by Ella Carey
“Oh, I adore you already, Mrs. Temple,” the colonel said. “And I know you are not going to be dull.”
She ran a weary hand across her forehead. “Do you know, I think I want a bath and to sleep forever just now.”
A week later, Emma was both settled into her farmhouse among the vines and more unsettled than she’d ever been in her life. In being here, where she had sought escape, she only found herself confronted with the full force of her own intense feelings. Perhaps it was the warmth, perhaps it was the beauty that was France, or maybe it was because she was back in Provence, where she had first laid eyes on Patrick and fallen in love.
She forced herself to attend to practical matters. When she wasn’t painting, she kept herself occupied by going down into Cassis, making a valiant effort to be charmed by the bay and the winding cobbled streets. It was exquisite, not as tiresomely fashionable as Saint-Tropez . . . and yet still, she felt no desire to mix with society here. As she walked through the town, she was aware of the locals’ acute gazes. Oscar, Lawrence, Coco, and Patrick were making regular forays into town in the evenings, sitting outside the tabacs and smoking, making friends with the men of the town. But Emma felt every eye on her when she wandered through the cobbled streets. Gossip, it seemed, was a universal occupation, no matter how liberal a country’s views.
It was amusing, she supposed, or scandalous—she, the charming Coco, and a houseful of men. She supposed it was a consolation, the fact that no one would ever get to see beyond the facade she presented. Sometimes in life, there were no answers, there were just feelings, and one had to get on with things as best one could.
On the surface, Emma’s life would seem one perfect, serene painting, hardly a complicated book. She spent her days working on the veranda alongside Patrick. She arranged for Lydia and Calum to have French lessons in the mornings and to spend the afternoons exploring Cassis and swimming at the local beaches. Having seen them off in a donkey cart after lunch each day, Emma would return to her work.
As the summer drew on, their world began to expand. Oscar’s friend Roger Dalton arrived for a visit, quite crowding up the house, to be followed by Freya and Henry, who took up residence in a cottage nearby, and Emma began to feel more relaxed. Until a newcomer arrived, who caused Emma’s heart to sink like a stone down to the bottom of a murky pond.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
London, 1980
The phone pealed. Laura rushed toward it, leaving her front door open wide as she fumbled to pull her key out of the lock on her return from Ewan’s house. Outside, rain pelted a strange beat, an accompaniment to the people on the footpath who rushed from the train station to wherever they intended to go.
“Hello, Laura.”
In spite of everything, a sudden irrational hope swelled inside her at the sound of Ivan’s voice, only to be laced with despair. The bank had become a shadow looming, a threatening, brewing sky.
“Is this a good time to talk?” he asked.
Laura twirled the phone cord around in her fingers until she’d fashioned a series of tight knots. “I’m on my way to a . . . rehearsal.”
“Very well; I’ll be brief. I have spoken to my superiors about your matter.”
Laura closed her eyes.
“And unfortunately, given the doubt that has been thrown onto the provenance of the painting, they have advised me that we will definitely be recalling fifty percent of the principal of the loan in a week now. I am sorry. I thought I should do you the courtesy of confirming our position.”
The rain was relentless, heavy. All she could see outside her door was an impenetrable sheet.
“I have no way of coming up with fifty thousand pounds. And Emma—”
“I understand. But we all knew the risks entering the agreement.”
“Emma guaranteed the loan because she knew there was no chance of any doubt about the provenance of the portrait. You accepted that as fact when we signed the documentation. Emma has been a long-term, loyal, and sensible client of your bank for decades.”
“Once again, I’m sorry.”
Laura clutched the handle of her violin case until her fingers, damp from the rain, were wet with sweat instead.
“I will work longer hours to pay you back as fast as I can. I cannot have Emma lose everything. I can’t let that happen.”
There was a silence before Ivan spoke. “With all due respect, have you considered that it might be time to move Emma into a nursing home?”
Laura closed her eyes at his blunt approach. “No.”
Ivan sighed down the line.
Laura added, “Given the history, the artistic heritage of the painting, the personal implications, and Emma’s age, can I have a little more time?”
“We can’t loan out such a large sum of money with no guarantee.”
Laura wiped the back of her hand across her face. “Well, I wonder if there’s any point in my going to string quartet rehearsal right now . . .”
Ivan was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, Laura. I honestly am. I wanted to let you know . . .”
Silently, Laura hung up the phone. Still clinging on to the handle of her violin case, feeling as if it could slip out of the palm of her hand, she stood up, hardly aware of what she was doing, where she was going. And she walked out, raising her umbrella against the pelting rain.
They say in life, she thought as she walked the few hundred yards to Russell Square Station, the most important things are love and work. A few weeks ago, Laura had been buoyant with both; she knew she loved Jasper, and she’d regarded him as a model inspired by Em’s relationship with Patrick. She’d been flying at the Royal College of Music.
She was quiet as she unpacked her violin at Marguerite’s house; she hardly spoke to the others until she rested the Guadagnini under her chin. Aware of Jasper’s eyes on her, knowing full well that he’d never ask what was wrong in front of the others, she’d have to avoid him, make up an excuse to get out of here after they were done.
