by Teresa Crane
‘Really? That’s interesting.’ Elizabeth’s attention was back on her plants. She actually sounded about as interested as might the little cat, that was now sound asleep, whiskers twitching.
Isobel shot her mother an irritated look. Poppy ducked her head, concentrating ferociously on the hated needlework, ears pricked.
Isobel tried again. ‘I was just wondering—’ She gathered the pages of her letter together and tapped them neatly upon the table ‘—if Papa might not be interested?’
Elizabeth’s attention was at last caught. She turned a puzzled face to her daughter. ‘Your father? But my dearest, why ever should he be?’
‘Well—’ The pen joined the neat pile of paper, set straight and parallel beside the pages. ‘You have a portrait of me when I was little. I just thought you might like one of Poppy when—’
Poppy’s head shot up. ‘I’m not—’ Two pairs of blue eyes turned upon her sharply, and she subsided, ‘—little,’ she muttered and went back to her needle.
Her mother laughed, a sudden, clear sound, infectious and too little heard. ‘Well, you aren’t exactly ancient, are you, my darling?’ The laughter died. The door had opened and a girl in black uniform and frilled white apron and cap had entered. ‘Yes, Lucy, what is it?’
The girl bobbed an untidy and somewhat casual curtsy. ‘It’s Cook, Mrs Brookes. Says can you come down an’ tell her what you want from the butcher. ‘E’s turned up a day early.’
Very carefully Elizabeth set the secateurs on the table, her sweet-natured face as close to irritation as it ever got. She glanced at her daughters. ‘It seems that Cook requires my presence in the kitchen. I shan’t be long, girls.’ She followed Lucy to the door, turned, sighing, before shutting it behind her, ‘This wretched war!’
‘Mama never could handle servants,’ Isobel remarked. Poppy was staring at her. ‘Isobel! What on earth are you up to? I’ll bet Mary Hilden hasn’t been anywhere near the village for months! Everyone knows they aren’t going to open the Hall again. Not for ages, anyway.’
‘Well, of course she hasn’t. But Mama doesn’t know that, does she? And who’s to tell her?’
‘But what are you doing?’ Poppy’s voice had dropped to a hissing whisper. ‘All this business about Hilden connections and portraits—’
‘Ssh! Poppy, leave this to me. You want Kit to come and paint your portrait, don’t you? Papa would never agree to it if he knew you’d been sneaking out to meet him. He’d be furious. You know he would.’
Poppy was staring at her sister in outraged disbelief. ‘Me?’ she squeaked. ‘Me sneaking out to—’
‘Poppy, do be quiet! I told you – leave it to me.’
‘But – supposing Papa checks with Sir Robert? Supposing he finds that—’
‘What he will find,’ her sister said witheringly, ‘is that what I’ve told Mama is absolutely true. Well, almost, anyway. There is some connection between Kit and the Hildens, but not a close one – second cousin several times removed or something – that’s how his uncle got the living. For goodness’ sake, Poppy, give me credit for some sense! And he did paint a portrait of the two little Hilden boys just before the war; and they are very pleased with it.’
‘How do you know? If you didn’t really meet Mary Hilden, how do you know?’
The pale and lovely face, the forget-me-not eyes, turned to her. They were very wide and very steady. ‘Kit told me,’ said Isobel, and there was a strange defiance in both voice and gaze.
The child’s solemn brown eyes held hers. For the briefest of moments the small lips trembled. It was Isobel’s gaze that faltered and dropped before the accusation and hurt in the little pointed face. ‘Don’t be silly, Poppy,’ she said brusquely.
Poppy said nothing, but picked up the battered sampler and bent over it, her lank hair falling across her face.
‘Oh, my dears,’ Elizabeth said from the doorway, ‘what very trying times these are! I never thought the day would come when I’d be required to haggle with a tradesman!’
Isobel jumped up, all concern. ‘Come, Mama. Sit down. I’ll ring for some tea.’
Elizabeth sank gracefully into an armchair. ‘Would you, my dear? Thank you.’
