Into the Blue

by Christina Green

  Hester carried a bunch of fragrant garden flowers, walking slowly to the newly mounded grave. She stood still, wishing Father could know about her success, that she was taking the step to freedom – like the butterfly he had pointed out, going into the blue.

  I wish I could talk to him. I hope he understands. Tears came but she was calm when she joined Hoskins at the churchyard gates.

  And then the goodbyes. Stepmother was in floods, Aunt Jacks smiled with great control, and Ruby came into the bedroom when Hester was packing the last items.

  A shared look, and then Hester said quietly, ‘Ruby, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done, and which I know you will go on doing. I couldn’t leave if you weren’t here.’ She opened the jewel box on the dressing table and gestured at it. ‘I want to give you something to show my gratitude – if there’s anything here that you’d like, please take it.’ She paused, then the last words came easily. ‘With my love.’

  Ruby looked at the box and took out the various pieces of jewellery. The cameo, Grandmother’s earrings, the brooches, the ruby bracelet and matching pendant, the moonstone necklace. She fingered this, looked at it, then put it down again, and finally picked up the green Venetian beads. ‘Please, I’d like this necklace, Miss Redding. It’s lovely and I shall feel a real lady in it.’

  Hester nodded. ‘Good.’

  Ruby held it to her neck, looked in the mirror and smiled. ‘I shall think of you when I wear it. Thank you.’

  Sudden overwhelming emotion made Hester turn away. She shut the valise and picked up her reticule before looking back at Ruby. The green eyes were regarding her with a new expression, to which it was impossible not to respond. A pause and then she put down the valise and bag, and held out her arms. ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered.

  Ruby’s arms closed around her. Cheek to cheek, they held tightly for a moment before parting. Then Ruby cleared her throat. ‘I’ll carry your bag down, Hester.’ Together they descended the stairs and walked to the open doorway. Hester climbed into the trap, waving goodbye, and Ruby watched until the trap turned into the lane, when she closed the door and returned to where Mrs Redding was sitting, red eyed, demanding reassurance and comfort.

  Ruby’s thoughts were legion. Hester had taken that final step. Would she find Nicholas? What would happen if she did? Would she ever come back here to Oak House? And if she didn’t then Ruby supposed she would be mistress here until the day when poor Mrs Redding passed along – and then where would she go? But she was an optimist; so, smiling, she arranged a shopping trip into town later in the afternoon, and decided that life was good. Perhaps not exactly as she had planned it when she first arrived but really so much better than she had ever hoped for.

  Taking the Venetian beads from her pocket and holding them to her throat, she wondered, eyes shining, if there was not another step to take: not yet, but perhaps one day?

  At last, here were the mountains. Hester sat in the lurching carriage as it rolled and rocked over pot-holed roads, staring at what lay ahead. Huge steep peaks of grey rock tipped with snow, thrusting up into the blue sky, formidable barriers to which there appeared to be no end. And yet, travelling further along the valley, she saw green meadows, starred with flowers, between stands of trees.

  The seventy-two-hour journey from London by train, water, another train, and now this uncomfortable carriage, had been tiring but exciting as she had never travelled so far before. Emily had told her what to expect in this almost uncharted region of mountains, rivers, chasms and terrifying precipices. ‘You’ll enjoy it once you get used to the hardship,’ she said as the train rattled along. ‘We shall be travelling either by mule or on foot. I hope you’ve brought a good thick skirt. You’ll need it – those saddles are very hard. But the flowers and the butterflies – ah, Hester, they will make up for any hardship. Believe me, you are going to love this wonderful landscape.’ She smiled and then added, ‘Of course, you’ll spend a lot of time painting – I’m delighted you’re here to record the alpines we find, because I shall have time to focus on anything larger which I didn’t record last year, as well as making sure I have the details right for the painting to be included in the book. So much to see and do.’

