“I know.” Jonny makes an effort to finish his soup. “How will Vera fit in?”
“I’ll ask her to cook. Soups, sandwiches, cakes, scones, shortbread. She’ll love it. And I’ll pay her a proper wage, not just a meagre allowance.”
“What will you do in this enterprise?”
“Everything but cook. Plan menus, manage money, serve customers. I’d like the tea-room to double as an art gallery. Daddy’s paintings sold so fast, I’m sure good work by other artists could do the same. Although that will take second place to the tea-room until it’s up and running.”
“Think very carefully.” Jonny pushes his soup aside. “You’ll need a downstairs cloakroom, comfortable chairs and good quality tables and sturdy crockery.” He looks at Eleanor. “Is your kitchen large enough? You’ll need extra staff to do the washing-up.”
“I think we’ll manage until we know how busy we’ll be. If we want to expand, we could extend the kitchen into the garden. The cellar is dark and poky and I don’t want Vera climbing stairs all day long. But there’s always Daddy’s studio. We could use it for storing fruit and vegetables.”
Jonny gives her an approving smile. “You sound pretty determined!”
“Excited, too. It’ll be a challenge.”
“I suppose I’ll never see you again?”
She laughs. “You’re welcome to come for luncheon five days a week.”
“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. “You need Anne’s permission. Don’t count your chickens quite yet.”
After supper they stand on The Trout’s terrace drinking brandy, looking out at the rush of flowing river. Eleanor shivers at the sound of the weir, remembering St Ives, thinking about Felix, longing for the sight, the sound, the touch of him. She imagines him standing beside her, scooping her into his arms.
Jonny moves closer. “Would you like my jacket? Your shawl’s like a moth’s wing.”
“Thank you, I’m fine… The weir reminds me of Cornwall. I miss the sea.”
“I missed you while you were away.” Jonny stares straight ahead. “It wasn’t just Mum dying. I love having you around, seeing you in the shop.” He clears his throat. “What you’ve told me about the tea-room… It’ll change everything, won’t it?”
“I hope so.” Eleanor laughs. “Sorry, that sounds so ungrateful! I don’t mean I want to get away from you—”
“The thing is.” Jonny swings to face her, his eyes dark under the sliver of crescent moon. “I could offer you a solid alternative. If Anne vetoes your plans, if you should change your mind.” He swallows. “Damn it, I’m no good at this kind of thing… Look, I think you’re a terrific girl. We make a marvellous team. It would be a great honour if you’d agree to marry me.”
“What?” Prickles of shock flutter down Eleanor’s spine.
“You must have guessed how I feel.” His voice tightens. “I told Mum I was in love with you before her accident. She gave me her blessing. I hoped you felt the same. You did ask me to St Ives.”
Panic grips Eleanor by the throat. She remembers how she’d scoffed at Kathleen’s warning. “I wasn’t making a pass at you.”
“Forgive me.” He steps away. “I assumed—”
“I only wanted us to share the driving. I didn’t mean anything more.”
“But you’re wearing my necklace. It gave me hope.”
“It wasn’t meant to.” Tears well up in her eyes. “It couldn’t.” She fights the choke in her voice, knowing she owes Jonny a proper explanation. “I’m in love with somebody else.” She feels weak with longing for Felix.
Jonny sucks his breath. “You’ve never mentioned another man.” He frowns. “Was he at the exhibition?”
“No, he couldn’t come. I met him in St Ives. I don’t really want to talk about him… I might never see him again. But it wasn’t just a holiday romance. I can’t forget about him… I’m head-over-heels.”
“You astonish me.” Jonny’s voice comes cold and flat. He moves further away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “And what can he offer you, this elusive, faraway beau you’ve only known for a fortnight? A comfortable home? Financial security and an established business? Total love and complete devotion?”
