Walk in the Shadows

by Jayne Bauling

  `I have never understood,' Ellen said with twinkling blue eyes, 'why you artists get so scathingly uptight about the "don't know much about art but I know what I like" brigade. It seems a sensible remark to me.'

  Nicola laughed. 'Eminently sensible when you think about it,' she agreed. 'After all, they at least have a taste for certain pictures and models. That's better than being wholly indifferent to the subject.'

  Traugott said, 'Don't back her up too fervently, Miss Prenn, or she'll be fancying herself as an art critic.'

  Ellen looked at Nicola laughingly. 'As you can see, we've reached that stage when we can cheerfully be rude to each other.'

  `I think that's nice,' said Nicola. 'It has a sort of honesty.'

  Barak's quick glance was shrewdly appraising. `Then you admire honesty in a marriage?' he said disbelievingly.

  Nicola flushed, realising what he referred to. The Baxters' marriage lacked that quality and he imagined that she was playing a part in Todd's abuse of his marriage vows. She nodded, however. `I do.'

  `Yes?' His mouth curved derisively.

  Nicola, aware of the curious looks that Ellen and Traugott were giving them, was relieved when Melanie created a diversion by announcing that it was her bath-time.

  The adults took coffee in the elegant lounge and Nicola feasted her eyes on the glorious art displayed there.

  `Where are you going to paint my husband? In here?' Ellen enquired.

  Nicola's discreetly sensuous mouth drooped. 'Oh, did you want it to be indoors?' she said disappointedly. `I had thought ... outside would be better.'

  `So that you can give more attention to the details of my surroundings than you'll give to me?' Traugott Sorensen teased, his blue eyes very piercing in the soft electric light.

  `No, oh no,' Nicola protested, embarrassed. `I only thought ... you see, you strike one as a person who belongs to the land. That's how I think of you, anyway.'

  The big white-haired man looked pleased. `Then it'll be outside. You can have a look round the farm tomorrow and decide where you think I should be.'

  `All right,' Nicola agreed, spreading her small strong hands. 'We'll have to set a time for painting, so that the

  light is consistent each day. How do you want it? Full-length, like the one of your brother Einer? I've brought a canvas that size; I brought a selection because I didn't know what you wanted.'

  `I'll leave it to you,' said Traugott. 'I've an idea you know better than I do what's required.'

  Nicola laughed. 'I doubt that very much, Mr Sorensen. I suppose you should really have been painted on your citrus farm—your true environment.'

  `I never thought of it in those days,' Traugott confessed with a smile.

  Melanie came in then, looking fresh and well scrubbed in shortie pyjamas and a matching dressing-gown. She gravely said goodnight,to Ellen and Traugott, without kissing them or even smiling. Nicola wondered if she ever smiled.

  `Goodnight, Nicola,' she said solemnly, pausing in front of her chair.

  `Goodnight, Melanie.'

  `Now, Uncle Barak, you can come and tuck me in,' said Melanie, turning to the lean, dark man who had been watching her with inscrutably veiled eyes.

  He stood up, and Nicola was conscious of how surprisingly easily he moved for someone so tall.

  `Come on then,' and for a brief moment he laid his hand on the child's shining light brown hair. Melanie would be the Achilles heel of this strong man, Nicola realised. Melanie, who was like her mother ...

  `It's nice when you don't go to Auntie Denise in the evenings and can come and tuck me in,' Melanie was telling him as they left the lounge together.

  `She's so quiet and serious,' Traugott commented, his blue eyes following the pair.

  `I wish she'd learn to laugh,' Ellen agreed with. a sigh. 'Nicola, if you've finished your coffee, perhaps you'd like to come and see how your kitten is getting on in the kitchen.'

  `Thank you,' said Nicola, standing up.

  Ellen took her through to the long kitchen which retained an old-fashioned charm in spite of having been modernised, and Nicola soon saw the basket which contained the sleeping black kitten.