  When finally the coach came to a creaking stop in a small stone-built village surrounded by vast grey mountains, Hester was almost too tired to think what was happening. She followed Emily into the entrance of the hotel, and then, from a room at the side, saw a tall man appear. Nicholas. Her heart leaped.

  He greeted Emily, seeming not to notice Hester, standing quietly in the shade of the doorway. Until, ‘Hester... .’ The low voice was almost inaudible but surprised, wondering.

  She could only smile, hold out her hands, and wait for his reaction. Did he still refuse to acknowledge their love? She waited, knowing this was the most important moment in her life. And then, those strong arms were holding her; she heard the racing beat of his heart, felt his hands about her, his mouth touching her cheek, her forehead, her lips, his deep voice a murmur, saying the miraculous words, ‘God, how I love you, Hester – how I’ve missed you.’

  Yet, lost in all that magical warmth and love, she waited, uncertainty clouding her joy. What if he still thought they had no place in the world together? What about his pride, his guilt, his determination?

  And then, like a drop into an abyss, her fear became reality. He drew away, standing at a distance, his voice stiff. ‘Forgive me, I shouldn’t say this, behave like this. I apologize, Miss Redding.’

  Emily, watching, said briskly, ‘Nicholas, Hester has won a painting competition held by the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. Isn’t it splendid?’

  Hester watched his face lift, saw, for a second, a glow brightening his eyes, and was encouraged to say, ‘I painted the bastard balm you picked for me.’

  Did he remember? Was she foolishly speaking out of turn? But his flash of vivid smile reassured her. ‘Congratulations, Miss Redding.’ He paused. ‘I always thought you had great talent.’ They stood looking at each other, and she read in his face all that he could not bring himself to say. All that he felt, but was pushing away.

  ‘Thank you.’ She bowed her head, trying to control the threatening emotions. For a second she felt dizzy with pain and longing. She watched him pick up the waiting luggage and start to climb the stairs at the side of the hallway. Slowly she went up behind him, aware that Emily was watching. And then, suddenly, she knew, with brave new courage, that in spite of everything and come what may, life just went on.

  At least she was here. At least he had said he loved her, had missed her. Well, they would be spending time together on the trail of new plants, and somehow – she clenched her fists, engraving the decision into her mind – somehow she would help him forget the guilt, teach him that her new life as an artist was no barrier to their possible union, nothing that he could not overcome.

  Turning into the room at the top of the stairs that a waiting girl indicated, Hester knew, with a surprising sense of calm, that she had come to terms with this moment in her life. If Nicholas said no, then she would return to England, and work at her career. She would always have her painting, even if love was destined to pass her by.

  And yet, looking around the barely furnished bedroom, she knew she had one more step to take, to fight for his love. A step which, even yet, might bring them together and enhance their lives. Somehow she would take it. She would return his journal, and give him the painting of the gentian and the butterfly. She would write a brief message on it – and then it would all be up to him.

  Chaos filled Nicholas’s mind. He had sworn that he and Hester should never meet again, but here she was. And his need, his ever-growing love for her, refused to be denied. There were days, even weeks, ahead of them when he would be seeing her, watching her, feeling his longing for her grow with every minute. How was he to behave while inwardly his body and mind were in turmoil?

  That evening was spent in discussion, planning the next day with the courier who had
already hired several porters. Emily was eager to trek on and find the village from which she had previously travelled to her chosen painting site. Nicholas had agreed with her decision to start after an early breakfast next day, to take sufficient provisions to give them luncheon, and then to journey on until the village and fresh accommodation was reached.

  Alberto, the courier, warned of rough tracks. ‘You ladies must go by mule, too hard on delicate feet to walk.’ Emily had responded with a chuckle, ‘And almost as hard on a mule’s bony back. We must be sure to put blankets under those hard saddles.’

  Making such decisions, as well as Nicholas’s own plans to hunt for the flower for which Jon had been searching, were a help to his disturbed mind and he realized that from now on he must concentrate solely on the reason for his being here.

