by Jane Ashford
“Please sit down,” said Mrs. Ames. “Here on the sofa, so you can look out the window. It’s a charming view, is it not?”
“Spectacular,” answered Miss Brown, as they seated themselves.
Mr. Ames beamed. “Thought so myself when I chose this spot for a house years ago. I do a lot of painting right here, as you see.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, and Gwendeline saw that several of the pictures were studies of the view.
“Will you have some tea?” asked Mrs. Ames. “I have some fresh seed cake as well. Very good.” There was a bustle as everyone was served. “My husband tells me you have quite a talent for drawing,” the lady went on then. “He waxed eloquent on the subject.”
“Oh,” said Gwendeline. “He’s too kind.”
“Not at all,” put in Mr. Ames. “Never flatter anyone about talent. You need training, of course, to make anything of it, but it’s definitely there.”
“Miss Brown taught me a great deal about drawing,” Gwendeline answered. “In fact, everything.”
“She did well,” the man replied. “Do you paint also, ma’am?”
“No,” said Miss Brown. “I’m one of those who know the principles but cannot execute. I am a better teacher than doer.”
“A very good teacher, I warrant,” said Mrs. Ames. “There are few who can say so.”
Miss Brown smiled. “I daresay your husband would be a much better one when it comes to art, Mrs. Ames. But I thank you nonetheless.”
“Oh, Carleton doesn’t care to teach. They wanted him in London once, to give lectures. But he refused. He cares only for his own painting.”
“Now, now, my dear,” her husband put in. He turned to their visitors. “She had some crackbrained notion of setting up in London and racketing about the ton. Her mother’s cousin to a duke or some such nonsense, and all her family urged her on. Ridiculous. How am I to paint in London, with people constantly calling or inviting us out and a pack of wastrel students dogging me to lecture?” He smiled at his wife. “And don’t I take you up to London every year, my dear, and let you racket about to your heart’s content?”
“Yes, yes, Carleton. I wasn’t complaining,” said his wife. “I also prefer the country. I was simply demonstrating your dislike of teaching.”
“Well, I don’t know,” he replied meditatively. “I shouldn’t mind giving a talented student a few hints. We might work together here and there on the beach of an afternoon, if you like, Miss Gregory.”
“Oh, I thank you very much, but…” Gwendeline began.
“Nothing formal, mind,” he interrupted. “No schedules and all that nonsense. But I shouldn’t mind giving you a pointer when you go wrong.” He smoothed his flowing jacket complacently. “Glad to be of help.”
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” put in Miss Brown. “A great opportunity for you, Gwendeline.”
“And you can both come to tea afterwards,” added Mrs. Ames. “We’ll make a party of it.” Clearly, the idea appealed to her.
“Well,” Gwendeline faltered. “I suppose…”
“Good,” said Mr. Ames. “And when you go up to London, I’ll give you a list of pictures to view.”
“Oh, I shan’t be going to London,” blurted Gwendeline.
“Really?” Mrs. Ames shook her head. “But you must have one season at least. It would be a great shame for a young girl as lovely as you to miss that.”
Gwendeline shook her head.
“You really must speak to your parents,” continued Mrs. Ames. “A season in London is simply essential.”
Gwendeline shrugged, and a short silence fell.
“Well, if you’ve finished your tea,” said Mr. Ames, “I’ll show you my pictures.”
Gwendeline rose with relief. “I’d like that very much,” she said.
“And I,” added Miss Brown, also rising.
“Capital. We’ll start right here, and then I’ll take you up to my studio. Here, you see, are most of my landscapes.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent looking at pictures. Mr. Ames was an enthusiastic showman, and Gwendeline and Miss Brown agreed as they walked home that he was also a fine artist as well. They felt they’d made an interesting new acquaintance. Too, Gwendeline realized that she’d hardly thought of the past all afternoon. She resolved to try the art lessons Mr. Ames had offered.
