Into the Blue (8 page)

Her breath caught as, at once, she knew what he meant. Stepmother's voice echoed with its hopes of courtship and marriage. But Hugh was taking things too fast. She wasn't ready for him to declare that he loved her. She must play for time. ‘Hugh, what ever do you mean?'

His lips lifted into a wide smile. ‘Just what I said. I want to have you at my side when I'm a successful businessman because you'll be a good hostess. You'll charm my dinner guests. You'll make my big, expensive house – when I buy it – the attraction of the county and keep it well run. And you'll be there when I come home, tired or worried about a difficult case. You'll calm me, comfort me.' He lifted his hand, ran a finger down her cheek. ‘Keep me going through my
hectic and ambitious life.'

They stared at each other and Hester felt herself suddenly chilled. Stumbling for words, her thoughts in chaos, she said slowly, ‘I don't know what to say, Hugh. You've, well, shocked me. Your business, the big house, marriage?' Her voice was low. ‘But not a word about being fond of me.'

He shrugged, sat back against the rock and looked at her with an expression that she found hard to understand. Gone was the lightheartedness and the humour. This was a new Hugh. She listened to his crisp words and realized abruptly that he was a man in search of his future and planning to ensure that it would be a successful one.

‘Of course I'm fond of you, Hester. We've been friends for all our lives. But a marriage is principally about property and status. You must know that?'

Bleakly, she nodded. Yes, she did. What had Stepmother told her? And she understood Hugh's plan, but it seemed an empty, cold sort of plan to make. Shouldn't love be there somewhere?

As if he read her thoughts, Hugh said, almost casually, ‘Well, if you're waiting for those three little words, of course I can say them.'

‘And mean them?' She met his gaze, felt her face stiffen and tried to tell herself to keep control of the emotions suddenly thrusting through her.

‘Love?' His voice was light, his smile more amused than emotional. ‘But that comes later, you silly girl. Once we've learned to live together and make a good partnership, then perhaps we'll love each other. Love can wait – everybody knows that.'

‘I don't.'

The smile vanished. ‘Hester, for heaven's sake, I don't have to make it any plainer, do I? I'm suggesting you should be my wife.'

She shook her head, feeling an enormous weight pulling her down. This lovely, friendly time together here on the moor was turning into a turmoil of uncomfortable emotions. What could she say to him? That she was very fond of him, but would prefer to marry someone whom she truly loved? How he would laugh! And supposing, just supposing – the extraordinary thought flew into her confusion, hardly believable but strong enough to widen her eyes – that she did marry him, where would the time be for her painting?

She shook her head. ‘I'm sorry,' was all she could say. And then again, watching his face tighten, his eyes narrow. ‘I'm sorry.'

They sat in silence, bodies carefully not touching, Hester's thoughts whirling and coming to no useful conclusions. She looked again at the colours of the stretching landscape and felt herself slowly easing back into normality.

Such colours. My painting.

The vital question: if she married him, would she have time to paint? Would she have that freedom she craved?
He doesn't love me. Would he ever understand my needs?

Suddenly she remembered Oak House and Stepmother awaiting her return. Breathing in a draught of cold moorland air, she scrambled to her feet, glanced at her watch and said as casually as she could manage, ‘Goodness, it's really late. I must go home, Hugh – my stepmother is expecting me to accompany her on afternoon calls.'

He rose, repacked the basket, and then, suddenly turning to her, pulled her roughly towards him. ‘Hester... .' His eyes were dark, his voice rough. ‘Think about my proposal. It could be an excellent partnership. Don't turn me down at once. After all, you and I both know that your dream of painting and so forth is just that – a dream.' He gave her a little shake. ‘Wake up, Hester. You know how fond I am of you – think of all the fun we can have together. Like this... .'

She was drawn into his arms, her face so close to his that she felt his warm breath on her cheek. Something softened through her body; she looked at the half-open lips, recognized his intent, and, even as she longed to give in, knew she must not. His touch this morning had been exciting and she knew his kisses would be sweet, but she pulled away.

‘No,' she said. ‘I mean – not yet, if ever.' She walked rapidly down the hill.

