The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  ‘You remember Aunt Elizabeth was … unwell.’

  ‘The turn she had at the preview, you mean.’

  ‘Yes, and one prior to that. I’m certain they were caused by repressed memories triggered by your mother’s paintings.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following you. What’s a repressed memory?’

  ‘Something your brain chooses to forget because of the trauma it induced. Aunt Elizabeth suffers from ornithophobia.’

  ‘Is it asking too much to request you speak English?’

  Jane smiled. ‘A fear of birds.’

  ‘There aren’t any birds in Mother’s paintings.’

  ‘You’re right. That’s exactly what I don’t understand.’

  Timothy frowned at her. ‘There is the dovecot.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The dovecot. Next to the church.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come downstairs and I’ll show you.’

  It seemed perfectly natural to clasp his hand as they clattered down the stairs. Jane’s heart lifted. It was so very, very good to have a friend. Perhaps she had forgiven him.

  ‘It’s this one.’ He stopped in front of the The Village Church. ‘Here.’ He dropped her hand and rested his index finger against the canvas. ‘There. The dovecot.’

  Jane stared at the painting she’d looked at more times than she could count. ‘It’s a mausoleum. A burial crypt.’

  ‘No. It’s a dovecot, a pigeon house.’

  ‘Why would you keep birds in a graveyard?’

  ‘The building wasn’t originally in the church grounds.’ Timothy sketched an area in the painting with his finger and then pointed to the narrow openings at the top of the building. ‘The birds fly off every morning through these tiny windows, forage, then come home each night to roost. Their droppings are collected and used on the land. Free, since the birds don’t have to be fed, and free eggs, and squabs.’

  ‘Squabs?

  ‘The young. They can’t fly until after the four-week-old mark. Easy pickings. It dates way back, hundreds of years. You had to have permission from the king to own a dovecot; it was a bit of a status symbol.’

  ‘Did the Langdons own it?’

  ‘Until Grandma Maggie sold off a parcel of land about twenty years ago and it was incorporated into the grounds of the church.’

  Jane’s mind cartwheeled … If nothing else, it explained Elizabeth’s reaction to the picture. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. Aunt Elizabeth will be thrilled we’ve been able to make sense of her reaction to the painting.’

  She’d delivered the playful punch to his shoulder before she’d given it a second thought. His eyes widened. The air stood still. His palms cupped her cheeks.

  Tiny flecks of colour danced in his eyes as he leant in and planted his warm, soft lips on hers.

  ‘Oh!’ She shot back, practically sending them both flying. Was that a kiss? No one had ever kissed her before. She’d read about kissing. Thought there was something slightly unsavoury about the entire idea. Perhaps not.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He raked his hands through his hair, his face the colour of Bessie’s summer pudding—the fruit, not the dough.

  Jane’s heart thundered fit to bust. What was she supposed to do now? She shuffled her feet, or maybe she took a step. No idea. The next thing she knew he was doing it again. Soft, warm. Her eyes closed.

  And he pulled away.

  It took her a moment or two to gather her thoughts, then she asked, ‘Why did you kiss me?’

  He looked remarkably pleased with himself. ‘I’ve wanted to ever since I found you at the technical college with Mother’s painting on the floor and a guilty look on your face.’

  ‘I’ve never been kissed before.’ She ran her fingers over her buzzing lips; they felt as though they’d been stung. Perhaps they had.

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ said Timothy.

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Not even a peck on the cheek, a goodnight kiss?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about a kiss-it-better kiss?’

  ‘No, not one of those either.’

  And then he got this sort of pitying look on his face. She wasn’t going to have that. Words bypassed her brain and tumbled out of her mouth. ‘There’s a possibility Elizabeth Quinn could be your mother’s missing sister.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  That got his mind off pity and anything else he might be thinking. No one was going to look at her as though she was poor little Nell Trent in The Old Curiosity Shop, surrounded by doodads and thingamabobs.

