Removing a dead leaf from a burgeoning plant, he thought grimly, No of course not. Keep all that to himself, where it already lodged; in a mind that daily recognized the obsession to find new plants but was reluctant to strike out on a further expedition.
Edward did not share his passion. If Nicholas went again, his stepfather would insist – having told him so many times – that he must search for the few plants particularly named and wanted; for the primulas that were making up the long-awaited monograph. He must certainly not waste time and money wandering about just ‘looking and getting into trouble’, as Edward put it darkly.
Nicholas straightened his long back and stared at the window in front of him, his mind unexpectedly sparking an image of pleasure other than his beloved flowers. Thoughts of Mrs Jacks had brought Hester Redding into his mind and he smiled, remembering her pouring tea from a brown pot and listening as he told her about the small, hungry urchin eating pound cake. They had, he thought now, been at one for those few moments. What was it about her that had stayed in his mind? He had no time for women in his busy, passionate life, but she had put herself there.
Quickly, frowning, he banished her and returned to his work. But her tall, attractive figure, mobile face and rich brown hair refused to disappear completely. He saw her behind each plant he touched, walking around every corner he approached, heard her pleasant voice behind Edward’s breathy, impatient instructions. And the knowledge that he would surely see her at Mrs Jacks’ garden day stayed with him, striking when he had time to remember, even waiting for him at the day’s end. In the evenings, in the shabby home he shared with his stepfather, he allowed that indulgence of remembered pleasure to overtake the day’s weariness. Beyond the stress of planning ahead, dealing with difficult customers, dreaming of new discoveries waiting somewhere in the world, complex financial arrangements and the problems of working with elderly, dogmatic Edward, he saw her floating image and was amazed at the way it stayed just there, on the edge of his vision.
Women, thought Nicholas, picking up a new catalogue from a competitive nursery up country, had no place in his life; he had no time for them. He couldn’t be tied down. There was no room in his mind to consider a future that included marriage and all the subsequent obstacles. How could he travel if he married? No, better to remain single and just enjoy any unplanned pleasures that might come his way.
He looked at the catalogue. Time soon to update Hayward’s catalogue. After the garden day he would tackle the task properly. He needed to concentrate; to work out details, prices, offers. One must never stop building on a business. Other nurseries were sending collectors abroad all the time these day and so pleasure must give way to the sterner stuff.
He went to his bedroom with a head full of memories. In sleep, dreams came and went: towering Italian peaks glinting down on the rocks and ravines below tiny jewel-like brilliant flowers pushing through the snow. But in the background the dark shadow of Jonathon West’s accident turned his dream into a nightmare.
Waking, one thought came. Soon – soon – he must go out there again.
Hester delighted in painting under Mr Flynn’s tutelage. This was the third week she had managed to escape parental control with Aunt Jacks’ help. But the hour allotted to the study was all too short and it was hard, arriving back at Oak House, to contain her excitement and satisfaction. She guessed that Arthur Redding put down her mounting joie de vivre to the botany class which, of course, had been the purpose of the visit into town. At least he didn’t upbraid her.
In fact, he seemed more agreeable than usual. ‘And are you learning well? Tell me what you learned today, Hester.’
She saw a gleam of interest in his dark eyes and responded quickly. ‘The Latin names of the wild flowers that I find in the lanes, Father. For, in the botanical world, every plant must have a name that is known in every country, despite differences in languages. And we learned the various shapes of flowers, their processes of propagation and seeding and... .’
But the interest faded, and thank goodness for the luncheon gong and Stepmother demanding assistance to walk into the dining room. Hester listened to small complaints, suggested remedies, and then, with the changing courses, became increasingly aware of Ruby’s growing familiarity.
‘Cook’s made a nice veal dish today, Madam. Looks tender and lovely. Shall I give you some more gravy?’
And Stepmother smiling and nodding, and glancing at Father as if to say, ‘What a good girl Ruby is.’ And nothing had been mentioned about turning Ruby into Gertie, thought Hester, drily. Somehow the girl had established herself – and her fancy name.
