by Val Wood
‘I’ve seen him going up there,’ the man said, pointing towards some wooden steps. ‘I think he lives above ’stables.’
Above ’stables? How peculiar, Polly thought. He’s not a stable lad. Sam Little lived above the stables at Nab Farm; she couldn’t imagine Sonny doing the same. She climbed the steps and knocked on the door. There was no response and she knocked again and tried the sneck. The door yielded and she pushed it open a little.
‘Sonny!’ she called. ‘Are you there?’
It was quite a large room and she glanced about it. It was a living area; there was a chair and a table, a bed and a chest of drawers, but there was also an easel with a cloth over it, and a stack of blank canvases propped against one wall. Against the other wall were more canvases, but with landscapes painted on them. Many of them looked familiar to her: they were of the moors in all seasons, in deep midwinter with snow-covered stone walls and cottage roofs; in the lush green of spring and early summer, as now, with waterfalls and sheep grazing; and also with the heather in full bloom, which she had yet to see. But there were others of different landscapes: lakes and rivers, places with brilliant hues.
Polly stepped inside. She was curious. Is this what Sonny did? Was he the painter? She bent to look at one of the paintings. The name Sebastian was written at the bottom. Not Sonny then, she thought. But if not his, why are they here?
The easel was placed against the window with enough room for the artist to stand with his back to the light. Under the cover she saw the bottom edge of a canvas and on it was painted something, like material, in a shade of blue.
I’ve seen that blue before, she thought. What does it remind me of? Then she recalled the day when she had come looking for Sonny once before. Yes, she thought. He had blue paint on his fingers. He said he had been painting a chair.
But what else, she asked herself. What else is that colour?
Gently, with just her fingertips, she lifted the cover from the bottom of the canvas and slowly the picture was revealed. A woman’s feet clad in dainty shoes, a skirt in the blue which teased her memory, a ruched bodice and leg o’ mutton sleeves, a pale and creamy neck—
‘What are you doing?’
The harsh voice startled her and she dropped the cover and turned to find Sonny standing in the doorway.
‘D-door was open,’ she stammered. ‘I thought you were in and couldn’t hear.’
He put down the leather bag he was carrying. ‘Well, as you see, I was not. What are you doing here, Polly?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said miserably. ‘We’ve come to Hull for a day or two and I thought I’d come and see you. I didn’t mean to pry.’
Sonny shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, I suppose.’ He gave a laconic grin. ‘It’s no secret really.’
‘Are these yours?’ Polly indicated the paintings against the walls.
He nodded. ‘Yes. That’s what I do. How I earn my living.’
‘It says Sebastian.’
‘That’s my real name,’ he said. ‘My aunt who brought me up always called me Sonny.’
Polly turned back to the easel. ‘Can I look at this? I thought I recognized ’colour.’
Sonny hesitated. ‘I suppose so. It’s not finished.’
She picked up the cover again and lifted it completely to reveal the painting of a young woman in a blue gown. She caught her breath. For a second she thought it was a portrait of her. The skin was as fair as hers, the eyes as blue, but the hair was more golden than her own and the lovely face had a sad and wistful expression. It was Rosalie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘Don’t read anything into it that isn’t there, Polly,’ Sonny said hastily. ‘It’s just a portrait of a girl on the threshold of womanhood.’
Yes, I can see that, Polly thought. But I can see something else as well. There’s a glow about the sitter that I’ve never noticed, but the artist has – or hopes to. He’s painted it with love!
‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘I never thought that a likeness could be caught so well in a painting. But then, I’ve never really seen any paintings of anyone I know.’
Sonny smiled. How well Polly was learning to express herself. After such a short time under Rosalie’s influence, she had achieved that fluency. And had Polly’s easy-going amiability rubbed off on Rosalie?
‘You won’t tell?’ he asked. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
Polly turned to face him. Her eyes sparkled. ‘Not if you don’t want me to. But I won’t anyway,’ she said. ‘It might embarrass her. Or frighten her away,’ she added slyly.
