Into the Blue

by Christina Green

No shock? Hester knew he was being untruthful from the moment he came up behind her, putting his arm around her to take her right hand, swinging her arm back over her head. She felt a flush spread through her and pulled away.

  But Hugh was intent on the lesson. ‘See?’ he said. ‘That’s the movement – easy. Try it on your own.’

  His arm dropped away and she knew at once that he was teasing her; it didn’t matter whether she could serve overarm. It simply meant that he was enjoying her nearness – hand touching her body, feeling her pulling away from him.

  She wouldn’t let him see her disturbance. Throwing up a ball, she copied the movement he had shown her and felt a thrill of satisfaction as the racquet connected, sending the ball sailing over the net, to land just within the double lines of the court.

  Turning, she smiled proudly at the girls sitting by the summerhouse. ‘Why don’t you clap? I’m a champion in the making!’ But, returning to the chair and another glass of lemonade, she still felt Hugh’s touch and she knew she was looking forward to their promised trip to Dartmoor.

  Excuses made for not staying for luncheon, they were soon on the road heading for the moor. As they drove up the hilly track over Trendlebere Down towards Manaton, she felt the wind on her face, slipped her shawl down and took off her hat, giving herself to this new, refreshing world.

  Outings to the moor had been childhood treats. If Father had been away on business, Mother and Aunt Jacks had made the day into something wonderful to savour. Hester’s feel of the short stubby turf under her boots had been memorable. And the fact that it was studded with yellow flowers was equally exciting.

  ‘Tormentil.’ Aunt Jacks had picked one small specimen and put it carefully inside the brown paper bag she always carried in her pocket on these outings. ‘Hester, at home you must look up the Latin name and repeat it to me tomorrow.’

  ‘I will, Aunt Jacks. I will.’ And so she had. Potentilla erecta. Now the name flashed through Hester’s mind and she repeated it silently, feeling again the urge to learn, to paint, to create her flora – to live her life far beyond the domestic cage of her home.

  Those outings and Aunt Jacks’ encouragement had been the start of her passion for wild flowers, and Aunt Jacks was still helping her in the development of that passion. She realized how lucky she was to have such loving help. And then she had a fleeting image of Nicholas Thorne, holding out the single flower he had brought her.

  Hugh halted the trap outside the farm at the bottom of the hill leading up to Hay Tor and, suddenly confused at the pleasure that the unexpected image brought, she was glad when his voice cut into her thoughts.

  ‘Hold the reins, Hester – I’ll go and find Daniel and ask him to stable Prince here for a while. I thought you’d like a walk?’

  ‘I’d love it. Shall we go up to the tors?’

  He nodded, disappeared into the house and then came out accompanied by an elderly man with beard and whiskers who took off his hat and bowed politely to Hester. ‘Pony’ll be all right here, Miss Redding. Enjoy your walk – good views today. ’Tis clear and lovely.’

  She smiled and watched the old man leading the pony into a shed beside the house. Hugh said, ‘Daniel was our groom, he’s retired now. Prince will be fine for a while. Come on, Hester. I only hope you’re wearing sensible shoes.’

  She watched, surprised, as he took a covered basket from the trap, and latched it over his arm. ‘Luncheon. Not at an inn, but somewhere up there, in the sun. Yes?’

  ‘Wonderful! What a marvellous thought.’

  They began the uphill walk over the heather-dotted turf leading to the huge tors ahead of them. The shadows faded from Hester’s mind as she paused, looking around her. The boundless landscape made her heart leap. Golden sunshine, and in the distance indigo shadows, grey, fresh green and many blues.

  If only she’d brought her sketchbook. She longed to pin it down on paper. ‘I can see for miles. There’s Teignmouth – and oh, ponies!’ A small herd of brown ponies came trotting across the track; mares with last year’s foals still at heel, all long legs and awkward gangling movements, and the stallion, rough, wild eyed and possessive, rushing his family along.

  ‘Want a ride?’ Hugh was laughing.

  ‘No thanks – and anyway we’re supposed to be walking, not riding. Come on, let’s get to the top.’

