Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Thank goodness the incident had passed without the half-expected assault taking place! But still James was not entirely comfortable about his wife; her eyes were unusually brilliant and her cheeks were unusually pink and although he could not hear what she was saying to Sir Andrew it was obvious that she was saying a good deal. This in itself was alarming, for whenever James had tried to converse with Sir Andrew he had found little opportunity to get a word in. Sir Andrew talked and other people listened, that was the usual form, and if people showed any disinclination to attend to what he was saying he raised his voice until they were obliged to attend. James drew a breath of pure relief when the signal for the departure of the ladies brought the conversation to an end and removed his wife from danger.

  The gentlemen did not linger over their wine for Lady Steele had told them not to; they finished it up quickly and emerged into the hall.

  James had thought it might be a trifle embarrassing to meet Holly (he had not seen her to speak to since his marriage) but it was not embarrassing at all. They met face to face in the door-way of the drawing room which had been emptied of all its unnecessary furniture and prepared for dancing.

  “Hullo, James!” said Holly, smiling at him in the friendliest way imaginable.

  “Hullo, Holly!” said James. He smiled back and added, “I see you haven’t washed your mouth.”

  “The kid hasn’t either,” replied Holly laughing. “As a matter of fact I advised her to, in case she got sent to bed, but she’s full of spunk.”

  James nodded. He knew this was true.

  “You know, James, I like the kid,” said Holly as if this were a matter for surprise. “Anybody else would have been crushed into imbecility long ago, but you can’t crush Eleanor — or at least Uncle Andrew can’t. It was a pretty exhibition wasn’t it? We have them daily of course, but it must be a bit staggering for people who aren’t used to them.”

  “Yes,” agreed James whole-heartedly.

  They chatted a little and, while they chatted, more guests arrived and the big room with its shining polished floor began to fill up rapidly.

  “Look here, Holly, can I have a dance?” asked James.

  “You can have this if you like,” replied Holly. “They’re going to begin in a minute; there’s Uncle Andrew speaking to the band.”

  Having pledged himself to open the ball with Holly, he asked for some other dances as well and was given two, later on in the evening. This was good, thought James, as he wrote them down on his programme. It meant that Holly bore him no grudge and was willing to let bygones be bygones.

  By this time the Forresters had arrived. James, looking round, found Adam at his elbow and as he happened to know that Adam and Holly had never been introduced to one another he proceeded to introduce them.

  “This is Adam Forrester,” said James in cheerful tones. “I don’t think you’ve met him, Holly. He’s the fellow to send for when you’ve got a pain in your tummy. Adam, this is Miss Douglas.”

  “I never have a pain in my tummy,” declared Holly, laughing gaily.

  It was now Adam’s turn to speak but he said nothing. James, looking at him in surprise, saw him standing perfectly still with his eyes fixed upon Holly in a vague stare. James felt quite embarrassed for his friend, he had had no idea that Adam was shy, but shy he was — indeed he seemed to have lost all sense of social expediency. Why couldn’t the fellow say something? Why didn’t he ask Holly for a dance? Holly would think it so odd … standing there like a stuffed owl with that silly expression on his face!

  But apparently Holly did not think it odd. Holly laid her hand on Adam’s arm. “Let’s dance, shall we?” she said confidingly.

  They moved away together and James was left. It was his turn to look like a stuffed owl.

  “That’s how it’s done,” said Rhoda’s voice in his ear.

  “What?” asked James in bewilderment. “I mean — I mean she said she would dance this with me. I mean —”

  “But then she thought she would rather dance with Adam,” explained Rhoda. “That’s all there is to it, you poor sap! You’ve seen a very neat piece of work and you’ll see some more before the evening’s over. She’ll dance twice round the room with him and then lead him to the conservatory and tell him all her troubles.”

  James laughed.

  “It’s true,” said Rhoda gravely. “And it isn’t a laughing matter at all. He’s too nice. I wish somebody would be taken ill quickly.”

  “I’ll go after them …” began James in reluctant tones.

  “Goodness, no! If she wants Adam, nothing you can do will stop her. You can dance this with me if you like, darling.”

  “Haven’t you got a partner?” he asked in surprise.

  “Adam,” replied Rhoda succinctly.

  They danced together which was extremely pleasant, in fact so very enjoyable that James quite forgave Holly for her defection. After that he danced with Eleanor and that was pleasant too for Eleanor was as light as a feather and an exceedingly good dancer.

  James wanted to talk to Eleanor so they found a convenient sitting-out corner and settled themselves comfortably.

  “How do you like school?” enquired James.

  There are various ways of asking this question (which is so often put to the young); it may be merely a conversational gambit of course; in this case it was not. Having been instrumental in persuading Eleanor’s parents to send her to school, James was anxious to hear the result of the experiment.

  “I like it in some ways,” replied Eleanor. “It’s rather difficult, really. I’m too good at some things and frightfully backward in others. I’m not like other girls,” added Eleanor with a sigh.

