Into the Blue (17 page)

The girl stared. ‘Why should I? You don't want to know, you on'y wants to get rid of me.' But she leaned back, picking at her apron with restless fingers.

Hester waited. ‘Tell me, Ruby. Perhaps it will help me understand why you were so ready to believe your mother's claim.'

‘Well... .' A moment's pause and then, in a rush – ‘I wasn't schooled proper, like you was, but I can read and write. And I loved my ma.' Ruby's eyes took on a faraway look and her voice grew quieter. ‘We was very poor, and we shared a room with another family. And he, Mr Stevens, the man, was horrid. He frightened me. He were like an animal... .' Stopping, she shook her head and stared down at the dusty floor. Then, looking up, she met Hester's eyes. She sniffed. A tear rolled down her cheek, she put up a hand and wiped it
away, gulped in a big breath, and sighed.

‘Then Ma took ill and was going to be sent to the workhouse cos the landlord didn't want her dying there. That's when she give me the paper, and said as how I was his daughter an' if I come here I'd be made fer life.' The words died into a choking sob. ‘An' I believed her.' Tears fell openly now.

Hester sat silently, her mind full of images, of pain-filled voices and of a young girl's dreams which would turn a sad, dreary life into a near-paradise. She found a handkerchief and passed it to Ruby.

Slowly she realized that this was a turning point in both their lives. No longer was there anger and resentment churning deep down, but a new sense of understanding. Perhaps she could take a step nearer to this girl, whose background had been so hard. ‘Ruby,' she said, leaning forward in her chair and taking one of the girl's hands in her own. ‘Thank you for telling me. I can see how you hoped to make a better life for yourself—'

Ruby pulled her hand away, folded the damp handkerchief into a neat parcel, and then looked at her. Hester saw surprise and a softening of the bitterness that moments before had made the small face so hard and unlikeable. There was a new note in the girl's voice as she whispered, ‘That was it, I was taking a step away from all that nasty stuff in town – I was coming into a new world. An' I like it here, you see. Like the Master and Mistress. Why—' Suddenly a bright, almost saucy grin lifted the tear-stained face. ‘Even Mrs Caunter's not so bad when you gets used to her. An' I want to stay here, learn to run the house, learn a few ladylike things from you, Miss, sewing and stuff, but now—' Ruby sighed, slowly stood up, looking down with a bleak frown. ‘Now you wants to put me off, don't you?'

A moment of inner truth, of rapid decision and of new hope. ‘No, Ruby, I want you to stay. Sit down again, listen to me... .'

They sat in silence, looking at each other while Hester's mind began to outline the way ahead. ‘Dr Winters has told me, Ruby, that my father must not be disturbed in any way. He is still very ill. So it's important – very important – that you don't upset him by telling him what you believed. Can you imagine how much worse he might become if you did tell him?'

Ruby nodded and in Hester's busy mind a flickering light showed
itself. She went on. ‘I need you here, Ruby, because I have to do too much, all by myself – look after my father, care for my stepmother, as well as running the house and making sure that my father has every possible opportunity to recover.' She stopped, thoughts awhirl. If Ruby could spend time sitting with Father, talking cheerfully to Stepmother, might there not be a few hours in which painting could be returned to? Her voice was firm. ‘Yes, I want you to stay, but, Ruby, you must promise me – and it will last for ever – that you will keep secret all this business about the birth certificate and what your mother believed.'

Her hands locked as tension grew. She knew that what she was planning was right. Indeed, it was the only way out of the extraordinary situation.
Father must never know – and everything depends on Ruby.

It seemed for ever but was really only a moment before Ruby answered, reluctantly, Hester thought, but in a voice growing stronger with each word. ‘All right, Miss. I promise. I don't want poor Master – or Mistress – to get worse, you see.' She raised her head and Hester saw a hint of the old familiar assured look come back into her eyes. ‘But I wants to be a bit freer, Miss. Like being able to do things to make life easier in this ole house. Do things my own way. And the dumb waiter – the lift? Now that really would be a big help.'

A bargain. So that was it. Hester found a smile: was it amusement or cynical acceptance? What had she expected? Certainly not this, but then why not? The practical side of her character came to the fore as she assessed the possible situation. Ruby was sensible, a good worker and she was showing fondness for her employers. Build on this, said her instinct, so she allowed her smile to grow warmer. ‘Very well, Ruby, I agree to that. I'll let you have a freer hand with the housework. But remember your promise and let's both pray for my father's complete recovery.'

