Ruby said unexpectedly, ‘He won’t like it, Miss, will he?’
‘No, he won’t. But I have to go.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
Hester turned away. ‘And Ruby, please pack my valise, will you? And don’t tell Mrs Redding anything – she’ll worry too much.’
Disappearing, Ruby said, ‘Leave it to me. I’ll see that everything’s all right.’
Waiting for Hoskins to bring around the trap, Hester, on an impulse, went down to the summerhouse and looked at her painting things, still lying where she had left them on the day of Father’s death.
In the gentian picture, she had been painting the last infinitesimal antenna of the blue butterfly on the point of flying off the page. How strange, she thought, Father passing on and the butterfly ready to fly.
She wrapped the picture carefully before returning to the house and putting it in the hall. It could come to London with her. She was uncertain why, but perhaps Emily Watson would like to compare the two works.
In the trap, Hester looked at the countryside all around her as they trotted down the lanes. The hedges were full and starred with wild roses, while Farmer Bartley’s fields grew green and rich as summer continued. In the distance Dartmoor shone under a brilliant sun, its age-old history punctuated by dramatic hills and tors. Passing the gate of Brook Cottage, she caught a glimpse of a foam of flowers, and by the gate where Nicholas had given her a spray of honeysuckle, the memories were almost too strong to face. She sighed, then, bravely, thought ahead. Yes, London would be so different.
In town, she went from the bank to the Reading Room. No one knew where Mr Flynn was, so she ordered Hoskins to take her to his house. Outside the small, rather dilapidated cottage where she had studied with him, she said, ‘I shan’t be long, Hoskins,’ and heard new authority in her voice.
No reply to her knock at the door. She knocked again, then walked around the side of the cottage and rapped on the shut back door. Only when she was returning to the trap did a man’s head appear, looking over the hedge separating the two gardens, saying, ‘The Flynnses is gone. Went a week or so ago. Never said – don’t know where.’ He nodded. ‘Funny lot, anyway. Didn’t pay their bills, so I ’eard. Best be rid o’ them, eh?’
Hester thanked him. The mystery was deepening but she felt excitement and readiness for what came next. The trip to London. It was an adventure and one that she suddenly knew she was ready for. As Aunt Jacks had said, women could do anything these days. Well, she would prove that to herself – and to anybody else who thought that she was just a country girl, bred to domesticity and a dull marriage. And that brought her back to Hugh. He would have to wait a few days longer for her answer; a sense of guilty relief filled her at the thought.
After luncheon Ruby waited in Hester’s bedroom, the valise half packed. ‘Only put a few things in, Miss Redding. Your nightdress, toilet things, wrapper, and a dinner dress; don’t know where you’re going to stay, or for how long. Will this be enough?’
‘I think so. I’m not sure when I shall be back.’
Ruby neatly folded a paisley shawl, putting it into the valise before closing it. ‘You might need this – they say London’s colder than down here.’ She met Hester’s eyes. ‘I hope everything goes all right, Miss Redding.’
A moment of unexpected intimacy, and Hester suddenly wished she and Ruby could talk more openly. It would be good to have someone to confide in – if the girl really had been her sister, things would be different. Then she remembered the scribbled name on the birth certificate and banished the thought, but her voice was warm as she said, ‘Thank you, Ruby. You’re being very helpful.’
‘I’m pleased to be able to do so, Miss Redding, and don’t worry – I’ll look after everything while you’re gone.’
Hester felt unexpected emotion pricking behind her eyelids and turned away. ‘I must go. The train leaves Newton at 2.20,’ she said, and hurried downstairs.
London was certainly different. Here, in the metropolis, with seeming millions of people bustling all around her, Hester felt out of her element. Standing outside the station, trying to summon a hansom cab, she wished she were back in safe Oak House, with Alice, the new maid, bringing up the tea, and she and Stepmother and Ruby in the drawing room, trying to find cheerful topics of conversation to while away the long hours.
