The act of taking up his pen brought a brief hint of pleasure, appreciated and then dismissed. He knew it would be good, having Hester here. He wrote:
Dear Miss Redding,
Mr Flynn, your tutor, has told my father, Edward Hayward, that you might be willing to accept a professional commission illustrating his book on primulas. To that end he invites you to call at the nursery with some examples of your work. He hopes that eleven o’clock on Thursday this week will be convenient.
Yours sincerely,
The pen was poised, not touching the paper as he gazed into the whirlwind of his own thoughts. She had called him Nicholas. He had called her Hester. But this was business.
He wrote Nicholas Thorne in his upright, firm hand, and then read through what he had written. Folded, put in an envelope and stamped, it was done. He got up, strode out of the office and down the nursery towards the entrance, on the main road.
There was a pillar-box fifty yards away. Work must wait for this small five minutes of pleasure – communication with Hester. The letter posted, he returned to the nursery, and made himself concentrate on the crate of plants Jim was packing up, due for delivery to a local bigwig’s garden this afternoon.
Briefly, images of mountains, gentians, last year’s disastrous accident, Hester Redding and her warm smile flashed through his mind, but he frowned and dismissed them all. Business must go on.
Hester sat in her studio two days after Ruby’s accident. The girl had appeared next morning, saying that she was better, still in pain, but of course she would do her work; mustn’t let Master and Mistress down.
That had been one problem resolved, leaving Hester free to concentrate on her painting. Now, filling in the delicate, branching leaves on a slightly hairy stem of a frothing spray of cow parsley, the local names ran through her mind – Honiton Lace, Rabbit’s Meat – and then, smiling, she carefully added the correct botanical name, learned from her recent studies: Anthriscus sylvestris. This was the next addition to her flora, to be taken to Mr Flynn for comment in a few days. Mr Flynn – she thought back to the recent conversation with her father that had got her nowhere. She still had to tell her father about studying with him. And if – if – she somehow found a professional commission, what on earth would Father say?
Putting the last touch of paint to the tooth-edged leaves, she sat back, considering. Things must come to a head soon. They needed to talk without any more rancour or resentment; she must explain that marriage to Hugh Marchant was not in her plans and he must realize she would soon be legally free to live how she wished.
But leave Father? Tell him that she was going away, to find work somewhere in the outside world? He would miss her, even though his dismissal of her longings was so set in stone. He loved her, as she loved him. But they had never spoken of it. Could they now?
She sighed, returning to the painting. Then there was the business of the proposed lift from the kitchen to be thought about and suggested to Father. A smile touched her lips. Yes, it was an excellent idea. She should compliment Ruby, but then decided that was foolish. The girl was sly and underhand, and Hester’s thoughts slipped away to how Ruby was pushing herself into Stepmother’s life.
‘I’ll fetch that for you, Madam. No trouble... .’ And off Ruby would fly, a satisfied smile on her face.
I don’t trust her, thought Hester. Don’t know why, but I don’t.
A knock at the door, and Ruby appeared, holding a letter. ‘Just come, Miss Hester, afternoon post.’ She stared. ‘Oh, isn’t that lovely, what you’re painting – can I have a look?’
Hester took the envelope and put it down beside her paintbox. She would open it when Ruby had gone. ‘Yes, but don’t touch – the paint’s still wet.’
She watched the girl’s face change, saw the overfriendly expression fade, replaced by something which suddenly struck her as being sincere. ‘You’re clever, Miss Hester.’ Ruby’s voice was low, her eyes no longer sly. ‘That’s lovely. Why, you ought to be a proper artist, Miss, pictures in galleries and things.’ She nodded emphatically. ‘I’d buy one of your paintings, if I was rich. Hang it on me wall, I would.’
They looked at each other in a new way, with something almost akin to friendship. Hester frowned, surprised. Ruby was smiling, no longer smart and on the edge of insolence, but warm and understanding. Then she too smiled, taken unawares, realizing that her life was taking steps forward in many unexpected directions. She said quietly, ‘I’ll give you a picture, Ruby.’
