“I bought every one of them, Mrs. Clifton. The last time I did that was for a young artist called David Hockney.”
Emma didn’t want to admit that she’d never heard of David Hockney, and Sebastian only knew about him because Cedric had half a dozen of his pictures on the wall of his office, but then Hockney was a Yorkshireman. Not that Sebastian was paying much attention to Mr. Agnew, as his thoughts were elsewhere.
“So does that mean we’ll be given another opportunity to buy one of my daughter’s pictures?” asked Harry.
“Most certainly you will,” said Agnew, “because I’m planning to hold a one-woman exhibition of Jessica’s works next spring, by which time I’m rather hoping she’ll have painted a few more canvases. Of course, I’ll send you and Mrs. Clifton an invitation to the opening night.”
“Thank you,” said Harry, “and we won’t be late this time.”
Mr. Agnew gave a slight bow, then turned and headed toward the door without another word, clearly not interested in any of the other artists whose work peppered the walls. Emma glanced at Sebastian, to see he was staring at Mr. Agnew as he crossed the floor. Then she spotted the young woman by the dealer’s side, and understood why her son had been struck dumb.
“Close your mouth, Seb.”
Sebastian looked embarrassed, a rare experience that Emma relished.
“Well, I suppose we’d better go and have a look at Clive’s paintings,” suggested Harry, “which might also give us a chance to meet his parents.”
“They didn’t bother to turn up,” said Sebastian. “Jess told me they never come to see his work.”
“How strange,” said Harry.
“How sad,” said Emma.
22
“I DO LIKE your parents,” said Clive, “and your uncle Giles is something else. Even I could vote for him, not that my parents would approve.”
“Why not?”
“Both of them are dyed-in-the-wool Tories. Mother wouldn’t allow a socialist in the house.”
“I’m sorry they didn’t come to the exhibition. They would have been so proud of you.”
“I don’t think so. Mum didn’t really approve of me going to art school in the first place. Wanted me to go to Oxford or Cambridge, and just wouldn’t accept that I wasn’t good enough.”
“Then they probably won’t approve of me.”
“How could they not approve of you?” said Clive, turning over to face her. “You’re the Slade’s most award-winning pupil ever and, unlike me, you’ve been offered a place at the RA. Your father’s a bestselling author, your mother is chairman of a public company and your uncle’s in the Shadow Cabinet. Whereas my father’s the chairman of a fish paste company, who’s hoping to be appointed the next High Sheriff of Lincolnshire, and that’s only possible because my grandfather made his fortune selling fish paste.”
“But at least you know who your grandfather is,” said Jessica, resting her head on his shoulder. “Harry and Emma aren’t my real parents, although they’ve always treated me as their daughter, and perhaps because Emma and I even look alike, people assume she’s my mother. And Seb’s the best brother a girl could ever have. But the truth is, I’m an orphan, and have no idea who my real parents are.”
“Have you ever tried to find out?”
“Yes, and I was told that it’s Dr. Barnardo’s strict policy not to release any information about your biological parents without their permission.”
“Why don’t you ask your uncle Giles? If anyone knows, he will.”
“Because even if he does, isn’t it possible that my family have their reasons for not telling me?”
“Perhaps your father was killed in the war and decorated on the battlefield after carrying out a heroic action, and your mother died of heartache.”
“And you, Clive Bingham, are an unreconstructed romantic, who should stop reading Biggles and try All Quiet on the Western Front.”
“When you become a famous artist, will you call yourself Jessica Clifton, or Jessica Bingham?”
“Are you by any chance proposing again, Clive? Because that’s the third time this week.”
“You noticed. Yes, I am, and I was hoping you’d come up to Lincolnshire with me at the weekend and meet my parents, so we can make it official.”
“I’d love to,” said Jessica, throwing her arms around him.
“Mind you, there’s someone I’ll have to visit before you can come to Lincolnshire,” said Clive. “So don’t pack yet.”
* * *
“It was good of you to see me at such short notice, sir.”
Harry was impressed. He could see that the young man had gone to a lot of trouble. He’d turned up on time, was wearing a jacket and tie, and his shoes shone as if he was on parade. He was clearly very nervous, so Harry tried to put him at ease.
“Your letter said that you wanted to see me about an important matter, so it has to be one of two things.”
“It’s quite simple really, sir,” said Clive. “I’d like permission to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“How sublimely old-fashioned.”
“It’s no more than Jessica would expect of me.”
“Don’t you feel you’re both a little young to be thinking about getting married? Perhaps you should wait, at least until Jessica graduates from the RA.”
“With respect, sir, Sebastian tells me that I’m older than you were when you proposed to Mrs. Clifton.”
“True, but that was at a time of war.”
“I hope I don’t have to go to war, sir, just to prove how much I love your daughter.”
Harry laughed. “Well, I suppose as a prospective father-in-law I ought to ask about your prospects. Jessica tells me you weren’t offered a place at the RA schools.”
“I’m pretty sure that didn’t come as a surprise to you, sir.”
Harry smiled. “So what have you been up to since you left the Slade?”