Eleven
In the weeks that followed, Gwendeline met with Mr. Ames often, and as she became more and more interested in what he had to teach, her spirits did rise. She gained skill rapidly, pleasing both Mr. Ames and herself. They met on the beach or in the countryside when it was fine, and at his home when it wasn’t, and Mrs. Ames provided tea after all their sessions. The four of them, for Miss Brown joined them for tea, became good friends, and Miss Brown sometimes visited Mrs. Ames while Gwendeline painted.
Thus, the days passed more easily for Gwendeline, and she began to feel more or less happy again. Her life took on a quiet rhythm, and she even progressed a little in her studies with Miss Brown. She felt that a great deal of time had passed since the events in London; she seemed to herself much older, though it had only been a few weeks.
One rather cold, damp morning, Gwendeline and Miss Brown sat again in their parlor before a good fire. Gwendeline studied Italian at the desk, feeling remarkably content to do so, and Miss Brown read the letters she’d received in the morning post. There were several of these, and she’d been engrossed in them for some time. As she perused the last, she exclaimed, “Good heavens,” causing Gwendeline to look up.
“Some news in your letter?”
Miss Brown refolded the page. “Yes, that is…a startling bit of gossip. ”
“What is it?”
Miss Brown put the letter in her pocket. “Oh, nothing. I don’t wish to talk of it.”
“Of course,” replied Gwendeline. She turned back to her book, a little hurt.
Miss Brown stared into the fire, frowning. She got up and moved restlessly to the window. “What a dreary morning. I would so like a walk, but I suppose it’s too wet.”
Gwendeline looked up. “I should think so. It looks as if it will rain again.”
“Yes.” Miss Brown turned back to the sofa. “How tiresome.” She stood in front of the fire, looked through the books lying on the mantelpiece, then went back to the window.
Gwendeline was surprised. Brown never fidgeted, but here she was pacing the room. “What was in that letter? I wish you would let me help.”
“There is nothing you can do,” Miss Brown answered rather sharply. “I shall go out. The rain will keep off, I think.” And she quickly left the room.
Mystified Gwendeline turned back to her studies, resolving to be very kind and thoughtful with Brown that evening.
Miss Brown did not return for some hours, and Gwendeline had just begun to worry when she swept in. The rain had not held off, and she was soaked. She paused for a moment in the parlor. “I must go and change,” she said, “but I have something to show you. It’s fascinating!” She swept out, leaving Gwendeline even more puzzled over her uncharacteristic mood.
When she returned, in dry clothing but still rather disheveled, she was carrying three thin books bound in red Morocco. She placed them on the sofa beside her as she sat down. “Look,” she said. “I stopped in the library to shelter again, and as the rain didn’t stop, I began to look for something to read. Lady Merryn’s new novel arrived a few days ago from London, so I glanced through it to amuse myself.” She paused, and Gwendeline looked at her with some distress. Why should Miss Brown bring up the past again, just as she was beginning to be free of it? “Gwendeline, you must read it,” the older woman continued. “It’s not at all like her other books. Not a Gothic at all, in fact. It is…”
“I don’t wish to read it,” Gwendeline interrupted. “I don’t wish to think of Lady Merryn, or of
London, or…” She stopped, for she was near tears.
“I know your feelings on the subject,” Miss Brown replied. “But I think there may be something important in this novel. Gwendeline, almost every character I came across is perfectly recognizable.”
“All the more reason not to read it!” Gwendeline answered. “If Lady Merryn has used the events of that awful day.” She paused miserably. “Oh, now I can never go back.”
“But Gwendeline, there may be some information in the story to make things right between you and the St. Audleys. The countess is close to her son; she may know some facts that vindicate him.” Gwendeline frowned. “And look here,” continued the other, “look at the dedication.” She opened the first volume and handed it to Gwendeline.
“Betrayal of Love,” Gwendeline read, “a story of modern society.” She looked farther down the page. “To a young lady whose hasty flight from London all regret; may she soon return.” She closed the book. “I don’t care, Brown. It is too painful to think of.”
Miss Brown frowned at her. “You’re being silly, Gwendeline. I know that you want to return to London and your friends. Perhaps if you found out more…”
“No!” Gwendeline exclaimed. “Every time I’ve discovered something new, it’s been more horrible.” She turned to the window, blinking back her tears. “Oh, Brown, why did you bring all this up again? I thought I hardly cared anymore; I find I was wrong.”