  ‘It can’t be proven but it appears logical. All the facts indicate that Elizabeth Quinn was, in a former life, your aunt, Daisy Dibble.’

  Perhaps the most satisfying fact was that his mouth gaped.

  Quite where the rest of the afternoon and evening disappeared to, Jane wasn’t certain. She and Timothy talked and talked. There wasn’t any more kissing, although they did drift closer, and something other than a fire kept her warm while the rain continued to drum on the iron roof, cocooning them in a world of their own.

  With a silent apology to Michael and Elizabeth, she told Timothy about the sequence of events which had led her to believe Elizabeth and Daisy were one and the same, and plied him with questions, which he answered willingly. None of them helped her solve the unsurmountable stumbling block.

  ‘Unless we can discover how Daisy got to the workhouse in Liverpool, I can’t see any way to prove your theory,’ said Timothy.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was some way of taking a sample of two people’s blood and comparing them? Perhaps phrenology could help match their bone structure.’

  He gave a lopsided sort of half smile which suddenly reminded her of Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth! Holy hell. ‘I think we better go.’

  ‘It’s still pouring.’

  ‘I’ve got an umbrella and there are some galoshes and oilskins out the back. We should get moving.’

  Timothy followed her downstairs. There was still no sign of John, and the auction hall remained as they’d left it. Jane found John’s stash of wet-weather gear hanging on the back of the door of his cubby hole and they bundled themselves into the huge coats.

  Barely able to see over the collar of the oilskin, Jane opened the back door and stepped outside, straight into a puddle that lapped the top of her boots.

  ‘I didn’t realise it had rained so heavily. Just let me lock the door and we’ll get going.’ She wrangled the padlock and chain into place and then Timothy tucked her arm through his.

  The water sloshed and pushed against them. It had to be over the embankment near Belmore Bridge. They fought through the swirling tide, slithering and sliding, laughing and carrying on like a couple of children out for a picnic. By the time they reached Church Street, rain had soaked right through the oilskin to her clothes.

  ‘We’re almost there. I’m surprised Aunt Elizabeth hasn’t sent out a search party.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to Father.’ There was a plaintive note in Timothy’s voice. Perhaps all his harsh words about his father masked a disappointment, or maybe he still held out hope it was a misunderstanding.

  They waded up the front path. One look at the side of the house told her the only way in was through the front door. Jane slammed the knocker hard, three times, and before she could draw breath Lucy stood there, the frills on her cap wilting around her damp hair.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? Bessie’s been carrying on a treat and we didn’t dare send out a search party.’

  ‘At the auction house. Is Aunt Elizabeth home?’

  ‘Course she is.’

  ‘Are you going to let us in?’

  Lucy raised her right eyebrow high up her forehead—a trick that had always made Jane jealous. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Timothy Penter. Mr and Mrs Penter’s son. You would have seen him at the preview.’

  ‘I don’t remember you ’anging off his arm like that.’

&
nbsp; Jane disentangled herself and tried to ignore Timothy’s gruff bark of laughter. It was difficult. A grin kept creeping across her face when she least expected it.

  ‘Better take those wet things off and leave ’em out here. I’ll tell Miss Quinn you’re home. The both of you.’

  Lucy stomped off, managing to make the paintings in the hallway rattle despite the thick carpet.

  They shrugged out of their sopping coats and boots and left them in a pile by the door. ‘Might be a good idea if we hurry. Lucy’s probably spinning some fairy tale.’

  The sound of laughter drifted along the hallway. Jane led the way, Timothy only a step behind her, making her conscious of the heat of his body. She suspected he’d grasp her hand given half a chance.

  When they burst into the sitting room, Elizabeth and Marigold barely noticed their arrival. They were sitting together on the rose-covered sofa, so alike that Jane was left in no doubt about their relationship. Both had their legs crossed at the ankles, their shoulders straight, and they were angled towards each other, the tilt to their heads leaving only a minuscule gap between them.

  ‘Ah! We were wondering …’

  ‘… where you’d got to,’ finished Marigold.

