The first painting was nothing special, which did not surprise Isabel. She knew that the psychology of the auction room required that anticipation be built up, that highs and lows be carefully choreographed to excite interest at the right moment and to allow people to get their breath for the next highlight. Lot number one, a nineteenth-century genre painting of a young girl picking flowers, just scraped past the bottom of the estimate—an unexceptional start. The second lot was better—and bidding took the price comfortably past the higher figure listed in the catalogue. When the third painting performed the same way, the atmosphere in the room became subtly more charged: the sale was going to be a success. The auctioneer visibly relaxed, allowing herself a small dose of humour in her description of the next lot. There was appreciative laughter.
The Ravilious came up at the tail end of the sale, an hour and a half after the beginning. As the auctioneer worked her way through the lots, Isabel found herself feeling increasingly tense. She had decided her position—silence—but now she began to ask herself whether it really was the right thing to do. Jamie’s instinct had been to break the promise to Roz. He had shown no hesitation in taking that view, and this made her wonder whether she really was, as he suggested, placing too much store by her promise. And then, as she looked across the room, and saw Roz sitting, tense with anticipation, ready to pull off her coup, she thought of that poor woman in St. Gregory’s. She was about to lose something of value; her unawareness of what she had was about to be taken advantage of. And she—Isabel Dalhousie—could stop it, just like that. She could still send a note up to the auctioneer simply saying Misattribution: Ravilious!
Would that work? She imagined the scene: the auctioneer opening the note, frowning as she read it, and then looking up sharply as she considered her position. There would be doubt, hesitation, perhaps uncertainty as to what to do; and then the announcement: Lot eighty-seven is being temporarily withdrawn pending discussions with the consignor. They would have to say something like that, as they would be duty-bound to draw their client’s attention to the possibility that the painting was worth much more than they had estimated. It would be embarrassing for them, but they would feel vindicated once the true value was realised.
The porter brought the painting to the easel in front of the rostrum. As he did so, the auctioneer glanced down at her book. “I can start this lot slightly higher than the estimate,” she said. “I have a bid of four hundred with me.”
Isabel glanced at Roz on the other side of the room. The other woman was sitting on the edge of her seat, a numbered bidder’s paddle in her left hand. Even from a distance, Isabel could pick up the tenseness in her posture.
The bid of four hundred left with the auctioneer meant that somebody, other than those in the room, had noticed the painting and was prepared to go above the estimate. The fact that the auctioneer had started with a figure above the likely reserve price spoke to something else: more than one person had lodged an absentee bid.
“Four hundred and fifty?” said the auctioneer.
Isabel saw Roz’s paddle raised. The bid was acknowledged and the auctioneer looked around the room. “Five hundred?”
A man seated in the front row nodded his head. He did not use a paddle, but the auctioneer appeared to recognise him and nodded in his direction. Roz raised her paddle again at five hundred and fifty, and again the man in the front row nodded.
Isabel watched Roz as the bidding increased. At each leap of the price, the man in the front row nodded. Indifference in the rest of the crowd now turned to interest: a bidding war between two people in the same room had all the elements of human drama that people hoped for in an auction.
After the price reached one thousand pounds the size of the increments increased to steps of two hundred and fifty. At two thousand pounds, when the auctioneer looked in Roz’s direction, she was met by a shake of the head. She was out of the running.
Isabel looked at the man in the front row. He was leaning back in his seat, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, confident now that his last bid would secure the painting. He knows, she thought. She glanced over towards Roz, and then, briefly, towards the back of the hall where Ruth was whispering something to the lawyer beside her. He knows.
Isabel made her decision. She raised her hand.
The auctioneer looked in her direction. “New bidder,” she said and then leaned over to confer with the clerk at her side. The clerk looked at Isabel and said something to the auctioneer. She was recognized.
“I have two thousand two hundred and fifty,” said the auctioneer. “Miss Dalhousie.”
The man in the front row now sat up straight. Trying not to make his interest too obvious, he looked over his shoulder towards Isabel. Then he turned to face the auctioneer before nodding his head again.
At three thousand pounds, the increments became five hundred and then, shortly thereafter, they jumped to two thousand pounds. Isabel kept her eyes on the auctioneer. Ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand. By now the room had fallen into complete silence. At forty-five thousand pounds, Isabel stopped. The auctioneer looked at her. She shook her head. The man in the front row was impassive.
“No further bids?” said the auctioneer. “With the gentleman in the front row at forty-five thousand pounds…”
Isabel felt Roz’s gaze upon her. She did not return it, but glanced instead at Ruth, who had buried her head in her hands in disbelief. The lawyer beside her was smiling.
* * *
Roz caught up with her in the entrance. She was pale with anger. “What do you think you were doing?” she hissed.
“You dropped out,” said Isabel calmly. “I assumed you’d reached your limit.”
“You told somebody,” said Roz. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t.”
Isabel was not prepared for this. “I did not. I kept my promise.”
Roz stared at her. “I don’t believe you for a moment. That man in the front…”
Isabel interrupted her. “You may have noticed I was bidding against him,” she said.
“But how did he know what it was? You must have said something to somebody.”
Isabel felt a growing irritation. “Listen,” she said, “you shouldn’t imagine that you’re the only person who can tell a Ravilious when she sees it. That man obviously knew what it was. And should anyone be surprised by that?”
She saw that Roz was close to tears.
“But why did you go for it?” Roz stuttered. “You knew I wanted it.”
Isabel hesitated. She was under no obligation to explain herself to this woman, but there was something about her now that evoked her sympathy.
“The reason why I joined in the bidding was not to get the painting,” she said quietly. “I wanted to make sure that it went for a fair price. So I bid that man up.” She paused, allowing time for this to sink in. “I didn’t want to get the painting—I just wanted to make sure that the real owner—whom I happen to know, by the way—got a proper price for it.”