  Ellen smiled down at the kneeling girl and the cat. `I think she'll be all right in here. If cats have to share a home, they generally accept that and there's no trouble unless one of them comes too close to another. And Sylvester is a friendly creature, more like a dog really,' she said, picking up a purring Siamese from one of the kitchen chairs. 'Our other two are true farm cats, wholly nocturnal. They come home in the morning and sleep most of the day. But Sylvester likes company.'

  `Melanie told me you have a dog as well.'

  `Yes, a black labrador. He's probably out on the front veranda. He usually is at this time of night. Officially his name is Don Quixote. Melanie wanted to call him Donkey when we acquired him because she thought he looked like one, so we compromised with Don Quixote. Needless to say, the poor animal still gets called Donkey.'

  Nicola laughed. 'That's rather sweet.' She stood up, stifling a yawn.

  Ellen smiled. 'I expect you're starting to react to

  your long journey and the change of air. Would you like to go to bed now?'

  `Please,' Nicola said ruefully. 'It's just hit me. I hadn't felt at all tired until now.' Now she was weary, but she thought it was due to the discovery of who Barak Sorensen was, and the subsequent strain engendered by his dislike of her, than to the trip and change of atmosphere.

  `Is there anything you'd like before you go to bed?' Ellen asked kindly. 'Something to drink, or a book from the library?'

  `May I have something to read? I like to take a book to bed with me, although I don't think I'll spend long over one tonight.'

  `Come along to the library then,' said Ellen as they returned to the lounge. She opened a door leading off the big room. 'Through here. I'll leave you to browse and find something you like.'

  Nicola thanked her and she left. She had to admit that she was impressed. Their own library. Every wall was packed with books, and there were a pair of mobile stepladders for reaching those near to the ceiling. Such a variety, too, of both fiction and non-fiction, in several different languages. Although most were in English, there was a good supply of German books, as well as some of South Africa's finest Afrikaans literature. And these were Danish, she supposed, coming upon a short row with titles which she failed to understand. She wondered if Olaf Sorensen's sons had learnt his language.

  Closing and replacing the book she had been looking at, Nicola returned to the English section.

  `May I assist you?'

  Oh, so courteous ... and cold, cold as that northern country from which his grandfather had set out, to bring God's message to a younger, newer country, still in its infancy. Nicola turned round very slowly to confront Barak Sorensen.

  `No, it's all right, thank you,' she said politely, tilting her chin a little. She was not a small girl, but in the presence of his imposing height she felt dwarfed ... and insignificant. He exuded an aura of power. Nicola didn't like the feeling.

  `How long do you imagine you'll take over Traugott's portrait, Miss Prenn?' he asked abruptly.

  She shrugged gracefully. 'Never having undertaken such an assignment before, I can't say with any certainty, Mr Sorensen. I know how badly you must want my departure—believe me, I'm looking forward to it as much as you are, but I have no intention of executing a shoddy work as the result of haste.'

  He smiled lazily, the grey eyes half-closed. 'You don't wait to be attacked, do you? You attack first. Why ... you find it the best form of defence, possibly?'

  `What need have I of defence?' she parried.

  `What need? You tell me ... Nicola.'

  She fingered her jade necklace with nervous fingers. Why should she be nervous? She, Nicola Prenn, a free adult of twenty-three, with her host of friends in Johannesburg, and her famous father, and the memory of her first taste of success in the art world. Why should she be nervous? She was an adult woman, y
et here she was, feeling the way she had done, years ago in Natal, when Sister Francesca would ask her to stand up and

  recite a theorem which Nicola, ever unmathematically inclined, was sure to muddle.

  `I wasn't defending, Mr Sorensen,' she said sweetly, but with an effort. 'I was merely attempting to reassure you that I won't be remaining on your farm any longer than I can possibly help. Nothing will delay my departure, I promise you.'

  `Nothing? What about Ellen and Traugott?' he said, and she couldn't read his face, but the tone of his voice was mocking. 'They are evidently quite charmed by the pretty little artist who's brought a fresh voice to their quiet conversations.'

  `If only they knew me for what I was,' Nicola mocked bitterly.

  `Why are you so sure I condemn you?'

  `You do, don't you?'