  So it was in a calmer voice he said good night to the ladies after supper, but it was impossible not to watch Hester as she walked towards the stairs. He thought she looked paler than usual and there was a brightness missing from her lovely eyes. He longed to take her in his arms, to kiss away that sweet frailty and tell her he would always be at her side, caring for her, loving her. Instead, he went to the staircase and said, without any emotion, ‘Good night, Miss Redding, I hope you sleep well. You need a good rest – tomorrow will be very tiring.’

  Turning, she met his gaze and her voice was equally controlled. ‘Thank you, Nicholas. I’m sure I shall have a good night. Yes – tomorrow is a new day.’

  He heard her pause, watched her eyes widen for a second, and then saw the return of strong self-control. He bowed. ‘Indeed. A new day.’

  His hungry eyes followed as she went upstairs, then he heard the bedroom door close and had to turn away sharply to banish the images flashing through his mind. He longed to be there, close to her, caressing her, loving her.

  Alone in her room, Hester opened the journal, put her painting between the pages, and took out her pen. What should she say? She sat on her bed for a time, trying out words and phrases that would surely banish the differences between them. Finally she wrote, ‘From Hester, with my love,’ and realized that those five words said everything. Nothing else was needed. She put the journal aside, planning to wait for the right moment to give it to him. An instinct told her that she would recognize the moment when it came.

  Outside the night was darkening, and Nicholas thought the massive peaks were bowing down ever nearer, encircling the village and its inhabitants. Moments of sensible thinking finally banished this nightmare, but when the dawn broke next morning, he sensed a new feeling of excitement surging through him. This was the new day when the search would begin. The day when – perhaps – he would find the legendary double gentian, and ease the guilt he still felt about Jon’s death. Dressing quickly, he went outside to help Alberto organise the porters and see to the padded saddles of the mules.

  Day followed day. Emily, accustomed to the hardships, encouraged Hester to make light of the tiring travelling and by the end of the first week Hester felt a new woman. Strength had returned and Emily had been right: she was in love with the landscape. Mountains, roaring rivers, dark and frightening ravines: all were forgotten as they rode through valleys green with trees and flowers enclosed by a myriad of butterflies.

  She had never thought she would see such beauty, know such passion pushing up inside her, finding plants to paint. She was learning all the time, setting up her easel in suitable places and painting what she saw, often leaving Emily back in her chosen venue while she and Nicholas and the remaining porter journeyed on, resting in these lush meadows. At such times she and Nicholas conversed unemotionally. ‘I expect you want to move on, Nicholas – I know you’re eager to search for that flower,’ she said on one occasion, opening her paintbox.

  He looked surprised. ‘The double gentian? You know about it?’

  Hester tensed. ‘You mentioned it once. And then... .’ She took courage and continued. ‘I read your journal. I know you’re looking for it. And I know why—’ She stopped abruptly, seeing the startled widening of his eyes.

  ‘You read my journal?’ But something in Nicholas began to flow more easily. Perhaps she understood. ‘But how? I left it with Emily, she needed to check on some details.’

  Putting down her brush, she turned and met his challenging gaze. Was this the time to talk about Jon? To try and ease the guilt which she knew still raged inside him? Carefully she said, ‘Emily lent it to me. It’s in my bag at the inn. Of course you must have it back, I’ll return it this evening, but Nicholas—’ Words rushed on. ‘I was so glad to read it; to know how you felt about Jon’s accident.’

  No. He was silent, looking at her with abruptly steel-cold eyes. She flinched, seeing emotion spreading over his face, but she knew she had been right to broach the banished subject.

  ‘So you know that I failed to save him?’ His voice was hard. ‘That I feel unending guilt? You know all this?’

  ‘I do. And I sympathize, but I know that you must push away the guilt – the accident wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ The words were tight and he turned away, staring at the surrounding peaks, at the drifting mist which floated over the snow-covered tops, making the landscape a palette of pale colours and wavering images. He turned back to her, words difficult to find at first, but gradually becoming easier. ‘I’m glad you know, Hester. And now you understand that my search for this probably non-existent flower is vital to my future wellbeing. Thank you.’