And then she saw something bright, almost garish, on the pavement just ahead of her; a chalk picture of a country scene, tall trees crowned with unlikely-shaped leaves, a blue river flowing past, and a group of colourful children playing tag. Something deep inside her leaped and she felt the old passion ignite, hot and thrusting as it seared her mind. She approached the artist, a bedraggled young man with thin cheeks and a skeletal figure, bending over the pavement, putting finishing touches to his picture. She put some silver in the cap lying on the kerb. ‘Keep drawing,’ she said, voice firm, and had the pleasure of watching him smile as he put a finger to his forehead. ‘Thank’ee, lady. I will.’
A cab stopped then and she ran for it. ‘Campden Hill Road, Kensington, please. Number twenty.’ And then she felt in the right place, and at home in this new world where art welcomed her, even there, in the street.
Emily Watson’s smile offered a warm welcome. ‘Come in, Hester. I had your aunt’s telegram and we have a room prepared for you. Are you ready for a meal? Take off your coat, my dear, and come and sit down. That’s it. You look tired – well, now you can rest.’ She went to the stairwell and called down to the kitchen. ‘Tea, please, Sally, and that lemon cake you made yesterday.’ Returning, she took Hester into the drawing room, a pleasant room elegantly furnished and with a homely atmosphere. ‘We have a lot to talk about, Hester.’
They talked late into the evening after dinner served in the dining room at the back of the house, overlooking a long, green, shaded garden. New life surged through Hester once she was fed and rested, and she listened, fascinated, as Emily talked about her latest project – the book that she was completing – and the imminent expedition to the Dolomites to return to a site and check a particular painting she had made, which must be included in the book.
‘We go as a party,’ Emily told her, sitting by the fireplace in the drawing room. ‘I pick my friends very carefully, and have a reliable courier to organize our accommodation as we travel. Last year it worked well and I have every faith in it being a good experience this time.’
Hester said, ‘It sounds wonderful. Makes me almost want to come with you.’
Emily smiled as she sipped her brandy. ‘You would be very welcome, and I’m sure you’d enjoy finding new plants and painting them.’ Her tone grew firmer. ‘But now we must discuss the entry into the painting competition, which I know your aunt has told you about. It was sent under the name of Joseph Flynn, but—’ She paused. ‘But, when looking at it at Kew, I recalled seeing your work at Jacks’ garden day in the spring, and something made me wonder about this particular painting. The tiny grub working its way up the stem, for instance, heading for the newly opened leaves, touched a chord of memory.’ She laughed. ‘An original idea, and I remember that the painting you showed me then had a similar creature climbing around the flower.’
‘Yes, Miss Watson, I don’t know why, but I like to put a beetle, or a moth, or a butterfly in my pictures. It gives vitality and life, I think.’ She hesitated. ‘I have brought my latest picture for you to see, in case you wish to compare it with the other entry. Shall I fetch it?’
‘Please do.’
Emily took one look at the gentian and the blue butterfly and said, ‘Yes, of course, I recognize your work. And it is very clearly the same artist who has painted the competition entry.’ She looked across at Hester. ‘Do you know this Flynn man?’
‘He was my tutor.’
‘How shocking. Have you seen him, demanded an explanation?’
‘He’s no longer around. I was told he has left the district.’
Emily pursed her lips. ‘In London, seeking his fortune, and
trying to become this year’s competition winner, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She gave the painting back to Hester. ‘We must clear up this annoying muddle. Tomorrow we’ll go to Kew and get it sorted out.’
Standing up, she reached out her hand and drew Hester from her chair. ‘I think you should go to bed. We shall need our wits about us in the morning if we’re to bring that rogue Mr Flynn to his just deserts.’ She smiled. ‘Come now, my dear, let me take you upstairs.’
The Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew were wonders of beauty and fascination that Hester could never have imagined. She longed to wander through the trees and explore the vast glasshouses, but Emily briskly led her to a large building and left her at the entrance, saying, ‘I will leave you here for a while. There are various people I must see and I daresay you can amuse yourself looking around.’ She paused briefly. ‘This is the herbarium where all the plants are recorded. I shall talk with the resident botanical artist, and discuss your painting and that of Joseph Flynn. Then I’ll be back – shall we meet in about an hour? Is that all right, Hester?’