Isobel moved to the bell-push. ‘Poppy? Would you like some cake?’
Poppy neither replied nor lifted her head.
Elizabeth leaned forward. ‘Poppy? Is something wrong?’
There was a small movement, a quick intake of breath. Poppy lifted a hot, tear-streaked face. ‘I pricked my finger,’ she said. ‘Look.’ And watched as the blood dripped, dark and thick, soaking brightly into the pale material of the sampler.
Chapter Three
George Brookes could by no means be described as an indulgent father; on the contrary it was his firm belief that an indulged child was a child spoiled for life. That said, however, he was far from immune to the blandishments of his elder daughter, and as it happened her suggestion that Kit might be invited to paint the girls’ portrait was made on a day of uncommonly good temper. Despite the chancy weather the harvest was going well, a recent investment had paid off handsomely, the news from the Front was hopeful. And – a not insignificant point this, as Isobel had already realised – the fact that Kit Enever had painted a portrait for the family at Hilden Hall influenced him further. If the young man had painted the Hilden boys, then why not the Brookes girls?
Kit was duly sent for. Poppy waylaid him in the hall.
‘Papa’s going to say yes. I’m sure he is,’ she whispered, excitedly conspiratorial.
Kit smiled. ‘Good.’
‘Just one thing—’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t let him say you’re to paint us in the Orangery?
Please!’ Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘I hate it in there. I’ll die of heat! And the smell!’
He laughed. ‘Poor little Mouse. I’ll try. Where would you rather sit?’
‘The drawing-room.’ The words came from above them. Isobel stood on the stairs. ‘The drawing-room would be perfect. By the French windows. They’re west facing. The light in the afternoon is quite lovely.’ She ran lightly down the stairs, skirts drifting about her slim legs, and stood smiling up at him. ‘Papa’s in the office. I’ll take you to him.’
Poppy stuck her hands in her apron pocket and hunched her shoulders.
‘Hey!’ Very gently Kit touched her shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. I’ve got to go.’ She pulled away from him. ‘I’m supposed to be learning the dates of the Hundred Years War.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Kit was sympathetic, but Poppy was gone, scrambling up the stairs in ostentatious and noisy haste. He looked after her. ‘What a funny little thing she is.’
Isobel shrugged. ‘She’s just a baby. Come on, I’ll take you to Papa.’
*
‘Why did you run away like that?’ Kit asked Poppy later. The deal had been struck, the arrangements made. Poppy had materialised beside him out of the shrubbery as he walked down the drive to the gate.
‘Isobel,’ she said briefly. ‘She spoils everything.’
He stopped walking, stood looking down at her.
‘That isn’t fair, Poppy, and you know it.’
Poppy said nothing. The small face was mutinous.
Kit took her hands in his and hunkered on to his heels in front of her. ‘Things do change, Poppy. They have to. Nothing stays the same. Nothing.’ Face and voice were sombre.
‘You were my friend,’ she said.
‘I still am.’ His slow smile lit his face. ‘I always will be. Always.’
‘D’you promise?’ Her dark eyes searched his face.
‘I promise. Do you?’
It was her turn to smile. ‘Yes. Faithfully.’
‘Well, there we are then.’ He stood up and strolled towards the gate. Poppy ran ahead to open it, scooted it open with one foot, clinging to the top bar as it swung. Kit caught it and swung it back. Poppy giggled delightedly. ‘We’ll
get into trouble if anyone sees us.’
‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’ He leaned against the gatepost watching her as she scrambled up the bars like a monkey and sat somewhat precariously astride the top one.
‘Is it true that you’re Sir Robert’s cousin?’
He shook his head. ‘No, Poppy, it isn’t true. My uncle is his cousin, about a dozen times removed. Where that puts me in the Hilden pecking order I have no idea – about on a par with the caretaker, I should think. I’m a penniless artist with a game leg. End of story.’
‘But Isobel said—’
He smiled gently. ‘Isobel is inclined to romance a little, isn’t she?’
