Into the Blue

by Christina Green

  ‘How splendid that would be.’ It was all over, that magical moment of shared pleasure, and now she was back in her dreary life. At the entrance to Oak House he suddenly, almost roughly, took her hand. ‘Hester, we must meet again – somehow.’

  She turned, saw a longing in his eyes that touched her heart, but had no idea how to reply. And then, abruptly, it was finished. Horses’ hoofs were trotting down the lane, a trap was reined in, and Hugh Marchant stared down at them.

  ‘Hester? What are you doing out here? And who the hell are you, sir?’

  She heard the arrogance, the rising anger, and said sharply, ‘Hugh, this is Nicholas Thorne, who has escorted me home from Aunt Jacks’ cottage.’ She turned. ‘Nicholas, this is my friend, Hugh Marchant.’

  There was a charged silence while the two men appraised each other. Then, grudgingly, Hugh said, ‘Good of you, Thorne, to bring her home. But I’ll take her into the house now – no need to delay you any further.’

  Hester said nothing. She watched Nicholas smile wryly, nod his acknowledgement, then bade her a cool good night, turning and walking rapidly away, disappearing into the shadows, his footsteps the last memory of his presence.

  ‘What do you want, Hugh?’ she asked wearily, climbing up on to the seat beside him.

  ‘To see you, of course. To ask after your father.’ He paused. Then, curtly, ‘Hester, you shouldn’t be out at this time of night, alone. And ought I to know that fellow?’

  Driving up to the entrance of the house, she smiled wryly. ‘No, Hugh, you wouldn’t know him. He’s a plantsman, a professional nurseryman.’

  ‘A gardener? Good God! The impudence of the man, being out here, alone with you at this time of night.’

  She was too tired, too full of emotion, to argue. ‘Never mind. Now come in and sit down. I suppose you want to talk?’

  He handed her down from the trap as if, she thought resentfully, he imagined he already possessed her. He smiled. ‘Of course I do, dear Hester. And you know what I’m going to talk about, don’t you?’

  She did. The subject was always the same. How proper it would be, how wonderful, for them to marry. He would look after her, relieve her burdens, give her prosperity and affection. Her father would be pleased: indeed, their engagement might help his recovery. Again and again, he asked, would she marry him? And although she always gave the same answer – thank you, Hugh, but no – her tired mind was slowly accepting that perhaps one day, with life controlling her instead of the other way around, she might be well advised to say yes instead.

  Nicholas Thorne walked back to town very fast, his thoughts racing. So that was the man whom local gossip linked with Hester. The new boy, joining the old, well-established law firm. Of course, what could be more suitable than that Hester should marry this Hugh Marchant? He had everything to offer: excellent prospects, family connections and a good lifestyle. She would be foolish not to accept him.

  His footsteps slowed as he entered the nursery garden. All was quiet, only Mrs Kent’s cat emerging from the shadows to rub against his legs as he walked to the front door. He entered the still house, his thoughts unfocused, and then went into the office. A moon nearly at its full shone cold light through the uncurtained window and immediately his eyes looked at the table in the curve of the bay. He had removed Hester’s painting and taken her equipment back to Brook Cottage, but still something of her remained. Her breath. Her smile.

  He lingered by the window, wondering what was happening to him. Those moments alone with her had been rare and precious. The sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle crushed in her warm hand would now always haunt him. And her uplifted, beautiful face, turned to him, inviting, welcoming. He would never forget, never be free of the memory of their kiss.

  But he must. A plantsman, a professional nurseryman, yes, that was all he was. No model for the husband of a girl brought up in a higher echelon of life. He stared through the window, thoughts circling in great painful drifts as he tried to come to terms with what he knew he must do.

  Go away. Leave her to live her own life while he continued his plant collecting. Contact Emily Watson and ask for details of the expedition. She had mentioned the possibility of going in June, this year. Well, returning to the mountains would take him back to the debt he knew he owed Jonathon West. And perhaps those hard trails through valleys and up dangerous crags with their enticing new plants would relieve the pain that trying to forget Hester was causing.