“I’ve been working at an advertising agency, Curtis Bell and Getty, in their design department.”
“Is that well paid?”
“No, sir. My salary is four hundred pounds a year, but my father tops it up with an allowance of another thousand, and my parents gave me the lease on a flat in Chelsea as a twenty-first birthday present. So we’ll have more than enough.”
“You do realize that painting is, and always will be, Jessica’s first love, and she’ll never allow anything to get in the way of her career, as this family became aware on the day she stepped into our lives.”
“I too am well aware of that, sir, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure she fulfills her ambition. It would be crazy not to, with her talent.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” said Harry. “But despite her great talent, there’s an insecurity there that you will, at times, have to handle with compassion and understanding.”
“I’m also well aware of that, sir, and it’s something I enjoy doing for her. It makes me feel very special.”
“Can I ask how your parents feel about you wanting to marry my daughter?”
“My mother’s a great fan of yours, as well as an admirer of your wife.”
“But do they realize we’re not Jessica’s parents?”
“Oh, yes, but, as Dad says, that’s hardly her fault.”
“And have you told them you want to marry Jessica?”
“No, sir, but we’re going up to Louth this weekend, when I intend to, although I can’t imagine it will come as much of a surprise.”
“Then all that’s left for me to do is to wish you every happiness together. If there is a kinder, more loving girl in the world, I’ve yet to meet her. But perhaps every father feels that way.”
“I’m well aware that I’ll never be good enough for her, but I swear I won’t let her down.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” said Harry, “but I have to warn you there’s another side to that coin. She’s a sensitive young woman, and if you were ever to lose her trust, you’d lose h
er.”
“I’d never do anything to let that happen, believe me.”
“I’m sure you mean that. So why don’t you ring me if she says yes.”
“I most certainly will, sir,” said Clive as Harry rose from his chair. “If you don’t hear from me by Sunday night, it means she will have turned me down. Again.”
“Again?” said Harry.
“Yes. I’ve proposed to Jess several times already,” admitted Clive, “and she’s always turned me down. I get the feeling that there’s something she’s worried about and doesn’t want to discuss. Assuming it’s not me, I was rather hoping you might be able to throw some light on it.”
Harry hesitated for some time before he said, “I’m having lunch with Jessica tomorrow, so may I suggest you have a word with her before you travel up to Lincolnshire, and certainly before you break the news to your parents.”
“If you feel that’s necessary, sir, of course I will.”
“I think it might be wise in the circumstances,” said Harry as his wife walked into the room.
“Am I to understand that congratulations are in order?” Emma asked, which made Harry wonder if his wife had been listening to their conversation. “If so, I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“Not quite yet, Mrs. Clifton. But let’s hope it will be official by the weekend. If it is, I’ll try to prove worthy of your and Mr. Clifton’s confidence.” Turning back to Harry, he added, “It was kind of you to see me, sir.”
The two men shook hands.
“Drive carefully,” said Harry, as if he was talking to his own son.
He and Emma stood by the window and watched as Clive got into his car.
“So you’ve finally decided to tell Jessica who her father is?”
“Clive left me with no choice,” said Harry as the car disappeared down the drive and out through the gates of the Manor House. “And heaven knows how the young man will react when he discovers the truth.”
“I’m much more worried about how Jessica will react,” said Emma.
23
“I HATE THE A1,” said Jessica. “It always brings back so many unhappy memories.”
“Did they ever get to the bottom of what really happened that day?” asked Clive as he overtook a lorry. Jessica glanced to her left and then looked back. “What are you doing?”
“Just checking,” she said. “The coroner’s verdict was accidental death. But I know Seb still blames himself for Bruno’s death.”
“But that’s just not fair, as both of us know.”
“Tell Seb that,” said Jessica.
“Where did your father take you to lunch yesterday?” asked Clive, wanting to change the subject.
“I had to cancel at the last minute. My tutor wanted to discuss which pictures I should enter for the RA summer exhibition. So Dad’s taking me to lunch on Monday, although I must admit he sounded disappointed.”
“Perhaps there was something in particular he wanted to talk about.”
“Nothing that can’t wait until Monday.”
“So which picture did you and your tutor pick?”
“Smog Two.”
“Good choice!”
“Mr. Dunstan seems confident the RA will consider it.”
“Was that the painting I saw propped up against the wall in the flat just before we left?”
“Yes. I’d intended to give it to your mother as a present this weekend, but unfortunately all the entries for the exhibition have to be in by next Thursday.”
“She’ll be proud to see her future daughter-in-law’s painting displayed alongside the RAs.”
“Over ten thousand pictures are submitted to the RA every year, and only a few hundred are chosen, so don’t start sending out the invitations yet.” Jessica looked to the left and back again as Clive passed another lorry. “Do your parents have any idea why we’re coming up this weekend?”
“I couldn’t have dropped a much bigger hint, like, I want you to meet the girl I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.”
“But what if they don’t like me?”
“They’ll adore you, and who cares if they don’t? I couldn’t love you any more than I do now.”
