by Lacey, Lilac
‘I don’t think so,’ Leo said briefly. He very much wanted to change the subject, but all he could think of was Tara. Mark looked at him expectantly. ‘She’s not a him,’ Leo said grudgingly when it became apparent that Mark was not going to break the silence.
‘And now we come to the crux of the matter,’ Mark said, draining his glass, setting it down and leaning forward to give his undivided attention to Leo. ‘I admit I’ve never seen you so riled before. You’re often taciturn, but tonight you seem to be longing to speak but reluctant to say anything. But this explains it all - your heart has been ensnared by a lady.’
‘You might say that,’ Leo said half under his breath but Mark heard him.
‘Tell me about her,’ he said. Leo glanced back at his cousin and saw genuine interest on his face.
‘She is quite stunning,’ he began.
‘Of course,’ Mark nodded, ‘I never expected you to fall for somebody ordinary.’
‘But she thinks I am beneath her.’
‘What?’ Mark looked gratifyingly surprised. ‘But you are Lord Fosse! You are beneath no one except royalty.’ Then a look of incredulous horror came over his face. ‘It’s not… tell me you haven’t fallen in love with Princess Charlotte?’
‘No, no!’ Leo found himself laughing in spite of his black mood. ‘The lady is not as elevated as that, but she thinks me a struggling artist, a tradesman, and beneath her consideration.’
‘Couldn’t you simply tell her she is mistaken?’ Mark asked, very reasonably, Leo thought. He found himself playing with the twisted fringe of the antimacassar, reluctant to meet his cousin’s eye.
‘I am a struggling artist,’ he said, ‘I am lord of nothing more than my canvass and paint. You know that.’
‘But your background is not that of a tradesman,’ Mark said, sounding confused. ‘And I thought the painting was going very well, I heard you had made quite a name for yourself.’
‘I have,’ Leo said, ‘but that’s not good enough for her ladyship. She has not got an artistic bone in her body and she has no comprehension of what painting means to me.’
‘I can see why you are so drawn to her,’ Mark said dryly. He reached out and slipped the antimacassar out of Leo’s unprotesting hands. ‘My mother has enough needlework to keep her busy without you adding to the pile.’
‘She is lively and vivacious and she is capable of great sensitivity,’ Leo said, thinking of the ridiculous amount of concern Tara showed towards La Monte. ‘Although she does not show it towards me,’ he added reluctantly, but feeling the need to be honest with his cousin.
‘Perhaps the lady is not in love with you,’ Mark said gently.
Unbidden, their last passionate evening flew into Leo’s mind. ‘Oh, she is,’ he said heavily. ‘She may not realize it, but her heart is mine.’
‘Did you seduce her?’ Mark asked.
Leo gave him a sideways look. ‘Only a little, I am still a gentleman.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Mark said. ‘Even down here one does hear things. Rumour has it that you will only paint beauties, and tongues have wagged over that.’
Leo shook his head in disbelief. ‘Now where would I be if I seduced my client’s wives and daughters?’ he asked. ‘No one would hire me.’
Mark laughed. ‘I think, to be fair, that the rumour has added clients to your list. Perhaps that is why your lady does not consider you eligible.’
Leo shot a disdainful look at Mark, but his cousin did not appear to see how foolish his remark had been. Tara, of all people, was not afraid of the appetites of men. ‘She is not intimidated by my reputation,’ he said.
‘It sounds more like she is not aware of your reputation,’ Mark countered, ‘as an artist, I mean,’ he added hastily, evidently seeing the denial in Leo’s eyes.
‘She will be,’ Leo growled. ‘I mean to mount my exhibition of landscapes in the spring. I have begun negotiations with the Dulwich Picture Gallery. By May next year everyone in London will have heard of me.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Mark said, and Leo felt irrationally encouraged despite the fact that his cousin had said nothing useful. ‘Are you going to stay in Bournemouth to paint? There are some spectacular views around here with the downs and the cliffs, and you might visit Handfast Point and paint a view of Bournemouth itself.’
