Wickham Hall, Part 3

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘Delighted, delighted,’ said Miles, pursing his lips in a flirty sort of way as he took my hand and hung onto it.

  ‘Pleased to meet you too,’ I said, endeavouring to retrieve my fingers from his meaty paw.

  ‘I’m his friend too, of course,’ he added with a hearty laugh.

  Miles turned to Ben and clapped him on his back and extended his arm to take in the room. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘The place looks great, Miles. Thank you.’

  ‘I genuinely think this is your best work, Ben. And you’ve been away, I believe. Scotland?’

  Ben blinked at him. ‘The Orkneys, yes.’

  ‘So there are more landscapes in the offing, then?’ Miles rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Hey, slow down, Miles,’ Ben said with a grin. ‘Let’s get this show out of the way before we plan the next.’

  Miles guffawed as though Ben had told the world’s funniest joke. ‘Of course, of course!’

  Ben touched my arm. ‘I just need a few minutes with Miles to go over the arrangements for this evening. Why don’t you have a look round? I’m dying to know what you think.’

  ‘Sure.’ I nodded.

  Miles bore Ben away to a small side office and I wandered further into the room.

  The gallery was narrow and on two levels. The walls were white and Ben’s canvases – some framed, some not – were displayed all around the room, artfully highlighted with spotlights. With one exception: there was an easel set up in the centre of the room that looked to have a canvas on it but it was covered with a black cloth. At the far end on the upper level, two waiters were unloading champagne flutes from plastic crates onto a long table.

  I approached the first painting. It was a huge canvas in tones of red and gold, a fiery sky reflected in a yellow cornfield. A small plaque underneath the picture informed me that it was entitled Morning Glory. It was absolutely glorious and I felt my throat tighten with emotion. I’d seen Ben’s paintings before, I knew he was talented, but seeing his finished work displayed like this was overwhelming. His art was beautiful and he had chosen me to share this evening with. I thought my heart might burst with pride.

  ‘Miss?’

  I turned to see a waiter holding a tray of champagne.

  I smiled my thanks and took a glass from him and then I turned back to the picture, raising my glass in a silent toast.

  To the other ‘you’: Ben the artist.

  An hour later and the opening party was in full swing. Ben was thrilled with the turn-out and I’d been introduced to everyone from old art tutors and fellow artists to collectors and the gallery’s regular customers. Miles had whisked Ben off on several occasions to talk to clients and sold stickers were beginning to appear on the corners of the paintings.

  As far as I could see there were three groups of guests. There were the arty types with brightly coloured dyed hair, wearing trousers baggy at the knee. They seemed to be drinking the most champagne. A second social group consisted of smartly dressed women in their thirties who seemed more interested in the gossip than the art. A third group – older, more sedate, mostly in couples – took their time admiring each painting as they made their way round the gallery. So far this third group was responsible for most of the sold stickers.

  ‘How does it feel, knowing that all these people have come to see your work?’ I asked, raising my voice above the background music and the chatter.

  ‘Fantastic.’ His eyes sparkled with satisfaction. ‘All the months of getting up early to paint the dawn, the self-doubt when I thought the paintings weren’t up to scratch and of course the fact that Mum and Dad wish I’d hurry up and grow out of painting.’ He made air apostrophes around ‘grow out’ and my heart went out to him.

  ‘I’m sure they’re proud of your work, though,’ I soothed, wondering, if that was the case, why they weren’t here today to support him.

  He laughed softly and shook his head. ‘As far as they’re concerned it isn’t work, it’s just a hobby.’

  I’d had a couple of glasses of champagne by now, which had knocked the edge off my inhibitions nicely, so I didn’t think twice about putting my arm round his waist and kissing his cheek.

  ‘What was that for?’ Ben grinned. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘It’s for bringing so much sunshine to Wickham Hall.’ I laughed. ‘Especially to me.’

  He didn’t respond other than to smile and hold my gaze for a long moment.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, breaking the spell and grabbing two fresh glasses from a passing waiter, orange juice for him and more champagne for me, ‘let’s go and mingle. And then I’ve got my big reveal.’

