A Connoisseur of Beauty (7 page)

“More of an acquaintance, really.
Just someone I knew when I was a student. I guess I am taking a bit of a chance sharing a studio with him, but the opportunity turned up at the crucial moment so I thought I’d give it a go.” Amy wondered why Marilyn was effectively asking her if she was in a relationship. After all, Hunter was about to be married, so her status could be of no possible relevance. She thought she would just hint at this fact. “How long are you staying in England? I know you have a family wedding coming up.”

“So I do,”
replied Marilyn with a broad smile, “and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But I doubt it will happen now until the fall.” She poured some more wine into both glasses and then said carefully, “I don’t want to go into my family’s personal affairs too much, but I may as well clear one thing up for the sake of accuracy: it is Cole who is getting married, not Hunter.”

“But I read in the papers...” began Amy.

“You can’t believe everything you read in the papers,” said Marilyn tersely. “Let’s be clear – I love all my grandsons, although each of them has their faults. Cole’s fault is that he can’t be what he would like to be as he doesn’t have the ability. Hunter’s fault is that he won’t let himself be what he really wants to be because he’s inclined to set store by what other people think. Then there’s Ryan and George – but that’s another story. Anyway, Loretta was one of Hunter’s girlfriends but I think she really belongs with Cole. Let’s say that they are soul mates. It will be a volatile marriage, no doubt, but I’m ready to welcome a new member of the family. The baby, by the way, is Cole’s. I gather that things may have been presented differently, but those are the facts.”

Amy sat back to digest these revelations. She could tell that there was a whole lot more
story behind what Marilyn was divulging but that Marilyn didn’t want to say anything that might reflect badly on her family. She was giving Amy the facts and letting her fill in the blanks for herself. But why was she telling Amy? Was she hinting that Hunter was still available? Even if he wasn’t engaged to be married, the two of them had never really got as far as starting up a proper relationship. As it was, Marilyn swiftly changed tack.

“Now, when I’ve made up my mind whether to order the apple pie or the treacle tart we can discuss what exactly it is I want you to portray in the painting of me,” said the old lady. “I don’t want it warts and all like that Oliver Cromwell of yours, I want to look my best.
And something a bit regal in style, if you please. I want my portrait go in the gallery at Wolfston Hall and outshine all of them!”

It was arranged for Amy to go to
Wolfston Hall the next day to set up the background for the portrait. It was agreed that there should be a chair in front of the open French windows which allowed for the movement of light on the curtains as well as a background of the gardens. Marilyn wore a black velvet dress with pearls, and did indeed look rather regal. On that first day Amy took a couple of photographs and made several sketches. She remembered that Marilyn had hinted that she would rather be flattered than painted with photo-realism, so she aimed to soften the age lines of the face whilst retaining the character. Looking at Marilyn Lewis in the sunlight that flooded in, it dawned on Amy that she was probably closer to eighty than seventy, but she was still a remarkably fine looking woman. She returned the following day to set up her easel and the canvas and to begin painting in earnest. Whilst she was working Marilyn entertained her with tales of Cole and Hunter as young boys. Cole sounded mischievous but likeable with his more serious younger brother always trying to get him out of scrapes and always taking a share of the blame when Cole made trouble.

Amy took a break from her painting to go and look over James’ studio and was genuinely impressed with the high roof and the strong light from original Victorian windows. The heaps of canvases and all the paraphernalia of the artist made the place seem very attractive and part of her could hardly wait to get started there. Another part was dreading leaving the village which had been her lifelong home. And something was to happen on the Monday which would make her feel even more conflicted about moving to London. Having stayed a night with her friend, Lucy, Amy had taken a train back to
Montford on the Sunday.  By the following morning she was looking forward to continuing work on the portrait and listening to more accounts of the escapades of Hunter and Cole. But when she knocked on one of the oak doors at the front of Wolfston Hall with a faint smile on her face, she was almost stunned to find it opened by a familiar male figure. Broad shouldered, lean, and perfectly groomed, Hunter Lewis looked perfectly relaxed, as man was entitled to in his own home.

“What are you doing here?” Amy exclaimed, too surprised to pick her words more carefully.

“Checking to see that my grandmother has everything she needs,” replied Hunter, ushering Amy in with a gesture. “Unfortunately I can’t stay for more than a couple of days – I’m still in the middle of sorting a few things out back state-side. But I’m hoping to be able to get back here by the end of the month. Hopefully I will be able to see your finished portrait by then. I gather my grandmother managed to persuade you where I failed.” He had entered the room where his grandmother was waiting for Amy and went up and put an affectionate arm around her. Marilyn looked tiny and frail by her tall and handsome grandson, but she beamed up at him.

“Oh, I can still be very persuasive when I want to be,” Marilyn said to Hunter. “And I want my portrait in the gallery here. I haven’t looked at it whilst it is a work in progress, how is it coming on?”

“You look as beautiful as you usually do,” said Hunter, with a wink at Amy as he studied her unfinished work.

“Hmm – that could be taken more than one way,” said his grandmother. “Anyway, you can clear off. I don’t want you distracting my artist.”

Hunter gave a little bow of consent and then turned to Amy, “I hope you will join us for dinner tonight if you aren’t too tired after a day’s work? Perhaps you could be back here by seven o’clock?”

“Oh, um...yes, thank you,” stammered Amy who hadn’t quite readjusted to
Hunter’s physical presence. He left the room with a last smile back at the two ladies and Amy spent a few moments putting paint onto her palette to try and calm herself before she could begin. It seemed to her that she had gone through many changes since she last saw Hunter, but it was only a matter of weeks since the ball. Once thing was for certain, she thought to herself as she mixed alizarin crimson with a little yellow ochre, she still found Hunter as attractive as ever.

