“Very well,” Amy was already assessing how to make the best composition, how to catch the best light and wondering about the merits of limiting her palette of colours to give the painting unity.
Hunter must have seen this shift of her consciousness, because he said, “I’ll leave you to your painting. In that, at least, you show depth of feelings.” And turning on his heels he was gone. Feeling almost winded by this parting blow, Amy sat down again on the bench watching his figure recede without a backwards glance. What had just happened? And why the reference to her being an ice queen? And why the assumption she couldn’t show her feelings? He’d hardly given her a chance! Was he hung up on past experiences? Was he likening her to someone else? Had he taken too literally the link between her and Elizabeth Montford and assumed she was a cold-hearted adulteress, that they were the same temperament just because they shared the same features? That would be beyond unfair. Perhaps this was what he meant by the flowers. They had not been a romantic gesture at all, but a way of saying he thought her frigid, cold as ice. Or perhaps they had been the first step in his seduction and that, followed by a little bit of patter when she thought he had been opening up to her, was all he thought was required for her to fall limply into his arms like a damp lily, and he was simply angry at her rejection, trying to hurt her back.
One phrase in particular stuck in her mind. “Your reputation as an ice queen!” What reputation? She knew immediately who to ask and before she could really turn her mind to painting she had to resolve this question. She took out her mobile and phoned Judy. When Judy answered she asked, without preamble,
“Judy, you are my friend, tell me straight, do I have a reputation as an ice queen?”
At the other end of the phone Judy laughed. “Amy, what kind of a question is that?”
“A simple one to which the answer is yes or no!”
“I can’t tell you a thing like that. You are my dearest friend!”
“You can answer – and are you saying it has been said? Who by? Why?”
“What makes you ask? Who have you been talking to?”
“Never you mind, just tell me!” Amy heard a reluctant sigh at the other end of the phone.
“Amy, I know you for the dear, loyal, warm-hearted, sensitive person that you are. But you are a reserved person. Not everyone sees that side of you. You’ve kept yourself to yourself, understandably, looking after the person you love most and watching him suffer and die. And then, well, you are twenty-two and have never dated. Men have tried and been turned away, it creates – an impression, however false.”
“I’ve never had the opportunity to date. And what men? Who tried?”
“Most men who meet you and fancy they stand the slightest chance. You are beautiful, they can’t help hoping.”
“But I never noticed,” replied Amy weakly. “Who has tried? Name me one person?”
“Amy I can give you a list! Simon you had dinner with at my house last month, Andy the month before. Didn’t you notice that they were trying to chat you up?”
“No.” A horrible suspicion suddenly entered Amy’s mind. “You were trying to set me up with them?”
“No, just offering you opportunities. Amy, you’ve had a miserable few years, you deserve the chance of happiness.”
“Maybe, but there doesn’t seem to be any chance of me finding it with a man.” The memory of her encounter with Hunter was fresh as an open wound in her mind.
“That’s just where you are wrong, if only you could see it. But I don’t want to interfere. Anyway, you must know about Jason. He’s been in love with you since you were at school together.”
“Jason, son of Tom at the Five Bells, Jason?” A few things were beginning to fall into place.
Judy laughed. “Yes, that Jason.” Amy was thinking - Hunter has been to the Five Bells, is that where he heard the rumour? - “Still friends?” pursued Judy.
“Of course.”
“So who has been telling you this rumour?”
“No one. It’s just not how I want to be seen.”
“Well, it won’t put men off. They like a challenge.”
“But I don’t want to be a challenge. I want to be a person. I want to be Amy.”
“Well, perhaps you need to open up and show them who Amy is,” suggested Judy.
Which was all very well, but a bit late, thought Amy.
A couple of hours painting, however, did for Amy what it always did; distracted her from all worries as she captured the tones, colours and character opened out before her. She still felt bruised – literally in the case of her lips and ribs – by the morning’s encounter, but more able to come to terms with it. Nonetheless, the sight of Hunter walking towards her in the early afternoon made her heart flip within her, not knowing what to expect. In fact he greeted her with a slightly rueful smile and a lunch basket.