  We headed towards the upper end of the gallery, chatting and smiling to guests as we moved through the crowd.

  I was more relaxed now, no doubt helped by the champagne; so far no one had asked me anything more challenging than how I’d met Ben and several people had been interested to hear about my job at Wickham Hall.

  ‘I’m curious where this one was painted, Mr Fortescue,’ one lady asked, tugging his arm. ‘Shoreline Silence.’

  I turned to see the painting in question.

  It was a large canvas featuring a stretch of deserted beach, a blue-grey sea with frothy waves and the pale yellow glow of the first glimpse of dawn in the middle of a sleepy sky.

  ‘Ah.’ Ben grinned and tapped the edge of the canvas. ‘This is Holkham in Norfolk, painted in quite possibly the coldest April on record, fuelled by flasks of beef tea and charcoal hand warmers.’

  ‘Goodness, that’s quite an evocative image,’ the lady said, clearly charmed by Ben’s story.

  I could totally see why; I was fascinated by Ben’s paintings, too. Each picture was like a window into his soul; from the electric energy of a stormy sky to the exhilaration of clouds scudding across a wintry sea. It was as though Ben’s emotions were visible in every brushstroke.

  ‘All of the seascapes here are Norfolk. It’s one of my favourite places to paint.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ she smiled shyly, ‘your work reminds me a little of Lawrence Coulson.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Ben puffed his chest out. ‘Coulson is a big inspiration to me.’

  ‘Well, I adore Shoreline Silence,’ said the lady. ‘Yes, I think I’ll buy this one.’

  Ben signalled for Miles to attach a sold sign to it and I wandered off, leaving them to talk details with the customer.

  I found myself in front of one of the smaller framed paintings. It was another coastal scene: lilac-grey clouds hovered over a tranquil sea pierced by the pink globe of the rising sun. I bent to read the nameplate and as I straightened I almost bumped into the waiter and his tray of canapés.

  ‘Miniature Yorkshire pudding, miss?’

  I looked at the silver tray. Each Yorkshire pudding had a wafer-thin curl of roast beef in the centre and was probably no more than a mouthful in size. My stomach growled with joy. I’d missed lunch due to my outfit dilemma and suddenly realized how hungry I was.

  I popped one in whole and then, grinning at the waiter, took a second. It only took a moment before the taste exploded in my mouth: first the crispy shell of the batter, then the tender beef, followed by . . . Oh my word, something was hot, very hot, in a mustardy-singeing-my-nasal-passage way.

  Horseradish sauce. Lots of it.

  Tears sprang to my eyes as I forced the mouthful down and then swigged at my champagne. It felt as though my sinuses were on fire. I pinched my nose and dabbed the tears from my eyes and looked around for somewhere to dispose of the second canapé.

  ‘How’s that for you?’ A dark-haired man sidled up to me with a grin.

  ‘Well,’ I sniffed, smiling self-consciously, ‘fiery, unexpectedly so. I can still feel the heat burning the back of my throat.’

  The man flicked a glance away from me and then nodded. ‘Gosh. It does get you like that sometimes when the image is so real it becomes almost tangible. Go on.’

  ‘Um . . .�
�� I floundered. That was all I had to say about it really, I mean how much can you say about a mini Yorkshire pudding? ‘Quite took my breath away.’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded rapidly, ‘I had that too, anything else?’

  I blinked at him. Seriously? It was a flippin’ savoury snack.

  I shrugged. ‘Beefy?’

  ‘Beefy?’ he repeated, shaking his head. He stepped up closer to the painting behind me. ‘Extraordinary.’

  Oh God. I cringed. He’d meant the painting. I moved in the opposite direction, taking my empty glass, unwanted food and burning face with me.

  I spotted a bin, dumped the canapé and had recovered enough to face more food by the time the same waiter returned. This time with tiny crab cakes.

  ‘Are they spicy?’ I asked, helping myself.

  They weren’t, apparently, so I risked taking two again.

  Ben was deep in conversation with a group of the arty types and caught my eye and waved just as I bit into my first crab cake. I grinned back and walked to the next painting where I was immediately joined by the same dark-haired man.