“Nothing like that.” Eleanor swallows her brandy. She puts down her glass, hugs her arms around her body, wishing Jonny’s words fitted Felix. “He hasn’t offered me anything. We were taken by surprise… I can’t say any more.” She meets Jonny’s eyes. “Thank you for paying me such an enormous compliment. You’re a wonderful friend. But I can’t marry you. I’m sorry, Jonny. Not now, not ever.”
“Suppose I’m too old,” he says gruffly. “I’ll be thirty-nine next month, while you’re still a slip of a girl.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it—”
“What else is there to say?” He fumbles for his keys. “The unhappy end of a not-very-romantic evening… I’ll pay the bill and take you home.”
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Eleanor pleads. “That I’m in love, I mean… Particularly my mother… I really don’t want her to know. It’s such early days—”
“I’d never betray you.” His voice is icy. “What kind of a friend do you think I am?”
“Sorry.” She bites her lip. “Oh, God, now I’ve made things even worse—”
“That,” Jonny says, “would be quite impossible.”
They drive back to Woodstock in uncomfortable silence. Jonny parks his van in the Woodstock square and follows Eleanor to her door. “See you Monday afternoon? I hope what has happened won’t ruin our friendship.”
“Of course it won’t, Jonny.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.” But his eyes are cold. “Oh, and good luck with Anne. Let me know what she thinks about your grand idea.”
He turns away. Eleanor stares after him, filled with remorse. Jonny’s cheerfulness, his bantering tone, his ready laugh, seem to be crushed: first by his mother’s death, now by Eleanor’s rejection. But what else could she have said? Meeting Felix has shown her only too vividly the difference between being fond of someone, enjoying their company – and falling deeply, desperately, in love.
The house is in darkness, Anne and Vera are asleep.
Eleanor turns on a small lamp in the drawing room. She falls into one of the armchairs, staring at Walter’s paintings. Tomorrow she’ll pack them, address them, arrange for their delivery. She’ll give Jonny’s landscape to him on Monday. And tomorrow she’ll talk to Anne about her new idea…
Eleanor waits until her mother has returned from church. She brings her a cup of coffee in the drawing room and then explains her plan, calmly, quietly, spelling out the details. Anne sits in stony silence, white-faced.
“So.” Eleanor takes a deep breath, fearing the worst. “What do you think?”
“I’ve never heard such preposterous nonsense in my life.” Anne’s trembling hand shakes her cup onto its saucer. “You may have money, now you’ve sold the cottage, but this is my house. I forbid you to mess about with it. A two-day exhibition’s one thing. A permanent tea-room’s completely out of the question. If you think I’m going into trade, you’ve got another think coming.”
“A tea-room is a perfectly sound business venture.” Eleanor’s head aches, her throat feels raw, but she’s determined to hold her ground. “I discussed the details with Jonny last night—”
“You had no right to involve an outsider!”
“Jonny’s one of my best friends.” Eleanor tries to swallow. Now her head’s banging like a drum. “If you must know, he asked me to marry him.”
Anne’s face lights up like a struck match. “Now that’s fantastic news! Why didn’t you tell me the moment you got home?” She grabs Eleanor’s hand. “Congratulations, darling! Jonny’s a superb catch!”
Eleanor wrenches away. “I’m not in love
with Jonny or his bank balance… I turned him down.”
“You did what?”
“I won’t marry a man I don’t love.”
Anne stands up, stamping her foot. “You’re the most infuriating girl I’ve ever met. Here we are, fighting for survival. You dream up some crazy idea about our becoming shopkeepers, working our fingers to the bone, day in, day out, while you’ve had an offer of lifelong security.”
“I want to open a tea-room, to give us financial stability. I’m fond of Jonny, but I don’t want to marry him. It’s perfectly simple. You must respect my decision.”
“You’ll live to regret it, Eleanor. You’re looking the most wonderful gift horse in the mouth.” Anne flounces towards the door. She turns and glares at Eleanor. “If you don’t want our handsome Jonny, perhaps I should marry him myself!”