Laura had lost control of her own destiny. It was as if something or someone had picked her up and put her on a different course. She felt her way through the melancholy Beethoven string quartet. When the Beethoven finished, beautiful, sad, and endlessly mournful, even Ed sat in silence, holding on to his cello, his expression serious.
“I hope the audience won’t mind such a melancholy choice,” he said, sending a sidelong glance to Marguerite. “I do wonder if we should have chosen Schubert rather than late Beethoven for a concert in a church.”
“The church,” Marguerite said, “is perfect for Beethoven.” She stood up as if the conversation was dismissed.
Laura looked up at her. Marguerite had such a way of doing that, finishing things, having the last word.
“Laura?”
She jumped at the sound of Jasper’s voice, hadn’t even realized that he’d stood up and had packed up his viola while waiting for her to move. The others were in Marguerite’s small kitchen, having a rowdy discussion about London traffic. Laura sank against the back of her chair.
“Surely you know I’m not going to have you sitting there like that without talking to me. You look very strange. Tell me.”
Laura started to pack up her violin.
“Okay . . . ,” Jasper said. “Let’s get out of here. Together.”
Laura clipped her violin case shut. She focused on the neat, black smoothness of it.
Laura stood up. She regarded Jasper. “I’m fine.”
“Laura and I are going,” Jasper called to Marguerite and Ed.
Once they were outside on the sidewalk, Laura started to walk away.
“No, you don’t,” Jasper said. He kept pace with her as she marched up the street, ripe with bright post-rain sunshine now. It glared in her eyes, illuminating every speck on the pavement, rendering the sky almost too searing to look at.
Jasper grasped her elbow and swung her to face him. And tenderly, he reached out. He stroked her face, tracing one finger down her cheek.
> “I know what you’re going through. But don’t shut me out. Laura, I’m your friend. I’m always here. It really is simple, you know.”
Laura shook her head.
His grip on her arm tightened. Roughly, he pulled her into his shoulder.
Her face might be pressed into his shirt, but she was as rigid as a steel plank.
“We just need to take this step-by-step. And whatever you do, don’t give up. To start with, you need to get Ewan to talk. Properly. And now.”
“Ewan thought it was acceptable to offer to pay my college tuition, as if that would fix everything.”
“But Laura, Ewan is the only person who can fix this. Not me, not Em. And to be honest, why can’t you accept his offer of money to stop Em from being kicked out of her house?”
She looked down at her violin.
“If that’s something you need to sort out with him, then go back and do so.”
Laura swallowed.
He seemed to struggle a little. “You’re not Emma, with her luxury of being able to afford to live and support herself on allowances in order to pay her rent and bills. I’m not Patrick, but you need to save everything good in your life, and you deserve . . . everything.”
He waited.
Silently, she made her decision. Quietly, as if some new stillness had taken over her, she reached out and touched Jasper’s arm; then she made her way to the station.
Laura gathered her light trench coat around her as she made her way toward the gate that led to the street full of mews houses where Ewan lived. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the cobblestones in the otherwise silent old lane. She stopped at his red front door, and she reached up to knock with the brass knocker.
The sound of brass knocking on wood rang through the small circle of old converted stables, ringing around the tall houses that rose behind them. The preserves of the rich might always dwarf these little buildings where the carriages had once been kept, but the lives that went on here were just as important, just as full of stories and love and loss, as any of the grand houses that surrounded them.
No one came to the door.
Laura switched her gaze back to the little street. The large window that had been converted out of the stable door in the little house opposite caught her eye. A woman sat at a desk in the window, a lamp shining on her bent head. The woman raised her head, as if impulsively, and smiled at Laura.
Laura, hesitant, smiled back and felt some connection to the old past now. The woman almost reminded her of an artisan in a medieval lane.
“Hello.” Laura jumped at the sound of Ewan’s voice.
Ewan held an art catalog; his keys and his suit coat were slung over one forearm, while his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He searched her eyes.
“Look . . . ,” she began.
“Come in.” As he reached for the lock in the door, his shoulder brushed hers. His hands shook a little as he turned the key.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said, striding into the middle of his living room. He stood a moment, as if bewildered by the fact that a couple of books lay on the sofas: the professor’s biography of Patrick and the catalog of the retrospective exhibition held after he died.
Laura felt a smile play around her lips at the sight of the two stray books that were not quite in line with the rest of the house. Ewan moved toward his small kitchen. He turned on a couple of lights and opened the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of wine.
He opened a cupboard in the kitchen and reached for two wineglasses. “White okay?” He paused, watching her, his head tilted to one side.
She nodded, her whole body feeling wound so tight it would burst if anyone touched it. She could not walk away without a resolution.
Ewan continued moving about in the kitchen.
He brought her drink over to her, holding it out to her for a moment, his eyes meeting hers.
“Let’s sit down,” he said, his voice gentle.
Laura perched on the edge of the deep-blue velvet seat.
“How was your day?” he asked, like some partner at the beginning of an evening and after the end of a normal day.