  James had known this before; he had hoped that school would help her to become more like other girls, to conform to the pattern as it were. He had thought Eleanor would be happier with girls of her own age; it was lonely for her at home. It was touch and go, decided James looking at her affectionately. She would either conform to the pattern or else retire into her shell and remain there for the rest of her life.

  “Some of the girls seem to like me,” continued Eleanor thoughtfully. “But of course I can’t ask anyone to come and stay.”

  She raised her beautiful grey eyes and looked at James to see if he understood, and of course he understood perfectly.

  James had only half believed Rhoda’s prophecy about Adam and Holly, but before long he realised it was true; he saw them dancing together, and once when he was passing through the conservatory with Cathie Duncan he saw them sitting together upon a small sofa absorbed in earnest conversation. If he had wanted further confirmation, he received it from Holly’s own lips when he went to claim her for the seventh dance which she had promised him.

  “James,” said Holly in cajoling accents. “James, do you mind frightfully if I dance this with Adam? I know it’s awful of me, but you don’t mind do you? You’re such an understanding person, James.”

  What could he say except that he understood?

  Meanwhile Rhoda had been enjoying herself tremendously. She was the success of the evening. Everybody wanted to dance with her and if there had been twice as many dances on the programme there still would not have been enough to satisfy the demands of her admirers. She had kept several dances for James of course and she offered him those she had kept for Adam, for she was aware that Adam would be otherwise engaged, but unfortunately they were not the same numbers as those that James had booked with Holly so nothing could be done about it.

  One of the few male guests who did not ask Rhoda to dance was Mr. Heddle. He and his sister had arrived late; Nestor looking larger and more glossy than ever in his beautifully fitting tails, Anna thin and elegant in a black dinner-gown and glittering with diamonds. Mr. Heddle bowed to Rhoda in a slightly exaggerated fashion and turned away, it was obvious that he had not yet forgiven her for contradicting him, but Miss Heddle smiled at Rhoda and complimented her upon her appearance.

  “Your wedding dress,”
said Miss Heddle nodding. “I always say there’s nothing so becoming to a young girl as satin and lace — and nothing so becoming to a man as tails,” she added with a glance at dear Nestor.

  Sir Andrew had booked a dance with Rhoda but when the time came he asked if she would mind sitting out instead. He had not forgotten her enigmatic statement as she had risen from the dinner table. “It’s a secret,” she had said. Sir Andrew had been a bit of a lad in his day — or at least he thought he had — and even now (though elderly and desiccated) he was moved by a pleasurable excitement at the idea of sharing a secret with a beautiful woman.

  Rhoda was quite willing to sit out with Sir Andrew and allowed him to lead her to his study, the key of which was safely in his pocket. She sat down upon the comfortable sofa with a sigh of relief for the truth was she felt a trifle jaded. Time was when Rhoda could dance all night without turning a hair but owing to her sojourn at Boscath she was out of training.

  There was a bottle of champagne upon the table, flanked by a tray of glasses (Sir Andrew had put them there himself for just such an occasion), and the first thing he did upon entering the room was to open the bottle in an exceedingly expert manner.

  “That isn’t the first bottle of bubbly you’ve opened,” said his guest admiringly. “I do like the pop.”

  Sir Andrew agreed that the pop was a pleasant sound. “Now, young lady,” said Sir Andrew, when they were comfortably settled. “What is this secret?”

  “Oh dear,” said Rhoda. “I thought that was coming. It isn’t at all a nice secret, Sir Andrew.”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be annoyed,” added Rhoda.

  It was obvious that young Mrs. Dering Johnstone had changed her mind and intended to keep the secret to herself, but Sir Andrew was an inquisitive man; he pressed her for it

  “All right, then,” said Rhoda with a sigh; she was extremely comfortable and most unwilling to disturb the harmony of the tête-à-tête. “All right, then, I’ll tell you: it’s about the picture in your hall.”

  “My Raeburn?”

  “Yes, but it isn’t a Raeburn.”

  “It isn’t a Raeburn! Of course it’s a Raeburn! I can assure you of that,” declared its owner with conviction. “I have letters proving its authenticity. The picture was painted by Raeburn as I told you. It is of my great-aunt, Mary Steele. There is no doubt about it whatever.” He stopped and looked at Rhoda but she said nothing. “And anyway,” he added, “you didn’t examine the picture closely. How could you possibly tell?”

  “How can you tell the difference between a Derby winner and a plater?” Rhoda enquired.

  “This is crazy!” Sir Andrew declared. “Dozens of people have seen the picture and admired it.”

  Rhoda believed him; she had discovered long ago that the world was full of people who were practically blind. “I should say it was a copy,” she told him. “The picture is painted in the Raeburn manner, in the low tone one associates with him. The lights are massed together and the shadows used to heighten them. These effects are characteristic of Raeburn’s work. It is the actual technique that is poor; the decision and power are lacking.”

  Sir Andrew had listened to this recital with dawning horror. “I don’t believe it!” he exclaimed.

  “No,” said Rhoda. “I didn’t think you would. Of course it doesn’t matter to me whether you believe it or not. I thought it was kinder to warn you because some day you might show it to someone who would know. You would look rather a fool, wouldn’t you?” added Rhoda frankly.

