Hester breathed deeply, removed her hat and said quietly, ‘Where is Mrs Redding?’
‘In the drawing room with Master. Sherry time, see. What’ll we do ’bout bringing up the trays, Miss Hester? Me legs aren’t so good these days.’
‘I’ll help, Mrs Caunter.’ Hester put an arm on the cook’s shoulder and smiled. ‘Stop worrying. We’ll manage between us.’ Wryly she thought, heading for the drawing room, It’s back to trays, is it? And that wretched Ruby in her bed.
The drawing room was airless and shadowy, the curtains on the curving bay window half drawn to keep the sun out of Arthur Redding’s eyes.
‘So there you are, Hester. You’ve been a long time coming home.’ His voice was cool, his expression hardly welcoming.
‘I came as fast as I could, Father. I met Hugh in the lane and we talked for a little while.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Arthur Redding sipped the last of his sherry, looking at her over the rim. ‘Hugh called here this afternoon. We also talked. But I’ll come to that later. What is all this fuss in the kitchen? Mrs Caunter has some story of the maid – Ruby, isn’t it? – having had an accident.’ He looked across the room at Emma, sitting in a tense bundle in her usual chair, and shook his head. ‘My dear, I don’t want you trying to get up to see the girl, you couldn’t manage all those stairs. Wait until she’s better.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Emma Redding was clearly in a state of nerves. Her thin hands fidgeted with her spectacle case, and her expression was one of terrible expectation. Hester crossed the room, pulled up a stool and sat beside her, smiling reassuringly.
‘Don’t worry, Stepmother. I’ll help Mrs Caunter with dinner and I’ll see Ruby. Everything will work out. Now, shall I refill your glass?’
Dinner was twenty minutes late, and Hester carried the trays up from the kitchen and then down again when the meal was over. The uneven wooden staircase was longer than she had thought, and she began to understand how servants always complained about their legs. Which brought her back to Ruby.
After seeing that both her parents were comfortably drinking coffee, and even looking slightly drowsy, she returned to the kitchen where Mrs Caunter was making a business of having to wash all the dishes on her own.
‘Jest hope as ’ow she’ll be better tomorrer, I can’t go on like this for ever, Miss Hester.’
‘No, Mrs Caunter, and I don’t expect you to. If Ruby is really indisposed I will find a replacement. But for the moment, did you put her supper in the oven to keep warm?’
Grumbling to herself, Mrs Caunter set a plate of rather dried-up roast beef on a tray. ‘Ses she doesn’t like my Yorkshire pudding, hmm, she’s lucky to have any.’
‘I’ll come back and help put the dishes away, Mrs Caunter. I won’t be long.’
Hester carried the tray up the three flights of stairs, having to slow down as she started up the final narrow wooden staircase leading to the two attic bedrooms. Her shoes resounded on the wood, and she wondered if Ruby heard her coming.
Ruby sat up quickly. Footsteps. Miss Hester probably, to see if she really was took bad. She shoved the battered envelope, and its precious content, under the pillow and put a weak smile on her face. Miss Hester would expect her to be helpless and sorry for herself. That shouldn’t be hard to do. Even though she hadn’t actually fallen down the stairs, she had misjudged the first step and yes, her heel had slipped on something greasy, and her ankle did hurt – just a bit. But to be really bad was part of the plan, so she must act it out.
‘Have you brought my dinner all the way up? Oh, Miss Hester, you are good – but I don’t think I can eat anything. I feel so sick. It’s the pain... .’
She watched Miss Hester put the tray – Ruby’s stomach began to rumble, she hadn’t eaten since an early luncheon – on the small table, then step back, standing by the window, looking at her.
Not very friendly, Miss Hester’s eyes. Neither was her voice; tighter than usual. ‘What happened, Ruby? I understand you fell and hurt your leg. Which leg? Show me, please.’
Ruby’s scowl swiftly became a pathetic smile. ‘Yes, Miss Hester.’ Pushing aside the covers she slid out a slim, unblemished leg. ‘It hurts here.’ She rubbed the ankle and flinched as the supposed pain stabbed. ‘Oh, it doesn’t half hurt... .’
