Into the Blue

by Christina Green

  Aunt Jacks’ smile was broad. ‘Let me introduce my friend, Emily Watson, one of the brave ladies who travels to foreign lands and paints the amazing new plants she sees there. She has some entertaining tales to tell you.’

  The two women could not have been more different, Hester thought. Aunt Jacks was a small, insignificant figure in her old-fashioned dark dress and misshapen gardening hat, while Emily Watson, the picture of elegance in cream embroidered linen and a hat that was surely straight from a Paris boutique, took centre stage and looked around her audience with a self-possessed and experienced smile.

  ‘Sitting on a wooden saddle – side-saddle, of course – with one’s skirt bunched up on an obstinate mule all day in very hot weather is hardly a pleasant way to travel,’ she began, ‘but I have done it and will do so again before long. I will show you some paintings of the beautiful valleys that we rode through, and the mountains that we saw, on my last journey.’

  Her voice was magnetic and Hester knew the audience was caught. Large oil paintings, unpacked from a portfolio, brought gasps of pleasure as exotic plants of vivid and sometimes startling forms and colours were shown.

  ‘And there were other plants, too.’ Emily displayed a smaller painting of tiny jewel-coloured flowers and Hester felt Nicholas lean forward beside her.

  ‘Harebells, so delicate, iris with wonderful gold-trimmed petals, and of course the famous gentians, blue and eye-catching. And so many of them that it was like looking at a blue sea rising out of the snow still lying on the peaks.’

  Hester closed her eyes; yes, she saw them. The towering mountains, shadowy valleys, great grey rocks and beneath them these jewel-like flowers. Opening her eyes, she looked at Nicholas.

  Her voice was a whisper. ‘Gentians.’ He nodded, and again that brief flash of a smile warmed her.

  Emily Watson continued. ‘There are many other distracting beauties in the mountains, especially butterflies, but as a painter I kept my eyes on the amazing plants that appeared with each new step my mule took.’

  She talked entertainingly, with tales of rogue landlords in seedy, often uncomfortable hostelries on the way through the villages; of the misty crags and rushing rivers of north Italy. But there were stories, too, of friendly women who had cooked enormous meals and made her party most welcome.

  By now Hester had built a picture of such an adventure. Not all danger, then, so why had Nicholas suggested the opposite? She imagined that his experience had been different, but how different? What had happened? And why had he not told her about the accident which had damaged his shoulder? Glancing at him, she saw his expression was taut, and felt a chill, making her edge further back on her chair.

  ‘Rain, of course,’ Emily went on, ‘was a constant delayer. Not just showers, but storms, whipping up the rivers, making the cliffs and ravines dangerous to draw close to. And I mustn’t forget the fauna – insects and reptiles.’ She raised an eyebrow and the audience gasped again. ‘One had to be careful where one trod.’

  She spoke for nearly half an hour and ended with a modest suggestion that she was only one of a number of women who continued to explore, and to paint. ‘We live in liberated times and we have a wonderful world to discover. I hope I have helped you to understand, and enjoy, that great gift.’

  Applause rolled around the barn. Emily smiled and Hester wondered if it was her imagination, or did those deep-set eyes look particularly at her? Was she being encouraged to share this new freedom, this splendid gift of appreciation of all that surrounded them?

  She kept silent as Nicholas rose and ushered her out of the barn into the orchard, and back to the garden, where a buffet luncheon had been laid out in the summerhouse and on tables beneath the shrubs and trees. As they walked, he looked at her and asked, ‘Did you enjoy hearing all that?’

  ‘I did. Yes, I did.’ She nodded and smiled, glad that his taut expression had gone, his mouth now twitching at one corner, as he said, almost mischievously, ‘and is your curiosity satisfied, Miss Redding? Now that you know about rushing waters, collapsing cliffs and snakes lurking behind every plant that you bend to admire?’

  She laughed, suddenly feeling elation and hope spread through her. Of course, Emily Watson’s work was very different from her own delicate watercolours, but now she knew for certain that she must find her place in that world of artists and free exploration. Her talent was small, but she would improve; she would indeed use it well, as Emily had ordered. Reaching the summerhouse, Hester looked at Nicholas and said, with warm spontaneity, ‘I’m even more grateful now for your lovely gentian than I was when you gave it to me, Mr Thorne.’