She ate her luncheon in aware silence, recognizing that new forces were at work in the house. Ruby brought in the coffee, poured out for each member of the family, and then produced the box of Bentinck mints from the sideboard without any order.
‘Your favourite, Master... .’ Her smile was almost flirtatious, thought Hester, suddenly tight-lipped. Why were the parents allowing this unseemly and unwanted friendliness?
Leaving the dining room, she mentioned it to Stepmother, but Emma frowned and said sharply, ‘Don’t be so critical, Hester, the girl is working very well, and I don’t want to upset her. We’re lucky to have such a good maid.’
Hester retreated to her room for the quiet hour after luncheon, when Father napped in his chair and Stepmother rested before dressing up and then visiting friends. Hester told herself crossly that Ruby didn’t matter at all, because one day quite soon she would be leaving Oak House and leaving everything behind her.
In the studio, intent on her painting, a new serenity fell upon her, and she suddenly knew that the house meant nothing to her these days. Just a shelter, somewhere to while away the tedious hours when she couldn’t paint and was unable to go into the outside world where things happened, where people talked and argued and very often complained, but also made plans. Plans to live more interesting lives.
Now, putting the last touches to the picture of the dandelions, she thought how sad it was not to love her home any longer. For a second, memories of childhood swamped her, until she forcefully pushed them away. She must fight for her career, and old sentimental memories were not part of that fight.
Instead she thought about Mr Flynn’s words this morning as she left his studio. His rough voice had softened into something approaching approval.
‘You’re improving, Miss Redding. Time for you to tackle something more professional. A poster? An entry for a competition? Your flowers are coming along well, you should do something with them. I’ll make a few enquiries.’
Now warmth spread through her and she felt a new optimism filling her. Until, as Mr Flynn suggested, something more positive came along, she was happy to work at her flora. Its pages were mounting up, as was her botanical knowledge, and Aunt Jacks’ recent comments had been complimentary.
‘Such confident colours, my dear. You’re doing well. Bring it along next week to my garden day – I’m sure people will be interested.’
Aunt Jacks had invited several local gardeners, as well as Miss Emily Watson from London, who had last year returned from a painting tour of the Dolomite Mountains in northern Italy and had agreed to talk about her work. Hester read the names of the other speakers and suddenly stopped. Nicholas Thorne was going to speak about his trip to the Dolomites last year. Of course, he had said he had been there with Miss Watson.
She looked up, staring at the summer border stretching the length of the garden; they had weeded it between them and now it looked abundantly beautiful and full of colour. Scabious, lupins, big white daisies with butterflies hovering over them. She smiled to herself, it would be good to see him again. The smile became a silent chuckle: Aunt Jacks must be reminded to order a pound cake from the farm.
The garden day dawned hazy, veiling a pale half-hidden sky that promised to surprise everyone with later heat and brilliance. Up early, Hester wondered what to wear for the occasion, quickly deciding on a dark green linen skirt, a
high-necked white blouse and the new straw hat bought last week in town. Fashionable with its crisp boater shape and elegant ribbon decoration, she knew it suited her because Ruby had commented on it as she left the house on Monday moning.
‘Nice new hat, Miss Hester. Looks lovely, it does.’
Hester had frowned and left without replying. She had no time for Ruby and her increasing familiarity.
Now, entering Brook Cottage, she was glad to leave Oak House behind; this was going to be a busy day with many people to talk to. And there would be plenty to do. Indeed, the cottage was a hive of industry. Both girls from the farm were at the kitchen table, with jars of homemade jam and great pans of clotted cream beside them.
Arthur Redding had loaned Hoskins to Aunt Jacks for a couple of hours to mow the lawn and do the last bits of tidying up before the visitors arrived. Now he had returned to Oak House to drive Father and Stepmother down the lane to the cottage.