‘Hester!' He was following, calling after her, but she took no notice. Eyes on the turf at her feet, she stopped abruptly as a small blue flower drew her attention. Stooping, she picked it, examined it, put it carefully into her skirt pocket, wishing she had one of Aunt Jacks' brown paper bags, and continued walking back to the cottage and the pony trap. Hugh's unlikely proposal was now only half filling her mind, for here was another flower which she would paint
tomorrow morning when she had time to return to her flora.

She looked again at the moorland stretching around, complete and impersonal in its beauty, took in the colours and the age-old, primitive freedom, then heard Hugh following her down to the road, and realized the decision had made itself.

‘Devil's-bit scabious,' she whispered to herself, and then smiled, remembering all that Aunt Jacks had taught her.
Flowers dark blue purple, rounded heads, in damp grassy places. Succisa pratensis.

Already she could see the blue shades mixing on her palette.

The Hayward Nursery was always busy. A narrow plot of land stretching beside the main road from Newton Abbot, which Edward, son of the founder, had inherited, it was a plantsman's business of excellent reputation and increasing growth.

Glasshouses gleamed in the sunshine, the shelves of terracotta pots home to innumerable small plants now in the full beauty of vivid flowering, with outside beds of greenery filling the remainder of the plot. Bothy, office, tool and packing sheds were discreetly hidden behind a tall macrocarpa hedge, the nursery itself presenting a weedless, unblemished front to the passers-by and to the wealthy customers who drove their carriages into the waste field beside the nursery. From sun up to sun down, Hayward's was busy, with orders being prepared for delivery, and the everyday work never stopping. The garden boys kept up their ceaseless duties, Edward inspected his plants, talked to customers and in his spare moments thought about the monograph he was writing on primulas, while Nicholas and his apprentice dealt with any problems, and so the whole nursery seemed like a beehive, with every worker carrying out his prescribed duty.

On this May morning, Nicholas Thorne, son of Edward's wife Maude, but not of Edward, walked through the glasshouses in the wake of his adoptive father. Such inspections never varied. Edward, in grey flannel suit and matching soft hat, led the way, talking over his shoulder to Nicholas. He listened, remembering his early days here, when, a boy of ten, Edward had told him his duties. ‘Polish the door handles of the glasshouses till they shine. Customers must never see dirty handles. Get on, lad, use some elbow grease.'

And then later had come a hope of something more exciting. ‘Fill those buckets and bring them here.' Carrying the water from the butts beneath the staging, Nicholas wondered if he would be allowed to actually pour the precious stuff onto the plants. Hopes were dashed. Edward's fading sandy brows frowned at him. ‘Pour it into the watering can, up to the top – go on, lift that bucket, what's the matter with you, boy?'

Now Nicholas followed Edward up and down the rows, reaching out to turn a leaf there – pests? Surely not here at Hayward's – and twitching aside a stem to reveal new shoots, giving it more air, ensuring its growth; willing it to multiply. His lean, suntanned face creased as he watched, before turning back to his own work. His adoptive father would never stop this daily inspection, as necessary to him as the breath that powered his ageing, slight frame. Would Edward ever retire? wondered Nicholas, and knew the answer before it came.
Never.

Back in the first greenhouse he began his own work, but for once his mind was not concentrated on the small vivid flowers colouring the shelves running down the narrow building. He thought of Jacquetta Hirst and her forthcoming garden day. He was to give a lecture there. Should he write up his notes in advance? Or would it be better to speak freely and without plan, simply talking about last year's trip to the Dolomite Mountains? Of course, he would take specimens to show them, some of the new plants he'd brought back with him – primulas, hellebores, miniature iris, and a few splendid gentians – but should he also tell them of the dangers – indeed, the horrors – of the expedition? Would enthusiastic amateur gardeners want to know that the plants they so admired and bought with such alacrity these days were collected at the expense of broken limbs and even, on occasion, accidental deaths?

Removing a dead leaf from a burgeoning plant, he thought grimly, No of course not. Keep all that to himself, where it already lodged; in a mind that daily recognized the obsession to find new plants but was reluctant to strike out on a further expedition.

Edward did not share his passion. If Nicholas went again, his stepfather would insist – having told him so many times – that he must search for the few plants particularly named and wanted; for the
primulas that were making up the long-awaited monograph. He must certainly not waste time and money wandering about just ‘looking and getting into trouble', as Edward put it darkly.