“Peace offering,” he said. “I may have been rude or unfair this morning.”
Any resentment Amy felt melted away in the warmth of his smile and the generosity of his apology. “Is that lunch? I will forgive you anything if you are offering me food.”
He opened up the basket and laid out a picnic on a white cloth. Fresh bread, smoked salmon, salads and a bottle of chilled Champagne. They sat down together, both openly determined to put the morning behind them for their own reasons.
“How can you paint a picture of such sublime tranquillity, after my being so rude? You make me want to walk into it, maybe I could be happy and at peace in there. Maybe that is our world.” Amy smiled and accepted the Champagne he passed to her. “I don’t know you yet, Amy,” he continued. “What I see in your paintings intrigues me. I’m sorry if I got off on the wrong foot with you. I’m not used to a woman like you. I’m not used to women of subtlety or depth. Maybe I misunderstand it.”
“Maybe I’m too used to keeping myself bottled up,” she confessed.
“Maybe I can be the one to uncork that bottle. But for now, let us enjoy the Champagne and the beautiful weather. And I hope you will come to my May Ball. Come on; tell me how I should lay things out in the garden?”
And for half an hour they sat idly discussing how he could arrange his May Ball, sipping the Champagne and basking in the sun. Being with Hunter that afternoon seemed to Amy like an island of calm in a storm-driven sea, a moment to seize and enjoy. It was as well she saw it like this, because their fragile moments of pleasure would soon be shattered again.
***
Chapter Three
In fact the week began gently enough. The fine May weather was holding with every hope of it lasting until the following Saturday. Amy continued with her painting in the mornings and Hunter brought up a picnic to share with her each day; so they stretched out in the sun, chatted companionably, and discussed the ball. He was more relaxed and less intense than he had been on that first Saturday, but he did gradually unfold details of his family, schooldays, likes and dislikes. Amy learnt that he loved the peace of country walks, but also the thrill of piloting his helicopter over the Grand Canyon. That he respected his parents, but loved his grandmother. That handling big business both thrilled and appalled him; he loved the rush that negotiating a successful deal brought, but disliked some of the worst character traits it brought out in the participants. He liked white wine, shell-fish, black slope skiing and, it seemed, Amy’s company. In those three days he made no attempt to kiss or romance her, but Amy could feel the tentative beginnings of affection and trust growing between them. On the Tuesday she had completed her painting and knew the next day she had to travel up to London to fulfil a long held promise to visit a friend from her brief student days. She was going to be sorry to be away from Hunter but glad of the opportunity to shop for the perfect dress for Saturday. She had tried to convince herself that there were actually more important things for her to spend her small amount of money on but decided, no, there really weren’t. The thought of turning up in a dress to dazzle and disarm Hunter seemed paramount.
As th
ey were sitting together they could watch the men starting to erect a huge marquee beside the house.
“I didn’t give them the go ahead until I knew your painting was finished,” Hunter was saying. “I suppose there is no chance of it being dry and framed by Saturday? I’d love to see the reaction it gets.”
Amy shook her head. “No. I mixed with linseed oil and used a palette knife pretty freely. Honestly, it could be Christmas before it’s dry!”
Hunter smiled. He was laid out in the warm grass, his dark hair pushed casually back from his eyes, his long limbs stretched out languidly as he propped himself on one elbow and looked at Amy. Although there had been no attempt on his part to initiate any physical contact with her, she was acutely conscious of how close his lean, hard, sun-warmed body was to hers and was not unaware of how his eyes took in the way the flimsy material of her cotton dress clung to her curves.
“It’s going to be a bit of a mixed bunch on Saturday,” he was saying. “Lots of London clients, who may bore you a bit; some artists you may like to meet, one or two people I’d actually call friends. None of my family, except Cole, who is flying over tonight.”