  He pulled at her arm, drawing her to a halt. ‘Not while this basket is so full, thank you. Let’s find a comfortable rock and sit down and eat – that one over there.’

  It was large enough to shelter them from the fresh wind that sneaked around the tors, and provided a good picnic place. Hester sat down after inspecting the turf for sheep droppings and adders. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were planning this?’ She looked at him, opening the basket and spreading its contents on a ledge in the rock beside them.

  ‘As a conventionally well-brought-up young lady, I knew you would have looked shocked and said no. Alone, with a handsome male?’ He laughed. ‘Of course I didn’t tell you. That would have spoilt everything.’ He looked into her amused eyes, then held out a sandwich. ‘Salmon and cucumber.’

  Such pleasure in eating in the open air. Hester’s appetite had never been so good. A pair of ravens croaked overhead and the landscape opened wide before her. She thought about his words, and then said, ‘But I’m not really conventional, Hugh.’

  ‘No?’

  She saw his eyes narrow, looking at her intently.

  Gathering her courage, she said slowly, ‘I want to be free. I hate those fussy old conventions. I can’t live my life like that.’

  He frowned. ‘You’re not one of those suffragist women, are you, Hester? Such nuisances, decrying all the virtues of decent womanhood.’

  ‘No, I’m just a girl who wants to live a freer life.’

  She couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up at his mystified expression and then tried to explain. ‘I’m planning to have a career. I’m going to leave home and take my ability to paint flowers into a situation where I can earn my own living.’

  Hugh put down his half-eaten sandwich and sat back against the rock. He stared, thoughtful eyes intent on hers, his face suddenly touched with what she sensed was unexpected deep feeling.

  She held her breath. Was he going to rant like Father? Or had he the freedom of thought that, even in their brief meeting last week, she had sensed Nicholas Thorne possessed? Then, suddenly, the ponies appeared again, on their way to new feeding grounds, and the moment lengthened.

  He put out his hand and took hers. ‘Hester—’ His voice was low, his lips beneath the tawny moustache lifting into the hint of a smile. ‘You never cease to amaze me. Overarm serves, no feminine twitterings about this damned wind, and now you’re off to make a living from painting. I can’t believe it.’

  She smiled triumphantly. ‘But you must. Because it’s what I’m going to do. Somehow.’

  His thumb stroked her hand and curiosity spread over his face. ‘Somehow? That sounds as if difficulties are already appearing. Tell me.’

  She breathed deeply and turned away, looking into the distance, searching for the right words. ‘I accept my responsibilities to my parents.’ She looked back at him and her voice rose. ‘But surely I have some of my own? To live my life as fully as I can? To step out into the world which is so exciting and full of extraordinary opportunities.’ She met his steady gaze. ‘Hugh, don’t blame me for wanting this one thing. After all, it’s so little – not fame, or riches, but just a chance to see what I can do with the talent I’ve been given.’

  He said nothing but kept looking at her and she felt her cheeks colouring, a sense of unease spreading through her. ‘Well,’ she said sharply, ‘tell me what you think.’ Slowly he finished the half-eaten sandwich, offered her another, and she shook her head impatiently. ‘Of course you don’t think I can do it. So come on, tell me.’

  His voice was quiet. ‘We’ve been friends for so long, Hester, and, to be honest, I’ve always hoped we might go deeper.’
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  She caught her breath, but he was leaning towards her, his face suddenly tightened by what she saw was a new seriousness.

  ‘Well, you’ve got your plans, foolish as they sound and I’ve got mine. But I want you to change your mind. You see, now that I’ve got my degree I am going into the family firm – a junior partnership to start with. Believe me’ – his eyes widened, grew brighter – ‘with younger blood the old business will soon develop. This is a potentially prosperous time and the old firm is already well established.’ He laughed. ‘So I see myself as an up-and-coming tycoon! What do you think of that?’

  She hesitated, reaching out to the open basket and taking another sandwich. ‘I didn’t realize you were so ambitious, Hugh. Are you quite sure that this is what you really want to do? And do you truly think that a small law firm will catapult you to the top?’ Biting into the sandwich, she gave him a mocking smile. ‘And what if you’re not tycoon material? You like to have fun in life. Are you serious enough to become a businessman?’

