He looked up at Nicholas. ‘You agree?’
‘I do.’
Hester thought she heard a clear note of relief in the spontaneous reply.
‘Miss Redding’s paintings are beautifully detailed.’ He smiled at her, that remembered quick flash of warmth and brilliance. ‘And, as you say, Father, full of life. I’m sure your book will be all the better for her help.’ He paused; looked intently at her. ‘You have great talent.’ Spoken very low, the words were clearly meant for her alone.
She sat back on her chair and felt a great wash of joy, like a seventh wave crashing up the beach, engulfing her in pleasure and relief. For a moment she couldn’t speak. So many thoughts ran around in her mind: this first step, professional work, the excitement and challenge of illustrating Mr Hayward’s book. And then suddenly, a stab of something else, unfamiliar but stirring; she would be working here, with Nicholas not far away.
Then she became aware of the two men and all the thoughts vanished with the need to show her gratitude, to agree to whatever conditions were demanded of her.
‘Thank you,’ was all she could say, looking into Edward Hayward’s impatient eyes. ‘Thank you. I’ll do my very best, Mr Hayward. And I can start whenever you wish.’ Father would have to be told, but even if he disagreed, she would still accept the commission. She must! This was the chance she had been dreaming about, and now the path ahead looked clearer. She told herself determinedly that the parents would – must – accept her news; she would catch the omnibus every morning, and she would work hard.
She ventured a glance at Nicholas and returned his smile but could think of nothing to say. He was looking at her with such an intense expression that for a moment she felt a stab of unease. Perhaps he didn’t want her here, in his nursery. Was he one of those men who didn’t think women should be free – like Father, like Hugh? Her smile died and she got up, to collect the paintings scattered over the desk, to avoid the watching eyes. Coldness hit her as abruptly another shocking idea came: if Nicholas didn’t want her here, half the joy of the work would be gone. She wanted to share his company. She felt a strange excitement whenever she saw him. What was happening to her? Where was her well-bred self-control? Why did she feel this way about Nicholas and not Hugh?
Edward Hayward’s voice cut into her churning thoughts, offering her a remuneration far higher than she had dared to hope. ‘Is that acceptable, Miss Redding?’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Hayward.’ Her voice was unsteady, her hands clumsy as she put the paintings into the attaché case and closed it.
‘Good. And if you can start tomorrow, that will suit me very well. We’ll have a corner of the room cleared, a table brought in, perhaps, and no doubt you’ll bring your own painting slope, or do you prefer an easel?’
The reality of his expectation helped to banish the wild thoughts. She picked up her reticule and the attaché case, hoping she looked confident and reliable. ‘I shall bring my slope, Mr Hayward, and yes, a table would be excellent. By the window. So – tomorrow morning. At nine o’clock, or is that too early?’ In her head she heard an echo of Emily Watson’s clear voice and knew she was trying to copy the same self-assurance.
‘Not for us, Miss Redding – eh, Nicholas? Up with the lark, we gardeners are.’ Edward’s wheezy laughter filled the room and Hester smiled back at him. She took a step towards the door and glanced at Nicholas as he came to her side.
‘Let me carry your case, Miss Redding. I’ll come to the bus stop with you.’
She walked down the dark passage, through the open doorway and into the brilliance of the sunlit garden, aware only of his presence behind her. And suddenly it was all too much – the excitement, the knowledge that her talent was good enough to be professional, and now Nicholas wanting to walk beside her. Escape became imperative.
She turned and looked at him. ‘No, please don’t.’ Her voice was sharp and instantly she regretted her impulsive reaction. ‘I can manage. I’m used to being on my own in town. Thank you, but please don’t bother.’
At the gate they stopped and he opened it, looking at her quizzically. ‘It wouldn’t be a bother, Hester, more a pleasure. But if you don’t want—’ His voice was slightly rough, his eyes alarming her with their sudden coldness. She stiffened. What had she said? What had she done? Words erupted. ‘I must hurry, Mr Thorne. The bus will be waiting ... goodbye... .’ She flew down the street, not looking back, furious with herself, with him, with the fact that she was behaving childishly and must be showing him how immature she was.
