Into the Blue

by Christina Green

  The stream soon appeared, bubbling through moss-laden rocks that bordered the nearby churning river. With the porter’s help, Hester set up her easel, conscious that Nicholas was standing silently at the river’s edge. She imagined his thoughts. Jonathon’s fatal accident had happened here, causing the guilt that Nicholas feared he would never lose.

  He came to her side, his eyes shadowed. ‘You’ll be safe here with Enrico. But don’t go near those slippery rocks.’ He smiled rather grimly at her. ‘I have a task to do, Hester – will you be happy to wait for me, however long I am?’

  ‘Yes, I will wait.’ However long it takes. ‘But be careful.’

  She watched as he rounded the rocks at the base of the grey scarred peak and disappeared. She waited for her heart to stop racing, and then prepared her easel and her palette for the work she intended to do.

  Painting for nearly an hour, she was stiff as the sun began to slip down and the crisp air freshened. The young porter, sitting nearby, yawned. He got up and stretched as he saw her rise. ‘You want to walk, lady?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not going far. No need for you to come.’

  He nodded, grinned and sat down again. ‘I watch.’

  Flowers of many kinds starred the damp ground. She recognized some, but had already learned that this mountain landscape was full of unknown varieties of plants of every form and colour. For a while she just stood, looking around her, marvelling at nature’s diversification. And then something caught her eye – a pale blue, familiar little trumpet flower, small and half hidden, but one that she instantly knew was the bell flower.

  It was further away than she had thought; her feet began to slip on the moss-covered rocky terrain, but she reached the plant. Yes, the bell flower. It would make a delicate and lovely picture, those petals daintily uplifted and so blue. Just for a few moments her awareness of the growing roughness of the little stream deserted her. She would pick just one flower, take it back to the easel and paint it straightaway.

  Her foot slipped. She overbalanced, fell awkwardly, too intent on saving the flower to see where she was heading. Only when the freezing water enclosed her, sending alarm and shock through her body, did she understand. Even in her panic-stricken desperation, she knew this is what must have happened to Jon. But he had died. Terrified, she lifted her head, spat out water and tried to breathe properly. Where was Enrico? Where was help? Oh God, was she to go the same way as Jon had gone? And if so, what would Nicholas do?

  But it was his arms that swept her up from the now strong current bearing the waters into the river itself. Nicholas, who was saving her. She wept, cried out, unaware of what she said or did. Her body was stiff with cold and streaming wet. The good thick skirt had matted into a heavy felted weight, pulling her down. But Nicholas had his arms around her, Nicholas was saying, ‘Let go, Hester, just let go – don’t fight me, my love,’ and slowly, with a greater strength than ever she had imagined, he carried her out of the frothing waters, onto the bank, laying her on the ground, raising her head, pulling off his coat and wrapping it around her sodden body. ‘You’re safe,’ he said roughly, his breath warm on her cold face. ‘You’re safe. Thank God. I had this feeling that I had to come back. I knew something was wrong.’

  It was moments before the shock left her. Nicholas told Enrico to take the blankets from under the mule’s saddle and, carefully removing her soaked dress, folded them around her. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’m taking you back to the inn. You need to get warm, to have something hot to drink, to dry your hair, change your clothes.’ He turned away. ‘Boy, bring the mule here. And put your coat under the saddle. Hurry.’

  She was shocked and cold, yet she was uplifted, and joyous, a new person. He was taking charge of her and she was thankful. So much for women’s liberation, she thought wryly, sitting up and smiling. And once she was in the saddle, with Enrico taking the bridle and Nicholas walking beside her, his hand holding hers, she discovered there was something new about him too. He looked different. More upright, with a firmer gait, a happier expression on his face, usually so taut and even grim at times; now there was a comfortable ease about his eyes, his mouth, his determined jaw. When he looked up at her – often, and always with a direct and unrestrained warmth that she foolishly felt was helping to dry her out – she understood that the colour blue, now enhancing the brilliance of his eyes, can encompass many different shades, something she had known before, mixing colours on her palette, but never actually experienced. Steely and cold, icy and full of splinters; mysterious and even sinister, heavenly and infinite but now, this moment, soft and caressing. Was she imagining it all?

  ‘Nicholas,’ she said, leaning towards him, ‘did you find your flower?’

  He chuckled. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I had this feeling that I had to come back to you, because... .’

  She prompted very quietly. ‘Because?’