  ‘Nicholas.’ The vibrant depth of his voice surprised her.

  She stared. ‘I don’t think—’

  He stepped away, expression at once stiff and full of regret. ‘No, of course not. Forgive me, Miss Redding.’ A pause, and then he frowned, brows shadowing his suddenly steely-blue eyes. ‘It’s just that we seemed to think alike for a moment or two ... and I enjoyed it.’ His gaze was deep, and she wondered if he could see into her mind.

  She nodded, ashamed of her unthinking response, and impulsively laid a hand on his damaged arm, wondering what she was doing but knowing it was right, even if unconventional. ‘I felt that, too ... Nicholas.’

  They looked at each other, hesitant and uncertain, and then Aunt Jacks was beside them, leading Hester away. ‘Nicholas, you must go and get your plants ready for the talk you are to give us after luncheon – and Hester, Emily Watson wants to see you.’

  Emily Watson sat in the shade of the arbour where the scented white rose sprawled in lazy drifts. She smiled. ‘Come and sit down, Hester. I’ve had time now to look at your flora more carefully, and I feel I must do all I can to help you get on. You paint well.’ She looked at Hester with a wry, enquiring expression. ‘But how determined are you to succeed?’

  Firmly, Hester said, ‘I’ve made up my mind that nothing will stop me from improving my work and’ – she took a deep breath – ‘and having a successful career.’ It was out. She had committed herself. She looked at Emily and, with relief, saw approval on her face. ‘I know it will be hard. And it will upset my family. But I have to do it... .’

  Emily put her hand on Hester’s. ‘You have the right attitude, my dear. If you feel passionate about your talent, then you will let nothing prevent you from working with it. Now... .’ She removed her hand and smiled. ‘The best advice I can give you is to copy the masters. Discover their techniques, develop them in your own work. And take commissions. As many as you can. Enter competitions, apply for a place in an art college. Are you prepared to travel? London would be the best place. Have you relatives who could offer you a room?’

  The advice continued until Hester could hardly remember it all, but by the time luncheon was over and Emily and the other visitors had returned to the barn to hear Nicholas’s talk about alpine plants, she had mapped out a plan. Find someone who would commission her as a first step. On Monday, she would ask Mr Flynn again.

  She slipped into the barn, finding a seat at the back, as Nicholas began to show some of the many alpine plants already displayed on the table in front of his audience. She listened to his quiet, deep voice, watching his movements as he picked up one plant after another and talked about them, describing their habitats, their ways of growing, and finally smiling and saying, ‘Perhaps this gentian is my favourite of all. Even the primulas, the saxifrages, the iris, beautiful as they are, don’t hold a candle to this blue flower.’

  She watched him stroke a leaf and then heard him say, as if to himself, ‘There is a legend among the natives in the mountains, that somewhere a double gentian has been seen.’ He looked up, raised a dark eyebrow, and flashed a smile at the listeners. ‘Can you imagine anything more wonderful than to find it? To bring it back here, raise it and allow the rest of the world to enjoy its rare beauty?’

  Into the moment of silence that followed, someone asked, ‘And are you planning to search for it, Mr Thor
ne?’ and she saw Nicholas’s smile vanish. He replaced the plant on the table, saying crisply, ‘I have no plans for further expeditions. Not at the moment.’

  And then it was all over. The visitors rose, came to the table to ask questions about various plants, and then walked out into the garden. Hester went with them, needing peace and time to think about all that had happened today.

  She watched her aunt seeing off her visitors, accepting their thanks and good wishes, and then saw Nicholas loading the plants into the nursery gig. He looked about him before climbing into the driving seat and she thought perhaps he wanted to say goodbye, but she stayed where she was. If he really needed to see her, he would come and look, wouldn’t he? As the gig drove off down the lane and Aunt Jacks came and sank into the seat beside the summerhouse, Hester told herself to forget Nicholas and his disturbing attraction. He had much to occupy him and those few shared moments between them had been momentary pleasures in a life committed to business and the developments of his beloved plants.

