by Ella Carey
But Edith stumped her. Because it didn’t take much to see Celia’s plan.
“So, once you and Rebecca have gone sketching in the morning, or tramping around the paddocks with the sheep, what will you do after that, Edward?” Vicky piped up. She wore a simple blue dress, with a wide cowl neck and lace over the collar. “Please, darling, don’t work in the garden. You mustn’t be a complete bore. At least, out here, you’re away from those darned bohemians. You know they were all described in the papers recently as ‘degenerates.’ Sorry, Rebecca.” She smiled. “But you can’t behave as if you are one of them while you are here with us.”
Rebecca instinctively leaned toward Vicky and smiled back at her. She was becoming more and more drawn to the way Edward’s sister spoke her mind.
“Your idea of boredom and mine are clearly quite different, Vicky,” Edward said. “I might help Stewart in the garden. Or I might take Rebecca for a drive to show her some of the more beautiful spots around the area. We’ll see.”
“I think it’s sweet that you enjoy the garden, Edward,” Edith said. “But surely, you can leave the work to the gardeners who are paid to labor there?”
Rebecca chewed on her lip. Stopped herself from wincing.
“Well said!” Angus piped up, before taking a swig from his claret glass. “Darned right, Edith.”
“You know how much I enjoy working the soil,” Edward murmured. “But it’s dinner time. Let’s not get into an argument about the Heide circle. They are not here to defend themselves, after all.”
Rebecca took in a shaky breath. Maybe she was being melodramatic, maybe she had it wrong, but as she watched the interactions, as dinner progressed to a rare indulgent dessert—no one had such luxuries after the war, so where did they get such things?—Rebecca knew with certainty that she and the modernists were seen as a real threat.
Even if there were only a few veiled references to the modernist artists, subtle criticisms made it more than clear that Edward’s family wanted to keep Edward in his place at home. They would tolerate Rebecca for now, but clearly they saw her as having little significance. Ultimately, she was sure they would sweep her under the rug as a short diversion in Edward’s life just as they seemed to be sweeping aside the fact that Angus and Robert consumed three bottles of wine between them during a two-hour meal.
“Well,” Celia said, once they were done eating, “I think we’ll repair to the sitting room.”
She led them all past two rooms, Angus swaying at the back, while Robert wandered off by himself. Celia moved into the room opposite the library with a circular window that overlooked the garden. It was the perfect size for a soiree. A grand piano sat in the window alcove. Rebecca’s eyes shot over the priceless porcelain that was arranged on white shelves around the room, and the curtains that looked to be spun with gold thread.
“The curtains were installed for the Prince of Wales’s visit, Rebecca,” Celia said. “He was scheduled to come here back before the Great War, but he never did come to Haslemere. It was a shame, as the family built a ballroom for the visit, upstairs. It’s my bedroom now.”
Rebecca turned to the older woman. Had she just admitted that she and Angus slept in separate beds? And what about the girl who’d settled herself on the delicate sofa opposite? Was she after Haslemere and a life with Edward that involved separate rooms?
Couldn’t these women see that this was only living in a gilded cage? Rebecca loved Edward, but were they to stay together, she knew that everything would have to be different. And extremely so.
The next morning, Vicky and Edith appeared in the dining room, dressed identically in wide-legged jodhpurs, with long boots that showed off their equally elegant legs. Their hair was swept back in hair nets and they wore identical white shirts with ties.
“We’ll just have a small breakfast,” Vicky announced, when they stood as if looking for appreciation. “Then we’re off. Jester and Horace are saddled up. We’ve already been out to see Finn.”
“Finn is our groomsman,” Edward said, leaning toward Rebecca as she sat eating a boiled egg.
Celia clapped her hands at the sight of the two beautiful girls. “How marvelous,” she said. “And the weather is perfect. I do like the fact that you get out in the fresh air from time to time. Are you sure you won’t join them, Rebecca?”
Rebecca looked down at her pale green dress. “No, thank you, I won’t.” She felt something kick in—perhaps it was the spirit of Sunday urging her on? “I’m going to draw.”
“The tower is the best place for that,” Edward said. “I’ll write while you draw. We’ll spend the morning that way.” He looked straight at his mother.
Celia brought her white napkin up to her face. “Edward, are you sure you wouldn’t rather join the girls?”
“Quite sure,” Edward said, and reached out his hand to cover Rebecca’s.
Rebecca shot a look at Edith. And felt her stomach plunge as Edith’s face fell.
Had the girl panicked and secured an invitation to Haslemere to stake her own claim? The thought that there might be more to Edith Harding than Rebecca had given her credit for last night seemed more threatening, and in some ways more upsetting, than what Rebecca had imagined Celia was scheming. Rebecca could understand that Edith may be determined to marry into a family of her own class, and she could also see why Celia would want Edith as a daughter-in-law. Edward was also a far more appealing catch than poor Robert, anyone could see that. But if Edith did love Edward, that was more complicated than just a marriage of convenience.