‘Yes, Miss Watson. There’s so much to see – and I want to visit the Marianne North Gallery of Botanic Art. I’ve read about it.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Emily smiled approvingly. ‘All those paintings of the plants she discovered when travelling. You’ll learn a lot from them, my dear.’
Alone, Hester looked around her. The gardens stretched on and on, but she knew exactly where she must go, and easily found the long, low building of the gallery opposite the famous Temperate House. Inside, she caught her breath. So many paintings. Leaflets informed her that there were 832 of them, all the work of Marianne North, who had travelled alone to North and South America, South Africa and many parts of Asia, searching out the native plants, setting up her easel and then painting them. Before her death she had bequeathed this gallery to Kew, together with the paintings contained in it.
She had died, Hester noted sadly, just a year ago. If only she had had been able to meet her, to find out about painting the world’s unknown plant life. Looking at these paintings, by a middle aged lady who had travelled alone among hardship and danger to fulfil her passion for birds and butterflies, Hester found her own passion mounting. If only she could do what this intrepid artist had done.
If only... .
Something urgent began to burn inside her. Father had died. Nicholas had said they must never meet again. She supposed she was going to marry Hugh. Yes, life was plagued with difficulties, sadness and regret, but if she had nothing else, she had her painting. And Emily Watson thought highly of her talent. And perhaps something might come of this muddle over the painting competition.
I will paint. I will make a career for myself, out here, in the world. Women can do anything – everything. And so will I, even if, as Hugh’s wife I have only a few spare hours a week.
And then another surprising thought crept into her mind. IF I marry Hugh... .
She gave a last look at Marianne North’s amazing output of work and then turned and left the gallery. Outside the fresh air reinvigorated her thoughts and her resolve. She started walking towards the herbarium to meet Emily Watson, for the hour was nearly up.
And then, in the distance, coming down the path ahead of her, a figure caught her eye. Tall, unmistakable, the gait and strength so clearly revealing someone she knew. Someone she loved. Nicholas.
She waited, heart racing, and saw him stop a stone’s throw away, removing his hat, eyes intent on her. Slowly, he came nearer. She saw wonder in his eyes, warmth suffusing his face, and knew that this was a moment when she must be strong. She should turn away at once, for only pain and longing could result from this accidental meeting. But he was looking at her, holding out his hands. Indecision wracked her. What could she do?
She was lost. ‘Nicholas!’ She ran forward to meet him, smiling up into his astonished face. ‘Oh, Nicholas!’
‘What are you doing here, Hester? Of all places – I thought you safe at home in Devon.’ His hands were strong, his voice low, full of pleasure and surprise.
Stumbling, she explained about Emily Watson and the painting competition. ‘I am going home tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but why are you here?’
‘Making final arrangements with a colleague here in the Gardens about Emily’s expedition – we leave next Friday.’ They stood, gazing at each other, hands clasped. Hester knew her heart was in her face and her voice as she said, unevenly, hesitantly, ‘Your letter, Nicholas. When you said we must never meet again – did you really mean it?’
At once his face hardened and he let fall her hands, but slowly, as if he couldn’t bear to abandon them. ‘Yes, I did mean it. I have nothing to offer you, Hester. I’m just a plantsman – someone with a mind full of guilt, and a ridiculous sense of ambition which will never achieve anything. Believe me, it’s best that we part.’
Slowly, painfully, her radiant smile died. His words were hard, his eyes had become steely blue and determined. She felt as if he had struck her. Was there no love left in him? Not even enough to hope and plan for a future they could somehow share?
But then, mercifully, pride came to ease the pain and dictate the next step. She lifted her head, forcing her voice to be casual. ‘I see. Well, it’s been nice to meet you again, and I wish you well on the expedition. Perhaps you’ll find that wonderful gentian you told me about.’