  ‘That looks good,’ he said. He pressed his lips together and nodded.

  The painting was another seascape. Which meant it was somewhere in Norfolk. I bet he didn’t know that. He wasn’t going to catch me blathering about food this time.

  ‘This one is from Norfolk,’ I said, nibbling the edge of my crab cake. ‘You can almost smell the sea, can’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The man dipped his head forward into my personal space and swooped, bending his neck and inhaling sharply. ‘Probably Cromer. They’re famous for it.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. Famous for what, smelling of sea?

  ‘You can taste the saltiness of the breeze, the tang in the air,’ I continued airily.

  ‘Indeed,’ exclaimed the man. ‘Well, you’ve sold it to me.’

  The waiter went by again and the man pounced on him. ‘I’ll have one of those Norfolk crab cakes please, they sound delicious.’

  Oh heavens, I’d done it again. I sucked in my cheeks to stop myself from giggling, excused myself from the man and went off in search of Ben.

  I found him coming out of the men’s loos.

  He snaked an arm round my waist and gave me a squeeze. ‘I was just coming to find you. Sorry to have abandoned you for so long.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I laughed, ‘I’ve had fun. I’ve even discussed art with someone. Sort of.’

  ‘But I should have known you’d spend half the time on your own. I’m sorry, Holly.’ His eyes were soft and I felt my insides melt. ‘We’ll go for dinner afterwards and then I promise, I’m all yours.’

  I opened my mouth to respond but Miles tapped Ben on the shoulder.

  ‘I think you should do your thing now, Ben; if you don’t mind excusing us, Holly?’

  Ben smiled an apology as Miles led him away and the two men made their way to the painting in the centre of the gallery that so far had been hidden by a cloth. Miles tapped the side of his glass to call the room to order and said a few words of introduction. Then it was Ben’s turn. I moved further forward to get a better view.

  ‘Thank you all for coming to see my New Dawn collection, and thank you to Miles Leith for putting on this exhibition in your stunning gallery. This particular collection means a lot to me. I began it last year on the coast of Norfolk, then moved to the Yorkshire Dales in the autumn and finished up with my favourite piece of all, which I’ve only just finished.’ His eyes flicked briefly to the easel beside him. ‘The beauty of being a landscape painter is that I will never see the same landscape twice. The sun, the sky, even the air changes moment to moment.’

  Ben paused to take a sip of water and I glanced round the room. Everyone was hanging on his every word. They all seemed as mesmerized as me and I felt my heart swell with pride.

  ‘The best I can do is to try to capture the moment, suspend it in time to evoke the atmosphere and the aura of the place, so that we can continue to enjoy that moment forever on canvas.’

  He handed his glass to Miles and placed his hands on the cloth that obscured the painting.

  ‘There is one particular landscape that is very close to my heart and that’s the view across the Wickham Hall estate where I grew up. Recently I had the intense pleasure of witnessing a very special sunrise with a very special person. I captured the moment on canvas and I hope she will think that I’ve the done the memory justice.’

  Ben tugged at the cloth and let it fall to the ground.

  My breath caught in my throat when I realized what the canvas depicted: it was our sunrise. That perfect morning when he’d showed me the dawn back in July. The rising sun gave Wickham Hall a rose-gold glow and the clouds were candyfloss pink. Long golden shadows fell across the dewy grass where a deer and her fawn grazed fearlessly at the edge of the frame.

  His eyes sought mine in the crowd and my body glowed warmly under his gaze. ‘This one is called Secret Sunrise.’

  And then people were clapping and chatting and moving again. The crowd faded into a blur until it was just Ben and me, staring at each other across the room. He raised his eyebrows and then we were jostling through groups of people to get to each other.

  ‘I love it,’ I murmured, throwing my arms round his neck. ‘Did you do it all from memory?’

  He nodded. ‘And I went back to that spot for the next three days to make sure I got the magic right.’

  I released him and shook my head slowly. ‘You are ridiculously talented, Ben Fortescue.’

  He smiled. ‘I painted it as a gift for you. As soon as the exhibition is over, it’s yours to do with as you want.’