Half an hour later, Edward led her into the old stone tower that overlooked the forlorn tennis court, unlocking a black wooden door. Inside, his grandfather’s folly was furnished simply, with an upright piano sitting alone in one corner. An old book of Schumann sonatas sat on the stand. The keyboard cover was up and the rich grained wood of the instrument was highly polished.
“I love it in here,” Edward said, turning to her and using that intimate voice that she had come to adore.
“Do you play?” she asked. And thought of his expensive boarding school education. Was there nothing these people couldn’t do?
Edward leaned on the staircase that wound its way up to the top floor. “I used to play, yes,” he said. “Writing and playing music weren’t brilliant accomplishments to have at a boys’ boarding school. Luckily, I could kick a ball around as well . . .”
“I can only imagine . . .” Rebecca lifted her eyes upward. “Another staircase,” she said. “Like when we first met . . .”
He took a step closer to her then, and Rebecca moved toward him at the bottom of the narrow staircase. His arms were around her waist, gathering her toward him, while she reached up, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, wrapping her arms around his neck. He leaned down and kissed her, and she was lost in that tender place.
After a while, he pulled back and took her hand. “Let’s work together, darling.” He started making his way up the winding staircase, his footfalls sounding solid, almost reassuring in the quiet.
When they reached the top floor, she faced him. “This is perfect,” she whispered. By a set of charming French doors that overlooked a small balcony and the tennis court, an easel had been placed. On it were Rebecca’s favorite tools—charcoal and ink—along with a new set of brushes.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Edward leaned against the small desk that sat against the back wall. Placed his folder of poems on it. Rebecca swept her eyes over the comfortable chair, its footstool covered in navy blue, and a small Turkish rug. A bookshelf was filled with books on writing.
“My mother bought those. She does believe in my writing,” he said. “As long as none of it interferes with her view of how my life should be lived, then there is nothing wrong with a hobby,” he said. “Sometimes I think she thinks that I will grow out of this writing and poetry phase if she indulges it. But what she doesn’t realize is that none of this is a phase with me. None of it, Rebecca.”<
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Rebecca turned around, filled with the magic that seemed to have wound itself around them again. She burned with questions about Edith and the hostility she’d sensed toward the Reeds last night, but she knew that if she pushed Edward to talk about that topic now, it could break the spell.
Once she’d settled down to draw, all her energy came out fast, in a fury. The light that drifted in, filtered by the balcony that was framed with ivy, sent speckled patterns onto her paper. Edward wrote behind her. She reveled in the sound of the scratch of his pen, the way he put his pages to one side as he worked, stopping every now and then, clearly to read what he had written. She was aware of him, but at the same time, she was in her own world, just as he was in his. And this, each of them having a passion of their own, she thought, was the perfect basis for their relationship. It was exactly the way things should work.
When the sun was high in the sky and the morning light that had shone with such pleasant contours onto her easel had dissipated into harsher midday light, Rebecca put down her charcoal. Edward leaned back in his wooden chair, his hands clasped behind his head.
He swiveled around to face her.
“That was perfect. Working alongside you . . .” His voice trailed off. “I love this . . .”
She took a step toward him, then hesitated.
He stood up, made his way to the deep blue chair, sat on it. He held eye contact with her and reached out a hand. She moved across to him and took it, and he gently pulled her down onto his lap.
“Edward,” she said. “Edith . . . ?” Her voice trailed off, her fingers tracing delicate patterns on the palm of his hand.
“My mother,” he said, his eyes on Rebecca’s fingers, “wants me to marry Edith, darling. And Edith’s mother wants precisely the same thing. We grew up together. Edith doesn’t know me at all, though; you have to know that. She has no idea who I really am anymore. She’s a lovely girl, but, darling . . . she’s not in any way, anything like . . . you . . .”
Rebecca sighed. “But she’s of your class. She’s perfect as far as your family is concerned. Your family has clearly decided that the Reeds and their circle are degenerates. How will they cope if you deepen your association with them, which is, if I am not mistaken, what you want to do?”
He took in a breath. “I definitely don’t want the life that my parents have. I want something better. I want something real. Coming home, I can see how false all this is. How the Establishment is like a breeding ground for horses. It is as if members of each generation are like colts placed in the ring to make a suitable marriage. We’re sent to the right boarding school before we can think, before we are old enough to truly know ourselves. I suppose it’s important to get us locked in with the system when we are young, before we start thinking for ourselves. But the war changed me. It’s changed the way I want to live my life. I’ve seen how fragile life is. I’ve seen my friends die. Gone forever. Everyone’s lives matter, not just those who come from a particular class or a certain country—one side of some border and not the other. The Reeds and their circle not only accept people for who they are, but they keep moving forward—which is the true sense of modernism. They do not go back. They keep pushing further. Sunday’s remained determined to strike her own path, and I think it’s those individuals we will remember in the end, not the followers. I want to determine my own future,” he said.
“Rebecca.” His eyes darkened and he reached up, gently pulling her down toward him, and she closed her eyes. It was heaven.