  It was a long moment before Hester nodded, ordered her emotions to sink back into their accustomed, well-drilled places, and returned to her painting. She must change the subject; she picked up her brush. ‘I love recording these little alpines. Perhaps tomorrow we can go somewhere near a river? One of Emily’s books says there should be a small bell flower growing in a damp habitat. What do you think?’

  Normality was restored. Nicholas nodded. ‘I know a place that’s likely to have it.’ The river bank where Jon slipped and fell. The bell flower is sure to be there. And while I’m there, perhaps I can work out some of my wretched guilt.

  During the late afternoon they journeyed on to the next stop, a different village, a different inn, welcoming hosts and strange food. Hester, by now used to this peripatetic living, was enjoying herself. The freedom was exhilarating. She looked at her paintings and knew that these records of new plants would be of use to the world, perhaps particularly to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. Her technique was improving; her passion growing ever stronger. The only problem in her world was Nicholas, who had, once again, closed up and had nothing to say except the polite necessities. In her room, she opened the journal, and looked at her painting of the gentian and her message. When would the moment come to return it to him? Tomorrow.

  The storm broke as Hester put her head on the pillow. It had been threatening all evening, but now its full fury raged around the village. Thunder rolled and echoed, dealing enormous, vibrating hammer blows that deafened her; lightning struck down the sulphuric skies like glittering starbursts and she shut her eyes, covered her ears. But she heard the discreet knock on the door, called out ‘Who is it?’ and then sat upright when Nicholas said, ‘Hester, are you all right?’

  A moment when she thought she could not stop herself saying, ‘No, come here, I need you... .’ but then the strength that had come during the long days on the hard wooden mule saddle, the new vision of life which this extraordinary landscape had imprinted into her mind, came to her aid. She was young and free, she was strong. Of course she could deal with the storm on her own; but if Nicholas came into her room all that would disappear. His nearness, his warmth and charisma would be a seduction she could no longer fight.

  ‘Thank you, Nicholas, I’m quite all right.’

  He made no reply, and as the storm drifted away, still rumbling around the mountains, Hester lay back in bed and thought of him. For that one moment she had been so near to him, so close to offering her love, and now, again, so far. Sleep dissolv
ed the images and disappointments, but her dreams were coloured with lost hopes.

  Setting off next morning, she was astounded yet again at the magical landscape. The storm had left its aftermath of beauty, all the trees and flowers gleaming as if touched by an expert hand bestowing an extra aura of warming sunlight. The atmosphere was crystal clear, with the huge peaks climbing inexorably into the brilliant blue sky. A surge of new energy filled her and she smiled at Nicholas and Emily as they left the inn, intent on a new day’s journeying and painting.

  They climbed steadily, reaching the pass between two giant peaks in time to picnic and enjoy the luncheon provisions. Then Emily said, ‘I shall go on for another hour – I recall an attractive stand of larches which I would like to paint. I shall take one of the porters with me. Nicholas, I think you have something else in mind?’

  He nodded. ‘This is quite close to the river where Jon had his accident.’ His voice was expressionless. Hester, watching, saw tautness around his mouth, and wondered what he would say next. It was a surprise.

  ‘I’m going back there, Emily – I need to deal with what happened. And I plan to climb further up the peak, taking the track that Jon was trying to follow.’

  ‘You’re still looking for that gentian?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, and left it at that. He turned to Hester. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come with me? There’s a stream feeding the river, and I believe you might well find the bell flower you want to paint.’

  Hester felt an uplift of spirit. ‘Melittis melissophyllum. Yes, I’d like that,’ she said. ‘And you can leave me with the porter while you climb – I shall be quite safe. And even if I don’t find the bell flower, I know there’ll be something else exciting.’

  Their eyes met but Nicholas showed no emotion. ‘Very well. So let’s get going, shall we?’