  The quick strike of disappointment was banished as she made herself remember all that Emily Watson had said. Yes, now she too had a committed life, one that she would take steps to develop. Tomorrow, she would tell Mr Flynn her plans.

  She and Aunt Jacks shared cups of tea and then it was time to go home and join Father and Stepmother, who had left earlier. The pound cake had disappeared, and Hester hoped that Nicholas had enjoyed a slice. Taking a last wander through the garden, she saw with fresh insight and enjoyment all the beauty around her. The flowers, mixing their shades and textures, blues, purples, dusky pink and startling creamy white; the shrubs with their leafy shelter, fragrance and shadow and the trees in the deserted orchard, frothing with blossom and seeming to colour the coming dusk with a pale warmth. A blackbird sang in one of them, its song echoing down the valley like a chorister singing in a cathedral.

  Hester went indoors, collected her gentian, and then looked at Aunt Jacks. ‘What a wonderful day, Aunt. You must be so pleased.’

  ‘I am, my dear. So many people and all keen to improve their gardening knowledge. Emily’s talk went well, I thought – and Nicholas gave so much information about his plants.’ Aunt Jacks screwed up her mouth into an ironic smile. ‘Fancy him thinking that those old tales about a double gentian might hold any truth – I thought he was far too prosaic a man for that.’

  ‘No,’ Hester said, without thinking what she was saying. ‘He’s passionate about gentians, that’s all.’ She saw her aunt’s surprised expression and hurried on. ‘But of course he can’t really believe in the tales. Just a nice idea he likes to amuse himself with, I daresay.’

  Aunt Jacks looked at her with discerning eyes. ‘You seem to know a lot about him.’

  Hester coloured but kept her voice even. ‘Not really. Just that we got on quite well – for a few moments.’ She rose and brushed a rose petal from her skirt. ‘I must go home, now, Aunt. Thank you for a really lovely day. And I’m so glad that Father and Stepmother came.’

  ‘I don’t think they enjoyed themselves very much, but it was good of them to make the effort.’ She laughed. ‘Gardening isn’t their passion – not like it is for you and me.’ She gave Hester a straight look. ‘Keep painting, dear child, and forgive your poor father for not understanding how life is changing. He must find your commitment to your talent very hard to accept.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hester thought for a long moment. Aunt Jacks was right. She must be more understanding with Father. This evening she would talk to him about his own interests – his law books, the paper he was writing about certain fascinating court cases, his health.

  Walking home down the lane, she allowed her thoughts to flow more calmly. Beauty lay everywhere, each step showing her new aspects of the countryside. Green and wild, it spread all around her. The seeded farm fields were growing well, the hedges newly sprouted, trees opening their buds and Dartmoor’s outline in the purplish blue-grey distance a sharp edge to the spreading fertility.

  She was enjoying her walk so much that at first she didn’t hear the pony hoofs clattering down the lane towards her. Turning into the hedge for safety, she looked up at the driver of the trap and at once anxious thoughts filled her.

  Hugh. What was he doing here? Her serenity fell away.

  What did he want?

  CHAPTER TEN

  He reined in the cob beside her and smiled down. ‘Told your parents I’d fetch you from your aunt’s cottage. Had a busy day, have you?’

  Hester was confused. What had he been doing at home? She stood beside the trap and said coldly, ‘Yes, it all went very well. But Hugh, why are you here? I thought you were busy organizing yourself ready to join the family firm?’

  Holding the reins, he got down to stand beside her, his smile easy and amused. ‘So you remembered all that! And I hope you’ve remembered everything else I said to you that day.’ He paused, looked into her unsmiling eyes. ‘Have you, Hester? Have you thought about my plans? Have you been sensible and changed your mind?’

  Hester saw determination in the jut of his chin and his intense expression. Alarm filled her, until something new swept through her mind. She was liberated, on the way to a career. No one should bully her and certainly not her old friend Hugh Marchant. So treat all that he said lightly; let him see that she had a mind and a life of her own, and that nothing he could say or do would change that.