“That is exactly why,” answered the other woman. “I could see that you weren’t really regaining your former spirits.” She paused, then added, “The letter I received this morning was from London, from my friend who is employed by Lady Forester. She’d heard of Lady Merryn’s new novel, actually. It seems to be causing quite a stir in the ton. She said that your sudden departure caused a good deal of talk, though that has died by now. It seems that the actual events of that afternoon ride are not widely known. At least, they weren’t a subject of gossip.” She paused again. “But her most suprising news was word of the Earl of Merryn’s engagement.”
“What?” exclaimed Gwendeline.
“Incredible as it seems to me, it appears that Lord Merryn is engaged to Miss Adele Greene. My friend enclosed the announcement from the Morning Post.”
Gwendeline wondered for a moment whether she would faint. Then she realized dismally that she wouldn’t. She felt frozen.
“Adele was there that afternoon,” said Miss Brown. “And she was upset. But if there is some explanation that has satisfied her and her parents, then perhaps it would ease your mind as well. Miss Greene wouldn’t knowingly marry a libertine.”
Gwendeline smiled sourly. “Wouldn’t she? Not even a rich libertine?”
“Please, Gwendeline, read the book. It may vindicate him.” She held the three volumes out to the girl.
Gwendeline took them automatically. “What does it matter now?” she asked dully. Miss Brown started to speak. “All right, I’ll try.”
Gwendeline made little progress at first with her reading. She’d agreed to meet with Mr. Ames for a lesson. She and Miss Brown were invited to luncheon afterwards, a sort of celebration since the Ameses were leaving for their annual stay in London the next day.
Accordingly, she readied her drawing materials and walked up to the Ames house at the appointed time. She found the couple in high spirits, preparing for their journey. “Three trunks!” she heard Mr. Ames exclaiming in the drawing room as the servant let her in, “three trunks for a stay of four weeks? It’s incredible.”
“Now, Carleton,” Mrs. Ames’s voice replied. “You wouldn’t wish me to look dowdy and countrified when we visit our friends. And I must have some vacant space for the clothes I shall have made.” She glanced up from an illustrated fashion paper as Gwendeline came into the room. “Oh, good morning, my dear. Have you seen this latest issue? They say mauve is à la mode this season.”
Mr. Ames struck his forehead. “Mauve!” he exclaimed. “What a pack of nonsense! These idiots always hit on the dullest, least becoming colors and call them all the crack. And hundreds of bird-witted females will deck themselves in mauve, I suppose.” He shook his head at Gwendeline. “Frightful,” he finished. “I am not sure I can face it.”
Mrs. Ames smiled blithely. “Well, perhaps you’re right, Carleton,” she said. “I shan’t have mauve. But this purple…” She bent over the illustration with interest.
“Trash,” said Mr. Ames, indicating the paper. “Nothing but trash. Come up to the studio, Gwendeline.”
Gwendeline loved Mr. Ames’s studio. It was a high, airy room filling the former attic of the cottage. Nearly half the roof had been replaced by a skylight, and sunshine and a sweeping panorama of sky and sea extended down the length of the chamber. The opposite side was filled with paintings, blank canvases, and drawing supplies.
“Now,” said Mr. Ames, removing his coat and pulling on a smock. “Let’s continue our work on light. You’ve improved immensely, but you still need practice. And catching the light in different settings is the hardest thing a painter does.” He smiled at her. “A good painter, I should say. A poor one does nothing of the kind.”
They began on a fresh canvas, Gwendeline trying various effects, and Mr. Ames directing her. But she was preoccupied, and Mr. Ames soon became impatient with her errors.
Finally, he took the brush himself. “No. You see it is thus.” He made a few quick strokes, changing her daubs of blue and yellow into shafts of sun striking water. “There. That was simple really, Gwendeline. You aren’t trying.”
“I’m a little tired. I didn’t sleep well.”
