The first pub she came across – the Swan – did not have rooms, and the guest house at the crossroads was full. But Georgia found a Vacancies sign outside a little Bed and Breakfast just a mile outside Dartmouth. Seeking out the wizened old owner – she had to be at least eighty, Georgia guessed – she managed to bargain her down to a pound a night. Having secured accommodation for two nights at least, she pressed on down the hill into Dartmouth, the tang of salt in the air getting stronger as she drew closer to the harbour. The tiny post office on the winding high street was still open, the postmistress just beginning to cash up, although she grudgingly allowed Georgia to buy a pad of paper, a thick black crayon and a packet of drawing pins. Georgia winced at the cost – suddenly every last penny seemed vital – but she knew that helping Mr and Mrs Hands was the right thing. She felt awful about accusing Arthur earlier – there was no way he would ever have done anything to endanger Estella or her family. Besides, without Moonraker Farm, the elderly couple were in exactly the same situation as Georgia and her mother, and she couldn’t let Estella shoulder the additional burden of looking after them. She walked down to the quayside and sat on the wall, dangling her feet over the edge, her eyes drifting across the River Dart to the boats bobbing on the silvery-green water. She tapped the crayon against her lips thoughtfully, then began to write.
LOST HOME IN FIRE
Hard-working mature couple available for work.
Lodging preferred. Contact Arthur Hands at the Feathers, Capton.
She nodded with satisfaction – short but to the point, and once she had posted them all around town it would certainly have an impact. She used all fifty sheets of paper, nailing her posters to noticeboards, trees and telegraph poles, using one of her stout walking shoes to bang in the drawing pins: wouldn’t do to have them blow away now that she’d gone to all this effort.
Happy with her handiwork, Georgia set off back up the hill towards the farm, snaking back through copses and overgrown country lanes as the sun slowly sank behind her, leaving a chill in the air. It wasn’t until she got close to the farm and caught the scent of charred wood on the breeze that she remembered with a jolt what was waiting for her at the end of that little lane.
She found Estella picking through the debris in her studio, her back bent like a coat hanger. From this distance she looked like an old woman, her face as pale as the ash settled on the fence posts.
‘Darling, you’ve been ages,’ she said, straightening up with some effort. ‘I was worried.’
Georgia bit her lip as she saw the pathetic collection of items her mother had dragged from the dirt: an oil lamp, a charred picture frame, a blackened teapot. She couldn’t cry now; today had been all about being positive, about doing things, not looking backwards. She had to be strong for Estella’s sake.
‘The fire officer told you not to go in there,’ she said.
‘Nonsense!’ said Estella, rubbing her hands on her already filthy skirt. ‘As if there’s anything else to collapse. Anyway, I thought I might find . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Silly really. I’m going to have to get used to the idea that it’s all gone, aren’t I?’
‘Well, I’ve found us somewhere to stay – that black and white B and B outside Dartmouth. Apparently their bookings don’t pick up until midsummer, so we have plenty of time to sort things out.’
Her mother’s eyes opened wide.
‘Oh no. We can’t stay in Devon,’ she with astonishment. ‘No, no. It’s out of the question.’
‘But Mother,’ said Georgia, gesturing towards the ruined farm, ‘there’s so much to do. We can’t go back to Chelsea and behave as if nothing has happened.’
‘Well, we can’t do anything here,’ said Estella. ‘Not until we get some money anyway. No, we shall go back to London and I’ll begin straight away.’
‘Begin what?’
‘Finding a man, of course,’ said Estella.
‘A . . . man?’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t have to love him,’ said Estella airily. ‘No one will ever replace your father. This is simply a practical step, a career move really. I will wear neutral clothes, a touch of make-up and cut my hair – I am too old for long hair now.’
‘But Mother, you don’t need to change.’
‘Oh, but I do. All this,’ she indicated her unkempt appearance, ‘all this is scaring men away. I’m too unusual.’
Too eccentric, too highly strung, too artistic. That was what she meant. Bohemian. Fast. All the words Georgia had heard whispered behind her back by so-called society women jealous of Estella’s beauty. But she supposed they might have a point when it came to securing a husband. After all, her mother had hardly been snowed under with offers since the war. There had been interest, of course, but there had been gossip too. Marina and her friends laughing at the artistic Estella Hamilton, insinuating things, giggling and whispering.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Georgia.
‘Of course, we have no secrets, darling.’
‘Did you sleep with those men?’
‘Which men?’ said Estella, her face going even paler.
‘The men who asked you to paint their wives’ pictures.’
Estella looked away.
‘That’s not the sort of question you should be asking your mother.’
‘But did you?’
Estella shook her head, but Georgia wasn’t sure if she was answering or thinking about the depths to which she had sunk.
‘Why do you think I wanted you to do the Season?’ she said finally. ‘Because I tried to marry well – and I failed. I failed because no man was interested in me. No one, not really.’