Amy nodded. She was charmed by the fact that he was actually giving consideration to how much she would enjoy Saturday’s gathering. She was simply looking forward to seeing Wolfston en fête again and having the opportunity to spend at least some of the evening with him.
“Cole isn’t coming over alone,” Hunter continued, “I don’t quite know what you’ll make of him. We have a complicated relationship and, well,” he hesitated, “some things are not quite what they seem.”
Amy wasn’t sure what he meant but asked, “Complicated as in “bad” or just complicated? You’ve always seemed quite affectionate when you talk about Cole.”
“Oh, I love him right enough. That’s the easy bit. I don’t like him much, though, and at the moment he may mean more trouble than he’s worth. I look after him like he’s my irresponsible kid brother, which is pretty topsy-turvy as he’s actually two years older than me. It’s just, at the moment I’d have liked to keep things quiet and simple.” The way his eyes lingered on her as he spoke made her feel that she was the reason why he wanted to keep things quiet, and it was true that part of her was aggravated by the prospect of a whole bevy of people breaking into the intimacy they seemed to be beginning to enjoy. On the other hand she was fascinated to meet some of the people he had talked to her about.
“Oh, I’m sure it will all work out all right,” she replied, wanting to reassure and comfort him and take the worried look from his eyes and not really knowing what it was that was worrying him. “My family has a history of complexity dating back to medieval times, but now I seem to be all that is left of it, any problems seem better than being alone.”
Hunter leant over suddenly and cupped her chin gently in his hands. The kiss he gave her was all about tenderness, but she knew that if he hadn’t withdrawn from it when he did, their passion would have been fired up. And the smouldering look she saw in his eyes as she glanced at him told her that he was being both careful and caring.
“Perhaps you are right. I’m lucky to have what I have, however complex. But just remember,” he reiterated, “things are not always what they seem.”
Over the next few days Amy had very little time to wonder about what Hunter had meant by his cryptic parting comment. On the Wednesday morning she took the train up to London. She didn’t tell Lucy anything about her relationship with Hunter, but did mention that he had bought Wolfston Hall. This in itself was enough to excite Lucy who, as an art graduate, was in the difficult phase of having to put a cap on her ambitions and accept a clerical post whilst trying, in the face of fierce competition, to find a job which utilized her artistic ability. At least the mention of his name and the fact that Amy was going to his party made her a willing accomplice in the hunt for the perfect dress. Amy had it in mind to wear something similar to, but not a replica of, the dress that Elizabeth Montford wore in the painting. One quite straight-forward reason for this was that, with the same willowy figure, forget-me-not blue eyes and rich, dark hair, it would probably look as spectacular on her as on the original. And they did eventually – footsore, weary and after many sustaining stops for coffee – find the dress. Amy had at home a sapphire necklace which her father had given her mother as a wedding present and was the only treasure which he had somehow managed to retain. It had been equally unthinkable for Amy to sell it, and there was no reason not to wear it. When she returned on the Friday evening and tried it on together with the dress, she honestly felt that she could shine at the party even amongst the glitterati of Hunter’s friends and family. The grey silk of the dress clung like a light mist about her figure, the neckline hinting at her full but pert breasts, whilst the sapphires shone like stars against her gleaming white skin. She could ask no more.
Neither on the Friday night nor the Saturday did Amy hear from Hunter. She was disappointed but not wholly surprised as she knew that his brother and other guests would already be there. However, it might have calmed her jangling nerves if he had sent her just a small message to suggest that he was looking forward to seeing her. Worse still, because Judy had a small emergency with one of her grandchildren, she was going to turn up late and Amy was going to have to make her entrance alone.