Hester pulled up her sleeves, took orders from Sally and Mary in the kitchen and began cutting egg and cress sandwiches, while Aunt Jacks flitted from cottage to garden and back to the kitchen, supervising everybody, all the while keeping an eye open for the first arrivals, driving in from Newton Abbot in carriages and pony traps.
It was about noon when the small white gate began clicking open, allowing people to enter and walk down the path. Soon voices filled the quietness of the garden. ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Hayward. And your son – good morning, Nicholas – and, oh yes, good morning, Miss Watson – I hope you had a pleasant journey down from London?’ Aunt Jacks was welcoming and bright.
More voices, more visitors wandering down the path, inspecting the border, sitting in the summerhouse and being offered fresh lemonade and biscuits. Even Father and Stepmother smiling and nodding to their acquaintances.
Hester kept busy inside the kitchen until she was called outside. ‘Hester – come and meet Miss Watson. And bring your flora to show her.’
Emily Watson was a plump, mature lady with greying hair and strong features. She greeted Hester with sharp, deep-set eyes. ‘So you enjoy painting flowers – and this is your work?’ The pages were turned and Hester held her breath, suddenly very conscious of her amateur talent. What if this professional artist thought nothing of her pictures?
‘You are studying with Joseph Flynn? I understand he has the gift of enthusing his students and bringing out the best in them. Well, these paintings of yours are good. Excellent shapes, true colours and a fresh vitality bringing them alive on the paper. Well done.’ The small face eased into a smile as Miss Watson returned the flora and put a firm hand on Hester’s shoulder. ‘You have a gift. Use it well.’ And then she turned away, suddenly spying a face she knew among the small crowd of people.
Hester stood quite still, the flora clasped to her breast, her face alight with surprise and excitement. A feeling of elation and resolution spread through her. Use it well. Miss Watson could not have said anything better or more encouraging. At last she knew that her life was leading her in the right direction. Whatever happened at home, whatever Father thought of her becoming an artist, she knew she must move on. She must grasp the gift she had been given and use it to the best of her ability.
When a man’s voice cut into her thoughts she took a moment to return to reality. Turning, she saw a strong, tanned face, a shock of dark hair with matching brows, and brilliant eyes looking into hers.
Her breath paused briefly, and then, with a thrill of quick pleasure at seeing him again, she smiled back joyfully. ‘Mr Thorne! How good to see you.’
He raised his hands and pressed something hard and heavy into hers. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Miss Redding. I’ve brought you a plant. I’m sure it will enjoy growing for you.’
She looked at the flowerpot. It held a gentian, its bud just starting to open, cushioned in green leaves. Smiling, wondering, she looked back at him and saw that the blue flower was the same colour as his eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
Hester had no words. She looked down at the small plant, then up at Nicholas. For a moment neither of them spoke. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you don’t like gentians? I could have brought something else. Would harebells have been more acceptable?’
She shook her head and smiled, feeling foolish. ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry, Mr Thorne – I was so surprised. I never expected... .’
‘No. But I wanted to give you something different from the wild flowers you said you were painting. And gentians are so beautiful.’ He paused, then added, ‘They’re my favourite of all the mountain flowers.’
Her manners had returned, and she said politely, ‘I’m delighted with it. Thank you.’ She stroked a leaf and the word mountain resonated through her mind. ‘Should it go in a greenhouse? Is it very tender?’
His smile broadened. ‘I don’t think it’s fussy, after living on a mountainside, Miss Redding. Put it where you can see it and don’t let the rain spoil it. It’s part of the stock collected in China a few years ago, but I saw them in the Dolomites last spring.’
She kept looking at it, her thoughts suddenly flying. This small, spectacular blue flower, growing on a mountain among snow and ice – now to be cherished here, in her garden. And he had seen them when he was there. Frustration struck her. How free men were. The old yearning swept through her. She looked at him curiously. ‘Don’t you long to go back there, Mr Thorne?’
She thought he looked surprised, even taken aback. He frowned. ‘Yes, I do. Very badly.’