  ‘Have you looked outside?’ said Jane. ‘The river must have breached the embankment. The High Street will be flooded by the morning.’

  ‘I think that’s highly unlikely. It hasn’t happened for twenty years or more.’ Elizabeth turned to Marigold. ‘Your rooms are on the upper floors, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they are.’ Marigold’s eyes lit on Timothy and she lifted her eyebrows in question.

  He raised his shoulders. ‘Last seen at the railway station a good few hours ago. I checked the nearby pubs—no sign, and no one remembered seeing him.’

  ‘What have you been doing all this time?’

  Timothy’s warm hand closed over Jane’s and he tugged her to his side.

  ‘I see.’ Marigold and Elizabeth said in unison, quirking identical half smiles.

  Elizabeth turned and flicked aside the curtain. The sound of the rain hammering against the window instantly filled the room. ‘It does look heavy. How did you get home?’

  Marigold let out an easy laugh. ‘That was a silly question. Look at the pair of them, they’re both sodden.’

  ‘Go and get into some dry clothes, and Jane, ask Bessie to see what she can find for Timothy.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘Nonsense. We don’t want anyone coming down with a chill.’

  Jane slipped her hand from Timothy’s grasp. ‘Aunt Elizabeth, can you spare me a moment. I have something I’d like to tell you.’ She could hardly stand still. One more question answered. To know that Elizabeth’s reaction to the painting was perfectly logical filled her with such a sense of satisfaction.

  ‘Not now, Jane. Not now. Marigold and I are busy.’

  How could they be busy? This was far more important. ‘Aunt Elizabeth—’

  ‘Jane, go and get out of your wet clothes and ask Bessie to find something for Timothy.’

  Incapable of containing her loud huff, she marched out of the room and made her way to the kitchen, where she found John sitting at the table looking like something dredged from the bottom of the Hunter. He stood up. ‘Hope you locked up before you left.’

  ‘Yes I did. How bad is it?’

  ‘Not good. Came to tell Bessie here. We’ll be needing to get those paintings upstairs if this keeps up. Not much else that’ll come to any harm. Got that to be thankful for, even if the river does keep rising.’

  ‘So it’s going to?’

  ‘No doubt about that. Message came in from Singleton about an hour ago. River’s topped forty-seven feet. They’re saying everyone in the lower parts of the town should prepare for the worst. It’ll take a bit to make its way downstream.’

  ‘Not much we can do until it happens,’ said Bessie. ‘Ain’t no one going to put a stop to that water. Look at you, Miss Jane. Like a drowned rat. Go and get some dry clothes on.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Bessie, Aunt Elizabeth asked if you could dig something out for Timothy; we got saturated on our way back from the auction house.’ She pulled him into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh did we indeed. I expect you’ll be wanting something to eat too. Go on, off you go. There’s mulligatawny on the stove. You can eat in here. Miss Elizabeth and Miss Marigold have already had a bite.’

  ‘Bessie, what about you? You may not be able to get home.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, don’t you worry. Worse comes to worse, I’ll bunk down with Lucy.’

  Swallowing a gurgle of laughter at the look on Lucy’s face, Jane ran up the stairs.

  It bucketed all night. Marigold and Timothy ended up staying at Church Street, and the following morning a bedraggled John appeared with news that the river had risen even more, although no one would ever know by how much because the gauge had washed away sometime during the night.

  Jane still hadn’t managed to get Elizabeth on her own. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to tell her about the dovecot in front of Marigold. They seemed to be getting on so very well, but Elizabeth was such a private person and Jane had simply no idea how much she had told Marigold. Or, if she was totally honest with herself, exactly what Timothy’s revelation implied.

  ‘They’ve lost a heap of outhouses and fences,’ John reported, ‘and someone said one of the brick houses washed away. It’s eight or nine feet deep on the road to the south.’ He rocked back on his heels, not quite sure what to do with himself, or exactly how he came to be standing in the dining room at Aileen House.