‘You mean she tells fibs.’
‘I mean nothing of the sort. I mean exactly what I said.’
‘You like her, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I do. Don’t you?’
The question startled her. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘What’s that got to do with it? I asked if you liked her.’
‘She’s a bit bossy sometimes.’
‘Sisters are, I believe,’ he said, straight-faced.
She laughed, and slid from the gate. ‘I suppose I do like her, really. Yes.’
‘And you’re my friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then do me a favour.’ Kit reached to where a late summer rose rambled through a hawthorn bush and plucked a bloom. ‘Give her this from me and tell her that she was right: the drawing-room – and the French windows – are perfect.’
Poppy took the flower. ‘When are we going to start?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon. I don’t know how much time I have—’ He stopped.
‘—before you have to go back to the war,’ she supplied helpfully.
‘Yes.’ He walked through the gate, pulled it to behind him, and leaned on his elbows on the top bar. ‘You’ll give Isobel the rose?’
‘I’ll give it to her.’ The child turned and ran back up the drive towards the house.
He watched her go With the clear young voice still ringing in his ears: – before you have to go back to the war.
Before you have to go back and face the unfaceable.
He dropped his head for a moment, breathing deeply, fighting his demons; then he straightened, turned, and walked slowly away. From her bedroom window Isobel watched with pensive eyes as the slim figure, shoulders hunched, disappeared into the shadows of the trees that overhung the lane.
*
‘You’ve actually lived in Paris?’ Isobel made no attempt to conceal the envy in her voice.
‘Yes. For about a year, just before the war. I’m sorry – could you just tilt your head a little? To the right, so—’ Kit put a finger under her chin to guide her. The huge eyes were veiled for a moment by the golden lashes before they focused, wide and soft, upon his face.
‘Paris,’ Elizabeth said longingly. ‘Oh, how I loved Paris. We used to visit every year, you know, Mr Enever.’ She was seated on a sofa, her hands idle upon the embroidery on her lap. ‘Poor Paris,’ she added softly. ‘Will she ever be the same?’
Kit dropped his hand from Isobel’s face; but not before she had sensed the tremor in the finger that had touched her skin. The eyelids drooped again, lashes long and lustrous against the pearl of her skin. She was wearing dark blue, a colour that suited her well, and her hair was dressed softly away from her face. She looked quite extraordinarily lovely, and she knew it. Indeed, she had gone to great lengths to be certain of it.
‘I would think so,’ Kit answered Elizabeth, his eyes still on Isobel’s face. ‘She’s been through worse before. Paris is a formidable old lady. She’ll survive.’ He stepped back, reached for his sketch-pad. Isobel kept her eyes upon his.
‘We used to stay in a little hotel near Notre-Dame.’ Elizabeth’s voice was wistful. ‘We always went in the spring. It was always so lovely; the parks, the Bois de Boulogne, the river—’ she sighed softly.
Kit dragged his attention from Isobel’s brightly challenging gaze. ‘It will be again,’ he said gently. ‘Once the war is over.’
‘The war.’ There was an edge of weary bitterness in the words. ‘Will it ever be over?’
‘Of course it will, Mama. Don’t be so silly,’ Isobel said sharply. ‘Did you study in Paris, Mr Enever?’
‘Yes.’ Kit had begun, swiftly, to sketch, his eyes flickering from Isobel’s face to the paper. ‘In Paris and in Florence.’
‘I should like to go to Florence.’ Isobel sat, straight-backed and graceful, watching him. ‘Tell me – which did you prefer?’
He answered with no thought. ‘Florence.’
‘Why?’
He smiled a little. ‘Because, lovely as Paris is, it has one great disadvantage—’
‘Oh?’
The smile widened. ‘It’s in France. For me, there’s nowhere to touch Italy. Especially Tuscany.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Isobel – poor Mr Enever is trying to work—’
‘It’s perfectly all right, Mrs Brookes.’ Once more Kit reached to Isobel’s chin. ‘I’ll tell you about Tuscany if you promise to keep your head still,’ he said with mock severity.