  `I haven't said so. Live your life as you please, Nicola Prenn. It's not my concern, thank God. But I suppose you realise how easy it would be for you to take advantage of Ellen and Traugott?'

  `I ought to, considering the sort of person I am,' she returned ironically.

  `Yes?' His smile held little humour. He was silent for a moment, watching her, as if for some sign of weakening on her part, but she returned his gaze unwaveringly, her hazel eyes defiant. Then he said, 'If you're going to be working flat out in an effort to leave this distasteful place, then you won't have much time for seeing Baxter.'

  `Oh, I could make time if I wanted to,' she drawled nonchalantly, while fiercely resenting the construction he had put on her relationship with Todd Baxter.

  `And do you want to?' he enquired softly, and she shivered at the menace contained in his tone.

  For a moment she contemplated telling him the truth of what had happened on New Year's Eve. But of what point would that be? It would only bring fresh difficulties to his affair with Denise Graeme. For both their sakes, she ought to remain silent. After all, a marriage was in the balance for them, something to last a lifetime, and Denise must surely have come to her senses when she had realised the danger in which she had placed her engagement by her behaviour the previous week ... While for Nicola, there was merely the prospect of a short period of discomfort covering the duration of her stay in this man's home. Hardly any length of time, measured against the span of a marriage.

  But there was another possible strategy and she tried it. 'Do I want to see Todd? Not particularly, Mr Sorensen. He means nothing to me. My attitude towards him is not what it was a week ago.'

  Well, it was true. The more she thought about Todd Baxter, the less she liked him.

  He observed, 'That was very short-lived, then. How do you arrange it? A quick affair over the holiday season, or between pictures, and painting, painting the rest of the time?'

  `Oh well, easy come, easy go,' Nicola said flippantly. `Very easy,' he echoed drily.

  `Is there something wrong with that?' she flared. `Surely that's better than something permanent which might break up the marriage you're so concerned about.'

  `Infinitely better,' he agreed. 'So you regard lovers as a diversion for the times when you're not working?'

  `You could put it like that,' said Nicola. She had never felt the need for a lover, thus far in her life. She had been satisfied to paint, and laugh her way through casual, light hearted romances that were really no more than games, and there had never been a man to take away the freedom and subjugate the independent spirit.

  Barak moved nearer to her and Nicola's breast rose and fell more rapidly than was usual. The pale grey eyes flicked over her in sharp scrutiny and the amused smile on the hard mouth acknowledged her unease. `You intrigue me, Nicola Prenn, with your changing images—is there anything substantial beneath them when they're discarded?—and your Natalian accent.'

  Nicola replied breathlessly, 'I hope you're wrong about the accent. A friend of mine says Natal people talk far too loudly.'

  `That's a generalisation,' he said, while she was conscious of his eyes travelling over her neck, lingering briefly on her shoulders and breasts. Nicola felt her cheeks grow warm under the examination, although the cold eyes made it seem almost clinically impersonal. He added, 'The diction is perfect, the tones as clear as a bell ... but it's the gentle peal of a bell. You don't speak too loudly, although I imagine you might raise your voice if you really and truly lost your temper.'

  `It's something you might yet see,' she warned him levelly. 'I've been very controlled so far.'

  `I shall look forward to it,' he said. 'Are you a proper Natalian?'

  She shook her head. 'I was brought up by my mother's parents, there, but I was born in the Transvaal and think of myself as a Transvaaler.'

  `Your father said he was a widower. What happened to your mother?'

  `When you hear of someone dying young, what's the first thing you think of in this country where the rate of road deaths is one of the highest in the world? It was an accident.'

  `I'm sorry.' For a moment he was silent. Then he said, 'That's how Karl and Vanessa died.'

  In spite of resenting him, she found herself wanting to offer sympathy, but she could detect no pain in his face, just a reminiscent expression. Yet Vanessa had married his brother and died with his brother, and Barak Sorensen had loved her.

  She knew that the Sorensen pride would not accept sympathy, particularly when it came from a despised stranger, so she changed the subject instead, saying brightly, 'I had a very happy childhood with my grandparents in Natal.'