He caught hold of her hand. ‘You little madam! I said don’t read anything—’
‘I know, I know,’ she laughed. ‘And I won’t. I won’t breathe a word.’
‘How is Miss Kingston, anyway?’ he asked stiffly. ‘And what are you doing in Hull?’
‘Miss Kingston! Rosalie has come to make sure ’house is all right and has gone to see her lawyer. She’s not heard from her father yet. But she’s also come for some more clothes.’
‘I’m coming up to Nab Farm in a couple of weeks,’ he told her. ‘But only for a few days, then I’m going abroad. I won’t be back until next year.’
‘Next year!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why so long?’
‘I hope to go to Italy to paint,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll go walking in the Dolomites. Then ...’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure after that. Wherever my spirit takes me.’
‘Will you come to supper tonight?’ Polly asked. ‘I’ve bought food and there’s plenty of it. You could tell us about your travel plans. Would it be proper for you to come?’ she added, frowning a little.
‘As if you cared about convention,’ he teased.
‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But Rosalie might.’
He nodded. ‘She might. If I turn up on the doorstep will she turn me away?’
Polly smiled. ‘I’ll make sure she doesn’t.’
She hurried back to the house, made sure the range was burning well and prepared some lunch for her and Rosalie, then turned thoughtfully to plans for supper. She had bought mutton chops from the butcher, and to eke them out for three she scrubbed potatoes and beat up a batter for Yorkshire pudding and set it aside to rest. She had never made it before but had seen Cook prepare it often enough.
Rosalie came in as Polly was on her hands and knees, halfway inside a cupboard, searching for a suitable meat tin.
‘Whatever are you doing?’
‘Trying my hand at cooking,’ Polly said. ‘It might come in useful one day. Perhaps I might marry a poor farmer,’ she appeared, dishevelled, from the cupboard with a large meat tin in her hand, ‘and not be able to afford a cook.’
Rosalie sighed. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘Can I help? I’ve never cooked either.’
‘It’s as well to be prepared,’ Polly agreed. ‘You might fall in love with a poor man too and not live the life you’ve been used to.’
‘It would be nice to meet someone, wouldn’t it?’ Rosalie said dreamily. ‘But then would my father agree? He wouldn’t agree to a poor man, that I do know.’
Polly cleaned the meat tin. ‘You’d have to run away. Oh, by the way,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘I bumped into Sonny while I was out. I invited him to supper. Is that all right?’
Rosalie gazed at her. ‘That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Nothing to do with learning to cook. It’s for Sonny.’
‘No,’ Polly declared. ‘I am learning to cook. I’m just practising on Sonny, that’s all. If you don’t want him to come ...’
Rosalie blushed. ‘But it’s just the two of us,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do. Suppose someone calls whilst he’s here?’
‘And?’ Polly stared back. ‘What then? You can say he’s a friend o’ mine, can’t you? Which he is,’ she said adamantly. ‘And I thought he was one of yours too.’
‘So he is,’ Rosalie replied. ‘Oh, heavens. Of course it doesn’t matter!’
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br /> Between them they prepared the supper and set the kitchen table with a white cloth, for Rosalie decided that the dining room would be too cold even if they lit a fire. The range was belting out heat and the kitchen was very cosy. Then they both dashed upstairs to wash and change, and Rosalie was persuaded by Polly to wear blue.
‘Colour suits you so well,’ she told her.
Sonny arrived at six o’clock bearing bon-bons and flowers. ‘I decided against bringing wine,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want you to think I had unscrupulous intentions.’
‘We would never think that,’ Rosalie murmured. ‘You seem like an honourable man.’
‘Ah, but how can one tell?’ He looked down at her and smiled. Then he looked round the kitchen. ‘This is lovely,’ he said. ‘Very snug. So much more comfortable than dining in state.’
‘That’s what we thought,’ Rosalie said, relaxing a little. ‘Polly and I lived in here before we went to the farm. It seemed silly to use the whole house when there were just the two of us.’
‘So you are not conventional after all.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘You don’t mind stepping out of line sometimes?’