  Confidence rose. She smiled, walked around the trap, then climbed up onto the seat, twitching her skirt away from the dusty floor. ‘How you do go on, Hugh. Honestly, I’m too full of thoughts of flowers and gardens and painting to have the time to consider marriage at the moment. Yes, drive me home, please – and I’m sure Father will offer you a glass of sherry if you behave properly and stop ordering me about.’

  With a look of amazement he stared up at her, then slowly climbed up, sat beside her, told the cob to walk on, and they continued down the lane.

  Neither of them spoke until Hester pointed out, ‘You’re going the wrong way.’ But she wasn’t really worried. Perhaps he was continuing to the next field gate where he would turn around.

  ‘I’m taking you for a drive.’ He didn’t look at her, simply snapped the reins and encouraged the cob to trot.

  Hester frowned and held the gentian more firmly on her lap. ‘I want to go home, Hugh. Please turn around.’

  No answer. They drove along the lane, finally coming into the village and the main road. She was getting a little anxious now. Why was he behaving in this unfriendly way?

  ‘Hugh, tell me where we’re going. And why. Turn around, please – I really do want to go home.’

  At last he turned and looked at her, his face set and unsmiling. ‘We need to talk, Hester, and we can’t do that with your parents pretending they don’t hear us. Give me a chance to find a secluded place and I’ll stop. Don’t worry, I’ll get you home in time for dinner.’

  Gripping the gentian, she realized that this was male domination and the very thing she was opposed to. She would not give in.

  Putting a hand on his arm, she kept her voice very calm. ‘Hugh, please take me home. We can talk – if you insist – another day. I need to get ready for dinner with my parents. You’ll make me late and I don’t want that. So please, turn around.’

  He smiled then, an amused expression that exasperated her even further. ‘I like it when you get cross, Hester. What spirit! It’s charming.’

  She tensed, somehow keeping her temper under control, knowing that anger would get her nowhere. Hugh must be persuaded.

  ‘Yes, I have lots of spirit, Hugh. Surely you haven’t forgotten all my childhood furies when you wouldn’t let me win at snap or said it was your turn to ride the pony when I knew that it was mine?’ She gave him what she hoped was a winning smile as he looked at her. Was that the beginning of a reluctant grin she saw? ‘You were always trying to get the better of me,’ she said wryly, ‘but it didn’t always work. And you won’t do so now. Come on, Hugh, take me home and let’s fo
rget these hard words.’

  Slowly he drew the trap to a halt, turning to look at her properly, and she saw she had won the day. His mouth twitched. ‘Hester, you’re too much for me. I can’t refuse you when I remember all that – was I really such a brat?’ He turned the cob in the road. ‘No, don’t answer. All right, we’ll leave the big discussion for another day. I’ll take you home, but don’t expect me to stay. Your father’s probably seen enough of me today. Well, here we go.’ He cracked the whip and the trap rattled down the lane.

  Hester sat back, congratulating herself on her firmness. But he still wanted to talk – what had he said, the big discussion? It was only as the trap turned into the drive of Oak House and he reined in the cob at the bottom of the entrance steps that an uneasy question flew into her mind.

  She climbed down and looked up at him. ‘Hugh, what did you want to see Father about?’

  His smile as he clicked the trap forward and raised an arm to wave goodbye was hardly reassuring. ‘He’ll tell you.’ The cob reached the gate, paused and then disappeared.

  Her hand on the door-bell, Hester frowned. She had a feeling that Hugh, after all, had won something.

  She rang the bell twice, heard it echoing through the house, wondered where Ruby was and why she was taking so long to open the door. When it finally opened it was Mrs Caunter who stood there, something smeared on one cheek, cap slightly awry, and wearing an expression of doom. ‘Thank goodness you’re back, Miss Hester. I dunno how we’ll get the dinner on the table, really I don’t.’

  Hester entered, put the gentian on the bench inside the door, and turned. ‘What’s wrong, Mrs Caunter?’

  ‘It’s that Ruby, slipped on the stairs, said her heel caught on spilt candle grease, she thinks, and now she’s in her bed and says as ’ow she can’t move. An’ I’ve got the veg to do and the meat to roast, an’... .’