Leo nodded slowly, thinking about what Mark had said. ‘That’s a good idea,’ he admitted. ‘I think I will take a cottage to use as a studio for a month. Perhaps you can help me find one down on the coast, it will be good to get a bit of sea air.’
‘It will be good to get a bit of sea air,’ Lady Penge said in what Tara thought was an overly self-satisfied manner. One would have thought she was single-handedly responsible for the fact that they were now ensconced in their carriage, preparing to spend the whole of August in what she had been assured by the agent was a charming little cottage by the sea. Tara’s maid Betty and their cook Mrs Grayson sat in the carriage also, with their backs to the horses and the footman who was driving was going to act as driver-cum-butler for the duration of their stay. Tara felt a little guilty about absconding with the cook and leaving her brother to be fed by the one of the maids, but her mother did not share her guilt. ‘Our need is greater than Richard’s,’ she had said. ‘We both need building up, while he has been surviving on school food and will not notice the dubious skills of the scullery maid. Don’t give it another thought.’
Their cottage was everything it was promised to be, Tara saw with some relief. It was built of the local cream coloured stone and sat at the top of a sloped, tufty lawn, made of a strain of grass which was hardy enough to withstand the salty air that swept in from the sea on the lower side of the road. A spray of roses had been artfully trained around the door and one of the chimneys smoked faintly, showing that their arrival had been anticipated by the landlord. Best of all it looked quite big enough to accommodate them all in comfort.
She was doing well, Tara thought, wandering out the back door of the cottage and finding a kitchen garden. Leo had not crossed her mind from when they first sighted the cottage some minutes ago, until just now. For the thousandth time she wondered where he had gone. She was sure he had not returned to London for she had received no reply to her letter. She did not allow herself to consider the possibility that he might not answer, although she was no longer so confident that her words would have had the calming effect on him that she hoped for. In her darker moments she thought they might have enraged him even more.
‘I have dispatched Betty to the shops,’ Lady Penge said, coming out to join her. ‘Stop shredding those sweet-peas, I know the flowers are bedraggled but they haven’t done you any wrong.’
Tara hastily snatched her hand away. ‘Shall we go for a stroll along the shore?’ she asked her mother. She had been cooped up in the carriage all day, that was her problem, if she could only stretch her legs she would be able to put the wretched man out of her mind.
‘You go, dear,’ Lady Penge said. ‘I shall lie down, the journey has tired me. Tomorrow will be quite soon enough for me to go out and about.’
It was August, but the air was cooler by the sea so Tara dug a light shawl out of her bag before setting off. The sea lapped at the base of a pile of boulders here, so she walked down the road. A cluster of houses stood not a quarter of a mile away, probably heralding the beginning of the high street and the shops that Betty was even now exploring. She would go there too, Tara decided, she had never been to Bournemouth before and she found herself seized with a sudden whim to explore the town.
The usual shops lined the high street, but they were augmented by those of particular relevance to the seaside. Tara passed a greengrocer, a butcher’s shop and a bakery, but in addition to that she was interested to see a hardware store the chandler’s shop which had a display of anchors lined up on the cobblestones outside. She felt her spirits lift as she realized she really was somewhere quite different from home; Leo might have turned his back on Penge, b
ut so had she and it was liberating. She glimpsed Betty in the distance, choosing fruit from a market stall and then her attention was caught by an open doorway topped by a sign which read Bournemouth Lending Library. It occurred to her that with few if any acquaintances in Bournemouth, she and her mother would have a lot of time on their hands which might enjoyably be spent reading, and she stepped inside.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the brightness of the street outside and all she perceived were a few shadowy figures perusing the shelves. Then all at once her vision cleared and she nearly gasped. There, at the far end of the room, with his back to her, was Leo. Without hesitation she strode over to him and then paused, something about the man was not quite right. His hair, which fell in the same black curls as Leo’s seemed longer, and it was tied at the back in a fashion which she had never seen Leo adopt. He was wearing a coat she had never seen before, too, and she thought she was familiar with all the pieces in Leo’s slender wardrobe.