He was her heaven.
How could Celia and Edith possibly be any threat?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rome, 1987
Tess opened the shutters in her hotel room, looking out over the narrow cobblestone lane that ran off Piazza Barberini. Pale blue sky shimmered like a silk ribbon between the old buildings above her head, while conversation drifted up from below, echoing around the street. If Tess closed her eyes, it wasn’t hard to imagine she was in the distant past.
She wandered barefoot across the cool terra-cotta tiles, past the double bed with its pristine white cover. While it was tempting to sink into the armchair near the window and read, avoiding the heat of the afternoon, Tess wanted to walk around the ancient city. She’d never been to Rome before.
She slipped on her ballet flats, picked up her handbag, and made her way out onto the landing.
James appeared from the room next door.
“Tess,” he said. “You’ve settled in okay?”
“I have,” she said, keeping her tone light. The flight had been awkward. James was the last person on this earth Tess wanted to sit next to for hours. She’d watched the film that was shown at the front of the plane and then pulled out some work.
While she was not going to dwell on his rudeness toward her at the ball, she was also not going to allow herself to be caught up by his charm or be tempted by any offers of kindness. Their relationship had to be professional. That was all.
She moved toward the stairs.
But James rested his hand on the iron balustrade of the staircase that wound its way to the ground floor.
“I was just going out,” Tess said.
“Would you like some company?” He sounded tentative.
Tess stopped.
“Are you familiar with Rome?” he asked. “Because it’s better if you know your way around.”
“Really? I thought I’d drift and play things by ear. Wouldn’t that be a better way to discover Italy?” Tess had to suppress a smile. All those chats with Nico must have resonated somehow.
But James stayed put. “We both know that we need to talk, Tess. We can’t work together like this.”
“I was just going for a walk. End of story, James.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I have plans.” The words came out in a rush, but it seemed important to make it clear that she was busy.
“Oh.” The word lingered between them. “Okay.”
She’d asked at reception about restaurants near the hotel. And they were going to reserve her a table at a local family-run trattoria on the next street. Tess found herself staring at his hand on the railing. His nails were squared off and neat.
“Can I come too?” he asked.
Tess took the opportunity to slide past him. She started to trot down the stairs. She wanted to forget about New York—couldn’t he read the signs?
James followed her.
“Tess,” he said, his voice echoing through the stairwell as he followed her down, “we both know if we’re going to work in the same office we need to get along. What else can I do to prove I didn’t take Alec from you? Leon assigned him to me.”
Tess reached the first floor and made her way past the intimate reception desk to the heavy door that led into the street; pushing it open, she went out into the heat. “I’m going now, James,” she said.
He pulled on a pair of Wayfarers.
Tess glanced to the side. She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. How ridiculously handsome he looked wearing those! He was just the sort of man she’d avoided all her life. Too good-looking, too successful. Too intelligent. He was probably exactly what her silly family would choose for her if they could. Socially, he would be a massive step up for them, and they would never stop reminding her of that if they knew she’d even met James Cooper on the subway, let alone that she was working with him, even if on the very worst of terms. She folded her arms.
“Look, Tess. I’m sorry about the thing at the ball. I clearly didn’t . . . handle myself very well. I was just a bit frustrated after our conversation.”
Tess tapped her foot on the cobblestones.
“I want you to give me a chance. We should get to know each other, try to work together, you know. I think we need to bury the Alec Burgess thing, once and for all.”
“Of course you think that. Why wouldn’t you? It suits your sort to have everyone at your disposal.” Tess turned down the street.
“
Tess.” He was right there next to her.
She stopped at the first intersection she came to. The street that ran across the lane was sunlit, but Tess remained in the shade. Then, suddenly, she went left, only glancing at the smart little shops that lined one side of the street. People sat under white market umbrellas on the other side, sipping coffee. Tess moved on toward the end of the street and hurtled right past a clutch of Vespas. A group of impossibly good-looking young Italians lounged around in a small square outside a church. The afternoon was still and lazy and warm. It wasn’t the place for fighting. All she wanted to do was blend into the old enchanted place. But James kept pace beside her.
“I think we should talk,” he said, his voice low.
They came to a wide street. Tess stopped. She would like to see the Pantheon. Drifting was not going to work with James sauntering along beside her. She charged ahead, past a supermarket, down another side street. Graffiti spattered the solid grilles that were pulled down over shop windows. A group of tourists wandered along in shorts, backpacks hanging from their shoulders.
Tess hesitated a second at yet another intersection.
James took her arm and turned her to face him. “You’re going in circles. Why don’t we walk toward the Pantheon?”
Tess’s smile was tight. Of course. What did he have now? ES annoying P?
“It’s a ten-minute walk down Via del Lavatore, and we’ll pass the Trevi Fountain on the way,” he said. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
So, James knew his way around Rome. Of course he did. He probably had visited here every year since he could walk. Was there anything else he’d like to prove that he could do better than her? But she did want to see the Pantheon.