‘Oh, miss, oh, thank you!’ Their eyes met. Green looking into golden flecked hazel, smiling, sharing the moment. Then Ruby said slowly, almost unwillingly, ‘Must tell you, Miss, Madam’s been ever so nice about my fall the other day. Give me some ointment, she did. And when I asked about the lift—’
Hester shot back to reality. ‘You had no right to ask her, Ruby. I told you I would speak to my father.’
‘Yes, but I thought if Madam agreed with me it would be good.’
‘And what did she say?’ The old feeling returned – the girl took too much upon herself – but Hester awaited the answer with interest.
‘Said she’d speak to Master. Said what a good idea. Didn’t want Cook or me to have bad legs, she said.’ Ruby was back in the doorway, looking over her shoulder, grinning like a cream-filled cat, and Hester couldn’t stop herself smiling back, although whether in admiration or amusement, she wasn’t sure. ‘All right, Ruby. We’ll see what happens.’
‘Yes, Miss Hester.’ Another big grin and Ruby disappeared, closing the door behind her.
Hester’s thoughts circled. Yes, the girl was too forward. But Stepmother liked her. And if Father could be persuaded into installing a lift, did it really matter that Ruby had engineered it all? It would be something taken off her own shoulders.
And then she remembered the letter. Opening it, she looked immediately at the signature because she didn’t recognize the handwriting – black, large and very strong. And then: Yours sincerely, Nicholas Thorne.
She sat up straighter as she read, and a glowing smile spread over her face. An interview, her work to be assessed. The possibility of a commission. She was swelling with excitement. It was all happening. Life was opening out and the possibilities were infinite. Certainly she would go and meet Mr Hayward. Take her flora and greet Nicholas with the warmth that his letter had built inside her.
Then all the joy turned to dismay. She would have to tell Father about Mr Flynn and her plans to leave home. But even the thought of such a confrontation could not quite dismiss the feeling of elation that still floated through her. Quickly she wrote a note of acceptance to Mr Hayward, sealed and stamped it, ran down into the garden and asked Hoskins to make sure it caught the last post.
The small scree garden was calling her, the bed where she had planted the gentian Nicholas had given her. Now opening into wide, brilliant flowers, its rosette leaves spreading out into the slatey soil, she thought the low sun, reflecting on the rocks and pebbles surrounding it, brought an even brighter tone to the blue of the petals. She stood, thoughts flying to places far away, and then returned to the man who had brought this gift. She would see him when she went to the nursery. Would he be pleased to see her? Or had he forgotten her, except as a possible illustrator for his father’s book? She went back into the house, hoping that those eyes, which seemed to be as blue as the gentian flowers, would soften when he saw her. That he would smile and make her welcome.
To live.
On Wednesday she walked around to Brook Cottage with her bag of painting things, ready for Aunt Jacks to drive them into Newton Abbot to attend the botany class. Then she would be dropped at Mr Flynn’s studio while Aunt Jacks passed an hour of shopping or visiting, before driving them both home.
Hester knew she was taking a new step towards freedom today. Everything looked fresh and exciting. The hedges, as she walked down the lane, were fuller and greener than yesterday. Dartmoor’s long lines, with an occasional tor rising up into the sky, were misty and inviting,
and she realized yet again how much the country and its flora meant to her.
When she left, she would miss this wonderful natural life. Briefly her optimism thinned. Living in a city, among thousands of other people, having to wait for a chance to visit the countryside – what would it be like?
But, as she walked into Aunt Jacks’ garden, she dismissed the foolish fear.
Life would be what she made it and the country would always be there, wherever she ended up. London parks, village greens, hills and dales and rivers and meandering lanes. Mountains, whispered a quiet voice, and she blinked at the excitement the word engendered.
Aunt Jacks walked with her to Mr Flynn’s studio. ‘You mustn’t rely on gaining Edward Hayward’s commission tomorrow, Hester. Your work might not be quite right for him. Just be prepared to wait until the right one comes along. And tell Mr Flynn how grateful you are.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ Hester watched the small upright figure march away, intent on some personal project, and thought yet again how lucky she was to have this caring woman upon whom she could try and model herself. If only Father understood as Aunt Jacks did.