Compromise
Woodstock, 1936
Over a ghastly Sunday luncheon in the kitchen, filled with icy silences, Eleanor perseveres, refusing to fall at the first hurdle. She describes her plans to Vera, who exclaims with surprise and says she’d be delighted to help.
“Everyone says my shortbread’s the best in Oxfordshire.”
Anne stabs at a lettuce leaf. “I can see straight through your little plan, Eleanor. Or should I call it a crazy whim? It’s pointless getting Vera on your side. I’ve said no.”
“In that case, I’ll buy a tea-room in St Ives.” Eleanor clatters her plate on the draining board. “I adored being by the sea. I’ll sell delicious Cornish teas and make a fortune.” She faces her mother. “What do you think of that crazy whim?”
Anne refuses to look at her. “You’d abandon me, wouldn’t you? Leave me here without a backward glance.”
With a stabbing heart, Eleanor thinks about dancing with Felix every Saturday night. Kissing him goodnight. Taking the cliff path towards Zennor, the sea wind in their hair, walking in step, his hand in hers, his voice, his laughter filling her heart. Having her own tea-room on the harbour, regaining her freedom. Having her own independent Cornish life.
“I’d have lots of second thoughts, but if you push me to the limit, I’ll leave. I tasted freedom in St Ives, and it was very sweet.” She makes for the door. “I’m seeing Robin tomorrow. I’ll find out what he thinks of my plan. He won’t dismiss it as a crazy whim!”
But she stands rooted in the hall, preparing herself for another interview with her bank manager. If he tells her to get married, she’ll stand up and punch him between his piggy little eyes. This new idea of hers: she could make it a success. She’ll throw herself into the venture. She’ll control it, watch it grow and flourish. So what if she’s “going into trade”? It has got to be more exciting than taking another exam. Or even than waiting in longing and silence to hear from the man she loves. At least she’ll be doing something off her own bat…
Eleanor’s just finished dressing next morning: the smart suit, the crisply-ironed blouse, the straight stocking seams, the polished shoes. Her sore throat has vanished. There’s nothing like determination to kill a cold.
Anne taps on Eleanor’s door and pushes it open. Still in her dressing-gown, her hair dishevelled, she stands in the doorway, leaning against it as if she’s too weak to support herself.
“You’re looking very smart.” Her tone is suspiciously conciliatory.
“You can never be too well-turned-out for your bank manager.” Eleanor plays a one-upmanship card. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.” Anne hurries on, “The thing is, Eleanor, I’ve been thinking about your idea… In fact, I was awake all night, mulling it over. Maybe I was a little hasty. I might have overreacted.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I don’t want you to leave Woodstock.” She clears her throat. “You’ve been marvellous since your father died… You’ve handled everything so well… What I said about marrying Jonny was very unfair. Before I met your father I had three proposals of marriage. I turned them down. I understand exactly how you feel.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“These plans of yours… They came as a shock. But I thought perhaps, as a compromise, I could meet you halfway?”
Eleanor picks up her hairbrush, pulling it through her hair with rapid strokes, trying to hide a tremor of excitement. “Half a tea-room? Half a business? Robin will never buy it. I won’t even waste his time suggesting it.”
“I didn’t mean half-baked.” Anne sinks gracefully onto the bed. “I meant half the space. It’s the idea of losing both ground-floor rooms that gave me such a fright. Suppose you started with the dining room? Leave me my drawing room until Christmas. If you make a success of the one room and need to expand, we could renegotiate.” She folds her gown over her bare knees. “How’s that for a plan?”
Eleanor pats her thick, dark, unruly hair into place. “You think I’m going to fail.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Not in so many words.” Eleanor’s voice sparks with bitterness. “But you’re hardly giving me an enthusiastic vote of confidence.”
“I’m asking you to be prudent. The tea-room will be an enormous step. I don’t want you throwing your father’s precious money down the drain.”
Eleanor stares at Anne’s reflection in the mirror. Dishevelled, without makeup and wearing a shabby dressing-gown, she’s still a remarkably attractive woman.