“Fine. Thanks.” Laura gulped her wine.
Ewan sat back in his seat, resting his head against the cushions and regarding her.
“You can’t lose your music career, Laura. I won’t stand by and let that happen.” He looked off to the side, a strange expression passing across his face. “I will help you get back on your feet.”
“No. I need to do this myself.” She heaved out a sigh. “I can’t let you fix it. Thank you for your offer, but I was wondering, could you come out to Summerfield with me and look at the portrait? Would you do that?”
Ewan’s handsome features sharpened in concentration. “Look, Laura—”
“Have you got a bike?” She could not take no for an answer. She had to get him in front of Emma’s portrait and talk to him. Now.
“A bike?” A smile danced around his lips.
“A bike.” Laura stood up, taking her wineglass with her and placing it back on his pristine kitchen bench. No crumbs on the white marble. No telltale bits of paper, pens, loose change. “We’ll ride from Lewes Station to Summerfield. It’s what Emma always did.”
“A bike?”
Laura nodded. “Of course.”
“You are adorable.”
Laura felt herself smile—was she actually having fun? “You can ride Emma’s old bike, then. I kept it.”
He laughed and looked up at her, his tanned hand twirling the stem of his wineglass.
“It’s rusty, and you’ll have to deal with the cobwebs. It has no gears, of course. But I think it will suit you very well.”
He stood up and moved toward her. “I suppose I could swap a couple of meetings. But, I’m sorry, I don’t think it will help—”
But Laura held up a hand. She needed to get him out of his London comfort zone, out to Summerfield, where the Circle and everything that mattered to Em would surround him. Laura picked up her coat and started to pull it on, moving toward his front door.
“I live three doors up from Russell Square Station, on Bernard Street. You won’t miss it. The house has an emerald-green front door. Except I’m in the basement. That means you have to go down the stairs—”
“I understand about basements.”
“We’ll wheel the bikes up to the train station. Eight thirty? I really have to go. Abject poverty calls me, along with a debt I’ll never pay off and the prospect of working at least three jobs so I can support my grandmother. Who will have to come and live with me in my basement flat. I thought we’d get ten cats.” Laura grabbed her handbag. She pulled out a notepad and jotted down her phone number and address on the first page before tearing it off and handing it to Ewan. “In case my instructions weren’t clear enough.”
“Laura—”
“Bye,” she said. “Oh, and don’t be late.”
“Hang on. Stop.” He was next to her in a few strides as she held his front door open. He took hold of the front door at the top and stood there. “Let me know if you want help feeding the cats.”
“I’m not borrowing money from you,” she said softly.
“Why not?” His voice was equally intimate now.
“Would you do that if you were me?”
He raised a brow.
“Until tomorrow.” Laura wheeled around and marched off up the cobblestoned mews. She nodded at the woman who worked in her window.
Game, but not, in any way, set and match.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London, 1980
An hour later, Laura waited for Jasper in the local pub. He’d called her for an update the moment she walked through her front door. She’d filled him in on her meeting with Ewan and their plans to go to Summerfield the next day. Nonetheless, he’d insisted on meeting her at the pub. But as soon as she saw him arrive at the Lamb, framed by the paneled walls that must hold all the secrets in the world, since the Circle used to come here as their local
spot—in fact, perhaps she could simply ask the walls if they knew whether Patrick had painted The Things We Don’t Say and she’d get her answer—Laura’s brow knitted. She pushed away the bowl of salted nuts that she’d been playing with.
Jasper’s long cardigan was wrapped around his body. He was swathed in navy cashmere. Even in the dim interior of the pub, Laura could see well beyond the strikingly handsome facade that caused half the students, both male and female, at the college to swoon whenever he appeared. His face was the color of parchment. Jasper scoured the room for her, and she lifted her hand to signal him over.
He slumped down opposite her, bent his dark head down on the small wooden table, and reached a hand out to Laura. She held it. His hair stuck up on end.
“I’m dying,” Jasper said.
“You can’t. That won’t work.”
“Mark isn’t moving to London.”
Outside the pub’s mullioned window, the blurred shapes of people walking by were only just visible. Indistinct shadows in the dark.
Jasper had been obsessed with Mark for years. Hadn’t she dreamed of Jasper not being obsessed with Mark for just as long?
“I’m sorry,” she said. Maybe it was just Mark being Mark. He often let Jasper down at the last minute when they’d organized a date; Mark demanded commitment, then refused any such thing for his own part, playing Jasper as if he were his personal instrument, Laura always thought.
Jasper met Laura’s eyes. “I’ve had enough.”
“Oh.”
“Take me with you to Summerfield tomorrow. I want to get out of London. I can’t stand being here alone for a minute.”
Laura didn’t answer right away.
“I’ll practice in the garden,” he said. “I’m sick of stupid boys distracting me. He has no concept that I have my performance exam next week. I’m going to get us drinks.”
Laura watched him march across to the bar.
He was back in three minutes, holding two glasses of bubbles and handing one to her. “When everything goes wrong, one may as well drink champagne.”