The journey back to Chudleigh helped to calm her thoughts and fears and by the time she reached Oak House she was almost her usual self again, already rehearsing the conversation she must now have with her father.
Nicholas watched her walking away and stayed in the gateway, thinking. So she would be here tomorow, which was a pleasant thought. But clearly she had no use for him. He took in a long breath and then expelled it, returning to the nursery and the work awaiting him. Hester Redding’s rude dismissal suited him: he had no time for dallying with her, however attractive and intelligent she was. Plants, he thought wryly, were far easier to deal with than an ambitious young woman with her mind so obviously focused on her potential career.
And then a last thought dared to surface: yes, he had been looking forward to her arrival this morning but now – narrowing his eyes he squinted into the sun, and pulled his hat further down over his brow – she was just the artist who would be coming to illustrate his father’s book and he wouldn’t need to give her any attention.
A pity. But better that way.
He walked towards the glasshouse. ‘Jim, have you done the spraying?’ And then he pushed aside all thoughts of the attractive young woman whose presence tomorrow would conspire to divert his attention. After inspecting the apprentice’s work, he went back to the office and sat down at his desk.
Time to deal with the morning’s post. A packet addressed in Emily Watson’s familiar handwriting. Opening it, something fell out, something so familiar, so charged with emotion and foreboding, that for a few seconds he had to wait for his heart to stop racing. A pale blue leather book, scuffed and dotted with mud: Jonathon West’s journal.
For a moment he was back there in the Dolomite Mountains, along with Jonathon, and other members of Emily Watson’s party, feeling the rain, the wind, hearing the porters arguing about the packs they were carrying, demanding more money and causing Jon to lose his temper. Cursing them, he had stepped forward quickly to help Nicholas, who, dodging a blow from a raised staff, had overbalanced and fallen, hitting his shoulder on a rock.
Nicholas sat back, remembering the passion of that moment. He had recovered, standing upright again, rubbing his shoulder, telling Jon to watch out for the slippery, moss-edged track running beside the raging river. And now, eyes closed, Nicholas saw again the terrifying waters; in his mind he feared the rocks that struck upward through the current, sending white water surging along in powerful waves.
Then the final image and sound. Jon’s voice shouting for help as he slipped and fell; his shouts growing weaker and weaker as he was rapidly swept out of sight, away from all attempts of rescue. Nicholas knew he would never forget. Never forgive himself for not, somehow, rescuing his friend.
He forced himself to open his eyes again but knew that the sight of Jon disappearing in the swirling water would haunt him for the rest of his life. He hadn’t saved him and the consequent guilt had been a dark, threatening shadow ever since, always present.
Slowly, he fought for self-control, and read Emily’s accompanying letter.
This has just come to light in Jon’s effects, sent to me by his grieving family. I think you should have it but I hope the contents won’t distress you too much. And, a propos of that expedition, Nicholas, I am arranging to return to the mountains in a month or two and hope that you will again accompany me.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
Emily
>
Nicholas opened the book, finding the last entry on a blurred, crumpled page. Jon’s writing was hard to decipher, scribbled, full of misspellings and comic sketches, but in Nicholas’s mind the words were deeply engraved, reminding him of that terrible day and the reason for the disaster.
Those damned porters [with a tiny sketch of a little man brandishing a staff] are still playing up, saying the rain makes the wieght of their packs too heavy – they want more money, of course, but I refowse to pay. We agreed the amount before we started and they must do as I ordered. Hope the rain keeps off – tomorrow I must try the track which the head man spoke about, saying that’s where the famous double gentian grows.
It’s probably nonsense, just a folktale, but we must try it out. Fingers crossed!
And, in the margin of the page, a hand with an index finger linked with the next one.
Very slowly, almost tenderly, Nicholas closed the book, smoothing the rough cover and still seeing that wild scene of lashing water and the small, fast-disappearing figure of Jon, arms over his head as if in supplication, white, half-submerged face taut with fear and hopelessness. And then it was gone, only the water surging down, ignoring this latest bit of flotsam as of no account.