She gave a shy smile, shaking her head, and invited him to sit down. It had been decided between her and Polly that she would entertain Sonny whilst Polly would dish up the food. At least, Polly had decided.
‘I find that I don’t,’ she said, answering his question. ‘Sometimes formality seems like a straitjacket and often quite unnecessary.’ She looked across at Polly, who was taking a dish out of the oven. ‘That’s Polly’s influence, of course. She’s taught me such a lot.’
‘Well, can somebody teach me to get this on to ’table without dropping it,’ Polly said through gritted teeth as she balanced the meat tin on the top of the range, ’and before ’Yorkshires start to go flat.’
Sonny and Rosalie both rose to their feet but Sonny got there first. He picked up a cloth, took the tin from Polly and placed it on the table.
‘Just look at that!’ he said admiringly. ‘I’ve not seen Yorkshire pudding like that in a long time.’
Rosalie had given the batter an extra beating and they’d poured it over the chops, which they’d cooked with onions. Now it was risen and golden.
‘We didn’t know if this was the usual way to cook them,’ Rosalie began, and Polly finished for her: ‘But we wanted to save on washing up seeing as it’s ’scullery maid’s day off.’
Sonny laughed and took off his jacket. ‘Well done, ladies,’ he said. ‘Will you allow me to serve?’
The evening passed very pleasantly, the food was delicious and pronounced a great success and both girls felt very self-satisfied.
‘I never thought that I could enjoy myself so much,’ Rosalie said.
‘But you wouldn’t want to do it for a living?’ Sonny asked.
‘No,’ Rosalie said. His eyes had lingered on her as he spoke and she felt her cheeks flushing. ‘But now I know I could.’
He told them some of his travel plans, and that before he went away he would visit the moors. ‘I’m a painter,’ he said, catching Polly’s eye and being assured that she hadn’t told Rosalie of his secret. ‘Not a very good one,’ he said modestly, ‘but I manage to sell some of my work. I like to see the moors at all times of the year and just now the heather is coming into bloom. I shall commit something to canvas, and then set off on my travels. I’m heading to Florence first, and then I shall go to the mountains. I’ll avoid Austria if possible as there is still much unease and Bismarck is playing a game I wouldn’t want to become involved in.’
‘Will there be danger?’ Rosalie asked tremulously.
‘Not for me,’ he assured her. ‘I shall avoid it at all costs.’
He left at nine, for in spite of what he had said to Rosalie about convention, he didn’t want to give the neighbours any reason to gossip. He kissed their hands in turn and thanked them for inviting him and said he would see them at Nab Farm within the next few weeks.
‘He’s different from how he used to be,’ Polly said as she closed the basement door and locked it.
‘Different how?’ Rosalie asked, peering through the window and waving her hand as Sonny turned at the top of the steps.
‘Sort of – more like a proper gent, which I never thought of before. He was just Sonny when I was little.’
‘Mm.’ Rosalie turned to go into the kitchen. ‘It’s probably you that’s different,’ she said. ‘You’re seeing him through grown-up eyes instead of a child’s. Do you like him more?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Polly teased. ‘I do!’
After a few more days they decided to return to Scarborough and make the visit to Mrs Carleton. They caught the train and took a cab to her house. Both felt elated at accomplishing the journey alone without any assistance from anyone.
Rosalie had had a long discussion with Mr Benjamin regarding the house in Albion Street and he had suggested that he should write to her father proposing that he employ a temporary housekeeper until a decision was made on whether to rent or sell the house. Rosalie had agreed with this for, as she told him, another winter without fires would render the house very damp.
She was disappointed that he hadn’t heard from her father either and they concluded that he had been called away on military duties. But she mused that her mother couldn’t have had a very satisfactory married life if this was the pattern that it had always taken.
Mrs Carleton was delighted to see them, Clementina less so, though at her grandmother’s suggestion she reluctantly agreed that they should join them for a concert at the Spa that evening.
