Into the Blue (21 page)

Hester said, ‘It sounds wonderful. Makes me almost want to come with you.'

Emily smiled as she sipped her brandy. ‘You would be very welcome, and I'm sure you'd enjoy finding new plants and painting them.' Her tone grew firmer. ‘But now we must discuss the entry into the painting competition, which I know your aunt has told you about. It was sent under the name of Joseph Flynn, but—' She paused. ‘But,
when looking at it at Kew, I recalled seeing your work at Jacks' garden day in the spring, and something made me wonder about this particular painting. The tiny grub working its way up the stem, for instance, heading for the newly opened leaves, touched a chord of memory.' She laughed. ‘An original idea, and I remember that the painting you showed me then had a similar creature climbing around the flower.'

‘Yes, Miss Watson, I don't know why, but I like to put a beetle, or a moth, or a butterfly in my pictures. It gives vitality and life, I think.' She hesitated. ‘I have brought my latest picture for you to see, in case you wish to compare it with the other entry. Shall I fetch it?'

‘Please do.'

Emily took one look at the gentian and the blue butterfly and said, ‘Yes, of course, I recognize your work. And it is very clearly the same artist who has painted the competition entry.' She looked across at Hester. ‘Do you know this Flynn man?'

‘He was my tutor.'

‘How shocking. Have you seen him, demanded an explanation?'

‘He's no longer around. I was told he has left the district.'

Emily pursed her lips. ‘In London, seeking his fortune, and trying to become this year's competition winner, I shouldn't wonder.' She gave the painting back to Hester. ‘We must clear up this annoying muddle. Tomorrow we'll go to Kew and get it sorted out.'

Standing up, she reached out her hand and drew Hester from her chair. ‘I think you should go to bed. We shall need our wits about us in the morning if we're to bring that rogue Mr Flynn to his just deserts.' She smiled. ‘Come now, my dear, let me take you upstairs.'

 

The Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew were wonders of beauty and fascination that Hester could never have imagined. She longed to wander through the trees and explore the vast glasshouses, but Emily briskly led her to a large building and left her at the entrance, saying, ‘I will leave you here for a while. There are various people I must see and I daresay you can amuse yourself looking around.' She paused briefly. ‘This is the herbarium where all the plants are recorded. I shall talk with the resident botanical artist, and discuss your painting and that of Joseph Flynn. Then I'll be back – shall we meet in about an
hour? Is that all right, Hester?'

‘Yes, Miss Watson. There's so much to see – and I want to visit the Marianne North Gallery of Botanic Art. I've read about it.'

‘Yes, of course.' Emily smiled approvingly. ‘All those paintings of the plants she discovered when travelling. You'll learn a lot from them, my dear.'

Alone, Hester looked around her. The gardens stretched on and on, but she knew exactly where she must go, and easily found the long, low building of the gallery opposite the famous Temperate House. Inside, she caught her breath. So many paintings. Leaflets informed her that there were 832 of them, all the work of Marianne North, who had travelled alone to North and South America, South Africa and many parts of Asia, searching out the native plants, setting up her easel and then painting them. Before her death she had bequeathed this gallery to Kew, together with the paintings contained in it.

She had died, Hester noted sadly, just a year ago. If only she had had been able to meet her, to find out about painting the world's unknown plant life. Looking at these paintings, by a middle aged lady who had travelled alone among hardship and danger to fulfil her passion for birds and butterflies, Hester found her own passion mounting. If only she could do what this intrepid artist had done.

If only
... .

Something urgent began to burn inside her. Father had died. Nicholas had said they must never meet again. She supposed she was going to marry Hugh. Yes, life was plagued with difficulties, sadness and regret, but if she had nothing else, she had her painting. And Emily Watson thought highly of her talent. And perhaps something might come of this muddle over the painting competition.

I will paint. I will make a career for myself, out here, in the world. Women can do anything – everything. And so will I, even if, as Hugh's wife I have only a few spare hours a week.

And then another surprising thought crept into her mind.
IF I marry Hugh
... .

She gave a last look at Marianne North's amazing output of work and then turned and left the gallery. Outside the fresh air reinvigorated her thoughts and her resolve. She started walking
towards the herbarium to meet Emily Watson, for the hour was nearly up.

And then, in the distance, coming down the path ahead of her, a figure caught her eye. Tall, unmistakable, the gait and strength so clearly revealing someone she knew. Someone she loved.
Nicholas.