It took moments of determined strength to convince himself that the past could not be remedied. Jon had died, and here was his journal. Nicholas kept staring at the book and very slowly felt a new hope rising from deep inside him. Yes, Jon’s resolution to keep searching for the double gentian must be continued. There was a scribbled map showing the almost completely obscured track leading to the supposed location. A track to be explored and searched.
Resolve hit him. He must go back to the mountains and carry on Jon’s search. Perhaps there was a double gentian. And if he found it, then, by God – suddenly he stood up and smiled into the sunshine beaming through the window – he would be doing something to avenge Jon’s death, and – the smile grew broader, stronger, as a great surge of determination flowed through him – he would be doing what he could to rid himself of the dark sense of guilt that haunted him and threatened to ruin his life.
He would talk to Father, explain that he must join Emily’s expedition. He must plan for the future.
Hester entered the house, stowed the attaché case and her reticule in her bedroom, looked at herself in the mirror and wondered who this newly confident figure might be. Each step, going downstairs, was firm and quick, coming to a halt outside the study door where she guessed that her father would be busy.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked, heard ‘Come’, and went in to confront him.
Arthur Redding looked up, eyes dark, face tight. She saw he was irritated at being interrupted and so stopped just inside the door, suddenly deflated, not knowing what to say.
Leaning back in his chair, he pushed away the scattered papers on the desk and looked at her. ‘What do you want, Hester?’
She blinked. She must break through this hostile non-welcome. It was important to talk – properly, warmly and without any of the old boundaries. She smiled nervously. ‘Just to talk, Father.’
Frowning, he gestured at the untidy desk. ‘I’m busy, as you can see. Can’t it wait until after luncheon, whatever you want to say?’
Abruptly all the old annoyances, resentments and frustrations fell away and she knew exactly what to say. She stepped nearer the desk. ‘No, Father, it can’t wait. I have to talk to you.’ She paused, saw him frowning, but continued. ‘I want to tell you what I plan to do with my life.’
His expression was unwelcoming. Hester drew in a huge breath, and walked towards the chair facng the desk. ‘May I sit down?’
She saw a gleam of surprise in his narrowed eyes as he nodded.
‘Father... .’ She was searching for words. They came slowly. ‘Father, I have been given a private commission to illustrate a book about primulas.’ She saw the change on his face from annoyance to growing surprise and anger but went on.
‘Mr Flynn, the artist I have been studying with, suggested that I visit Mr Edward Hayward at his nursery in town this morning, and—’
The dark eyes were furious. He sat up in his chair. ‘But I told you I wouldn’t agree... .’
Hester rallied her courage. ‘I know. And I disobeyed you – but, Father, it’s wonderful that I have gained this commission.’ Her voice rose and confidence grew. ‘I am to do a professional piece of work for Mr Hayward, and he will pay me—’
‘Pay you?’ Quick fury flew out of the two words and Hester instinctively edged back in her chair. ‘Becoming a working woman, are you? A common girl who has no idea of behaviour or of education, a woman who is out on the street and... .’
Arthur Redding ran out of words and breath and could only glare at her across the desk.
Hester straightened her back. She met those furious, near-black eyes and said, as steadily as she could, ‘No, Father, I will not be a common girl, neither will I forget my education and upbringing. But I will, most certainly, be a working woman, and proud of the fact.’
They stared at each other. Then Hester said, her voice softer, in the hope of still persuading him, ‘I just ask you, that when you’ve given it more thought, you will try and be proud of me, too.’
Silence. Her hopes fell. A nervous tic moved in Arthur Redding’s jaw. She sat there, full of apprehension, waiting. He made no reply and, dismayed, she knew she must try and placate him. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I know this is not what you want. But I can’t marry Hugh. I don’t want a dull, domestic life; I have this talent and I believe I must use it. And so, you see... .’ The words faded.
Use it well.
Thank you, Emily Watson, I will, oh, I will.
