‘Miss Thomson has taught me a little, but Aunt Izzie wants me to excel in watercolour painting. It is one of the refinements required of a lady. Will it take a long time for me to be as accomplished as you? Did you have to practice lots and lots of times? Like when I learn a new multiplication table, I have to repeat them over and over.’
‘Yes. With drawing, you have to practice for many years.’
‘Umm … that sounds quite hard. But I shall try every day to improve.’
Meredith smiled over the child’s bent head. So, Mr Fox had high marriage hopes for his niece. She pointed to the delicate yellow flowers. ‘Draw your daffodils as you see them. Some are already open, others are just peeping, and, look, some are still buds.’
‘Oh, yes. Will three flowers be enough to make a pretty picture?’
‘Of course, and your enthusiasm is most admirable.’ Her words of encouragement made Sarah lift her head and smile at her.
‘Thank you, Miss Sanders. I shall give this picture to Aunt Izzie when I have painted it.’
After placing her advertisement, she had been apprehensive about teaching others what she had learned. But seeing the child’s happiness, Meredith realised Miss Weston was the beginning of her dream.
‘One day you will be a very talented artist. Your uncle has chosen wisely in encouraging you to the arts.’
‘Oh, it’s Great-Aunt Izzie too. Didn’t Uncle Adam tell you, she lives with us?’
Meredith closed her eyes and let the early spring sun warm her face. What a beautiful watercolour the country flowers would make against the background of this house when the garden was in summer sunshine, and the brickwork in shade. Time passed, peaceful, soothing, until she heard a male voice calling Sarah’s name.
‘Uncle Adam, we’re here, on the seat. Come and see what I’ve drawn.’
He came into view and Meredith stared at the man who had come from a warehouse. His dark coat and pale breeches were spotless; his polished boots gleaming without a trace of dust. She felt like a schoolgirl, breathless, waiting for her dashing knight to rescue her from a giant dragon. Then she remembered to stand up and curtsy. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss Sanders. It is past the noon hour. I had not expected to find you still here.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss Weston and I were so enjoying the garden I have forgotten the hour. I will leave at once.’ Meredith turned to her pupil. ‘If you have finished your drawing, you can paint it next time I come.’
Sarah jumped off the seat and ran to her uncle. ‘Please, Uncle Adam, can Miss Sanders come back sooner? I don’t want to wait until next week.’
‘I’m sure Miss Sanders has other commitments. You will have to be patient. However, perhaps Miss Sanders will consent to stay and eat with us.’ He cocked a quizzical eyebrow in Meredith’s direction. ‘It would be a good opportunity to meet my aunt. Will you stay?’
His voice was warm, the question asked in a different tone to the one he had used when they first met. It threw Meredith into a quandary. But as she had only met Miss Thomson on her arrival, here was a chance to meet his relative and household.
‘Thank you, I would like to stay.’
As she walked along the path, Meredith was very conscious of their social differences. He made no attempt to speak and she wondered if he did not consider her worthy of conversation.
When they reached the flagstones, Mr Fox, without warning, stopped. ‘Thank you, Miss Sanders, for coming here. Sarah is a very lonely child. My niece has been much happier since meeting you.’
His features were serious, but Meredith sensed a moment of friendliness from him. Her nervousness eased, but her mouth was very dry as she answered, ‘I am delighted. We have enjoyed our lesson together this morning. Miss Weston shows a promising talent for art.’ She looked down at the ground, finding his presence overly close.
‘I’m glad you were here when I arrived.’
He held out his arm and she put her fingers on his sleeve. She had entered a world completely different to any she had known before.
Miss Isobel Fox sat in a winged chair. A small woman with a likeness of features to her nephew, except her fine white hair gave a feminine grace. She held a small glass of liquid.
Meredith curtsied as Adam Fox introduced her. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fox.’
‘So, you’re the girl who has fired my niece to such furore? I trust you will not disappoint me. I expect great things of Sarah by the time she leaves the schoolroom.’ A note of authority tinged her voice. This was a person Meredith would not want to oppose.