  Sir Andrew gazed at her incredulously. “My great-aunt —” he began.

  “I know,” agreed Rhoda. “Your great-aunt Mary Steele had her portrait painted by Raeburn; you’ve told me so twice and I’m sure it’s perfectly true. All I say is Raeburn did not paint the portrait in your hall.”

  “How could that be?”

  “I’ve been wondering too,” Rhoda admitted. “Perhaps one of your forebears had a copy made and sold the original. It has been done before. But if you don’t believe me, why not get somebody else to look at the picture?”

  Sir Andrew got up and walked to the window and back. “I shall,” he said. “Yes, I shall get a man down from Edinburgh. This is frightful. This is a terrible blow. I still can’t believe that you’re right.”

  “I’m sorry,” said his guest repentantly. “I just had to tell you. It would have been much easier to say nothing at all.” She rose as she spoke and Sir Andrew opened the door for her without a word. The cosy talk to which he had been looking forward had not been as enjoyable as he had hoped.

  As they came out of the study they met Henry Ogylvie Smith who had been looking for Rhoda. This was the dance which she had promised him and it was nearly over, in fact the music stopped as they were walking through the hall.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Rhoda as they found seats in an angle below the stairs. “I was talking to Sir Andrew about something rather important and I couldn’t get away.”

  Henry was very understanding about it. He knew Sir Andrew and therefore was aware that the elderly baronet was as difficult to get away from as the Ancient Mariner. “What about the picture?” he asked. “I’ve told the parents that Santa Claus has been held up and their present is unavoidably delayed. I’ve roused their curiosity to fever pitch.”

  “It’s nearly finished,” Rhoda told him. “One more sitting should be enough. I’ve done quite a lot without you but now I’m stuck.”

  “I might come tomorrow.”

  “Oh, do, Henry,” said Rhoda earnestly. “Do come tomorrow. I want to get it finished.”

  23

  THE NEXT morning Henry walked over the hills to Boscath. He knew the path well by this time for unlike his mother he was fond of walking and preferred to walk rather than to risk his car upon the daft road. He had found an old drove-road which followed the line of least resistance along the shoulder of Crowthorne Hill, over a saddle between Crowthorne and Winterfell. The road was overgrown, it had not been used for many years, but it was easy enough to see. Long ago hundreds and thousands of men had passed this way driving their beasts to market and the trail had been beaten down by their passage. What a glorious walk it was! The trail wound upwards into the midst of the rounded hills and the hills opened up before you as you went. There was a tiny ruined cottage in the middle of the hills (a shepherd’s cottage of course), you passed it on your right and walked on … and then suddenly and unexpectedly the hills fell back and you were looking down into the valley where Boscath and Mureth lay on the banks of the river, and the long green slopes of undulating pasture swept down from your feet to Boscath Farm.

  This was how Henry always came to Boscath, and this was how he came today for his last sitting. In some ways he felt sorry it was to be his last. Contrary to his expectations he had enjoyed his visits to the studio. Rhoda was a dear, so interesting and unusual, they had talked about all sorts of things and had got to know one another well. He was fond of Duggie too. As a matter of fact he had been thinking about Duggie a good deal and had formulated a plan to help the boy. He intended to consult Rhoda about it at the first opportunity and see what she thought.

  Today was a little different from the other days and not only because it was to be the last. Henry noticed that Rhoda was not quite so natural and friendly as usual. If Rhoda had not been such a natural, friendly person the slight restraint in her manner would have been unnoticeable, or if Henry had been less sensitive he would not have perceived it; but there it was. He wondered what was wrong. Another unusual circumstance was the absence of Duggie from his little table in the corner. Henry would have been even more conscious of the unusual conditions if he had known that Duggie had come and been sent away.

  “About Duggie,” said Henry as he took up his pose. “I haven’t been able to talk to you about him because he was always here but I’ve been thinking about him quite a lot. The fact is I’d like to help him.”

  “Help him?�
�

  “I don’t mean now. I think what you’re doing for him is perfect — couldn’t be better — but later on he’ll need some help. Perhaps we could arrange to send him to an art school or abroad, or whatever you think best.”

  “You mean you would pay for him to go? That’s awfully good of you, Henry!”

  “It isn’t really. I have more money than I need, and no family, so I could easily afford to help Duggie. I’m interested in the boy,” explained Henry. “I should have liked to be a painter but I chose medicine instead. I told you that, didn’t I? Well, here’s a boy who wants to paint more than anything.”

  Rhoda nodded. She understood what Henry meant because she, herself, had much the same feeling about her pupil.

  “And what’s more he has it in him,” added Henry with conviction.

  “I’m sure of it!” Rhoda exclaimed. “Duggie is worth helping. Quite apart from his painting he’s a worth-while person in himself. He’s intelligent and clever and he wants to learn. When he first began to come here he was a bit rough, if you know what I mean, and he took no pride in his personal appearance. His speech was rough, too; he spoke like the other boys on the farm — it was quite natural of course — but now he’s improving in every way.”