Perhaps the man had heard her footsteps, or perhaps he had felt her eyes upon him, for he turned and Tara was filled with crushing disappointment. It was not Leo. It took her some moments to realize however, that she did know the gentleman
‘How delightful to see you again,’ he was saying and with a great effort Tara focussed on the man standing in front of her, not the one in her mind’s eye. ‘Perhaps you don’t remember me,’ the man continued. ‘We met two or three years ago, at the Assembly Rooms in Bath. Please allow me to re-introduce myself. Mark Reeves, at your service.’
‘Oh, yes, of course I remember you,’ Tara said, regaining her manners. Really Mark was extraordinarily like Leo, yet Leo had not reminded her of Mark at all. ‘You advised me not to drink the waters and I ignored you and found that you were right.’ She wrinkled her nose, recalling with distaste the chalky water in the Pump Room.
‘Are you holidaying in Bournemouth?’ Mark asked. Next to him Tara noticed an older gentleman rather ostentatiously select a book from the shelf in front of Mark and open it up to read. Mark must have noticed too, for he said ‘I think we are disturbing people here. There’s a little tea-shop on the high street, would you care to join me for some light refreshment?’
Even Mark’s voice reminded her of Leo’s although his choice of vocabulary was more flowery. Tara smiled at him, finding herself at least temporarily soothed by the resemblance. ‘I should enjoy that very much, Mr Reeves,’ she said and allowed Mark to escort her out.
Chapter Twelve
Tara found taking tea with Mark Reeves rather fascinating. It was not only his hair and stature which resembled Leo, his facial features were similar as well, although his eyes were milder and he did not seem to frown as much.
‘I work for a firm of solicitors,’ Mark told her. He gripped his teacup as Leo did, cupping it in his hand and sliding one finger through the handle, Tara found it hard to tear her eyes away.
‘Is it an interesting job?’ Tara asked after a pause.
‘It can be,’ Mark said and began to tell her about executing the will of the late Lord Davenham last year. ‘He was pernickety up to the last penny but generous at the same time. Everyone whom he deemed to have ever helped him or his family was given a sum proportionate to what Lord Davenham thought the help merited. It was a job to track some of the beneficiaries down, I can tell you.’
Mark’s eyebrows seemed to dance with his enthusiasm, just like Leo’s when he talked about landscapes. Tara groaned with sudden realization. What a fool she had been, he had told her painting was his passion and she had offered him a job as a farmer, no wonder he had been insulted, it was as if she hadn’t listened to a word he’d said.
‘Yes it was quite a challenge to find them,’ Mark said, fortunately misinterpreting her groan. ‘But it was very interesting too, it was rather like being a detective and solving a mystery. Do you know I had to travel all the way to Canterbury just to find the recipient of half a crown?’ His chuckle was very similar to Leo’s, Tara thought, but she couldn’t imagine Leo being amused by such a triviality. ‘But, Lady Tara, tell me, what brings you to Bournemouth?’
Despite the similarities Mark was not Leo, Tara reflected as she gave him the barest outlines of her mother’s collapse from overwork and their decision to take a few weeks by the sea. He seemed altogether more straight forward, but she found she was enjoying his company and that she could think about Leo without the painful ache in her chest which had been present ever since he’d left.
‘If you’ve come to take the sea air, I know a marvellous walk around the shoreline, only possible at low tide,’ Mark said enthusiastically.
‘When is low tide?’ Tara felt obliged to ask.
‘As luck would have it, low tide is around mid-afternoon tomorrow. Would you care to join me for a walk along the sands?’ In spite of, or perhaps due to, Mark’s resemblance to Leo, Tara was not entirely sure that she would. But turning down a sincere offer from a genuine young man had never been her strong point and besides, she had to fill her time somehow while she was here.
She smiled at him, hoping the expression was reaching her eyes. ‘That sounds lovely. We are staying at Dogrose Cottage. Will you call for me?’