  His voice was deep and full of emotion. ‘Because it came into my head that Jon’s accident might well be repeated; why, I’m not sure. Oh, the water, and the slippery ground after the storm, I suppose – and I knew that the most important thing in the world was that I had to save you, even though I failed to rescue him.’ He stopped, and she saw a brief smile emerge. ‘And saving you, dearest Hester, has made me understand that I wasn’t to blame for his death. Accidents happen and no one should feel guilty.’

  She said nothing, but pressed his hand. Unsteadily she said, ‘Thank goodness for everything.’ They shared a long look of understanding until she went on, ‘But your flower – you still have to look for it, you know.’ And then she knew; this evening she must give him the journal and her picture.

  ‘Perhaps another day. When you’re better. But truly, Hester, the flower isn’t important any longer. Not now that I’ve found myself – and you.’ His smile was lighthearted and she responded to it at once.

  ‘No, you can’t just say that the flower isn’t important. Think – if you found it, you would be famous! The horticultural world would honour you.’

  His deep voice was vibrant, and his eyes, looking into hers, were yet another blue, warm, caressing, as he said, ‘All that matters is that you do, my darling.’

  Hester was thankful to get back to the inn, to dry out, to be offered healing herbal tisanes and warm towels and then to retire to her bed, Emily having ordered her to do so.

  At the top of the staircase she turned and faced Nicholas, escorting her to her room. ‘Wait,’ she said, huskily, ‘I have something to give you.’ It took only a moment to return, holding the journal in her hand and offering it to him.

  In silence, he took out the picture and read the message. Then he looked up, met her gaze and let out his held breath. ‘Hester,’ he said, his voice so low that she hardly heard the name. But his eyes were full of passion and she sensed that the last barrier had been shattered. His arms closed about her, and for a long moment they couldn’t speak. ‘I mean it about finding your gentian,’ she murmured, stepping back. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps, we must—’ But he pulled her close, kissed her again, and the rest of the sentence, like everything else around her, vanished as at last she knew she was loved and now, with Nicholas enfolding her and giving way to his feelings, it was clear that life was smiling on them both.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next day she insisted on searching for the gentian and Nicholas could only give in to her plea. By mid-morning they were back in the valley with the stream running through it; the river, several feet away, roared and churned, but their way lay ahead, around the last thrusting peak, up and up into the rocky heights where traces of snow still lay.

  As they climbed, several times Hester thought she would fall but his hand was always there, his strength sheltering her from danger. ‘How much further?’ she gasped, and he smiled, with laughter in his eyes. ‘Stay here and get your breath back – I’ll just go around that crest over there. Don’t move, my love, stay safe and wait for me.’

  Her thoughts ran riot; how long she had waited
but still the waiting continued. Looking around at this craggy, primitive view she sent her mind back to Devon, to Oak House and to the remembered view of Dartmoor, hazy and huge, in the distance, a wilderness beyond the lush, fertile, green fields. And then into Aunt Jacks’ garden with its magnificent flower borders and fragrant rose bowers. But then the cold wind, touching her face, freezing her fingers, brought her back to the mountains, and she knew a moment of dawning truth. It was here, among these vast peaks and valleys that she had found love, and the fulfilment of her passion for painting flowers.

  And then Nicholas was back, sweeping her into his arms, his lips warming her chilled body. She looked into his radiant eyes and murmured, ‘Nicholas, don’t ever leave me again.’

  ‘You know I won’t.’

  She pressed herself against him and closed her eyes to the dangers surrounding them; until, suddenly, he was releasing her, taking her hands and saying, ‘Come with me. Just a step more, my darling. I’ll keep you safe – don’t be afraid... .’

  A step, but one with a hungry drop beneath it. Hester sucked in her breath and let Nicholas guide her as they found their way around the crest of rock in front of them. And then he stopped; drawing her close to him, looking into her eyes and smiling.

  ‘Look,’ he said quietly, his vibrant voice rich with pleasure. ‘Hester, look... .’

  A small blue, unusually flowered plant lay furled among thick leaves touched with snowflakes. Hester drew in a quick breath then let it out slowly, its warmth misting in the freezing air. This was a blue she had never known; cerulean blue, a jewel-like lapis lazuli, Madonna blue, a summer sky – yes, she knew all those, but not this radiant, almost magical blue. Gentian blue, the wonderful colour of Nicholas’s brilliant eyes, as he grabbed her, pressed her to his ice-covered jacket, and kissed her.

  Hester’s thoughts ranged far in that magical moment: she, Hester Redding, was here. He, Nicholas Thorne, was beside her. At their feet was a small, magnificent rarity, surely to be named Gentiana thorneii, an honour which would proclaim him as a hero in the horticultural world.

  She smiled into his rapt eyes, knowing that at last they were together, journeying on into the blue.