“I’m throwing more than money at this venture,” Eleanor says coldly. “I’m starting a solid career, choosing to stay in Woodstock. I’m putting everything on the line: my energy, my reputation, my life. Drains of any kind are not an option.”
“Excellent. I admire your commitment. So, I agree you may have the hall, the dining room, the kitchen, the garden and the studio. You may install a new cloakroom. You may have Vera – but I’ll need a new housekeeper.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Then you have my blessing, dutiful daughter of mine… Is it a deal?”
Eleanor fixes Anne with a steely glare. “I hate compromise. If I decide to do something, it gets all my attention. But if it’s either half or nothing, for the time being I’ll settle for half.”
She stands up. Facing her, above her bed, Felix’s marvellous painting dances before her eyes. Anne hasn’t noticed it, but it spurs Eleanor on, gives her fresh heart. It reminds her of the urgency of her search for Moira, her need to prove to Felix and her father that she, Eleanor, is the only person who can find her.
Who will find her, come hell or high water…
“And by the way. If Robin approves my plan, before I open the tea-room I’m taking you on holiday. For agreeing to the exhibition. For giving me part of the house.”
Anne’s eyes light up like candles on a Christmas tree. “What a very sweet thought! Where are we going?”
“How does the French Riviera sound?”
Anne gasps with joy. “The south of France? We’ll have sunshine and Mediterranean skies. It’ll be paradise.”
“Let’s hope so… If he can forgive me for rejecting him, Jonny can drive us to Victoria to catch the boat train. We’ll take the ferry to Calais, and that luxurious first-class sleeper The Blue Train down to the Côte d’Azur. We’ll spend a week in Juan-les-Pins at the Provençal Hotel. And Vera can visit her sister in Bournemouth. God knows we all deserve a break.”
“I’ll need new clothes.” Anne glances down at her shabby dressing-gown. “Summer frocks, sun hats, at least two evening dresses.” She throws her arms around Eleanor’s neck, kissing her cheek. “That’s for being the best daughter in the world.”
As Eleanor goes down to breakfast, she sees an envelope addressed to her lying on the mat. She doesn’t recognise the inky-black, slanting, slightly smudged handwriting. But the postmark is St Ives and the envelope smells of turpentine.
In the drawing
room Eleanor closes the door, stands with her back against it. She mouths a silent prayer that the piece of paper doesn’t spell rejection. Please, please, never ever that. She tears at the envelope.
My darling Eleanor
No doubt you think I couldn’t be bothered to come to your exhibition. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was thrilled to get your letter and overjoyed to know that Walter’s marvellous portraits will finally see the public light of day.
I’d been working in the studio, went downstairs to make some coffee and stupidly carried a stepladder up the kitchen stairs. I cricked my back. I’ve had to lie flat on my bed twenty four hours a day for a whole week. It’s been very frustrating.
I promise to see you soon. In among other commissions, and packing up the contents of Driftwood, I’m working on three portraits of you, all of them beautiful.
I remember our night together. Wasn’t it truly full of wonder and wonderful?
I long to take you in my arms again. I promise it will be soon.
All my love
Felix
Eleanor slumps onto the nearest chair, overwhelmed with excitement and relief. Felix loves her. There are the words, in black and white! She reads them over and again. She folds the letter into its envelope and pushes it into her pocket.
She realises if Felix had come to the exhibition, she’d have introduced him to Anne. “This is the man I love.” She’d have shown him Pierre’s letters, told him about meeting the manager of Brown’s, asked him to travel with them to France.
And, ironically, she’d never have dreamed up the tea-room. The weekend has been a turning point. There’s no going back now on her plans. Not after she’s stood up to Anne, offered the Riviera holiday as a reward.
Eleanor walks into the kitchen where trustworthy, reliable Vera’s preparing a bacon-and-egg breakfast. “You’re going to be my tea-room chef. Mummy’s agreed. We can use the dining room to start with. If we make a go of things, we’ll expand after Christmas.”
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