Miss Hester ran her hands – not very large, but strong and beautifully pale pink, Ruby saw, enviously – over the afflicted joint while Ruby moaned and twisted.
‘I can’t feel anything out of place, Ruby. But if you’re not better in the morning, Hoskins can fetch Dr Winters from Chudleigh. For now, swallow these two pills – my stepmother takes them for her insomnia when she can’t sleep – to help you through the night. And eat your supper – you need to keep your strength up.’
They looked at each other, then Hester moved towards the door. ‘Hoskins must scrub down the stairs. We don’t want any more accidents, do we?’
Was that a suspicious note in her voice? wondered Ruby uneasily. Things hadn’t gone quite as she had planned. Covering her leg, she slumped down in the bed, saying grumpily, ‘It’s those bloomin’ kitchen stairs that’s the problem, Miss. Up and down, up and down – goodness knows how many times a day. Ought to be a lift or something, you know, put the meals on it in the kitchen, pull a rope and up it goes to the dining room. Like a dumb waiter, on’y without the waiter.’ A grin replaced the scowl. ‘Girl I knew once worked in a grand house with one of them, said it was ever so nice.’
Staring at Miss Hester, her thoughts plummeted. All that planning, but now Miss Hester wasn’t reacting as she’d hoped. Then a new idea struck her. ‘I s’pecs Madam’s worried about me. Will you tell her that I’m trying to sit up and get on with my sewing, even though me ankle hurts so bad, an’ I’ll be down to show it to her on Tuesday?’
At the door Hester looked back at the petulant face with its sly expression. The green eyes were veiled but hid a gleam of excitement: something was going on, but her mind was too full of personal thoughts to understand exactly what. Her hand on the door latch, she breathed deeply, felt weariness slide through her. It had been a busy, emotional day and she could do without all this. And why this message to Stepmother about the sewing?
A lift? A dumb waiter? Whatever would the girl suggest next? Her lips tightened. Now she must go down and help Mrs Caunter put away the dishes. And then she must talk to Father. She sighed.
‘I’ll give Mrs Redding your message, Ruby. Now eat your supper and then try and sleep.’
Their eyes met. A wind rattled the window and Ruby shivered, sliding down beneath the covers.
‘Good night,’ said Hester closing the door behind her, looking carefully at the shadowy stairs before going down.
‘Good riddance,’ muttered Ruby. Damn everything. It wasn’t going right. And then she realized that her dreams wouldn’t come true unless she worked at them. She knew it was important to be like Miss Hester, walk like her, sound like her, because that would impress Madam and Master and make them think well of her. Sitting up again she pouted her lips and smiled, hearing Miss Hester in her mind, and trying to make her own voice sound the same. Go-o-o-d n-i-i-i-ght.
That was good. She repeated it, then delved beneath the pillow for the envelope and the creased document inside it. She read it yet again, her smile growing into a chuckle. It was time to get things moving now; why wait any longer? When she was up on her feet again, and Master and Mistress realized how much they had missed her, that’s when she would go and show them what she held in her hand.
Hester put the last meat dish on the top shelf of the big dresser lining the kitchen wall and said wearily, ‘If you can manage the breakfast, Mrs Caunter, I’ll help during the day. But let’s hope Ruby will be better in the morning.’ She looked at the cook, sinking down into the cane chair by the hearth, and remembered Ruby’s impudent suggestion. Thoughtfully she said, ‘These stairs must be very tiring for you both. Perhaps my father might consider a lift. Would there be enough space for it here and in
the dining room?’
‘A lift? Oh, Miss Hester, now that would be lovely. Put the meals in and then pull on the ropes and up it goes. Oh yes, we could fit it in, I’m sure.’ The cook’s aged face lit up with a huge smile and she sat straighter in the creaking chair.
Hester nodded. ‘I can’t promise, but we’ll see. Now I must go up – good night, Mrs Caunter.’
‘Good night, miss.’ A definite note of hope brightened the rough voice and as Hester climbed the stairs – Oh my legs! Thank goodness I’m not Ruby – she wondered whether Father would be in a good enough mood for her to suggest the installation of a lift. Perhaps not tonight. Wait until tomorrow and a new day. But she had to ask him why Hugh had come here this afternoon. Her spine was tense as she reached the top of the stairs.