  Tomorrow he would write to Emily. In the morning, his thoughts would be calmer and the words would come. He went up to his bed, aware of a presence following him up the stairs, standing by the window, looking into the garden, and then, just as sleep hit him, turned and looked back at him.

  Closing his eyes, he muttered, Let me be, Hester. For both our sakes I must forget you. Just let me be... .

  In the morning the sunlight showed a small room with a bed, a table, a chair and a washbasin. No haunting shadow by the window. No welcoming, arousing smile. He washed and dressed quickly, went downstairs and out into the garden. The nursery beds needed attention, young Jim had scamped the weeding. And he must talk to his father about the next expedition. His father would complain, of course, but Mrs Jacks would suggest a suitable man to take his place. He bent over the alpine rockery and stared at the row of gentians, before turning away and moving on to the next task.

  There was so much to do, and thank God for it.

  The post came early but already Nicholas was at work in the nursery beds, inspecting, nurturing, assessing and almost, but not quite, lost in his concentration. The click of the closing gate alerted him to the postal delivery, and something made him stride back into the house. Perhaps there would be word from Emily Watson. He knew now, clear and plain, that he must leave Newton as soon as possible.

  A couple of business letters, some early autumn catalogues, and a large packet with a London postmark. Curiously, he opened it first, realizing at once that this was some of the dried foliage of recorded plants occasionally sent to him by his contact at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. He had met young Alan Meacham last time he was in London, before setting out on the expedition to the Dolomites, and Alan had promised to inform him of the new plants which collectors were regularly bringing back to Kew. As well as seeds, they brought with them the dried plants for storage in the herbarium, to be sorted out and recorded in large books. Alan Meacham had said that sometimes unusual plant foliage found its way into the material being recorded, and if there were any alpines which might interest the nursery, he would send examples.

  His note was brief. ‘Thought you would be interested to see this. It came back a few months ago with some new plants from the Dolomites. Looks like a different form of gentian. I know there is talk of doubles, but I doubt if this is what they are thinking of. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll enjoy having a look at it. Look me up next time you’re in London.’

  Nicholas let the note slip out of his fingers. His eyes fixed on the anonymous beige straw-like foliage that slid out of its encompassing envelope. Yes, it was a gentian, no doubt about it. But – a double? For a second his heartbeat increased, but then the professional side of his nature took over. Don’t get too excited. There are only tales about doubles, nothing of any proof. This may well look like a double but... .

  He turned it over in his hands, found a magnifier with which to inspect any tiny verification of double growth, and then put the dried-up material back in its container. Nothing there to prove it was anything but a slightly offbeat gentian; perhaps a throwback to an old ancestor, long since extinct, with no future to it.

  But... .

  Again his heart raced. And suddenly, all the old guilt about Jon’s death, the pain of knowing he and Hester could never be together, left him. He was a new man with a new future. He would go with Emily on the next expedition; she had mentioned June, which meant they could be there in July, which was the time a double gentian would bloom. If there was one.

  Hurriedly, he pushed asid
e the rest of the unopened post, took a pen and began a letter to Emily.

  Dear Miss Watson

  I am in receipt of some important new information about the possibility of finding the legendary double gentian in the northern Italian mountains. Of course it may mean nothing, but I hope to find definite proof or not of its possible existence. Therefore, as before, I offer you my services in the expedition you are planning, and hope to travel to London to make final arrangements with you very soon.

  I trust you keep well, and look forward to seeing you again.

  Yours sincerely, Nicholas Thorne

  He rose, sealed the envelope, walked out of the house and posted the letter. Suddenly the world was new and he felt as if a miracle had remade his life. Yes, from now on he would be forever lonely, but perhaps that was what destiny had in store for him. To plough his solitary path, and ignore this burning, yet hopeless, need for Hester’s love.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ruby looked around her small bedroom and pursed determined lips. She was at the top of one of the two turreted gables of the house which, although certainly handsome seen from outside, were cramped, stuffy and extremely uncomfortable. Look at those sloping ceilings – she had often knocked her head when leaning down to make the bed. Stand up straight and – bash.