  He cast her a brief glance, as if he had divined her tactics. 'Lucky girl,' he said sardonically. 'What was it? Ponies and piano lessons, and your friends envying you your famous daddy, away painting?'

  `Don't forget the exclusive convent school and the talk about this talented little girl's brilliant future as an artist, so like her father,' Nicola added.

  He smiled suddenly, and his teeth were very white against his tan. 'And the hopes that success wouldn't spoil you,' he supplemented. 'A convent ... are you a Catholic, then?'

  `Anglican. But I think I've attended as many Masses as Anglican services in the course of my life. Dad believes religion is something very private and personal, so he never dictated on that score. The convent was merely convenient; my mother's old school.'

  His eyes raked her yet again, and Nicola grew confused. She hastily extracted an English translation of a collection of Guy de Maupassant's short stories from the shelves and turned to address his shirt front.

  `Goodnight, Mr Sorensen,' she said, and, with her own peculiar angular grace, hurried from the library.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NICOLA was woken before seven the following morning when Sarah brought her a cup of tea, and less than half an hour later she was going through the house, dressed in pale slacks and a thin lemon-yellow blouse. She was not accustomed to such early rising, only getting up early when she was occasionally painting something in the early morning light, but she didn't feel she had needed an extra hour in bed. It must have been going to bed so early the previous evening that was responsible, she thought as she passed the hall.

  Melanie was there, in the blue jeans in which Nicola had first seen her, hanging over the telephone table. She halted her slow dialling as she caught sight of the visitor.

  `It's breakfast time,' she announced without return-

  ing Nicola's greeting. 'They're on the veranda.' She waved in the direction of the side veranda, opposite to the one Nicola's room was off.

  `Thank you,' Nicola said with the same gravity.

  `Are you going to paint Uncle Traugott today?'

  don't know if I'll begin today,' said Nicola with a smile. 'We have to decide where it would be best for him to pose first, so I'll have to have a look round the farm.'

  Melanie considered this. 'Under the windmill,' she announced decisively at last. 'That would be best.' `Why would it?' Nicola asked.

  Melanie shrugged. `Dunno Why, can't you paint a windmill? I can. I did it once for school. There's also the dam. Maybe Uncle Traugott would like t
o have the dam in his-picture.'

  I have to ask him about that,' Nicola said as she turned away. 'Have you had your breakfast yet?'

  `No.' Melanie shook her head. be coming in a while. I have to phone a friend of mine first,' she added, sounding important.

  Nicola smiled and left her, a sombre-faced little girl dialling on the telephone.

  Ellen Sorensen and the men were at the table on the sunny side veranda, the men just finishing their meal.

  `Good morning, Nicola,' Ellen greeted her happily. `I hope you don't find our meals too early for you. These two men have already been out all over the farm. They always do the rounds before breakfast. Barak will be off again in a minute.'

  `Which will no doubt gladden Miss Prenn's heart— if she has one,' said Barak, his smile unreadable as he

  appraised Nicola who stood uncertainly beside the table which was covered with an attractive scarlet and white cloth.

  `What a horrible thing to say ! ' Ellen protested reproachfully. 'About her having a heart, I mean. Of course she has one. Anyone can see that Nicola is the sort of person who feels things.'

  `I wonder,' Barak observed. 'If she has a heart, it's given to brushes and oil paint, Ellen. Affairs are for when she hasn't got anything to paint.'

  `They might not be for even those occasions after my stay here,' Nicola retorted. 'I'm rapidly being put off men.'

  `Too bad, but maybe it will prove a blessing. Then you'll have nothing to distract you from your painting,' said Barak.

  Traugott Sorensen chuckled. 'Aren't they just like Ilse and Peter, my dear?' he said to his wife.

  `Far from it,' Barak disagreed. 'Do sit down, Miss Prenn. I can't stand women who hover.'

  Nicola sat down hastily. 'I do not hover,' she protested indignantly.

  `You do. And you rise,' Barak said expressionlessly. `Traugott, I suppose you'll take Miss Prenn over the farm in order to decide where she wants to paint you?'

  `Yes, we'll go after breakfast it that suits you, Nicola,' said Traugott.