She stood up, looking into Ruby's now grinning face, wondering if there could possibly be any sign of her father's familiar features. Surely not ... but she knew that there would always be an unfounded doubt in her mind. Smothering a sigh, she said, ‘It must be time for tea. Hurry up and change, Ruby, while I see if my father needs anything. And then we'll have tea in the drawing room, if you please.'

She could only wonder at the way things had turned out. Was she really right in allowing Ruby to stay? But they had agreed, and it was too late now to change her mind.

Ruby stepped out of the summerhouse. ‘Yes, Miss Hester,' she said, walking away towards the house and not looking back.

The days were wearisome, slow-moving copies of each other. Hester watched her father's symptoms, trying to decide if he was deteriorating or improving. Dr Winters visited and said it was a matter of time, but gave no idea of whether time would bring good health or permanent weakness.

And then there was the still almost unbelievable business of Ruby and her growing self-confidence. ‘I'll watch the Master this morning, Miss.' Ruby never gave Hester her full title now. ‘I s'pec you'd like to spend time with poor Mistress. She's got friends calling this afternoon.' Ruby's eyes were full of new, unsettling authority. ‘You'll be there, o' course, won't you?'

Hester found herself nodding in agreement and then redeeming black humour allowed her to smile, and she went into the garden for five easing minutes to look at the early summer flowers; especially to admire the gentian, now producing buds and seeming to be a bluer blue than she could ever describe in words or painting shades. Cerulean blue, Madonna blue, perhaps? And then she remembered Nicholas Thorne and his brilliant eyes, until she told herself that there was no time to stand and dream, no time and no hope. Duty called and she could only obey. So back to the house and the next dreary, time-consuming task.

But one night, Hester rebelled. In the quiet house, suddenly her thoughts struck out, firing sharp resentment. Where was her youth? She needed brightness and adventure and fun.
I feel old, old before my time
. Alive with self-pity she walked down to Brook Cottage as the evening sun began to set. The hedges were full, with grasses brushing
her side and trees casting heavy shadows on the lane ahead of her. She became calmer with every step, as scents, sounds and the joy of being in the fresh air infiltrated her weary and tense body.

She had slipped out of the house after dinner; Stepmother was drowsing in the drawing room and Ruby promised to keep an eye on her. Father had eaten very little for his supper, but was now sleeping. Since his seizure he had had small but regular moments of consciousness, and whenever he saw Hester at his side had managed a stiff smile. Gentle exercises seemed to be strengthening his limbs and once he had even tried to sit up.

Hester tried to block out the anguish of his illness, telling herself that it was imperative to recoup some of her energy and strength which the emotional, tiring days drained from her. She looked forward to being with Aunt Jacks, perhaps to be stimulated into a more positive mood. Her aunt was not one for moping, and just being with her helped so much.

She tried to become more sanguine about the future. As she walked she looked at the long lines of Dartmoor in the distance, fading into purple shadows as the sun set, the lower stretches of green landscape slipping into bosky half light.

She paused at the gate, feeling suddenly free, uplifted and young again until she felt again the shock and despair of the last few days. The extraordinary conversation with Ruby echoed, and once more she felt herself slipping back into anxiety, but the evening scents, Dartmoor's wild presence etched against the western sky, and the wonder of the flowers in Aunt Jacks' garden brought a gift of new hope. She smiled. Father would recover. And she would come to terms with the end of her dreams. Then, as she opened the gate, her mind struck a new bargain:
I'm doing what I know I must do but I will find time to paint. Somehow
... .

Aunt Jacks was talking in the kitchen. Hester called, ‘May I come in?' The voices ceased, the kitchen door opened and Nicholas Thorne stood there.

A moment of silence. ‘Nicholas,' she said unsteadily, ‘I didn't expect to find you here.'

No longer the untidy, earth-stained gardener in the familiar dun clothes, now he wore a dark suit; his shirt was white and the stiff
collar crept up his tanned throat, emphasizing the deep-cut features of his lean face and the brilliance of his eyes.

‘I have business with your aunt.' He smiled, held out a hand and drew her into the kitchen. She relished the hardness of the long fingers, the warmth that rocketed through her, bringing relief and the ending of all the recent worries and shocks.