Leo had found a cottage, actually it was more of a shepherd’s hut, tucked away in the lee of a hill and overlooking the bay. It was very basic, offering only a hearth by way of cooking facilities and he had to pay a boy to bring water up in a bucket every day, but it suited his mood. He did not feel like being civilized. He managed to buy an easel, canvasses, oil paints and other supplies in Bournemouth and he threw himself into his painting. He painted the sea, both by day and by night, small works, to help him get a feeling for the place and then he selected a view from the cliffs which took in Studland bay and the little island at Handfast Point. He went each day to paint it, using his horse as a pack animal for his supplies, but carrying his three foot by four canvas himself.
He was there on Saturday afternoon, having painted all day, feeling satisfied at least with this aspect of his life. When he painted, and only when he painted, he was able to put all thoughts of Tara out of his head, but the rest of the time she was present. She was the first thing he thought of when he woke in the morning and she occupied his mind as he lay on his bed staring up into the darkness in the shepherd’s hut each night. Consequently he rose early and painted all day, hoping to wear himself so that he would sleep. He liked it out on the cliff top, he saw no-one but distant sheep and dedicated walkers.
Other than when Leo had gone into Bournemouth to buy art supplies he had avoided the town, preferring to have his food delivered by the same boy who brought his water rather than to visit the market himself. Bournemouth seemed far too full of dark-haired, women who carried themselves in a way which caught the eye, and with everyone he found himself momentarily seeing Tara. Then, when they turned or came closer he would see that the resemblance was utterly superficial, none of them had her presence and certainly - as he found when he came face to face with one as he rounded a corner and greeted her before he could stop himself - none of them had Tara’s wicked, joyous smile.
He stepped back from his painting to look at it critically and a pair of walkers down on the beach at the base of the cliffs caught his eye. Tara! Once more he felt his heart leap at the sight of the dark-haired woman striding purposefully along the sands, and then cursing himself for three kinds of fool he turned away. But something made him turn back. Telling himself he should not torture himself this way he abandoned his work and jogged closer to the edge of the cliff. Then he stopped, his arm on an outcrop of rock, and stared down at the woman below.
It was Tara! He’d know that wild hair, that irrepressible walk and that proud set of the head anywhere. It really was Tara, here in Bournemouth, and she was walking along the shore, quite unchaperoned, with his cousin Mark! His first thought was that she had followed him here, desperate to make amends. But that was impossible, she could have had no idea where he had gone. He cast back in his mind
over the conversations they had had, wondering if he had ever mentioned relatives in Bournemouth, but he did not think he had. Besides, as he looked more closely at Tara and his cousin, and the faint sound of her laugh reached him at the top of the cliff, he had to admit to himself that she did not look like a woman on the edge of despair. She looked rather disarmingly happy.
‘You’ll find Bournemouth society rather quiet, I’m afraid, after London,’ Mark said as he and Tara walked along the shore. She found the heels of her boots crunched pleasingly into the damp sand with each step, if she concentrated on that, and on the soft, continual sound of the waves smoothing the beach along with Mark’s pleasant chatter she could forget about Leo and find a temporary contentment. Perhaps she should spend more time with Mark, Tara thought. He could never compare with Leo of course, but she found his company soothing.
Tara smiled up at him. ‘I’m glad to hear there is society in Bournemouth,’ she said pointedly.
‘Oh there is,’ Mark said. ‘In two weeks Lord Davenham - you might remember I mentioned him yesterday - is holding a ball. Once he knows you are in Bournemouth you are bound to be invited.’
Tara arched her eyebrows. Mark might be quite taken with her already, but she did not see how she could make an impression on someone she had not even met. ‘How will he know I am here?’ she asked.
‘Why, my dear Lady Tara,’ Mark said in what she recognized was his professional voice. ‘I am his solicitor, it would be quite remiss of me to leave him ignorant of this fact.’
Tara laughed, but she was quite touched. Mark was only an acquaintance from a summer spent in Bath where they had had very little to do with each other and here he was, taking her under his wing, apparently quite committed to making her stay in Bournemouth an enjoyable one. He still wasn’t Leo, but perhaps she was judging him too soon.