‘I’m sure she will, ma’am, if what I saw her draw this morning can be nurtured in the right direction.’
‘Good. That is what I want to see before I die. The gong has already sounded, it is time to eat. Help me up, boy; this wretched leg of mine is paining me again.’
Adam Fox held an ebony cane out to her and placed his hand under her elbow, saying, ‘A little less sherry, Izzie, might be the cure.’
Broth soup with cubes of pasty made a pleasant meal and Meredith was sure her time at Tallow House would be a happy one. Clearly, Mr Fox indulged his niece, referring several times to making visits to art exhibitions and trips into the country.
‘Miss Sanders, would you consider accompanying us on these visits?’
Meredith’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and the impropriety of such a suggestion. ‘It is most generous of you, sir, but I have not yet organised my other commitments.’ She had that feeling again of being persuaded in a subtle way to his wishes. It all sounded very desirable, but days out seeking pleasure would not earn her money to fill her larder. ‘Thank you for a delightful lunch.’
Adam Fox stood up. ‘I’ll call my coach.’
Meredith rose from the table and curtsied to Miss Fox.
In return she received a nod, ‘Miss Sanders.’ Then the old lady picked up her sherry glass that had been refilled.
On her way back to Ludgate Hill, Meredith wondered what was making her feel so happy. Her morning with Sarah had been enjoyable, the child was pleasant, the garden enchanting. She told herself to be honest: Mr Fox had a lot to do with it.
CHAPTER THREE
At Ludgate Hill, Meredith found the street door unlocked. Inside, Mrs Clements stood at the bottom of the stairs like a sentry on guard. ‘There’s a client waiting in the gallery. I didn’t like to leave her alone.’
‘Someone is here to look at the paintings? Oh, Clemmie, will this be my first sale? What is she like?’
Mrs Clements pursed her lips, released them, and said. ‘Not what I would have expected. Would you like me to stay here, just in case …?’
‘No, you go upstairs. This may take some time.’ Meredith patted her hand, ‘Perhaps a tray of tea; it’s a little early to be offering wine.’ She opened the gallery door and went in.
The giant of a woman who turned to her had dark skin and lips so thick they gave the impression of being permanently pouted. Her hair was blacker than coal and styled high under a feathered hat. She made no attempt to move from the spot where she had been looking at the portrait of Frederick.
‘It is a remarkable likeness.’ Her voice was soft and flowing. ‘You are Miss Sanders?’
‘Yes. Good afternoon, ma’am.’
The rustle of crimson silk and cotton filled the gallery as the woman’s full skirts swished across the floor. ‘My visiting card; I did not wish to leave it with your servant.’
Meredith read her name: Madame Roseanna Lightfoot, Art Exporter and Importer, Jamaica.
‘How may I help you, Madame Lightfoot?’
The woman ignored Meredith’s question. Instead, she walked over to a painting and stood assessing the watercolour landscape of Harlington, with its white clouds in a blue sky, dark woodland high on a hill with a stream flowing down into a meadow of summer flowers.
‘You have Frederick’s touch of reality. He has taught you
well. However, I have not come to buy, but to collect the original Turner painting. Frederick’s untimely death has caused a tiresome delay, it must be returned at once. I have the copy.’ She turned again to look at his portrait. ‘He had the touch of the Master himself and it will pass as Turner’s own hand to the colonials.’
Meredith went hot and couldn’t think; her mind was empty. What was Madame Lightfoot talking about? What painting? What Turner? The woman was a lunatic. As she walked towards her, she seemed to grow larger. She stopped so close Meredith was forced to step back.
‘You have good play-acting skills, Miss Sanders. I am not fooled by your innocent shocked look. Where is it?’
Meredith took a deep breath to restore her composure. ‘Would you please explain yourself? Frederick was not a forger. He loved his work. You have it all wrong.’
