully, from June onwards there would be a mass of summer flowers.

  ‘Well, I can understand now why you wanted me to come here, Sarah. It is beautiful.’

  ‘There’s a seat, but you can’t see it from here. Follow me, Miss Sanders.’ And she skipped off along the path.

  Meredith didn’t hurry: she could now see clumps of primroses and glimpses of violets; splashes of meadow saxifrage. The sweet song of a robin came from somewhere near a small glasshouse beside a gate in the rear wall. This was home to her. She missed Appleton House and the countryside, especially the fields and the farm which she had walked to with Clemmie once a week for butter and eggs. A lump filled her throat and she blinked back the tears.

  A moment later she found Sarah sitting on a stone bench concentrating on a patch of daffodils and sat down next to her. ‘That is very good, Sarah. I can see you are not a complete beginner.’