Fortunately for Amy, once she started painting she forgot everything else, and it was only after she had returned home and showered and dressed for the evening that her apprehensions returned. She wasn’t sure on what basis she had been invited to dinner. Was it just as a courtesy because she was painting Hunter’s grandmother? And what would it be like in the company of both of them? She knew enough of Marilyn’s character by now to know that she couldn’t be trusted not to tease either Hunter or
Amy.

There was always something slightly odd about going back to her old family home as a guest, but somehow Amy felt it more that evening, probably because with both Hunter and his grandm
other in residence it felt as if it really did now belong to a new family. And perhaps also it was because they both seemed to be making an effort to ensure that she felt welcome and comfortable as a visitor. She was glad that they had chosen not to stage the meal in the Great Hall, but had instead opted for the less formal medieval old hall which served as the kitchen, but still boasted a long, scrubbed oak table. It felt very homely with food still cooking on the range and both Marilyn and Hunter collaborating in the creation of the meal. Someone had cut flowers from the garden and put them in a vase on the table. Amy recognised the vase from days of old, but there were also a few subtle changes about the place: some linen serviettes were new, as was the china which the meal was served on. Someone had put curtains up at the mullioned windows, which seemed a bit incongruous to her, but did make the place feel cosier.

Neither Hunter nor Marilyn
were formally dressed for dinner. Marilyn was, of course, as chic as ever in a pleated skirt and white blouse with a high frill at the neck. Hunter wore fawn chinos and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms. He was lifting the lid of a casserole dish and sniffing.

“This smells good: I think it's done,” Hunter said to Marilyn.

“Of course it's good,” she said, “I picked the herbs from the garden and used some of your best wine in it! But leave it alone for now – the potatoes won't be ready yet. Pour Amy a drink and let's start.” She set out some small marinated and stuffed peppers whilst her grandson cut slices of fresh, crusty bread. Amy pulled up her chair and tasted the white wine which Hunter had poured for her. Despite her misgivings the pair of them had succeeded in making her begin to relax.

“I've been entertaining Amy with the antics you and Cole got up to as boys,” said Marilyn when they were all finally seated at the table.”

“And yet she still agreed to come to dinner, so you can't have told her the snail story,” responded Hunter with a twinkle in his normally serious grey eyes.

“What snail story?” asked Amy
suspiciously. “Is there something I should be looking out for in the casserole?”

“The casserole is safe, it is the table decoration you need to watch,” said Marilyn.

“Yes – watch it for signs of movement,” laughed Hunter. “The incident we are alluding to happened when Cole and I were on holiday over here as boys. My parents were hosting a very fancy dinner with some government minister and at least one duke as the star guests. Of course Cole and I were packed off to bed early as being too young for such occasions, which Cole heartily resented. So when the table had been set with elaborate flower arrangements he went round the garden with a bucket and picked up a couple of dozen snails which he deployed in strategic places amongst the flowers. As luck would have it, these little critters lurked within until the second course had been eaten and then started to emerge one by one and make their way across the table to the bemused and occasionally revolted guests. My father was not amused.”

“The sequel to that tale is that Cole was punished the next day by being locked in his room without meals. The gardener had witnessed the snail collecting part of the exercise
,” said Marilyn. “But Hunter managed to smuggle food up to him in a basket attached to a rope.”

“How did you know about that?” asked Hunter, genuinely surprised.

“Oh, I always had my spies,” said his grandmother, laughing at the look on Hunter's face. “You were always looking after Cole – and still do.”

Hunter looked a little embarrassed by this final comment and changed the subject by asking Amy about the studio she was going to be sharing in London.

“It was pretty impressive,” Amy admitted. “My cottage is too dark to be any good for painting in, which is one reason why I have done so much work en plein air. But the studio has brilliant light – it is a converted Victorian warehouse. I guess I can try painting from a still life or even a model. I saw some of the work James had been doing when I was up there and it looked terrific.”

“James is an old friend?” asked Hunter, who seemed to be studying the piece of bread he was buttering with unnecessary attention.

“I was studying art in London before my father became ill,” said Amy. “There was a whole bunch of students and artists I mixed with. James and a couple of others were a bit older – he's about thirty – and already beginning to establish themselves. It's not that I was particularly good friends with him, just that he happened to be looking for someone to share his studio at the same moment I was looking to go to London.” Some part of Amy wanted to say that she might never have felt the need to leave Montford in quite so much of a hurry if she hadn't thought that Hunter was about to get married. In fact, if she had known he was about to return to Wolfston Hall as a free agent she might have reconsidered moving altogether. But perhaps it was better that she did start building her own life. It was all quite confusing, so she said no more but buttered her own slice of bread with as much care as Hunter had. It was Marilyn who broke the silence.

“I must say I wis
h I was young and talented and about to go up to London to be an artist,” said Marilyn wistfully.

“Do you paint?” asked Amy, recovering herself a bit.

“A few rather tame watercolours, but nothing with the spirit and style I saw in your paintings of this place. I'm like my grandson here; more of a connoisseur than an artist myself. I hope you do really well.”

“From what I've he
ard from my friends it can be hard to get noticed,” said Amy, absent-mindedly watching Hunter, who was clearing away their plates and carrying the casserole dish over to the table.

“Well, I happen to know a very successful and influential gallery owner and collector,” said Marilyn.

Amy suddenly realised that Marilyn was referring to Hunter and blushed deeply. She hadn't meant to come over as dropping a hint. She had actually forgotten all about Hunter's impressive credentials in the art world at that moment in time. “I think that particular art collector may be out of my league,” said Amy.

“That's funny, because I thought you might be out of my league,” retorted Hunter. Amy's blush deepened by a further couple of shades. She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not.