She waited, heart racing, and saw him stop a stone's throw away, removing his hat, eyes intent on her. Slowly, he came nearer. She saw wonder in his eyes, warmth suffusing his face, and knew that this was a moment when she must be strong. She should turn away at once, for only pain and longing could result from this accidental meeting. But he was looking at her, holding out his hands. Indecision wracked her. What could she do?

She was lost. ‘Nicholas!' She ran forward to meet him, smiling up into his astonished face. ‘Oh, Nicholas!'

‘What are you doing here, Hester? Of all places – I thought you safe at home in Devon.' His hands were strong, his voice low, full of pleasure and surprise.

Stumbling, she explained about Emily Watson and the painting competition. ‘I am going home tomorrow,' she said, ‘but why are you here?'

‘Making final arrangements with a colleague here in the Gardens about Emily's expedition – we leave next Friday.' They stood, gazing at each other, hands clasped. Hester knew her heart was in her face and her voice as she said, unevenly, hesitantly, ‘Your letter, Nicholas. When you said we must never meet again – did you really mean it?'

At once his face hardened and he let fall her hands, but slowly, as if he couldn't bear to abandon them. ‘Yes, I did mean it. I have nothing to offer you, Hester. I'm just a plantsman – someone with a mind full of guilt, and a ridiculous sense of ambition which will never achieve anything. Believe me, it's best that we part.'

Slowly, painfully, her radiant smile died. His words were hard, his eyes had become steely blue and determined. She felt as if he had struck her. Was there no love left in him? Not even enough to hope and plan for a future they could somehow share?

But then, mercifully, pride came to ease the pain and dictate the next step. She lifted her head, forcing her voice to be casual. ‘I see. Well, it's been nice to meet you again, and I wish you well on the
expedition. Perhaps you'll find that wonderful gentian you told me about.'

‘Perhaps.' One cold word, putting an end to the meeting.

Their eyes clung, but the moment had passed. He nodded, replaced his hat and seemed only to be waiting for her departure. Hester turned away, tears masking her vision, but then Emily's voice called from the herbarium entrance.

‘Over here, Hester – time we went home, I think. And I have some news for you.'

It was hard, leaving him standing there, feeling his longing and his wretchedness reaching out for her as she walked away, thankful to have somewhere to go, to have a reason for putting all the pain and regret out of her mind.

‘I'm coming, Miss Watson.' She hurried on and by the time she reached the herbarium steps the tears had vanished. And the thought of Nicholas, still standing there, watching, was just a torturing image which would of course return, but which, for the moment, she could thankfully replace with a more positive, exciting thought.

Painting, she told herself determinedly. All I've got left is painting.

Returning to Kensington, Emily told Hester the result of her talk with the botanical artist working in the herbarium. ‘Miss Smith will try to trace Mr Flynn – his note enclosing the entry has a London address – and will tell him he is not eligible for entry.' Beaming, she went on. ‘And yours will go forward for judging. A decision will be made in a day or two, so let's keep hoping that you at least earn a good recommendation, shall we?'

Hester fought to keep Nicholas out of her mind. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Thank you for sorting it all out for me, Miss Watson.'

Emily's smile vanished. ‘Is something wrong, my dear? You look disturbed.' Her glance was sharp. ‘Was that Nicholas Thorne I saw you talking to?'

‘Yes.' But she must not think about him.

‘I suppose he was at Kew meeting his colleague who works in the herbarium. And no doubt he's busy making arrangements to join my party when we leave next week.' Frowning, Emily added, ‘I believe Nicholas has a fondness for you. my dear. How well do you know him? Nothing about his troubled background, perhaps?'

Hester tensed, waiting for control to return. ‘I only know that he has hopes of finding a double gentian.'

‘Oh, that!' Emily laughed. ‘Of course, all collectors believe they can find something rare – even non-existent. But perhaps I should tell you about the accident that happened last year when we were in the Dolomites, and for which Nicholas believes himself to be responsible.'

‘He feels guilty?' A shutter in Hester's mind opened painfully. Memories struck. Nicholas had said he knew about guilt. She looked at Emily. ‘Please tell me.'

But the cab slowed, and Emily looked out of the window. ‘We're nearly home. I'll tell you the rest indoors.' The cabbie reined in and they got out, going into the house and removing their wraps and hats.

And then it was time for Emily to work on her book and after luncheon Hester went upstairs to repack her valise and think about going home.