New strength came. ‘Father, please forgive me. Please try and understand, because I have to do this.’
The room was warm, stuffy, redolent of winter fires and cigars, and a welcome touch of fragrance from a vase of double white lilac. Hester sat back in her chair, watching her father’s face, tight, with inner thoughts chasing across it.
For a moment her own thoughts wandered. This room, full of law books of past court cases, with watercolours of Dartmoor on the walls, was full of memories. Father’s study had always been sacrosanct, never entered without permission. Here she had come for lectures on bad behaviour and sometimes, on birthdays, to be given presents, smiles and kind words.
The red patterned carpet was faded; long velvet curtains which had once been the same red and now were pale cherry colour were forever in her memory and always would be.
A shiver pricked her spine. She was leaving here but part of her, that happy, cherished childhood, would remain. She must think more positively. Forget the memories, see it as it is.
She got up, walked to the window and released a fluttering tortoiseshell butterfly caught in a curtainfold. Pulling down the sash she watched it fly towards the garden and envied it. This is what she must do: fly away.
She turned. ‘Father, I’m not a child any longer. I’m a woman and I need your permission – and love.’ The last word slipped out unbidden, and she saw his face soften.
He got to his feet, running a hand down his leg, and came to her side in the sunlit space of the big window. ‘Hester... .’
Something in his voice renewed her hope.
‘Hester, you are my daughter, my only link with your dear mother whom I grew to love. Yes—’ He looked at her very intently. ‘Ours was an arranged marriage, but soon we became friends – companions, I might say – and then... .’ The pause was a long one. ‘Lovers.’ Silence, and then, in almost a whisper, ‘I was lost, I missed her so when she went... .’ Another pause while he looked out of the window into what Hester instinctively knew were memories. ‘Yes, I missed her very much.’ His voice was soft and he blinked into the sunlight.
Clearing his throat he turned and she thought she saw something warm – loving? – on his face as he looked at her. ‘Come and sit down. Yes, we must talk this thing out.’ Taking her hand he led her back to the chai
r she had just left and seated himself behind the desk. For a long moment he looked at her.
‘You want me to understand your needs, but I need you to understand mine. Ours, Hester.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘Your stepmother is my wife now and I must care for her. So... .’
Hester sat upright, her body stiff, eyes glued to his face. She had no idea what he would say next. Would it be understanding or disapproving judgment? Her hands knotted in her lap.
‘If you leave this house – your home, Hester – you will need to find somewhere else to live. By yourself. No servants, no parents to lay the law down.’ A smile flickered briefly. ‘You will earn a wage, which I can assure you will be nothing compared with the allowance I give you. Your accommodation will be poor with none of the comforts you experience here. Are you prepared for all this?’
Her mind racing, she thought hard. His words conjured up facts which she had chosen to ignore. All she had wanted was freedom. But to live alone? Her breathing slowed and she allowed a few moments to pass while the images and thoughts chased around her head. And then, at last, she knew the answer.
‘Yes, Father. Thank you for pointing out to me just how hard it will be. I hadn’t considered that. But now I have decided. I shall work and live apart from you and Stepmother. I need to be free.’
Slowly he nodded, eyes fixed on her face. ‘Very well. Then you must go and face whatever trials lay ahead of you, alone and without any help. No good coming back, Hester, when the money runs out, when the rent is due and your commissions are not paying enough. And don’t forget that you have to buy food. And clothes. And painting equipment. But you will do it, you say.’
They seemed locked in their closeness, their separate needs. Arthur Redding breathed very deeply and noisily. ‘I cannot give you my blessing because I do not think you should do this. And I would remind you of something you have evidently forgotten: because of my love for you I shall live in fear of what is happening to you, but it is very clear that you have no love for me, your father, who has nurtured you through all the years of our lives together.’ A distasteful expression spread across his face. ‘Perhaps not the love you seek – sentimental, overflowing and effusive – but a strong sense of what is the best thing to do. How to bring up my daughter; care for her; see that she has a safe life ahead of her as I grow older and more infirm. Love that says I must provide for her when I am gone.’
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