Her breath quickened. This was a sudden magical moment, and she sensed they shared something warm and intimate – until Aunt Jacks broke the silence. ‘Hester, I was hoping you might come around. But you still look very pale. I shall get you a glass of my cowslip wine – that should perk you up a bit. Come and sit down.' She got to her feet and looked back. ‘Nicholas, find some glasses in the dresser, will you, please?'

Hester watched her disappear into the big larder, leaving them alone for a few precious moments. She must let him know what his presence meant to her. What could she say? No words came; her mind was just full of this huge, blissful happiness. She pressed his hand and he drew her close.

‘Hester.' His voice was quiet. ‘What can I do to help you? Anything – anything at all.'

She smiled, allowing the feeling of freedom to blossom even further. ‘No one can do anything, Nicholas, thank you. We just wait and hope.' She paused while he collected glasses and put them on the table. He looked at her again, and she said, her joy only half concealed, ‘It's good to see you again.'

And then Aunt Jacks was back, pouring out the wine and holding up her glass. ‘To happier days. To your poor father, Hester, and to you, Nicholas, on your new expedition.'

Hester sipped her wine, feeling her happiness somehow diminished. What expedition was this? Carefully, she asked, ‘Where are you going, Nicholas?'

He put down his glass. ‘Nothing is certain yet, but Miss Watson – you remember her?'

Hester nodded. She would never forget the formidable woman and her inspiring advice.

‘Miss Watson has asked if I would accompany her on her next trip. June this year is a possibility, but it could be later.' He avoided her
gaze and looked at Aunt Jacks. ‘Which is why I'm here, to ask Mrs Jacks' advice about finding someone to help in the nursery while I'm away.' He looked back at Hester. ‘I can't leave my father on his own, with just an apprentice, and because Mrs Jacks knows so many people I've come for her advice.'

‘I see.' Disappointment coursed through her. He hadn't come in the hope of seeing her – she should be ashamed for even thinking such a thing. He was a businessman, a professional gardener; he had so much to fill his life, it was amazing that he remembered her at all. She took another sip of the wine and managed a hard, bright smile. ‘I'm sure whoever my aunt suggests will be right for you and your father.'

He was watching her. ‘Thank you. There should be no problem. Mrs Jacks' reputation will ensure that.' A pause, then he added, ‘My father is anxious that you should continue painting his flowers. Is there any hope that you might return to the nursery?'

She took a breath, trying to sort out the thoughts going round and round. ‘I should love to continue. Please tell your father and thank him for his trust in me – but life is difficult at the moment.'

Aunt Jacks cut in very firmly. ‘Even so, you need some time to yourself, child. Surely an hour during the day could be managed? Get that servant of yours – Ruby – to take over some of your tasks. She seems a reliable girl and she can keep an eye on your father. Get back to your work, Hester, you really must.'

Hester sat back in her chair, thoughts racing. A few hours a day to paint at home or – her heart leaped – to go to the nursery, where Mr Hayward and Nicholas would welcome her back. Ruby would be with Father, Stepmother might hopefully be resting – could she do it?

‘Yes.' Her smile blossomed. ‘I'll arrange it somehow, Aunt.'

Nicholas was looking at her, his eyes darkening. She turned to him. ‘I might manage to come for a short while.'

‘Whatever time you can find would be very welcome.' The words were formal, but Hester saw the glow of warmth illuminating his face. He waited, smiled and added, very quietly, ‘We will look forward to seeing you again soon, Miss Hester.'

Then, abruptly, he got to his feet. ‘Time I was off. Thank you, Mrs Jacks. I'll tell my father that you'll be sending him some suggestions shortly. Miss Hester—' He looked down at her. ‘May I escort you
home? Or is your groom coming to collect you later?'

‘No, I shall walk back. Thank you.' Hester rose, excitement surging. They would be together, alone, for that short walk up the lane. She smiled at her aunt. ‘Dear Aunt, thank you for the wine and the advice, and I'm sorry I can't stay longer. But I'll come again soon.'

‘Far more important to spend your free time painting, my dear,' said Aunt Jacks firmly. ‘Well, goodbye, and my love to your father and your stepmother. Tell them I'll visit when I can – but the garden keeps me busy these days.'

Hester and Nicholas set out into the twilight, closing the gate of Brook Cottage behind them, and heading up the lane towards Oak House. Shadows abounded, and all around the evocative night scents drifted in great wafts of perfume. They didn't speak, but Hester felt a bond between them and wasn't surprised when Nicholas stopped beside a field gate, stretched up and picked a spray of golden honeysuckle.