  ‘Do you think it’ll reach the High Street? Do we need to move the paintings?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Not real sure. They’ve got sandbags at Belmore Bridge and last night’s Newcastle train only got as far as Tarro. The line’s under.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Elizabeth reached for Marigold’s arm. ‘Last time the waters dropped quickly. I expect everything will be back to normal soon.’

  Which would be a shame. Jane shot a look at Timothy. On second thoughts, perhaps it was a good thing. Neither he nor Marigold would be going anywhere for the next few days.

  ‘Timothy?’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘I’d like you to go back to our rooms and see if your father has returned. If he’s not there, go and see what else you can find out. Perhaps John would be kind enough to go with you.’ Marigold turned to Elizabeth. ‘Would you mind? I’d prefer he didn’t go alone.’

  ‘John, would you go with Timothy? You have a much better understanding of the flood waters, and the locality.’

  Timothy didn’t appear dreadfully keen on the prospect. He finished his tea and pushed back his chair, his mouth stretched taut like a fence line. ‘Supposing I do find Father, what would you like me to say?’

  ‘Better to inform him that I am here.’

  His eyes flared. ‘How much more of his rubbish are you going to take, Mother? Haven’t you had enough? Look at you.’ He pointed to the bruise still shadowing Marigold’s cheek. ‘When are you going to call a halt to it?’

  ‘Timothy, this is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.’

  ‘I think it is. The man’s done nothing but make your life a misery. You find out that he’s lied, used you and Grandma Maggie to further his own misguided greed, and you still care about where he is. I’m sorry, Mother, but I am not going to do it.’

  ‘Timothy, he’s my husband, your father.’

  ‘Quite honestly, I hope he’s bloody drowned.’ Timothy slammed out of the room, leaving gaping mouths and a thundercloud to rival Mother Nature.

  ‘I’ll go with Timothy.’ Jane bolted through the door before Elizabeth or Marigold could protest.

  She found him on the back verandah, shrugging into a damp oilskin.

  ‘Wait for me.’ She pulled on her boots and tossed her shoes through the back door. ‘I know the area better than you do. We’ll go back to the sta
tion and talk to Mr Marsh, the stationmaster, and if he thinks your father left on the last train we’ll see if he can telegraph ahead.’

  Thirty-Four

  Overnight the waters had risen alarmingly, and the noise from the continuing rain and the river made conversation impossible. All the shops were closed, and a group of men were filling sandbags and carting them up into the High Street.

  It took ages to reach the station. One look at the tracks confirmed the fact there’d be no trains going anywhere for at least a week. Jane hammered on the window of the ticket office and eventually Mr Marsh appeared and waved her to the door.

  ‘What brought you out in this lot?’

  ‘This is Timothy Penter.’

  ‘Don’t stand there, come in, come in.’

  They eased through the door and stood dripping in the waiting room.

  ‘We’re trying to locate Timothy’s father, Mr Penter. You said yesterday you thought he might have taken the Sydney train.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Timothy opened his mouth to speak but Jane rested her hand on his arm. ‘Are you sure you didn’t see him?’

  ‘Not right sure. If you mean the rude sod who barged in here throwing his weight around and buggered off without a by your leave, then I might well have done.’

  ‘You thought he might have taken the last train,’ Jane prompted.

  Mr Marsh stuck out his chest and glared at Timothy. ‘Might being the operative word. Someone wants to teach you and that father of yours a few manners. We don’t deal with people like that around here.’

  Jane shot a look at Timothy, who lifted his shoulders before turning to stare out at the water gushing over the gutter and onto the platform.

  ‘Mr Marsh, could you please tell us what happened. I’m very sorry if Mr Penter caused a problem. He’d been feeling unwell and—’

  ‘Pissed as a bloody newt he was, reeked of the stuff. Told him the train was running late; there was water on the lines but we thought it’d get through. Left him sitting over there. Next thing I knew, there was a big to-do going on and he stormed off. Last I saw of him he was standing at the end of the platform. Might have got the train, might not. To be honest, I don’t care very much.’