The drawing-room gas spluttered and Stepmother’s gentle snores made Hester close the door quietly and seat herself on the corner of the chesterfield nearest to her father.
He was sitting straight in his winged armchair, a newspaper open on his lap, polishing his spectacles with his handkerchief. His eyes followed Hester as she neared, and he nodded at her and then said, quietly, ‘We must talk, Hester. As you know, Hugh Marchant called late this afternoon. Your stepmother was resting after our trip to Jacks’ garden, and I have not yet told her what Hugh’s call was about. She gets upset very easily, and so you must bear that in mind when you hear what I have to say. I want no arguments, no noisy recriminations. You understand?’
His gaze was fixed and Hester tensed even further. ‘Yes, Father.’ But she kept her voice even and watched as he folded the newspaper, put it on the table beside him and then looked back at her. ‘Very well. There’s no point in beating about the bush. Hugh Marchant came here to ask my permission to propose marriage to you.’
She caught her breath, felt quick rage flash through her, but said nothing. Her mind was too full, her emotions too unstable.
‘Naturally, Hester, I thought the matter over very keenly. Hugh assures me that his entry into his father’s law firm cannot fail – his degree was an excellent one – and I can foresee a good future for him. Although I find this new age difficult to accept, I agree that there are many more opportunities today. Hugh has a private income from a deceased godmother, and excellent prospects of his own family inheritance when – God save him, not yet, I hope – his father passes on. And he considers you will make a good, eminently suitable wife for him. He will, of course, in due time, become senior partner, and so his prospects are very acceptable.’
For an interminable moment they looked at each other. Then Arthur Redding settled himself more comfortably in his chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘Well? You’ve said nothing. Not surprised, surely? But complimented? He’s quite a catch.’
A catch! Hester flinched, but she could find no words to express all she was feeling How dare Hugh? Dominating her. How dare he!
Her father frowned impatiently. ‘You know very well that this marriage is something I and your stepmother have been hoping for. You have always been friends with Hugh, and I gather the friendship continues – tennis, for instance, last week. He plans to invite you to visit his newly organised chambers very soon, when you can suggest a day.’
Deep breathing had helped to cool Hester’s fury. She must summon up her strength, put aside her pent-up denial of thoughts of any marriage at all. She must keep Father appeased, for to upset him and Stepmother would do no good. But why must this happen just when it was so important to get him to agree to the new plans Emily Watson had suggested?
Go to London? Paint for a living? Father didn’t even know that she was studying with Mr Flynn! Oh, what a terrible muddle life had suddenly become. How on earth was she going to resolve it?
‘Father.’ She inched to the edge of the chesterfield and looked at his lined, rather grey face and a chill defeated her anger. He was old. He didn’t look well. Her heart paused and then rushed on. ‘Did he say... .’ She stumbled. ‘Did he say that he loved me?’
‘Loved you?’ Arthur Redding’s eyes grew deep, irritation pursing his mouth. ‘My dear girl, surely you know that where marriage is concerned, it’s the prospects and financial arrangements that are important?’ He sniffed, reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud blast. ‘Love, if that’s what you want, will come later. Or not, as the case is. It’s a minor detail in a marriage.’
‘But you loved Mother. Don’t you love Stepmother?’ She couldn’t help it, the words just raced out. Her face flushed, her hands knotted in her lap.
Arthur Redding’s bony cheeks grew patches of red. In a low voice he said slowly and distastefully, ‘That is nothing that concerns you.’
Hester couldn’t leave it there. This was almost too painful to endure, yet inside her the determination grew. ‘But you did love Mother – you were always smiling when she was here. You talked, Father, I remember so well, you laughed, you were happy together. And you missed her so much, I know you did.’
Arthur did not meet her eyes. A silence grew, filling the space between them, allowing the gas to emphasize its burbling, letting Emma’s heavy breathing deteriorate into snuffles and then gradual slow movements in her chair.