  The high window offered a slight consolation, looking down into the vegetable garden, but the chimney stack at the side of the window had a very unfriendly appearance. Dirty bricks, bird droppings all over it, and those old jackdaws forever clacking away.

  She had made the room as pretty as she could. Rain still seeped through worn lime wash, making stains under the window, but she had some nice things to look at. The patchwork cushion, recently finished, and admired by Mistress, decorated her little iron bedstead. Miss Hester’s picture was pinned on the wall and gave Ruby a lesson in determination every time she looked at it. The dandelion stood erect, its mind clearly on its next step. Nothing could impede the growth of that flower. What had Miss Hester said? Affinity. It was a word Ruby liked and she wondered if it applied to her and the dandelion. And that moth creature on the stem – that suggested something growing and finally flying away. Just like her, really.

  She knew that stepping out into the future was important, but where and when? Since Master’s seizure last week, and that horrid conversation with Miss Hester, her plans had gone awry. So she wasn’t Master’s daughter after all. Grudgingly, she supposed a lawyer had to be right. And Ma had spelled Master’s name wrong on the paper, which hadn’t helped. But Ma had been very funny in her last days.

  So that left her just where she was, housemaid with no prospects. Slowly, Ruby grinned. Ah, but she would make some. Looking around, she came to a vital decision. She wouldn’t stay here, perched up beside Mrs Caunter’s equally miserable room, from which every trumpeting snore disturbed her own sleep. Ruby nodded her head. There was an empty guest room downstairs. It was time to make a move.

  Even in her worst moments, she had always seen the light at the end of the tunnel. Very well, if she couldn’t be the new daughter of the household, she’d be something else. Her smile flowered, imagining herself as Mistress’s companion. A step up into a better life. More freedom, more enjoyment, fewer orders and hard work.

  Sitting on her bed, Ruby saw herself dressed in new clothes. A companion was higher than a house servant and would always be with Mistress, meeting new people, watching how they lived and behaved and dressed, hearing how they talked. She might even meet a nice young man. Not that she was keen to marry – the marriages she had seen mostly ended in drink and rough houses, with children growing up neglected and miserable.

  No, she’d be happy to settle down here, running the household, giving orders to Mrs Caunter and the new maid who would take her own place downstairs, and, yes, all this while she would be sitting with Mistress, doing her sewing and generally behaving like a lady.

  Like a lady. But she’d never be like Hester, would she? Hester was so pretty, elegant and strong-minded, and these days, since the business of the birth certificate, seemed to be more friendly. She admired Hester but had doubts about her future. Would she marry Hugh Marchant? But what about the gardener, the big man with the lovely voice?

  Ruby got up, saw that her dark afternoon dress was tidy, her apron and white starched cap was straight. She admired herself in the cracked mirror and then went down the wooden stairs to Master’s bedroom, where she knocked, then entered and sat by his bedside for five minutes before going to the kitchen and getting the tea ready.

  She liked these easy, caring duties. At the beginning she had planned to tell him about the birth certificate, to watch his face when she said who she was, but that wasn’t possible now. Firstly, she had promised Hester she would keep silent; secondly, her feelings for this pale figure lying beneath unmoving bedclothes had become warmer, even if he wasn’t the father she had hoped to confront. Now the idea of shocking and hurting him had quite gone.

  She sat by his bedside, planning the new wardrobe a companion would require. When Mr Redding suddenly opened his eyes, looked up at her and frowned, it was a surprise. She bent over him. ‘Can I get you something, Master?’

  His face moved, cracked lips trying to open and close until finally he said in a faint voice, ‘Miss Hester. Where’s Miss Hester?’