“A girl of your age? Ridiculous!” exclaimed Mr. Ames. “Well, it’s no use trying to concentrate when you’re tired.” He put down the brush. “Perhaps we should go down and sit with Mrs. Ames until luncheon?”
Gwendeline nodded. “I’m sorry to be so stupid.”
“Well, well, no harm. But you should practice that effect when I’m gone. Then we can continue with something else.”
Gwendeline nodded again, saying nothing, and they began to tidy up their tools.
In the parlor, they found that Miss Brown had arrived. She and Mrs. Ames were chatting about the people, plays, and shops the latter planned to visit in London. “And she will drag me with her to most of them,” Mr. Ames said to Miss Brown. “I’ll be the most bored man in town. You don’t ask what I wish to do and see.”
“Only because I haven’t yet had the opportunity,” answered Miss Brown, smiling. “I should very much like to know.”
“Well, I shall see what they’ve hung in the Academy since last year. Nothing much, I expect. And I look forward to visiting with a few friends.” He frowned comically at his wife. “I have some close acquaintances among the ‘artistic’ set.”
“Do you know Lady Merryn?” Gwendeline interjected.
“Merryn?” said Ames. “No, I don’t believe I do.” He frowned. “Stay. Isn’t she the countess who writes Gothic novels?”
Gwendeline nodded.
“Hah!” he replied. “Don’t know her and wouldn’t. There is nothing so stupid as these noble ladies who dabble in the arts. Either a pack of harpies or completely dotty. Can’t abide ’em.”
“Carleton!” put in his wife, “perhaps you’re speaking of one of Miss Gregory’s friends.”
“You don’t read such stuff, Gwendeline?” Mr. Ames looked horrified. “You mustn’t waste your time with novels. I am certain Miss Brown agrees with me.” At this moment, the servant came in to announce luncheon, and they all went into the dining room. Conversation became more general, and Gwendeline relaxed. It seemed doubtful that the Ameses would meet any of her friends in town. She had thought to find some excuse to ask them not to mention her name, but she abandoned the idea, thinking perhaps it was unnecessary.
Gwendeline and Miss Brown returned to the inn at midafternoon, having bid the Ameses farewell. Gw
endeline realized that she would miss them very much. She’d become accustomed to her lessons and excursions to their cottage, and she was fond of the couple. She was thinking of them with regret as she settled herself in the parlor to work at her studies, and this seemed to keep her from concentrating. Repeatedly, she found herself staring blankly at the sea instead of at her book. After a while, she realized that what was bothering her was not the Ameses’ departure, but Lord Merryn’s engagement. The more she thought of it, the less she understood how it could have happened. Adele! The earl had not even liked her. She remembered Lady Merryn’s novel. She went up to her bedroom and returned with the first volume. Reclining on the sofa before the fire, she started to read.
When Miss Brown entered the parlor at teatime, she found Gwendeline deep in the book. It took her a little time, in fact, to attract the girl’s attention. Finally, however, she tore herself away. “Brown,” she cried. “I think it’s about my mother! You’re right. Some of the characters are perfectly recognizable. The heroine is a beautiful young girl who becomes the toast of London but is forced to marry before the end of her first season. Lady Merryn has changed the names, of course, but in appearance she’s very like my mother and her husband like my father. The countess is in it also and her husband. The earl is a very young man at the beginning, only sixteen. It’s excessively interesting.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and oh, she’s put in Mr. Blane as well. I am sure it is he, though she’s made him a young Italian adventurer, Montaldo Blanco.”
Miss Brown burst out laughing. “Montaldo,” she gasped. “An Italian villain. She couldn’t wholly give up her Gothics, could she?”
Gwendeline smiled. “Everyone will know him. Mr. Blane must be very angry, because he is not at all nice in this story, I must tell you. Not a gentleman in manners or birth.” The two women laughed together. “But Brown, why has she written about my mother?”
“Perhaps she wished to explain something and could reach you in no other way,” suggested Miss Brown. Gwendeline looked thoughtful. “Of course,” the other woman went on, “the story makes an exciting novel.” Miss Brown smiled. “Lady Merryn must have realized it would create a sensation. I hope she’s enjoying being a nine-day wonder.”