Looking out of the window, hearing the traffic in the high street and half longing to be back in the peace of the country, she began thinking uncomfortably about Emily's information. Did she really want to know why Nicholas felt guilty? How much better it would be to erase all the memories of him. She reminded herself that she was taking a new step forward in life. She would marry Hugh, become the highly social wife he demanded, but – here she frowned and pursed her lips – she would insist on a few hours a week for her painting. Perhaps she might even gain a commission or two, although no doubt Hugh would take exception to her becoming a working woman.

She sighed. It wasn't going to be easy, but the old passion remained. Painting would be her life, come what may.

Later, over tea, she listened to Emily's tales of exploration and discovery, of Jon's accident, and at the same time learned fascinating facts about painting in difficult conditions.

Early next morning she was ready to take a cab to Paddington station. Emily kissed her goodbye. ‘I've been delighted to have you, Hester – you must come again.'

They smiled at one another and then she added, ‘I hope you have a good journey home and—' Delving into her pocket, she produced a small book. ‘Nicholas's journal may pass the time for you. He left it with me so that I could check details of last year's expedition. I've finished with it now and I expect he's forgotten all about it.' She smiled. ‘He's so busy I don't suppose he'll remember that he gave it to me. You can return it when we meet again.' She embraced Hester. ‘Goodbye, my dear, and keep painting, won't you?'

The journal, a pale blue scuffed leather book, burned a hole in Hester's pocket as the train steamed out of London, gaining pace and then racing towards the West Country and home. She didn't want to look at it. Yes, she did. And so, reading with increasing interest and shock, she learned the details of Jonathon West's fatal accident among those dangerous mountains and treacherous rivers. The last paragraph, in Nicholas's strong handwriting, made her catch her breath.

Hester wiped away her tears and spent the rest of the journey staring out of the window. The countryside passed in all its beauty – roses winding through the hedges, trees shading the stock grazing lush green fields – but she hardly saw any of it. Her mind was refilled with a new determination and resolve.

There were signs of change at Oak House. Ruby answered the front door as Hester arrived. ‘Welcome home, Miss Redding.'

Hester heard the newly acquired gentility slip as Ruby added, ‘We haven't half missed you.'

‘Thank you.' So someone had warm thoughts of her. With Ruby in attendance with the valise, she went upstairs.

‘Everything's going along nicely, Miss Redding. Madam is pleased that I can wheel her around the garden in the new invalid carriage and, do you know, she even suggested we take a stroll down to Mrs Hirst's cottage? We're going later this afternoon.' Ruby stood in the bedroom doorway while Hester removed her coat and hat and went to the washbasin.

‘I'll leave you to tidy up, Miss Redding, and then I expect you'll be ready for luncheon. A sherry beforehand, perhaps?' And she went
downstairs, leaving Hester smiling. What a change; what a well-mannered, thoughtful girl Ruby had become. And, drying her hands and smoothing her hair, she thought how surprisingly well this new responsible and warm-hearted persona was fitting into the jigsaw puzzle she was trying so hard, and so daringly, to put together.

It was afternoon before she had a chance to talk to Ruby alone. Luncheon was full of Emma's questions about Kew and the more than likely discomfort of rail travel, followed by yawns and then being helped upstairs for the afternoon nap.

Hester caught Ruby in the hall. ‘Come into the garden, will you? I want to talk to you.' Outside, walking down the long borders, noticing how, in her short absence, flowers had bloomed, faded and been replaced by more buds, Hester looked at the well-dressed girl beside her, thought for a second how Ruby had grown into a more mature and attractive person, and then asked warily, ‘Tell me about Hugh. What did he say when he called? What did
you
say?'

Ruby looked at her with sympathetic eyes. ‘I gave him your message. He shouted a bit, but then, well, he's polite, isn't he? Said he was sorry and drove away. He said he'd come and see you in a few days' time.' She laughed. ‘Not too bad, was it? Maybe he'll come by this evening – well, that gives you time to think, doesn't it?'

Hester bent down, fingering a leaf of a cottage garden pink, smelling the clove scent of the white laced flowers as she did so. Ruby's words, her sensible attitude, soothed the uneasiness inside her, and she looked into the green eyes watching her, and asked slowly, ‘Ruby, you don't think I should marry him, do you?'

‘Not if you'd rather have that nice Mr Nicholas, Miss Redding.'