Silent, she waited, suddenly aware that since their first meeting they had been instinctively waiting for each other and now, for this one brief moment, they were together.

He took her hand, drew it to his mouth, opened the warm, willing palm and kissed it before pressing the flower into her fingers. ‘For you, Hester,' he whispered. ‘I don't know whether we shall ever meet again – possibly not, because I understand your family duties are so many – but my house is lonely without you and I look forward to the day when you can return and finish the paintings you started for my father.'

She looked at the flower, then leaned her head against his chest. What he had done and said was so wonderful that she could make no response, except to look up at him, putting all her heart into her smile.

Their kiss was tentative, Nicholas just brushing his warm lips against hers, but then, as she leaned closer, it became stronger, his mouth passionate, making demands which she felt herself responding to. The moment stretched but she ended it, stepping away, wanting more, but knowing it must not be so.

He was looking at her, eyes as dark as lapis lazuli, she thought, no longer the untroubled blue of summer skies; his hands were warm and
strong around her body. ‘Hester?' A low, almost inaudible question which she couldn't – mustn't – answer.

From deep inside she found the strength to return to reality, forcing her voice to be firm and steady. ‘Thank you for the honeysuckle. You're always giving me flowers. First the bastard balm, then the gentian and now this.'

Perhaps he recognized the finality in her voice. He stepped back. ‘Is the gentian growing?'

They were back to normal friendship. Hester began walking away and heard him follow. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Very well. It's a beautiful plant.' Why was she behaving like this? They had kissed, he had said he missed her, but he had also said they might never meet again. What did it all mean?

‘Gentians,' he said, in a firmer voice, ‘are very attractive plants. And perhaps, somewhere, there might even be a double one.'

‘How splendid that would be.' It was all over, that magical moment of shared pleasure, and now she was back in her dreary life. At the entrance to Oak House he suddenly, almost roughly, took her hand. ‘Hester, we must meet again – somehow.'

She turned, saw a longing in his eyes that touched her heart, but had no idea how to reply. And then, abruptly, it was finished. Horses' hoofs were trotting down the lane, a trap was reined in, and Hugh Marchant stared down at them.

‘Hester? What are you doing out here? And who the hell are you, sir?'

She heard the arrogance, the rising anger, and said sharply, ‘Hugh, this is Nicholas Thorne, who has escorted me home from Aunt Jacks' cottage.' She turned. ‘Nicholas, this is my friend, Hugh Marchant.'

There was a charged silence while the two men appraised each other. Then, grudgingly, Hugh said, ‘Good of you, Thorne, to bring her home. But I'll take her into the house now – no need to delay you any further.'

Hester said nothing. She watched Nicholas smile wryly, nod his acknowledgement, then bade her a cool good night, turning and walking rapidly away, disappearing into the shadows, his footsteps the last memory of his presence.

‘What do you want, Hugh?' she asked wearily, climbing up on to
the seat beside him.

‘To see you, of course. To ask after your father.' He paused. Then, curtly, ‘Hester, you shouldn't be out at this time of night, alone. And ought I to know that fellow?'

Driving up to the entrance of the house, she smiled wryly. ‘No, Hugh, you wouldn't know him. He's a plantsman, a professional nurseryman.'

‘A gardener? Good God! The impudence of the man, being out here, alone with you at this time of night.'

She was too tired, too full of emotion, to argue. ‘Never mind. Now come in and sit down. I suppose you want to talk?'

He handed her down from the trap as if, she thought resentfully, he imagined he already possessed her. He smiled. ‘Of course I do, dear Hester. And you know what I'm going to talk about, don't you?'

She did. The subject was always the same. How proper it would be, how wonderful, for them to marry. He would look after her, relieve her burdens, give her prosperity and affection. Her father would be pleased: indeed, their engagement might help his recovery. Again and again, he asked, would she marry him? And although she always gave the same answer –
thank you, Hugh, but no
– her tired mind was slowly accepting that perhaps one day, with life controlling her instead of the other way around, she might be well advised to say yes instead.

 

Nicholas Thorne walked back to town very fast, his thoughts racing. So that was the man whom local gossip linked with Hester. The new boy, joining the old, well-established law firm. Of course, what could be more suitable than that Hester should marry this Hugh Marchant? He had everything to offer: excellent prospects, family connections and a good lifestyle. She would be foolish not to accept him.