It was a sultry evening with a hint of thunder in the air as Amy walked the short distance from her cottage to Wolfston Hall. A waxing moon did something to help light her way, although flitting clouds harried along by a warm but strengthening wind obscured it from time to time. The silk of her dress caught the sheen of moonlight and the breeze ruffled it, giving her the look of a ghostly but beautiful apparition. She had piled her dark hair on her head and held it with two silver, pearly combs, with just a few soft strands breaking free to gently frame her face. She held a luxurious, antique, faded blue velvet stole around her, and she wore kitten-heeled blue velvet court shoes on her feet. Like the stole they had history and she had twice had them carefully repaired so they were as comfortable as gloves. Wolfston Hall blazed ahead of her, a fleet of cars in the wide driveway at the front and the marquee visible at the back where the garden was lit by glittering lights strung in the trees and lanterns along the pathways. There was the scent of a hog roast in the garden and the promise of fireworks later. It was hard not to feel exhilarated at the spectacle, although some of the butterflies in her stomach were nervousness, not at the prospect of meeting so many new people, but at the prospect of renewing her acquaintance with Hunter in such a public forum. She hardly knew how she expected him to greet her – warmly, with a smile, or with formal correctness along with his other guests?
She was fortunate on first entering through the open doors to catch sight of the vicar and her husband standing in the softly lit entrance hall and clasping champagne flutes. Amy was reasonably well acquainted with Jean, the vicar, although an infrequent churchgoer herself. It was Jean who had presided at her father’s funeral. He husband, Geoff, who was an accountant, she knew mostly by sight. In any case they smiled at her so she felt able to go over and speak to them whilst giving herself a chance to take in the transformation of the house and gain an impression of the guests who now filled it.
“Looks lovely,” commented Jean, casting her eyes about her. “We talked briefly to a sculptor who offered to do something for the church. I fancy he’s rather modern for St John’s, but didn’t like to say no. Something depicting the passion, he said. I hope we were talking about the same concept as he came over as distinctly avant-garde, rather than theological, in his stand point.”
“Give him a free rein and see what he comes up with. It will at least form a starting point for your Easter sermon,” commented Amy, most of her mind taking in her surroundings. Geoff snorted into his Champagne.
“My thoughts exactly. There are some beautiful women here tonight,” continued Jean, following Amy’s eyes. “You amongst them, of course. A bit at the glamorous end of the scale for us.�
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Amy was ready to agree with the observation that this was an event more glamorous than Montford Village had seen in a long while, although Wolfston Hall could lay claim to entertaining royalty and hosting many a society ball in previous centuries. Not that Hunter Lewis had failed to rise to that challenge. Amy could see that he had carried through all the ideas that they had discussed. She could see through the house to the marquee and knew that it would be decked with trails of flowers and tiny sparkling lights and that an orchestra would be playing. She could see an elegant buffet set out in the Great Hall and wondered if Hunter had arranged for a string quartet to play there when they officially stopped for dinner, although there was also barbequed food available continuously in the garden until the small hours. Champagne was being offered on silver trays and Amy helped herself to one with a word of thanks and marvelled at the quality of the cut glass in which it was served. She stayed chatting with Jean and Geoff for a short while before excusing herself and wandering into the other rooms.
Inevitably Amy was casting round in the hope of catching sight of Hunter. When she did so, it was to see him standing by the open French windows surrounded by a small circle of people who were talking and laughing. He was at an angle to her, so did not immediately see her. Her first response was a jolt in her stomach when she realised how impossibly handsome he was in evening dress, his hair swept back with just that one roguish lock falling over his eyes. It was a now familiar face with its intense grey eyes currently twinkling with humour; but seeing him so at ease, surrounded by friends and family whilst she was feeling slightly lost and overwhelmed made her feel a million miles away from him. She suddenly felt a strong urge to run away through the garden into the warm, friendly woods where she knew she belonged, before he saw that she was there at all. And then it was too late. He turned slightly whilst addressing one of his entourage and she saw him suddenly catch sight of her. He didn’t stop his flow of speech, but just tilted his glass towards her in an almost imperceptible gesture which no one but her noticed. She thought he might have broken away at some point and come over to her, but she herself was suddenly swept up by an excited Judy, who had just arrived, swathed in red satin, and was wanting to tell her about the ups and downs of her day, the mishap to her granddaughter, and how she managed to get away in time for the ball.
A Connoisseur of Beauty Page 3