‘Perhaps.’ One cold word, putting an end to the meeting.
Their eyes clung, but the moment had passed. He nodded, replaced his hat and seemed only to be waiting for her departure. Hester turned away, tears masking her vision, but then Emily’s voice called from the herbarium entrance.
‘Over here, Hester – time we went home, I think. And I have some news for you.’
It was hard, leaving him standing there, feeling his longing and his wretchedness reaching out for her as she walked away, thankful to have somewhere to go, to have a reason for putting all the pain and regret out of her mind.
‘I’m coming, Miss Watson.’ She hurried on and by the time she reached the herbarium steps the tears had vanished. And the thought of Nicholas, still standing there, watching, was just a torturing image which would of course return, but which, for the moment, she could thankfully replace with a more positive, exciting thought.
Painting, she told herself determinedly. All I’ve got left is painting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Returning to Kensington, Emily told Hester the result of her talk with the botanical artist working in the herbarium. ‘Miss Smith will try to trace Mr Flynn – his note enclosing the entry has a London address – and will tell him he is not eligible for entry.’ Beaming, she went on. ‘And yours will go forward for judging. A decision will be made in a day or two, so let’s keep hoping that you at least earn a good recommendation, shall we?’
Hester fought to keep Nicholas out of her mind. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you for sorting it all out for me, Miss Watson.’
Emily’s smile vanished. ‘Is something wrong, my dear? You look disturbed.’ Her glance was sharp. ‘Was that Nicholas Thorne I saw you talking to?’
‘Yes.’ But she must not think about him.
‘I suppose he was at Kew meeting his colleague who works in the herbarium. And no doubt he’s busy making arrangements to join my party when we leave next week.’ Frowning, Emily added, ‘I believe Nicholas has a fondness for you. my dear. How well do you know him? Nothing about his troubled background, perhaps?’
Hester tensed, waiting for control to return. ‘I only know that he has hopes of finding a double gentian.’
‘Oh, that!’ Emily laughed. ‘Of course, all collectors believe they can find something rare – even non-existent. But perhaps I should tell you about the accident that happened last year when we were in the Dolomites, and for which Nicholas believes himself to be responsible.’
‘He feels guilty?’ A shutter in Hester’s mind opened painfully. Memories struck. Nicholas had said he knew about guilt. She looked at
Emily. ‘Please tell me.’
But the cab slowed, and Emily looked out of the window. ‘We’re nearly home. I’ll tell you the rest indoors.’ The cabbie reined in and they got out, going into the house and removing their wraps and hats.
And then it was time for Emily to work on her book and after luncheon Hester went upstairs to repack her valise and think about going home.
Looking out of the window, hearing the traffic in the high street and half longing to be back in the peace of the country, she began thinking uncomfortably about Emily’s information. Did she really want to know why Nicholas felt guilty? How much better it would be to erase all the memories of him. She reminded herself that she was taking a new step forward in life. She would marry Hugh, become the highly social wife he demanded, but – here she frowned and pursed her lips – she would insist on a few hours a week for her painting. Perhaps she might even gain a commission or two, although no doubt Hugh would take exception to her becoming a working woman.
She sighed. It wasn’t going to be easy, but the old passion remained. Painting would be her life, come what may.
Later, over tea, she listened to Emily’s tales of exploration and discovery, of Jon’s accident, and at the same time learned fascinating facts about painting in difficult conditions.
Early next morning she was ready to take a cab to Paddington station. Emily kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ve been delighted to have you, Hester – you must come again.’
They smiled at one another and then she added, ‘I hope you have a good journey home and—’ Delving into her pocket, she produced a small book. ‘Nicholas’s journal may pass the time for you. He left it with me so that I could check details of last year’s expedition. I’ve finished with it now and I expect he’s forgotten all about it.’ She smiled. ‘He’s so busy I don’t suppose he’ll remember that he gave it to me. You can return it when we meet again.’ She embraced Hester. ‘Goodbye, my dear, and keep painting, won’t you?’
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