‘Impossible! He never failed to tell me how talented you are. His passion for your work was astounding. He praised you constantly as the daughter of kindness in his aging years. Of course he would want you to succeed him. Why do you think he left you this home, this studio? To continue his life’s work – the heiress of his talent.’
Madame Lightfoot’s ranting ceased. She sighed and her eyes glinted like pale opals. ‘Now, let us continue without this pantomime of lies.’
‘I cannot help you. I was never consulted or instructed on Frederick’s professional business. His trips away from Harlington were frequent, sometimes lasting several weeks. My role in his life was as a daughter, a companion, to discuss and research our artistry.
‘He was not a nobleman, but certainly of good birth. Rightly or wrongly, I assumed his wealth came from his paintings or other legitimate business dealings.’ With each word the horror of what she said grew. Frederick had been a dishonest man! A rogue!
Roseanna Lightfoot grasped her shoulders. The face that had been calm became distorted and ugly, ‘Liar. Liar! You know where it is. Turner’s painting must be back at Somerset House by the end of next week. It is part of the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition.’
The dark woman pushed Meredith. ‘You are his successor. This is why he left you all this!’ She went over to his portrait. ‘Isn’t that so, Frederick?’ With no answer from the painting, she swung round again to Meredith. ‘Don’t try to cheat me, Miss Sanders, or you’ll be very sorry.’ In a blur of crimson she stormed out, leaving only the bang of the gallery door quivering on its hinges behind her. Meredith was in no doubt she would be back.
Whatever was happening? Meredith looked at Frederick’s face. There was nothing showing in his eyes of deception. He had been her mentor, her friend. She didn’t believe the woman, yet there was sureness in her manner. Behind her, the sound of rattling china announced Mrs Clements and tea, but she could not look away from the portrait.
Clemmie placed the tray on the desk and filled a cup. ‘No sale, dear. Never mind, there will be others. How did your morning go?’
Panic and fear ran through her veins and her stomach ached as she held herself rigid. Releasing a breath, her body reacted in the reverse, and she started to shake. Frederick copied famous paintings to sell as originals. He had been a criminal! A touch on her arm made her turn.
‘Drink your tea while it’s still hot, dear. You’re shaking, Meredith. What has that woman done?’
‘Do you know what Frederick did when he came to London?’
‘No, dear, I was his housekeeper and he kept it so. Meredith, you look quite pale.’
‘I’m all right, thank you, Clemmie. It was just something that woman said. I will sell a painting soon.’ She sipped the tea until the cup was empty and put it back on the tray. ‘There, your tea has revived me.’ Meredith could never tell Clemmie what Madame Lightfoot had said of Frederick.
Mrs Clements sighed. ‘Poor Mr Sanders, that storm on the way home did him in. Chilled to the bone he was. The old rarely get over the fever.’ She sniffed and picked up the tray. ‘Will you stay here?’
‘Yes. Perhaps another client will come.’
Shocked and filled with disbelief, Meredith hugged herself. Was it true? Could it really be true? She needed something normal, not visions of Frederick in the dock before a magistrate. What could she do to clear her mind? She went to the desk drawer and took out the sketch of Mr Fox. Sitting down she picked up a charcoal stick and added lines beside his eyes, drew his neck and added a neck-cloth. She stopped; this was becoming a portrait. She added another thing she had seen that day – his ears – they hugged his head, just showing beneath the dark hair.
The gallery door opened and Adam Fox was standing there in the flesh.
‘Ah, you are here. That is excellent. I wanted to engage you in a business proposition, Miss Sanders. Is this a convenient time?’
There he was again, using that commanding manner that should annoy her. Flustered that he may have seen her drawing him, she pulled open the drawer and slid the sheet inside.
To divert him and hide her embarrassment she smiled and answered. ‘Yes, Mr Fox, it is convenient, sir.’
‘Excellent.’ He stepped forward. ‘Would you consider taking on a commission for a portrait of Sarah? My brother-in-law will come home one day and I should like him to have some memento of his daughter’s childhood.’