  ‘In her room, painting. Shall I get her?’ A weak nod. She got up, dampened his lips with a cloth wrung out from the bowl of water on the table, and then left the room, knocking at Hester’s door and saying urgently, ‘Master wants you, Miss. He’s awake, talking. Shall I bring him a cup of tea?’

  Hester roused from deep concentration, brush poised over the flower she was painting. A newly picked gentian had replaced the one she destroyed; its petals were coloured in, bluest of blue, and she was painting the tiny figure of a caterpillar nibbling one of the green fleshy leaves below the flower. It was necessary to work hard, denying other unhappy, resentful thoughts and instead focusing on the painting.

  During the days since she had last seen Nicholas, her mind had taken in, considered and finally, very painfully, accepted the new plan of her life. She would not continue painting at the nursery; it would be agony to see him again. She must forget she had ever met him. Difficult, but instead she must be grateful for Hugh’s interest and his help during these awful days of Father’s illness.

  Would marrying Hugh be so awful? They would honeymoon in the south of France, he had said, where she could find wild flowers; he would make her a studio in the house he contemplated buying and there would be a groom and a trap for visiting Father every day. She frowned and the dreams grew darker. Everything depended on Father’s recovery; she could not leave him and so she had written to Mr Hayward explaining that she could not spare time to continue painting for him. He had responded with a scribbled note saying: All right, I expect Flynn can find someone else. Hope your father gets better soon.

  That had brought disappointment and spoiled pride; would someone else be as good as she was? But flower painting was a popular hobby. Of course he would find someone else. But then anger rose. But I’m not just a flower painter – I’m a botanical artist.

  The decision taken, she now managed short spells of time in the afternoons painting. The flora was no longer attractive, but when, this morning, she saw another gentian in the garden, memory had forced her to pick it without further thought. This painting would hold all her love and her shattered dreams. She was devoting her attention, her technical knowledge and all her creative instinct to making this a painting that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

  When Ruby knocked, she didn’t, for a few seconds, understand. But then the demands of everyday life returned and she put down her brush. ‘Yes, Ruby, bring up some tea. I’ll go to Father.’

  He was looking at the door with new interest in his eyes, and a patch of colour on pale cheeks. ‘Hester. I must talk to you.’

  ‘I don’t think you should do too much, Father. Dr Winters said yo
u needed rest.’

  ‘Winters is an old fool.’ There was a familiar rasp in the breathless voice. ‘I’m not going to lie here and die – things to do. Help me sit up.’

  With an arm around his shoulders, she arranged an extra pillow and held his shaking hand. ‘What do you want to talk about, Father?’

  ‘About you. And me.’ He looked at her with a feverish intensity that scared her.

  ‘Please, don’t force yourself.’

  Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, sucked in a breath and kept looking at her. ‘I’ve been away – I’ve learned a lot. Lying here, thinking, I know I was wrong. I’ve denied you all you asked for. Freedom, happiness. My dear daughter, you are a blessing to me. I’m fortunate to have you. But... .’ The breath ran out and he panted, lying back, eyes closed.

  Ruby knocked and brought in a tray of tea. She exchanged glances with Hester and said, ‘Pour out, shall I, and bring a cup over to Master?’

  Hester nodded. Her father’s apparent relapse into overwhelming weakness worried her. She took the cup Ruby offered, and gently helped her father drink. ‘Sip this, Father. I’ll hold the cup steady.’

  It was a slow business, but when Ruby brought over a plate with a slice of Victoria sponge, topped with cream and jam, the patient nodded and managed a mouthful or two before lying back again, eyes closed, breath abruptly rattling in his chest.

  Anxiously, Ruby came to Hester’s side. ‘Shall I tell Hoskins to get the doctor?’

  Hester said a slow no, but suddenly Arthur Redding opened his eyes, stared from face to face, and said in a stronger voice, ‘Tell the maid to go. We must talk.’

  Hester looked at Ruby and nodded. ‘Give Mrs Redding her tea, please, Ruby. I’ll stay here.’ She was encouraged at the warmth in the girl’s eyes, and smiled as she left the room.