  He leaned towards her, drawing back her hand as she raised it, and said, with a new sober note in his voice, ‘I’m serious enough about one thing, Hester, and that’s you.’

  Her breath caught as, at once, she knew what he meant. Stepmother’s voice echoed with its hopes of courtship and marriage. But Hugh was taking things too fast. She wasn’t ready for him to declare that he loved her. She must play for time. ‘Hugh, what ever do you mean?’

  His lips lifted into a wide smile. ‘Just what I said. I want to have you at my side when I’m a successful businessman because you’ll be a good hostess. You’ll charm my dinner guests. You’ll make my big, expensive house – when I buy it – the attraction of the county and keep it well run. And you’ll be there when I come home, tired or worried about a difficult case. You’ll calm me, comfort me.’ He lifted his hand, ran a finger down her cheek. ‘Keep me going through my hectic and ambitious life.’

  They stared at each other and Hester felt herself suddenly chilled. Stumbling for words, her thoughts in chaos, she said slowly, ‘I don’t know what to say, Hugh. You’ve, well, shocked me. Your business, the big house, marriage?’ Her voice was low. ‘But not a word about being fond of me.’

  He shrugged, sat back against the rock and looked at her with an expression that she found hard to understand. Gone was the lightheartedness and the humour. This was a new Hugh. She listened to his crisp words and realized abruptly that he was a man in search of his future and planning to ensure that it would be a successful one.

  ‘Of course I’m fond of you, Hester. We’ve been friends for all our lives. But a marriage is principally about property and status. You must know that?’

  Bleakly, she nodded. Yes, she did. What had Stepmother told her? And she understood Hugh’s plan, but it seemed an empty, cold sort of plan to make. Shouldn’t love be there somewhere?

  As if he read her thoughts, Hugh said, almost casually, ‘Well, if you’re waiting for those three little words, of course I can say them.’

  ‘And mean them?’ She met his gaze, felt her face stiffen and tried to tell herself to keep control of the emotions suddenly thrusting through her.

  ‘Love?’ His voice was light, his smile more amused than emotional. ‘But that comes later, you silly girl. Once we’ve learned to live together and make a good partnership, then perhaps we’ll love each other. Love can wait – everybody knows that.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  The smile vanished. ‘Hester, for heaven’s sake, I don’t have to make it any plainer, do I? I’m suggesting you should be my wife.’

  She shook her head, feeling an enormous weight pulling her down. This lovely, friendly time together here on the moor was turning into a turmoil of uncomfortable emotions. What could she say to him? That she was very fond of him, but would prefer to marry someone whom she truly loved? How he would laugh! And supposing, just supposing – the extraordinary thought flew into her confusion, hardly believable but strong enough to widen her eyes – that she did marry him, where would the time be for her painting?

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could say. And then again, watching his face tighten, his eyes narrow. ‘I’m sorry.’

  They sat in silence, bodies carefully not touching, Hester’s thoughts whirling and coming to no useful conclusions. She looked again at the colours of the stretching landscape and felt herself slowly easing back into normality.

  Such colours. My painting.

  The vital question: if she married him, would she have time to paint? Would she have that freedom she craved? He doesn’t love me. Would he ever understand my needs?

  Suddenly she remembered Oak House and Stepmother awaiting her return. Breathing in a draught of cold moorland air, she scrambled to her feet, glanced at her watch and said as casually as she could manage, ‘Goodness, it’s really late. I must go home, Hugh – my stepmother is expecting me to accompany her on afternoon calls.’

  He rose, repacked the basket, and then, suddenly turning to her, pulled her roughly towards him. ‘Hester... .’ His eyes were dark, his voice rough. ‘Think about my proposal. It could be an excellent partnership. Don’t turn me down at once. After all, you and I both know that your dream of painting and so forth is just that – a dream.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Wake up, Hester. You know how fond I am of you – think of all the fun we can have together. Like this... .’

  She was drawn into his arms, her face so close to his that she felt his warm breath on her cheek. Something softened through her body; she looked at the half-open lips, recognized his intent, and, even as she longed to give in, knew she must not. His touch this morning had been exciting and she knew his kisses would be sweet, but she pulled away.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean – not yet, if ever.’ She walked rapidly down the hill.