“You’re so sweet,” said Jessica, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “But I’d care if your parents weren’t sure. After all, you’re their only son, so they’re bound to be a little protective, nervous even.”
“Nothing makes Mother nervous, and Dad won’t need any convincing once he’s met you.”
“I wish I had your mother’s self-confidence.”
“She can’t help herself, dear thing. She went to Roedean, where the only thing they teach you is how to become engaged to a member of the aristocracy, and as she ended up marrying the fish-paste king, she’ll be excited by the idea of your family being joined to ours.”
“Does your father care about that sort of thing?”
“Hell no. The factory workers call him Bob, which mother disapproves of. And they’ve made him president of everything within a twenty-mile radius of the house, from the Louth Snooker Club to the Cleethorpes Choral Society, and the poor man’s color blind and tone deaf.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” said Jessica as Clive turned off the A1 and began to follow the signs for Mablethorpe.
Although Clive continued to chat away, he could sense that Jessica was becoming more and more nervous as each mile went by, and the moment they drove through the gates of Mablethorpe Hall she stopped talking altogether.
“Oh my God,” said Jessica eventually, as they continued down a wide drive that boasted tall, elegant elms on either side as far as the eye could see. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a castle.”
“Dad only bought the estate because it was owned by the Earl of Mablethorpe, who tried to put my grandfather out of business at the turn of the century, although I suspect he also wanted to impress my mother.”
“Well, I’m impressed,” said Jessica as a three-story Palladian mansion loomed up in front of them.
“Yes, I must admit you’ve got to sell a few jars of fish paste to buy a pile like this.”
Jessica laughed, but stopped laughing when the front door opened and a butler appeared, followed by two footmen who ran down the steps to open the boot and unload their bags.
“I don’t have enough luggage for half a footman,” whispered Jessica.
Clive opened the passenger door for her, but she wouldn’t budge. He took her hand and coaxed her up the steps and through the front door of the house, to find Mr. and Mrs. Bingham waiting in the hall.
Jessica thought her legs were going to give way when she first saw Clive’s mother; so elegant, so sophisticated, so self-assured. Mrs. Bingham stepped forward to greet her with a friendly smile.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you at last,” she gushed, kissing Jessica on both cheeks. “Clive’s told us so much about you.”
Clive’s father shook her warmly by the hand and said, “I must say, young lady, Clive didn’t exaggerate, you’re as pretty as a picture.”
Clive burst out laughing. “I hope not, Dad. Jessica’s latest painting is called Smog Two.”
Jessica clung on to Clive’s hand as their hosts led them into the drawing room, and she only began to relax when she saw a portrait of Clive, which she’d painted for his birthday not long after they met, hanging above the mantelpiece.
“I’m hoping you’ll paint a picture of me one day.”
“Jessica doesn’t do that sort of thing any longer, Dad.”
“I’d love to, Mr. Bingham.”
As Jessica sat down next to Clive on the sofa, the drawing-room door opened and the butler reappeared, followed by a maid carrying a large silver tray, with a silver teapot and two large plates of sandwiches.
“Cucumber, tomato and cheese, madam,” said the butler.
“But, you’ll note, no fish paste,” whispered Clive.
Jessica nervously ate everything she was offered, while Mrs. Bingham chatted away abo
ut her busy life and how she never seemed to have a moment to spare. She didn’t seem to notice when Jessica began to draw an outline of Clive’s father on the back of a napkin, which she intended to finish off once she was alone in the bedroom.
“We’ll have a quiet supper this evening, just the family,” she said, before offering Jessica another sandwich. “But, tomorrow, I’ve planned a celebration dinner—just a few friends who can’t wait to meet you.”
Clive squeezed Jessica’s hand, aware that she hated being the center of attention.
“It’s very kind of you to go to so much trouble, Mrs. Bingham.”
“Please call me Priscilla. We don’t stand on ceremony in this house.”
“And my friends call me Bob,” said Mr. Bingham, as he handed her a slice of Victoria sponge.
By the time Jessica was shown up to her room an hour later, she wondered what she’d been worrying about. It was only when she saw her clothes had been unpacked and hung up in the wardrobe that she began to panic.
“What’s the problem, Jess?”
“I can just about survive having to change for supper this evening, but I have nothing to wear for a formal dinner party tomorrow night.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, because I have a feeling Mother plans to take you shopping in the morning.”
“But I couldn’t let her buy me anything when I haven’t even given her a present.”
“Believe me, she only wants to show you off, and she’ll get far more pleasure out of it than you will. Just think of it as a crate of fish paste.”
Jessica laughed, and by the time they went up to bed after supper, she had relaxed so much that she was still chatting happily away.
“Wasn’t that bad, was it?” said Clive as he followed her into the bedroom.
“It couldn’t have been better,” she said. “I just adore your father, and your mother went to so much trouble to make me feel at home.”
“Have you ever slept in a four-poster before?” he asked as he took her in his arms.
“No, I haven’t,” Jessica replied, pushing him away. “And where will you be sleeping?”
Be Careful What You Wish For Page 17