Joseph Flynn smiled and she thought his manner more pleasant than usual. ‘I’ve done my bit, Miss Redding – now it’s up to you to impress Mr Hayward.’
Hester unpacked her paintbox and palette and put her picture on the sloping board already set up on the table. ‘I’m very grateful to you, Mr Flynn.’ She looked up, met his small, veiled eyes, and said spontaneously, ‘And I’d like to show my gratitude.’ Could she offer a fee? How embarrassing. But even as she stumbled over the words, his smile broadened and his usually rough voice took on a smoother tone.
‘It’s been a pleasure to help someone with your talent. But if you really feel you should repay me, Miss Redding, then one of your paintings will do. I like to keep a record of my students’ work.’
Relieved, she said, ‘Of course. Please choose which one you would like.’ And then, ‘Should I sign it? I don’t really know—’
He cut her short. ‘No need. I’m familiar with your work – quite different from my other students. Thank you. I’ll look through your portfolio and choose one. Most kind.’
She passed him the large black portfolio and then turned to her work. The cow parsley was finished, but no doubt Mr Flynn would want it polished. She was right. ‘A pale wash for the background would let the flower tones stand out more. But it’s good. Another page of your proposed flora, I suppose. Keep working and you may well get somewhere.’
That afternoon, she sat with Stepmother in the summerhouse chatting about domestic things. ‘Ruby,’ said Emma brightly, ‘has finished sewing her patchwork cushion and it’s really very good. She has an eye for colours and the stitches are neat. I’ve suggested she should start on something else – a nightgown case, perhaps.’ Her smile widened. ‘She may well be able to deal with the household sewing. The girl is becoming such a help. I mean, her excellent idea of the lift in the kitchen – I talked to your father about it yesterday and he is thinking it over.’ Emma’s innocent eyes found Hester’s. ‘I don’t know how I would get on nowadays without Ruby’s helping hand. I mean, she’s always here, which is so useful when you’re away... . Oh dear, I didn’t mean to scold you, or anything, please don’t think that—’ Her drooping cheeks grew pink and she straightened herself stiffly in her chair, looking at Hester anxiously. ‘What I mean is that you have so many interests which take you out of the house these days... .’ The thin voice died away.
Hester looked at her little stepmother and felt an onrush of guilt. Was she really so badly missed? Was she neglecting her parents? Her mind sank. Was she selfish to the degree of becoming uncaring? She said, she hoped, comfortingly, ‘I’m glad you find Ruby so helpful, Stepmother.’ Then she added a warmer note to her voice. ‘But I’m not away all the time, you know. And I do try and accompany you on your calls quite often.’
‘Yes, dear, of course.’
She watched Emma droop back into her chair, unclasp her tightly folded hands and close her eyes. ‘I think I’ll have a little nap.’ But there was a hint of petulance in the quiet words, and Hester knew that, although the subject was closed, resentment lingered. She sat beside her dozing stepmother, looked into the peaceful garden, at the formal beds of scarlet pelargoniums, pale blue lobelia and white alyssum, and thought that perhaps Ruby being here was a good thing, after all.
How strange life was. And perhaps – her heart leaped – tomorrow would see the fruition of the first of her hopes. Would Mr Hayward commission her?
She was up early, wondering what to wear, taking first one dress from her wardrobe, then another. The lilac was too flowery, the turquoise too dressy; perhaps that pearl-grey dress with tight sleeves and a high neck? And her mother’s cameo brooch to relieve the drabness, to show that she had a certain style, to emphasize her femininity despite the fact that she was setting out on a professional career.
When she left Oak House to walk to Chudleigh and catch the omnibus into Newton Abbot, she felt like a fugitive, having chosen the moment when Father went to his study and Stepmother lingered in the dining room. There was no one to see her go. She had casually mentioned at breakfast that she might be out for an hour or so during the morning, and, apart from Father’s pursed lips and Stepmother’s gentle sigh of resignation, no comment had been made.