She smiled, well satisfied.
*
The sittings continued for the best part of a week, sometimes with one or other of the girls, sometimes both, and always with Elizabeth in attendance as chaperone. And as she sat placidly embroidering, and Poppy, almost unnoticed, quietly sulked, Isobel and Kit talked of Tuscany. November was approaching; the weather had turned dull and damp. For days the sun had not broken through the heavy cloud and mists hovered over the river. The drawing-room fire was lit against the chill. But for Isobel the sunny, romantic landscapes that Kit evoked so vividly as he talked became more real than the fine, drenching rain that drifted so depressingly against the tall French windows; as familiar, almost, as the Kent countryside she knew so well. He delighted her by sketching a couple of little pictures for her; a vista of sunlit hillsides punctuated by the slim dark fingers of cypress trees, a tree-shaded village church with a tower he called a campanile and a picturesque jumble of steep tiled roofs.
By the time the easel had been set up and the picture had been blocked in – Isobel sitting upon a velvet-upholstered dining-room chair, Poppy standing beside her – an atmosphere of playful ease had grown between them, teasingly familiar, perilously flirtatious despite Elizabeth’s almost constant presence. In fact, for Isobel, the presence of her mother at the sittings if anything actually added to the delicious piquancy of the situation. She knew perfectly well the effect her studied grace and artless, wide-eyed gaze had upon Kit, and employed both quite shamelessly and with growing and coquettish confidence. It was, for the moment, enough that she woke each day knowing that she would see him, that at last her dreams and romances had acquired a focus and her life the longed-for stimulus of excitement. From the moment she had seen Kit he had interested and intrigued her. His enigmatic gold-flecked eyes and the slender vulnerability of his frame fascinated her. Even his limp she found attractive. She watched his capable artist’s hands as he worked and was enchanted by the tingling of her blood and the quickening of her heartbeat. In their conversations about Italy she came to a certainty that she knew him, that she was sharing with him a precious part of his life.
‘Why do you love it so?’
He hesitated. ‘I suppose – quite simply because it’s so beautiful. So – inspiring – is the only word. The countryside is utterly lovely, the cities and towns are bursting with life and activity. There are so many pictures that come to mind. A cluster of roofs on a hillside. A shimmering heat haze over dusty fields. A magnificent cathedral. A market square. A village sleeping in the midday sunshine. A peasant hoeing his vines. A quick, bare-legged child. At the turn of a corner, a sculpture or a building that takes the breath away. Italy has a legacy of art and civilisation that is unique in the world. And that’s not to mention the wine, the food, the people—’ He stopped, shruggi
ng, half smiling at his own enthusiasm.
‘Is that all?’ Poppy asked, fidgeting grumpily.
He threw back his head and shouted with laughter.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy. Are we boring you?’
‘Yes,’ she said with perfect honesty.
And ‘Poppy!’ her mother exclaimed, scandalised.
‘Sorry, Mama.’
In the second week there were fewer sittings. The sketches made, the double portrait taking charming life upon the canvas, the routine changed. Dangerously. Kit would work alone in the drawing-room. Elizabeth retired, thankfully, to her Orangery; which, as Isobel had been well aware when she had suggested the drawing-room as a setting for the portrait, was at the other end of the house. Poppy each morning was confined to the schoolroom.
‘May I come in?’ Isobel tapped lightly at the open door.
‘Of course.’ Kit, absorbed, did not look up. ‘I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No.’
She slipped quietly into the room and stood behind him. ‘How funny,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Poppy and I. We’re so different, yet – there is a clear resemblance, isn’t there?’
‘You’re sisters. It isn’t surprising.’
‘I suppose not. It just isn’t usually that obvious.’ She stepped a little closer, in a fresh drift of soap and rose-water. ‘Has Papa seen it yet?’
Kit grinned wryly. ‘There was an inspection yesterday.’
‘And does he like it?’
‘It seems so. Do you?’