‘There, you’ve woken your stepmother,’ he said at last, the words full of condemnation, deep and harsh. ‘And I particularly asked you not to. Hester, how can you be so extremely difficult? We’ll say no more at the moment. I can only hope that by the morning you will have thought through all that I said, and be prepared to give me a sensible answer.’ Painfully, he rose, refusing her offer of a hand as he straightened up from the chair.
Glancing across the room, he looked at his wife and walked very slowly towards her. ‘Come, Emma, time for bed. Take my arm. We’ll go up together.’
Emma blinked, opened her mouth and shut it again, finally finding a weak smile. ‘Oh, Arthur – did I drop off again? How rude of me. And yes, I’m ready for bed.’
With her arm hooked through his, she moved towards the door, suddenly seeming to notice Hester standing by the chesterfield. ‘Why, Hester – I haven’t said anything about your aunt’s garden day. Perhaps tomorrow we can have a good chat. Good night, now, my dear.’
Gardens, mountains, flowers, Nicholas. It was a long moment before Hester could reply.
‘Good night, Stepmother. Good night, Father.’ Then she moved quickly and opened the door for them. Arthur avoided her gaze, merely nodded his head, and led his wife towards the curving staircase. They ascended slowly, reached the top, and then the bedroom door clicked shut.
Hester went back to the dying fire and stood, looking down at it. Her mind was too full of muddling, painful, inescapable thoughts for her to focus on any one of them. She collapsed on the chesterfield and shut her eyes.
Tomorrow she must make decisions, but for the moment all she wanted was to escape from the problems that surrounded her, whichever way she looked.
And then she found herself laughing, an unfamiliar, bitter sound. The business of the lift in the kitchen had been completely forgotten. It was just one more thing to put on the list for tomorrow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I think I’ve found my artist.’
Nicholas, at his desk in the office at the back of the house, looked around. Standing behind him Edward Hayward was smiling, the copy of his manuscript, Primulas Around the World, recently accepted for publication, clutched in his hand.
Nicholas prepared to listen. His father’s enthusiasm was hard to ignore.
‘Joe Flynn – that artist fellow – came around just now, suggested one of his students as being eager to find work, and I need to find an illustrator, so... .’
Sitting back, Nicholas controlled his impatience. Joe Flynn? He frowned. ‘I’ve heard that Flynn is less than honest in his dealings – can you trust him, Father?’
Edward waved an arm. ‘Rubbish. The man knows about art and that’s all that matters. Anyway, this student is a relative of Jacquetta Hirst, and we can’t have a better recommendation t
han that.’
Nicholas got to his feet, his face tightening. He met Edward’s querulous stare with a frown. ‘What’s the student’s name?’
Edward fished a piece of paper from his pocket, pushed his spectacles closer to his nose and peered at the scribbled writing. ‘Miss Hester Redding.’
He looked up and met Nicholas’s startled stare. ‘A good solid family – and I bet the name of a local artist will help sell my book.’ He leaned forward, grinning. ‘So you could add her name to the advertising you’re working on.’
Nicholas said slowly, ‘But you know nothing about Miss Redding’s work, Father. You haven’t seen it. You only have Joe Flynn’s words, and he could be saying anything just to get his own name acclaimed. She may... .’ Biting off the words, he paused, then forced himself to go on. ‘She may have no talent at all.’ He frowned, but honesty mattered.
Edward’s grin evaporated. ‘We shall see,’ he said testily. ‘Write to her, Nicholas, say I’ll see her on Thursday at eleven o’clock. Tell her to bring some work with her. Got the address, have you?’
‘Yes.’ Nicholas took the paper and put it on his desk.
‘Good. Now, I must get on.’ Edward breezed out of the office, putting on his hat, shouting for Jim and swinging his arms jauntily as he marched down the nursery.
Alone, Nicholas looked at the paper, read Joe Flynn’s scribble and wondered what Hester Redding would think of working for his father. If she was good enough. His frown grew. How terrible if she were just an enthusiastic amateur without the necessary talent to take on professional work. He sat down at the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and allowed his thoughts to wander. If she came, where would she sit and paint? How often would she come? Or perhaps she would prefer to work at home?
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