Except that Ruby, busily piling up the breakfast plates, had looked at her and Hester had felt, yet again, that strange and unwanted sense of ... what was it? Almost like a feeling of communication.
And now, walking down the drive, her hat pinned on at an elegant angle and her gloved hands carrying reticule and attaché case, Hester felt eyes watching her. She glanced around but the front door was shut and the front windows deeply curtained. Then something made her look up at her bedroom window, wide to the sunlit morning, and yes, someone was there: a figure stepping away the moment she caught sight of it.
Ruby? And if so, why? But the coming interview was too important for her to consider the matter further. She caught the bus, and was three minutes early when she arrived at the entrance gate to the Hayward Nursery, three minutes of walking up and down and wondering how to introduce herself.
As she stepped to the gate and put out a hand to open it, Nicholas Thorne appeared. His smile was a welcome and his deep voice saying, ‘Good morning, Miss Redding. Do come in,’ banished all the polite words she had been juggling with.
‘Nicholas – how good to see you.’ The unthinking use of his name confused her, made her fumble with her attaché case, drop it, and, then, bending to pick it up, found him far too close to her as he also bent down, eyes brilliant and full of amusement.
‘Let me help, Hester.’
They stood up and looked at each other. ‘Thank you, Mr Thorne.’ She wouldn’t use his Christian name again. What must he be thinking of such forward behaviour? Yet he had used hers.
But clearly he was thinking of other things. He stepped away and gestured for her to walk towards the house. ‘My father is waiting. I’ll introduce you.’
They walked up the path and she was only dimly aware of the shrubs, full, leafy and covered with blossom, edging the entrance of the house. She could only think of Nicholas beside her, of his tall body clad in dull gardening browns and greens, a flash of excitement firing inside her, quite unsuitable to the occasion. Sternly she clung to the thought that she was here on business. As they reached the open door she had control of her feelings again and heard the steadiness in her voice with a sense of triumph. ‘I believe your father is a specialist in alpine primulas, Mr Thorne, but my paintings are only of native wild flowers, so I don’t know whether he will like what I’ve brought to show him.’
Nicholas led her towards a back room leading off the shadowy hallway, saying over his shoulder, ‘Don’t underrate yourself. My father will soon decide if your talent suits his requirements.’ Then he turned, looking at the man standing behind the desk in the untidy, cluttered little room. �
��This is my father, Edward Hayward. Father, this is Miss Hester Redding. Shall we ask her to open her case and show us samples of her work?’ He pulled out a chair, cleared it of a pile of papers, then smiled as he took the case from her and laid it on the desk, long, earth-stained fingers lifting out the pile of paintings which he placed before Edward Hayward, now seated in his chair, an expression of intense interest on his ageing face.
Opposite him, Hester sat on the hard-backed chair, mind ablaze as she awaited his verdict. She was aware of Nicholas standing beside his father, looking down as page after page of her paintings were picked up, scrutinized, then laid aside in a neat pile.
The sun glared through the window and she felt half dazed by the light and the mind-sapping anxiety that suddenly shot through her. This was an important moment – so important, her whole future life depended upon it.
Nicholas looked up, met her eyes, shook his head very slightly, and gave her that remembered brief flash of a smile. ‘Stop worrying,’ he said, the words hardly loud enough to hear. Certainly Edward Hayward did not hear them, but she did, wondering at his awareness, and at once his encouragement made her breathe more smoothly, lower her taut shoulders, and return the smile. After all, what did it matter if this first interview was a failure? Aunt Jacks had suggested it might be and if it was, then she would just wait for Mr Flynn to produce another one.
Slowly she relaxed, watching her paintings move from one pile to another, saw Nicholas’s hands reach out, take one and raise it for further inspection. Gratefully she smelled the fragrance of a shrub outside the open window, felt the sun as a blessing, and then was able to sit back on the uncomfortable chair, waiting for Edward Hayward to give her his decision.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘When can you start?’ Edward Hayward’s voice was eager. He tapped his desk and leaned over, smiling at her. ‘Your work is excellent. Delicate and full of vitality, Miss Redding. Yes, I can well imagine how you will portray my primulas.’
Into the Blue Page 11