Nicholas straightened his long back and stared at the window in front of him, his mind unexpectedly sparking an image of pleasure other than his beloved flowers. Thoughts of Mrs Jacks had brought Hester Redding into his mind and he smiled, remembering her pouring tea from a brown pot and listening as he told her about the small, hungry urchin eating pound cake. They had, he thought now, been at one for those few moments. What was it about her that had stayed in his mind? He had no time for women in his busy, passionate life, but she had put herself there.

Quickly, frowning, he banished her and returned to his work. But her tall, attractive figure, mobile face and rich brown hair refused to disappear completely. He saw her behind each plant he touched, walking around every corner he approached, heard her pleasant voice behind Edward's breathy, impatient instructions. And the knowledge that he would surely see her at Mrs Jacks' garden day stayed with him, striking when he had time to remember, even waiting for him at the day's end. In the evenings, in the shabby home he shared with his stepfather, he allowed that indulgence of remembered pleasure to overtake the day's weariness. Beyond the stress of planning ahead, dealing with difficult customers, dreaming of new discoveries waiting somewhere in the world, complex financial arrangements and the problems of working with elderly, dogmatic Edward, he saw her floating image and was amazed at the way it stayed just there, on the edge of his vision.

Women, thought Nicholas, picking up a new catalogue from a competitive nursery up country, had no place in his life; he had no time for them. He couldn't be tied down. There was no room in his mind to consider a future that included marriage and all the subsequent obstacles. How could he travel if he married? No, better to remain single and just enjoy any unplanned pleasures that might come his way.

He looked at the catalogue. Time soon to update Hayward's catalogue. After the garden day he would tackle the task properly. He needed to concentrate; to work out details, prices, offers. One must
never stop building on a business. Other nurseries were sending collectors abroad all the time these day and so pleasure must give way to the sterner stuff.

He went to his bedroom with a head full of memories. In sleep, dreams came and went: towering Italian peaks glinting down on the rocks and ravines below tiny jewel-like brilliant flowers pushing through the snow. But in the background the dark shadow of Jonathon West's accident turned his dream into a nightmare.

Waking, one thought came. Soon –
soon
– he must go out there again.

 

Hester delighted in painting under Mr Flynn's tutelage. This was the third week she had managed to escape parental control with Aunt Jacks' help. But the hour allotted to the study was all too short and it was hard, arriving back at Oak House, to contain her excitement and satisfaction. She guessed that Arthur Redding put down her mounting
joie de vivre
to the botany class which, of course, had been the purpose of the visit into town. At least he didn't upbraid her.

In fact, he seemed more agreeable than usual. ‘And are you learning well? Tell me what you learned today, Hester.'

She saw a gleam of interest in his dark eyes and responded quickly. ‘The Latin names of the wild flowers that I find in the lanes, Father. For, in the botanical world, every plant must have a name that is known in every country, despite differences in languages. And we learned the various shapes of flowers, their processes of propagation and seeding and... .'

But the interest faded, and thank goodness for the luncheon gong and Stepmother demanding assistance to walk into the dining room. Hester listened to small complaints, suggested remedies, and then, with the changing courses, became increasingly aware of Ruby's growing familiarity.

‘Cook's made a nice veal dish today, Madam. Looks tender and lovely. Shall I give you some more gravy?'

And Stepmother smiling and nodding, and glancing at Father as if to say, ‘What a good girl Ruby is.' And nothing had been mentioned about turning Ruby into Gertie, thought Hester, drily. Somehow the girl had established herself – and her fancy name.

She ate her luncheon in aware silence, recognizing that new forces were at work in the house. Ruby brought in the coffee, poured out for each member of the family, and then produced the box of Bentinck mints from the sideboard without any order.

‘Your favourite, Master... .' Her smile was almost flirtatious, thought Hester, suddenly tight-lipped. Why were the parents allowing this unseemly and unwanted friendliness?

Leaving the dining room, she mentioned it to Stepmother, but Emma frowned and said sharply, ‘Don't be so critical, Hester, the girl is working very well, and I don't want to upset her. We're lucky to have such a good maid.'

Hester retreated to her room for the quiet hour after luncheon, when Father napped in his chair and Stepmother rested before dressing up and then visiting friends. Hester told herself crossly that Ruby didn't matter at all, because one day quite soon she would be leaving Oak House and leaving everything behind her.