  ‘Hester!’ He was following, calling after her, but she took no notice. Eyes on the turf at her feet, she stopped abruptly as a small blue flower drew her attention. Stooping, she picked it, examined it, put it carefully into her skirt pocket, wishing she had one of Aunt Jacks’ brown paper bags, and continued walking back to the cottage and the pony trap. Hugh’s unlikely proposal was now only half filling her mind, for here was another flower which she would paint tomorrow morning when she had time to return to her flora.

  She looked again at the moorland stretching around, complete and impersonal in its beauty, took in the colours and the age-old, primitive freedom, then heard Hugh following her down to the road, and realized the decision had made itself.

  ‘Devil’s-bit scabious,’ she whispered to herself, and then smiled, remembering all that Aunt Jacks had taught her. Flowers dark blue purple, rounded heads, in damp grassy places. Succisa pratensis.

  Already she could see the blue shades mixing on her palette.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Hayward Nursery was always busy. A narrow plot of land stretching beside the main road from Newton Abbot, which Edward, son of the founder, had inherited, it was a plantsman’s business of excellent reputation and increasing growth.

  Glasshouses gleamed in the sunshine, the shelves of terracotta pots home to innumerable small plants now in the full beauty of vivid flowering, with outside beds of greenery filling the remainder of the plot. Bothy, office, tool and packing sheds were discreetly hidden behind a tall macrocarpa hedge, the nursery itself presenting a weedless, unblemished front to the passers-by and to the wealthy customers who drove their carriages into the waste field beside the nursery. From sun up to sun down, Hayward’s was busy, with orders being prepared for delivery, and the everyday work never stopping. The garden boys kept up their ceaseless duties, Edward inspected his plants, talked to customers and in his spare moments thought about the monograph he was writing on primulas, while Nicholas and his apprentice dealt with any problems, and so the whole nursery seemed like a beehive, with every worker carrying out his prescribed duty.

  On this May morning, Nicholas Thorne, son of Edward’s wife Maude, bu
t not of Edward, walked through the glasshouses in the wake of his adoptive father. Such inspections never varied. Edward, in grey flannel suit and matching soft hat, led the way, talking over his shoulder to Nicholas. He listened, remembering his early days here, when, a boy of ten, Edward had told him his duties. ‘Polish the door handles of the glasshouses till they shine. Customers must never see dirty handles. Get on, lad, use some elbow grease.’

  And then later had come a hope of something more exciting. ‘Fill those buckets and bring them here.’ Carrying the water from the butts beneath the staging, Nicholas wondered if he would be allowed to actually pour the precious stuff onto the plants. Hopes were dashed. Edward’s fading sandy brows frowned at him. ‘Pour it into the watering can, up to the top – go on, lift that bucket, what’s the matter with you, boy?’

  Now Nicholas followed Edward up and down the rows, reaching out to turn a leaf there – pests? Surely not here at Hayward’s – and twitching aside a stem to reveal new shoots, giving it more air, ensuring its growth; willing it to multiply. His lean, suntanned face creased as he watched, before turning back to his own work. His adoptive father would never stop this daily inspection, as necessary to him as the breath that powered his ageing, slight frame. Would Edward ever retire? wondered Nicholas, and knew the answer before it came. Never.

  Back in the first greenhouse he began his own work, but for once his mind was not concentrated on the small vivid flowers colouring the shelves running down the narrow building. He thought of Jacquetta Hirst and her forthcoming garden day. He was to give a lecture there. Should he write up his notes in advance? Or would it be better to speak freely and without plan, simply talking about last year’s trip to the Dolomite Mountains? Of course, he would take specimens to show them, some of the new plants he’d brought back with him – primulas, hellebores, miniature iris, and a few splendid gentians – but should he also tell them of the dangers – indeed, the horrors – of the expedition? Would enthusiastic amateur gardeners want to know that the plants they so admired and bought with such alacrity these days were collected at the expense of broken limbs and even, on occasion, accidental deaths?