Roz gasped. “You know the person?”
“Yes. I do.”
Roz’s lower lip was quivering. She fixed Isabel with an accusing stare. “So you must have told them. You must have.”
“No,” said Isabel, her voice beginning to rise. “I did not tell them. I kept my promise to you. I’ve just told you that.”
But Roz was no longer listening. Turning her back on Isabel, she began to walk off down the steps that led to the street. She did not turn round.
And there was Ruth behind her.
“Isabel?”
She turned round. Ruth was standing in the doorway with the lawyer.
“You two know one another, I believe.”
The lawyer nodded, as did Isabel.
“I had no idea you were going to go for our painting,” said Ruth. “You said nothing the other day.”
“I only decided this morning,” said Isabel.
The lawyer frowned. “But you must have known what it was,” he said.
“I’ve just had a word with the other bidder. He tells me it’s a Ravilious.”
“It is,” said Isabel.
Ruth was staring at her in a disconcerting way. “You knew that?”
Isabel began to answer. “Well, it’s rather complicated—”
Ruth cut her short. “You knew it? You knew what it was?”
“Yes, I did.”
Ruth looked at the lawyer as if to seek confirmation of something unbelievable. He said, “Rather surprising.” He spoke in a dry way, as if commenting on a legal formula.
“You might have told me,” said Ruth. “It could have been sold for peanuts. And mother…”
“I wanted to,” said Isabel. “But I came by the knowledge in circumstances that made it impossible for me to tell you.”
Ruth was silent for a while. Then she said, “Some friend,” and walked away. The lawyer, taken aback, gave Isabel a look of reproach, before turning to follow Ruth.
“I deliberately bid him up,” called Isabel after her. “Didn’t you notice?”
She was left standing by herself. She had risked more than forty thousand pounds. She had kept a promise given to a person she did not even know very well. She had secured a lifeline for an aged woman. And now she was openly reproached and reviled. She sighed. Doing the right thing was not always the best way of securing the approval of others—far from it, it would seem.
But the gratitude of others was not the point. You did what needed to be done because it needed to be done, and for no other reason.
* * *
Jamie had offered to cook again.
“Bad day?” he asked.
She nodded. “Very bad.”
He walked across the kitchen and took her in his arms. “Poor Isabel.”
She nestled against him. He had been cooking porcini mushrooms and she smelled them on him—a dry, meaty smell. “I’ll survive.”
“Tell me,” he said.
She told him about the auction. “I almost ended up with a Ravilious,” she said. “Almost, but not quite.”
“You could have sold it on. You’d probably have got more or less what you’d paid for it. Maybe a bit more.”
“Perhaps. But it was scary stuff.”
She told him about being rounded upon by both Roz and Ruth.
“They shouldn’t have done that,” said Jamie. “You did the right thing.”
“I tried to,” said Isabel.
She suddenly felt an urge to cry. Sensing this, he held her more tightly.
“Don’t let them upset you,” he said. “I know you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” He paused. “And remember Ruth’s mother. She’s the one who counts in all this. You saved everything for her. Remember that.”
Isabel did not say anything. The tears had started. It was so unfair. Those two women had no justification at all. How could they?
The telephone rang.
“I’ll answer,” said Jamie.
He left the room. The porcini mushrooms, half in their liquid, half out to dry, scented the room.
He was a good ten minutes. When he came back he was smiling.
He walked up to Isabel and kissed her on the cheek. “Sweet, thoughtful Valentine. All over.”
“What’s all over?”
“It—the situation. The row. The call it what you will. Over. Forgiven. Settled.”
She looked confused.
“That call was from Ruth,” he said. “Full of apologies. She wants to come and see you tomorrow. She says she wasn’t thinking straight when she spoke to you. Now she realises what you’ve done for her mother.”
Isabel received the news in silence. She felt the relief that always came with the end of a quarrel, even though in this case she knew she had nothing to reproach herself over. But how you felt in this life, she knew, often had nothing to do with how you deserved to feel.
Dinner was almost ready now, and Jamie served it to them in the kitchen.
“I love your risotto,” Isabel said.
“And I love you,” said Jamie. “And risotto. More than risotto, in fact. I love you more than risotto, more than chocolate, more than Bach or Mozart…”
He looked at her across the table, an arm’s length away. “I meant to tell you,” he said. “When I went to collect Charlie from playgroup today, I was early. So I went in and had a word with Miss Campbell.”
“Oh yes.”
“And Charlie was playing with his pal, Hugh—he of the adventurous mother.”
“Yes?”
“And so I slipped something into Hugh’s coat pocket.”
Isabel stared at him wide-eyed.
“That letter?”
“Yes. I returned it to base. She’ll probably find it and breathe a sigh of relief. Not lost after all.”
Isabel sat back in her chair. “Well, that sorts that out.” A few seconds later she added, “It can’t be easy—conducting an affair.”
“Exactly,” said Jamie.
That ended that, she thought. Hatty, Martin and Don would have to work out their own fate: it had nothing to do with her.
“I’ve drawn a line,” she muttered.
Jamie looked puzzled. “What line?” he asked.
“A line around what I need to concern myself with and what’s nothing to do with me.”
He smiled. “As I’ve always wanted you to do.”
“But it’s not easy,” said Isabel. “It never is.”
Jamie nodded. “I used to think it was simple,” he said. “Then you came along and showed me that it wasn’t.”
They ate their risotto. Then Isabel said, “Some music after dinner? Will you play the piano?”
“Why not? What do you want to hear?”
“That song about valentines. You sing.”
He smiled. “The real one? Or the one with our own words?”
“Our own words,” said Isabel.
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Sweet, Thoughtful Valentine Page 7