In the studio, intent on her painting, a new serenity fell upon her, and she suddenly knew that the house meant nothing to her these days. Just a shelter, somewhere to while away the tedious hours when she couldn't paint and was unable to go into the outside world where things happened, where people talked and argued and very often complained, but also made plans. Plans to live more interesting lives.

Now, putting the last touches to the picture of the dandelions, she thought how sad it was not to love her home any longer. For a second, memories of childhood swamped her, until she forcefully pushed them away. She must fight for her career, and old sentimental memories were not part of that fight.

Instead she thought about Mr Flynn's words this morning as she left his studio. His rough voice had softened into something approaching approval.

‘You're improving, Miss Redding. Time for you to tackle something more professional. A poster? An entry for a competition? Your flowers are coming along well, you should do something with them. I'll make a few enquiries.'

Now warmth spread through her and she felt a new optimism filling her. Until, as Mr Flynn suggested, something more positive came along, she was happy to work at her flora. Its pages were
mounting up, as was her botanical knowledge, and Aunt Jacks' recent comments had been complimentary.

‘Such confident colours, my dear. You're doing well. Bring it along next week to my garden day – I'm sure people will be interested.'

Aunt Jacks had invited several local gardeners, as well as Miss Emily Watson from London, who had last year returned from a painting tour of the Dolomite Mountains in northern Italy and had agreed to talk about her work. Hester read the names of the other speakers and suddenly stopped. Nicholas Thorne was going to speak about his trip to the Dolomites last year. Of course, he had said he had been there with Miss Watson.

She looked up, staring at the summer border stretching the length of the garden; they had weeded it between them and now it looked abundantly beautiful and full of colour. Scabious, lupins, big white daisies with butterflies hovering over them. She smiled to herself, it would be good to see him again. The smile became a silent chuckle: Aunt Jacks must be reminded to order a pound cake from the farm.

 

The garden day dawned hazy, veiling a pale half-hidden sky that promised to surprise everyone with later heat and brilliance. Up early, Hester wondered what to wear for the occasion, quickly deciding on a dark green linen skirt, a high-necked white blouse and the new straw hat bought last week in town. Fashionable with its crisp boater shape and elegant ribbon decoration, she knew it suited her because Ruby had commented on it as she left the house on Monday moning.

‘Nice new hat, Miss Hester. Looks lovely, it does.'

Hester had frowned and left without replying. She had no time for Ruby and her increasing familiarity.

Now, entering Brook Cottage, she was glad to leave Oak House behind; this was going to be a busy day with many people to talk to. And there would be plenty to do. Indeed, the cottage was a hive of industry. Both girls from the farm were at the kitchen table, with jars of homemade jam and great pans of clotted cream beside them.

Arthur Redding had loaned Hoskins to Aunt Jacks for a couple of hours to mow the lawn and do the last bits of tidying up before the visitors arrived. Now he had returned to Oak House to drive Father and Stepmother down the lane to the cottage.

Hester pulled up her sleeves, took orders from Sally and Mary in the kitchen and began cutting egg and cress sandwiches, while Aunt Jacks flitted from cottage to garden and back to the kitchen, supervising everybody, all the while keeping an eye open for the first arrivals, driving in from Newton Abbot in carriages and pony traps.

It was about noon when the small white gate began clicking open, allowing people to enter and walk down the path. Soon voices filled the quietness of the garden. ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Hayward. And your son – good morning, Nicholas – and, oh yes, good morning, Miss Watson – I hope you had a pleasant journey down from London?' Aunt Jacks was welcoming and bright.

More voices, more visitors wandering down the path, inspecting the border, sitting in the summerhouse and being offered fresh lemonade and biscuits. Even Father and Stepmother smiling and nodding to their acquaintances.

Hester kept busy inside the kitchen until she was called outside. ‘Hester – come and meet Miss Watson. And bring your flora to show her.'

Emily Watson was a plump, mature lady with greying hair and strong features. She greeted Hester with sharp, deep-set eyes. ‘So you enjoy painting flowers – and this is your work?' The pages were turned and Hester held her breath, suddenly very conscious of her amateur talent. What if this professional artist thought nothing of her pictures?