Polly was overcome with emotion as she listened to the orchestra. Never had she been so enthralled as the sound drifted over her; nor could she imagine how such sweet music could spring forth from the piano, violins and other stringed instruments she was listening to. At the end of the concert she sat wordless and didn’t even applaud, being unwilling to break the spell.
‘Polly!’ Rosalie said for the second time, and gently shook her arm. ‘Shall we go outside and join the others?’
‘If you like.’ Polly cleared her throat; she felt as if she couldn’t speak.
‘Are you all right, Polly?’
‘Yes,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She followed Rosalie through the doors to where the sea was rushing and tumbling and breaking against the wall below. The sun had not yet set, but was slowly sinking and casting its dying colours of gold upon the waters.
It’s beautiful, she thought, and felt as if she wanted to cry with the joy of it.
A voice whispered in her ear, ‘You should see it when there is a full moon. That is the most romantic sight, when the moon lays a path across the water.’ Mrs Carleton, standing behind her, was resplendent in a deep mauve gown and a feathered hat. ‘If you believe in magic,’ she said softly, ‘and you’re with someone you love, Neptune’s Path is a wonderful thing to behold.’
Polly gazed at her with her lips parted. ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘I’m sure it is. I hope – I hope that I find somebody who believes in magic.’
The elderly lady smiled benignly and patted her arm. ‘I’m quite sure that you will, my dear. Come along, let’s gather the others together and we’ll visit the castle before we go home.’
The horse and carriage toiled up the hill past the old church of St Mary’s and arrived at the castle gateway.
‘You young people go and explore,’ said Mrs Carleton, ‘and I’ll wait here. The hill is too steep for my old legs. But don’t be long, as it’s getting dark. I don’t want you tumbling over the edge. Holmes,’ she called to the driver. ‘You’d better go with them.’
The young women piled out and walked up towards the ruined castle. They went through the gate and then Clementina said, ‘It’s cold. I’m going back. Are you coming, Rosalie?’
‘No,’ Rosalie said. ‘I want to see it.’
Holmes turned to escort Clementina back to the carriage and Rosalie and Polly walked on, the grass damp beneath t
heir feet. The towers and turrets were eerie in the fading light.
‘Do you think there are ghosts?’ Rosalie murmured.
‘Oh yes,’ Polly whispered. ‘Bound to be. I hope so anyway. If I’d been here centuries ago, I’d have wanted to come back.’
They walked to the edge of the rocky promontory and looked down. They could see the red-roofed town laid out before them; the harbour, the lighthouse and the glinting silver sea, devoid of the gold which had recently transformed it.
‘If I can’t live on ’moors,’ Polly murmured, ‘then I’ll live here. Oh,’ she breathed, ‘how lucky we are, Rosalie. I could die happy now.’
Rosalie tucked her arm into Polly’s. ‘So could I,’ she said. ‘But not yet, Polly. Not yet. This is just the beginning. Come on, here’s Holmes coming for us. Let’s go back.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Howard came to collect them two days later. His grandmother smiled as she saw his arrival through the window and remarked, ‘This is the second time this dear boy has come to see if you’ve returned. I’ve seen more of him lately than I normally see in a twelvemonth.’
She turned and raised an eyebrow at the three young women. ‘It’s clearly not my welfare he’s interested in; I wonder whose it can be?’
Clementina sniffed and tossed her head. ‘Well, not mine. Howard and I don’t get on.’
Rosalie and Polly glanced at each other, and then Polly said impishly, ‘Rosalie has many admirers, Mrs Carleton. Howard must be another.’
‘What nonsense!’ Rosalie retorted. ‘Polly, do behave.’
Mrs Carleton looked enquiringly at them both. ‘Mm,’ she murmured. ‘Well, well! I do like intrigue, and it’s about time Howard found romance.’
Howard opened the door as she was speaking and heard his name. ‘What? Grandmother! Are you plotting behind my back?’
‘I might be,’ she said, and sighed. ‘But I’m not going to tell you what about.’
They stayed to have the midday meal and Howard then said they must be off, as he had work to do. ‘It’s the shooting season,’ he said. ‘We’ve to prepare the butts, make ready for the Guns that are coming.’