She wanted a distraction, but this request was the last thing she expected. Her head was now full of indecision. What if she said yes and then couldn’t do it? So what was she doing in London? Had she not come for just this opportunity? How else was she to get her work publicised? Secure a patron for her art?
Without any forethought, she blurted out, ‘But I am an unknown. Why ask me?’
‘I have seen your work. Your small sketch you did at our first meeting has had me pondering on such a commission.’ He waved his arm at the walls. ‘Secondly, Sarah is a child and I should be reluctant to subject her to either some young flamboyant gentleman or an elderly fuss-pot. I should also be obliged to have a maid with her at all times. No, I have decided, you are the one.’
Evidently, he had made up his mind before coming to see her. Meredith tried to imagine how he would react if it didn’t meet his expectations. But Frederick had assessed she was ready; his written words in his will had encouraged her to come here, to Ludgate Hill.
She swallowed down her panic. As before, this was not the time to present a portrayal of a weak, nervous woman.
‘It would be a great pleasure to paint Miss Weston. I would use oils, of course.’ His features softened. This was the man she liked; the man who made her heart beat faster.
‘When can you start? Would tomorrow be convenient?’
Taken by surprise, she exclaimed, ‘No! I mean –’
‘Of course, we must agree a fee. What would that be, Miss Sanders?’
Good fortune such as this was her dream come true. It would solve all her money problems until her next allowance arrived. But how much should she charge?
‘I don’t know, sir. I have never taken on a sitting before. I think I would have to take some advice on this, but I’m sure we can come to an agreement.’
‘Excellent. Would two guineas be sufficient to secure your commitment?’
Meredith didn’t understand his urgency. She was being pressured again. He was rolling her along like a ball and she had to stop him.
‘Mr Fox, you are most generous. Two guineas will suffice until you have seen the finished portrait and are satisfied. Then we will discuss a fee.’ She drew herself up, her back straight. She would not be treated as if in need of his charity. ‘I will begin tomorrow morning. Please ask your niece to choose her prettiest dress.’
Mr Fox had left the gallery an hour ago, but Meredith remained sitting at her desk looking at nothing in particular, although her mind was racing. It darted from the good fortune of her commission to the horror of what the dark-skinned woman had said about Frederick. This thought sent her to stand in front of his portrait. ‘Is it true?’ she asked his image. ‘Were you split
as two people? Playing my father Frederick at Appleton House and a criminal here in London?’
With this dawning truth came questions she had no answers for. There was no Turner painting in this house. She and Clemmie had cleaned and sorted out every room. Madame Lightfoot had said she wanted it back by the end of next week – that was only ten days from now. But she didn’t know anything. So how was she to find the painting? Or was this a trick – was the woman a charlatan, someone who preyed on gullible women. Would her next demand be money?
The meaning of her menacing words came to mind: Something sinister would happen to her.
Meredith thought of the unsavoury characters who roamed the streets – men who smelled of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes. Men who carried knives, sharpened to slice a throat for a promised penny. Should she go back to Harlington? But the woman would know where Frederick had lived when he wasn’t here. So where else could she go?
CHAPTER FOUR
Meredith couldn’t sleep. Frederick’s villainy kept spinning round in her head. The woman had been so angry; explosive was a better way of describing her.
A Turner had been stolen! Well, borrowed in a way, for Madame Lightfoot had said it must be returned, which could only mean its disappearance would soon be discovered. What mattered most to her was Frederick’s good name and reputation; he may have vowed only to be her friend all those years ago, but he had become far more than that; she had loved him as a father.
Meredith plumped up the pillow, closed her eyes, and tried to clear her mind but Frederick was there and wouldn’t go away. The air in the bedchamber was stuffy, even though the window was open. A habit she had continued from that first night at Appleton House – an escape route if things had not been quite as Frederick had promised. That a stranger could take her into his home hadn’t seemed real and she had feared her fate would end up no different than if her father had married her off to Warder Snipes.
The Hidden Legacy Page 3