‘But you’re beautiful,’ said Georgia softly.
Estella gave a small, hard laugh.
‘Oh, it would have been easy to find someone who was willing to keep me in some small apartment in Marylebone, just visiting at the weekends. I’d have had furs and jewels and plenty of time to do my nails. But anything more? No.’
Georgia frowned. She knew about the stigma attached to divorced women in polite society, but Estella was a widow – a war widow, in fact. There was no shame in that. There could only be one reason why men would not be interested in someone as attractive as her mother. Georgia herself. The inconvenient daughter.
‘Is it because of me?’ she asked. ‘Did the fact that you had a child put them off?’
Estella laughed.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s not because of you, it’s because of me. I mean, look at me. What do you see?’
Georgia took in the clothes: dirty, but stylish in their own way; the smudged face, lovely even behind the soot; and her elegant frame. She thought her mother looked a little like an ageing fairy. A touch past her prime, perhaps, a little worn, but still sparkling with magic.
‘I see a unique, wonderful woman with so much to offer,’ she said honestly.
Estella snorted.
‘Well, let me tell you, that isn’t what men see. Yes, they find me attractive – for an evening or two. But there are plenty of pretty women in London.’
‘Not as pretty as you.’
‘Perhaps, but those women are happy to be . . . simple, I suppose. To sit there and simper and nod and give the occasional little laugh. Those are the sort of women rich men want to marry: the easy ones. They want a wife, not a challenge. And they certainly don’t want someone whose heart belongs to another – and always will do.’
Georgia glanced towards the farm, as if her father might be sitting there in the kitchen window watching them. But of course he couldn’t be. He was dead, however much she might wish otherwise. And anyway, there was no more kitchen, no more farm. They needed a plan – and quick.
‘Well, I have another idea for you,’ said Georgia. ‘Actually it was my friend Frederick’s idea. You’re an artist, aren’t you? You paint, of course, but that’s not all you can do.’
‘Georgia, you don’t need to be kind. I love what I do and I think I am quite good at it, but I’m n
ot deluded. I realise the big, famous artist’s career isn’t going to happen.’
‘I was thinking you could just diversify. Those cartoons you did at my cocktail party were fantastic. Why don’t you think about doing that for a living?’
‘Cartoons?’
‘A funny for one of the papers. There’re lots of different types of art and lots of different ways to make a living as an artist. In the meantime, I’ll go back and do the Season. And this time I’ll do it as it’s supposed to be done – to land a decent rich boy.’
Estella’s face clouded.
‘Don’t be so silly; you must marry for love. It’s one thing me looking at marriage as a career move; I’ve had my love match.’
‘Yes, but you and Dad were special.’
Estella shook her head.
‘Darling, you’ll be nineteen soon. Every girl of your age must aspire to one great romance in their life. What about that French boy, Jacques?’
Georgia shook her head.
‘Jacques who has never responded to any of my letters? Hardly the grand passion.’
In that moment, it all became clear to her. All those emotions she had poured into her letters, the longing and the dreaming; it had just been a fantasy. A silly schoolgirl fantasy. Yes, she had loved Jacques, even if he had never returned the feelings. But what was the point? Why pine after a man who just saw you as a plaything? If men were so very fickle, so unreliable, she might as well direct her affections towards someone who could bring something to the table. Like money. Like security. Like a house with an actual roof and windows, not charred timbers and gaping holes.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to throw myself in front of some eligible bachelor just on the strength of his huge mansion in Gloucestershire, but there’s no harm in finding a man who can give us a little more than this.’
They both turned at a rumbling sound coming up the lane and saw the Handses’ red Morris Minor trundle into the yard.
‘Come on, Mother,’ said Georgia, stepping towards the car with purpose. ‘Let’s check you in to the B and B and a nice hot bath. Things will look much clearer in the morning, I promise.’
‘Miss Georgia, Miss Georgia,’ beamed Arthur Hands as he got out of the car. ‘You’ll never believe what has happened. A hotel in Dartmouth has just called and offered us room and board in return for doing their gardening!’
Georgia grinned at him, then allowed herself one last glance back at the farmhouse.
It’s only a house, she said to herself. It’s only bricks and mortar. It was time to leave it behind. It was time to move on. Things could only get better.
23 December 2012
Amy poured two black coffees from the urn in the lobby of the Plaza Athénée and took a welcome sip of one of them. She smiled as the hot liquid slid down her throat. Not only did she need an injection of caffeine to chase away the jet lag, but the thick black liquid reminded her how good coffee always was in New York. It was one of the many things she missed about her home city. She was very glad to be back, even though the winds were bitter and she still hadn’t got any Christmas presents for her folks, with the exception of a tin of cookies her mom loved from Fortnum and Mason that had cost her three days’ worth of tips.
Through the hotel doors she could see Georgia standing on the sidewalk, pulling up the collar of her cashmere overcoat to protect herself from the cold.