A long, thoughtful moment, and then shared smiles. Ruby's expression hinted at wry amusement and Hester felt in her bones that this was surely nothing short of a revelation. Abruptly a shaft of light chased the dark and painful shadows out of her mind as she recognized truth in Ruby's advice.

Of course she would rather have Nicholas. But he had said they must not meet again.

Thoughts swirled and fluttered in her mind. Life was hard, and ridiculous: Hugh wanted her, but Nicholas did not. Or did he? Then, as if he were close, she was aware of those past sweet moments in the
summerhouse with him beside her. When he had said those magical words –
I could love you, Hester
– only to apologize for them later.

Never had she felt so bewildered, so unsure of how to resolve these muddling images and thoughts, of how to live her life, alone, if she chose not to marry Hugh. And then the beauty and solace of the garden entered into her spinning consciousness and she looked down at the flowers at her feet: she heard the heavy green oak leaves fluttering as a breeze touched them; felt the serenity of the surrounding countryside soothe and inspire her, and out of that calming moment she came back to her gift – to painting – and knew then, with an ever fiercer passion, that this was the way to go.

Returning to the moment, she saw Ruby watching her and said quietly, ‘Thank you, Ruby. I needed to talk to someone. I'm going to forget both Hugh and Nicholas and live an independent life. I shall make a career for myself in painting – I'm going to be a botanical artist and nothing will stop me.'

Her words hung in the air, as they smiled like old friends. Then, matter of factly, Ruby said, ‘I'm glad you've decided, Miss Redding. And if I helped, well, I'm glad about that, too. Now, I dessay you want to be alone to make your plans, so I'll tell Hoskins to get the invalid carriage ready for Madam, and then we'll be off down to Mrs Hirst for tea. We shall be home again before dinner, so if you need me, I'll be here.'

Hester watched her walk away. Ruby, who had so amazingly become more than just a servant; much more like a sister, in fact. But of course, she wasn't a sister, just Stepmother's companion. How extraordinary life was, often puzzling and painful, but also offering unexpected and joyful moments leading to an inner contentment. Really extraordinary.

 

Hugh did not call that evening. Hester, tense at the prospect of making an end to their so-called engagement, felt the hours pass with increasing relief. He would come tomorrow, which gave her another day to find the necessary words and strength to face him. She wished, above all, not to hurt him. She and Hugh had been friends for so long that it was dreadful to think of his certain pain at her rejection of his proposal. How good if they could return to easy friendship, but she
supposed it would not be possible.

The morning brought the postman with a letter from London informing her that the judges at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew had decided that her entry in the competition had been chosen as the winner. Hester gasped and had to read the letter twice.

The letter was signed by Matilda Smith, the resident botanical artist, who had added a note.

Emma Redding looked up from her toast and marmalade. ‘Bad news, dear? Oh, I do hope not.'

Hester laughed joyously. ‘No, Stepmother, good news for once! Don't look so worried – it really is good.' She met Ruby's enquiring eyes across the table and waved the letter at her. ‘I've won a competition! My flower painting was the best entry! I have to go to London and receive my prize! I can't believe it! Oh, Ruby, mine was better than all the others – I don't know what to say!'

‘That's wonderful, Miss Redding. Of course you must believe it. There in black and white, isn't it?' Ruby's smile was broad. ‘Here, have some more coffee – it'll bring you down to earth!'

Perhaps it did. Hester was then able to explain to Stepmother exactly what had happened, and to tell Ruby that she would go into town after breakfast and telegraph her acceptance of the invitation. ‘And I'll telegraph Miss Watson, too – I'm sure she'll let me stay with
her for a few days.'

‘Tell you what, Miss Redding.' Ruby was full of good advice, as usual. ‘Go and buy yourself a new frock for the prize winning, something bright. I mean, you can't wear mourning for ever, you know, and I'm sure Mr Redding wouldn't mind, in the circumstances.'

Hester blinked away sudden ridiculous tears – why cry over such good news? ‘How sensible you are, Ruby – I'll do that. And I'll go and tell Aunt Jacks, and Hugh—' She stopped, feeling some of the joy fade. What would Hugh think? Then commonsense returned and with it a complete feeling of new self-confidence. She would find the right words when the time came.

The morning fled past. Aunt Jacks was delighted. ‘My dearest child, you deserve it. I always said you were exceptionally talented. And I'm sure Emily will allow you to stay with her again.' Those dark, astute eyes raked Hester's radiant face. ‘And will this make any difference to – well – whatever plans you are making?'