‘And will you go?’ She was asking far too personal a question, but the expression on his face intrigued her. She saw the brilliance of his eyes dim slightly and wondered why.
‘Perhaps.’ But his voice had flattened and he was turning his head, looking at the groups of people now walking through the garden towards the barn on the far side of the orchard. Taking the plant from her, he said briskly, ‘I’ll put this indoors for now, Miss Redding. And I think we should take our places to hear Miss Watson. I’ll find you a seat in the barn – wait a moment, will you?’
Alone, Hester tried to sort out her muddled thoughts but the chatter of Aunt Jacks’ visitors was distracting, and she was glad when he returned, offering her his undamaged arm.
‘Are you still in pain?’ she asked. ‘It must be hard to work if you are.’
He gave her a brief sidelong smile as they went through the orchard, walking under the trees towards the barn. ‘It’s not the pain so much as the frustration of only having one workable hand.’
‘How did it happen? Why were your porters being so difficult?’ Another personal question, but she felt something needed closer investigation. He had been to the mountains, found gentians and many other beautiful plants. He held a source of information that she was unwilling to let go.
Nicholas paused beneath a full-flowering apple tree and looked up into the pink-studded branches. ‘Plant-collecting expeditions aren’t as pleasant as you might imagine, Miss Redding. I expect Emily Watson will have some charming tales to tell, but there is always another side.’
‘Yes?’
His smile flashed down at her. ‘Do you really want to know about all the dangers that abound in such a wild and lonely country?’
‘Yes.’ Hester searched for words that would explain her surprisingly urgent need to hear the worst of his tales. ‘I-I just can’t help wondering how ladies manage to cope with these dangers. After all, mountains are – well – surely not the best places to go to, alone and at the mercy of whatever happens next.’
Nicholas nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘What do you know of mountains, Miss Redding?’ His voice was quiet, and she sensed he wanted to change the subject, but the fact only teased her, increasing her need to know more.
She thought for a minute. Then, as the images came, said, ‘They’re high and craggy, a sort of dark grey rock, I expect, and covered with snow on the highest peaks.’
A slowly spreading smile softened his narrow face, accentuating the brilliance
of his eyes. ‘You’re right, grey when it rains or when fog or mist half hides them.’ He paused and she knew she hadn’t seen this expression on his face before. ‘But when the sun shines, they’re blue. A blue that you’ll never forget.’ His voice deepened. ‘A blue that draws you on and on, wondering what you’ll find when those dangerous peaks finally reach the blue sky beyond.’
She drew in a deep, wondrous breath, imagining all that he saw; and now she understood something new about him. Nicholas Thorne was passionate about mountains and the plants they nurtured. Today he was showing hidden parts of his personality that she had no inkling about. Indeed, now she knew that he was a passionate man with a damaged shoulder and some obscure reason that was hindering him from returning to those blue peaks. To the blue that she knew so well was calling him to return.
By now they had reached the barn, and Nicholas said, ‘I’ve got you a seat in the front row. You won’t want to miss any of Miss Watson’s stories, I’m sure.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes, and Hester understood that the moment of shared thoughts was over. Dismayed acceptance swept through her. Those few seconds of words and pictures had meant so much – but why? She could find no answer.
The barn had been tidied and prettified with swathes of greenery decorating the black timber beams overhead. A scent of hay and of the old building itself filled the air, and Hester’s thoughts settled down as she took her seat.
She glanced at Nicholas beside her. He seemed relaxed, eyes on Aunt Jacks and her companion standing by the table at the far end of the barn. Perhaps he felt her gaze on him; quickly he returned her instantly hidden glance and smiled. She thought he was at ease now, no longer the inspired, even haunted man who had shared his secrets with her just a few moments ago.
Her own thoughts circled. He was good-looking and personable, exciting in some strange way, a plantsman who had offered her a gift, which was kind of him. But how ridiculous of her to think it all meant anything more. So she lifted her head an inch higher and concentrated on the two women facing the suddenly attentive audience.
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