‘Here. Coffee. That will warm you up,’ she said, going out to join her.
Georgia eyed the Styrofoam cup and shook her head politely.
‘That’s kind, but no thank you.’
‘Are you sure? A cup of coffee is like the world’s best hand-warmer.’
Amy caught Georgia’s expression and looked down at the cup.
‘Is this one of those finishing school things?’ she said, remembering Georgia’s stories from the previous night.
Georgia smiled.
‘I’m sure it seems horribly old-fashioned to a generation brought up on Starbucks, but we were taught that food and drink should be consumed inside. Unless it’s a picnic, of course.’
Amy stood there holding the cups, not knowing what to do.
‘Ma’am?’
The doorman stepped across and took them from her.
‘I’ll take care of them,’ he said with a wink.
‘Thanks,’ she said, blushing.
When she turned back to Georgia, she saw Alfonse pulling up at the kerb.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘I thought the Frick this morning,’ said Georgia as Alfonse trotted around to open the door for her. ‘I would rather like to see Van Gogh’s Portrait of a Peasant. Apparently it’s just around the corner, but at my age it might as well be the other side of the city.’
It wasn’t far – six blocks or so – but Amy wasn’t going to complain about being driven in luxury. Besides, she had never been into the Frick Collection, though she had passed the grand building on many occasions, and it seemed fitting somehow to pull up in a town car. The entrance was impressive, with grey stone pillars and wide polished oak doors.
‘Say, you know this used to be one guy’s house?’ said Alfonse, as he opened the car door for Georgia.
‘Henry Clay Frick. He was chairman of Carnegie Steel,’ said Georgia briskly.
‘That’s the guy. S’all right for some, huh?’
Inside, the Frick was sumptuous. Beautiful wooden floors, long drapes with stiff pelmets and floor-to-ceiling panelling, all created specifically to house Frick’s collection of art. Amy tried to imagine it as a private house, with maids and butlers buzzing around tending to their master.
‘It must have been magical to live here,’ she said.
‘I’m sure it was. Considering.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Considering Frick claimed that he only built it to make Carnegie’s house look like a miner’s shack.’
‘Rich people are competitive, aren’t they?’ said Amy, struggling to imagine what it would be like to be so rich.
Georgia nodded.
‘I suppose that’s why they are rich.’
Amy wandered over to pick up a headset for a commentary on the collection, but Georgia held up a hand, taking a guidebook instead. Once again Amy felt she had made a mistake; the feeling obviously showed on her face, because Georgia touched her arm.
‘Force of habit,’ she said. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime around books, so I always go there first.’
Amy nodded, put on her headphones, and began to listen to the commentary about the museum. As she took in the history of the great house, she realised how little she knew not just about art but about New York’s heritage. She’d passed the enormous buildings along Museum Mile a million times but she’d had little idea that most of them had once been the private houses of the city’s greatest industrialists. Her lack of knowledge embarrassed her but did not surprise her. Dancing had always been the priority in her life. From the age of four when her mom had first taken her to Miss Josephine’s dance academy, nothing more than a room above a laundromat, Amy had chanelled any spare time she had into dancing, training and dancing some more. It wasn’t that she was stupid – in fact she had graduated from Kelsey High with a 2.1 grade point average. Not terrible considering that she had spent most of her school life in ballet shoes. But she was self-aware enough to know that there were holes in her learning. Holes that had been particularly exposed when she had been out for dinner with Daniel and his Oxbridge friends and they had started talking about politics, literature or world events.
She pulled off her earphones and walked over to Georgia, who was standing in front of a portrait of a man in a spotty fur coat.
‘Quite a collection of Old Masters, isn’t it?’ said Georgia, glancing at Amy before returning her gaze to the picture.
Amy eyed it dubiously. To her, it looked just like a rather dark painting of a gay nobleman long dead, but she wasn’t about to say so. She looked at the label. ‘Titian, c.1488–1576
.’ Should I have heard of him? she wondered.
‘So when does a New Master become an Old Master?’ she asked, deciding that she needed to enter into the spirit of things.
Georgia smiled.
‘Officially, an Old Master is a European painter who worked before 1800 – Vermeer, Fragonard, Albrecht Dürer. After that, it’s considered the modern era. Henry Frick was by all accounts a difficult individual, but at least he should be congratulated on his taste and his vision. This collection is quite splendid.’
She looked at Amy, who had fallen quiet.
‘You don’t agree?’
‘It’s not really my taste,’ she said diplomatically. ‘It’s a bit old-fashioned.’
Georgia nodded and touched her arm.
‘Come this way,’ she said, walking across to another painting, this time of a rather grumpy-looking man with a big chain around his neck.
‘Hans Holbein’s portrait of Sir Thomas More. Now ignore all the velvet for a moment,’ she said. ‘Just look at the face and the hands.’
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