  ‘My first piece of art.’ I beamed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. ‘I love it, thank you.’

  Ben grinned. ‘Thank God for that, you have no idea how nervous I’ve been about that all evening.’ He eased himself out of my arms. ‘Now I have one last high-spending customer to talk to and then we are going to find a restaurant nearby before driving home. These tiny canapés don’t even touch the sides for me.’

  I watched him walk away and shake hands with a stooped man with sparse white hair and my stomach twisted with nerves.

  Home.

  Home is where the heart is and for me that had always been the little village of Wickham. Until tonight I’d thought that that was where Ben’s home should be too. But maybe I wanted him to stay at Wickham Hall for the wrong reasons – selfish reasons? This was Ben’s world, a world of art and artists and passion and talent. Now I’d seen the other Ben, Ben the brilliantly talented artist, I wasn’t sure that he could ever be completely happy at Wickham Hall. For him it would mean sacrifice, compromise and possibly even unhappiness.

  And if I did persuade him to stay, would I want that on my conscience?

  Chapter 8

  I sneezed for the umpteenth time and then stooped to pick up a stray leaflet from the living-room carpet. Mum and I were having a mammoth clear-out and it was the happiest time we had spent together for years. I was so pleased for her that she’d finally decided to declutter the living room, even if we had created clouds of dust as we scooped up years’ worth of old magazines and brochures. It was a bright autumn day in October, three weeks since my date with Ben and a low sun shone through the living-room window making the dancing dust motes sparkle in its rays. Both of us were doing a lot of sneezing.

  ‘Now are you sure you can bear to part with the Wickham Hall Christmas brochure 1999?’

  I held it up to show Mum, tongue firmly in my cheek.

  ‘Oh, let’s see,’ she said, grabbing it out of my hand and ignoring my despairing sighs. ‘They had a big firework display that year, to celebrate the new Millennium. There was a marquee, a three-course dinner, a band and then fireworks to finish.’

  I frowned. ‘Did you go?’

  She shook her head. ‘You were fourteen: too old for a babysitter and too young to be left on your own. We watched the fireworks out of the window.’
r />   I put my arm round her waist and gave her a hug. It had always been just the two of us on special occasions; sometimes it felt like we were the only people in the entire world without any family.

  ‘Look at that tree.’ She sighed, pointing to a festive picture of the main staircase at Wickham Hall decorated to the hilt. There was a towering Christmas tree at the bottom of the stairs and garlands of fir and ivy were looped around the banisters and tied with red ribbon.

  I obliged, scanning the leaflet and joining in with her oohs and ahhs, secretly disappointed that there weren’t any pictures of Ben as a little boy in it.

  ‘And it will be just as magical this year,’ I said, retrieving the leaflet from her fingers and dropping it into a large refuse sack. ‘Although right at the moment all my efforts are being poured into the Bonfire Night display.’

  And trying to play it cool with Ben.

  I sat on the sofa for a moment, rubbing my nose and waiting for the next sneeze.

  My heart twisted as I remembered his confused face when I’d turned him down for a drink last night.

  Life in the events department at Wickham Hall had returned to normal – on the surface, at least. Ben spent his days in the office creating havoc: making last-minute changes to the Bonfire Night posters, ringing up the fireworks company to quiz them about some detail or other every five minutes and generally setting me on edge until I sent him off on a spurious errand in an attempt to get some work done in his absence. But something between us had changed. There was an electrical charge to the atmosphere whenever we were together and I could feel it building with every passing day.

  The problem was, I hadn’t quite worked out how to behave around him.

  Our date at the art gallery had been one of the most memorable nights of my life. We had left Oxford and stopped for dinner at a French bistro, sharing a platter of seafood so delicious that it even made Esme’s mouth water when I described it to her afterwards. But the date had been eye-opening in all sorts of ways. It had deepened my feelings and confirmed my attraction to Ben. But it had also sent me into a spiral of doubt about the wisdom of Lord and Lady Fortescue’s wishes that Ben take over at Wickham Hall. How could he live out his dreams of being an artist without crushing those of his parents?