Into the Blue (9 page)

‘You are studying with Joseph Flynn? I understand he has the gift of enthusing his students and bringing out the best in them. Well, these paintings of yours are good. Excellent shapes, true colours and a fresh vitality bringing them alive on the paper. Well done.' The small face eased into a smile as Miss Watson returned the flora and put a firm hand on Hester's shoulder. ‘You have a gift. Use it well.' And then she turned away, suddenly spying a face she knew among the small crowd of people.

Hester stood quite still, the flora clasped to her breast, her face alight with surprise and excitement. A feeling of elation and resolution spread through her.
Use it well
. Miss Watson could not have said anything better or more encouraging. At last she knew that her life was leading her in the right direction. Whatever happened at
home, whatever Father thought of her becoming an artist, she knew she must move on. She must grasp the gift she had been given and use it to the best of her ability.

When a man's voice cut into her thoughts she took a moment to return to reality. Turning, she saw a strong, tanned face, a shock of dark hair with matching brows, and brilliant eyes looking into hers.

Her breath paused briefly, and then, with a thrill of quick pleasure at seeing him again, she smiled back joyfully. ‘Mr Thorne! How good to see you.'

He raised his hands and pressed something hard and heavy into hers. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Miss Redding. I've brought you a plant. I'm sure it will enjoy growing for you.'

She looked at the flowerpot. It held a gentian, its bud just starting to open, cushioned in green leaves. Smiling, wondering, she looked back at him and saw that the blue flower was the same colour as his eyes.

Hester had no words. She looked down at the small plant, then up at Nicholas. For a moment neither of them spoke. He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you don't like gentians? I could have brought something else. Would harebells have been more acceptable?'

She shook her head and smiled, feeling foolish. ‘No, of course not. I'm sorry, Mr Thorne – I was so surprised. I never expected... .'

‘No. But I wanted to give you something different from the wild flowers you said you were painting. And gentians are so beautiful.' He paused, then added, ‘They're my favourite of all the mountain flowers.'

Her manners had returned, and she said politely, ‘I'm delighted with it. Thank you.' She stroked a leaf and the word
mountain
resonated through her mind. ‘Should it go in a greenhouse? Is it very tender?'

His smile broadened. ‘I don't think it's fussy, after living on a mountainside, Miss Redding. Put it where you can see it and don't let the rain spoil it. It's part of the stock collected in China a few years ago, but I saw them in the Dolomites last spring.'

She kept looking at it, her thoughts suddenly flying. This small, spectacular blue flower, growing on a mountain among snow and ice – now to be cherished here, in her garden. And he had seen them when he was there. Frustration struck her. How free men were. The old yearning swept through her. She looked at him curiously. ‘Don't you long to go back there, Mr Thorne?'

She thought he looked surprised, even taken aback. He frowned. ‘Yes, I do. Very badly.'

‘And will you go?' She was asking far too personal a question, but the expression on his face intrigued her. She saw the brilliance of his eyes dim slightly and wondered why.

‘Perhaps.' But his voice had flattened and he was turning his head, looking at the groups of people now walking through the garden towards the barn on the far side of the orchard. Taking the plant from her, he said briskly, ‘I'll put this indoors for now, Miss Redding. And I think we should take our places to hear Miss Watson. I'll find you a seat in the barn – wait a moment, will you?'

Alone, Hester tried to sort out her muddled thoughts but the chatter of Aunt Jacks' visitors was distracting, and she was glad when he returned, offering her his undamaged arm.

‘Are you still in pain?' she asked. ‘It must be hard to work if you are.'

He gave her a brief sidelong smile as they went through the orchard, walking under the trees towards the barn. ‘It's not the pain so much as the frustration of only having one workable hand.'

‘How did it happen? Why were your porters being so difficult?' Another personal question, but she felt something needed closer investigation. He had been to the mountains, found gentians and many other beautiful plants. He held a source of information that she was unwilling to let go.

Nicholas paused beneath a full-flowering apple tree and looked up into the pink-studded branches. ‘Plant-collecting expeditions aren't as pleasant as you might imagine, Miss Redding. I expect Emily Watson will have some charming tales to tell, but there is always another side.'

‘Yes?'

His smile flashed down at her. ‘Do you really want to know about all the dangers that abound in such a wild and lonely country?'

‘Yes.' Hester searched for words that would explain her surprisingly urgent need to hear the worst of his tales. ‘I-I just can't help wondering how ladies manage to cope with these dangers. After all, mountains are – well – surely not the best places to go to, alone and at the mercy of whatever happens next.'

Nicholas nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘What do you know of mountains, Miss Redding?' His voice was quiet, and she sensed he wanted to change the subject, but the fact only teased her, increasing
her need to know more.

She thought for a minute. Then, as the images came, said, ‘They're high and craggy, a sort of dark grey rock, I expect, and covered with snow on the highest peaks.'

A slowly spreading smile softened his narrow face, accentuating the brilliance of his eyes. ‘You're right, grey when it rains or when fog or mist half hides them.' He paused and she knew she hadn't seen this expression on his face before. ‘But when the sun shines, they're blue. A blue that you'll never forget.' His voice deepened. ‘A blue that draws you on and on, wondering what you'll find when those dangerous peaks finally reach the blue sky beyond.'

She drew in a deep, wondrous breath, imagining all that he saw; and now she understood something new about him. Nicholas Thorne was passionate about mountains and the plants they nurtured. Today he was showing hidden parts of his personality that she had no inkling about. Indeed, now she knew that he was a passionate man with a damaged shoulder and some obscure reason that was hindering him from returning to those blue peaks. To the blue that she knew so well was calling him to return.

By now they had reached the barn, and Nicholas said, ‘I've got you a seat in the front row. You won't want to miss any of Miss Watson's stories, I'm sure.' There was a twinkle in his eyes, and Hester understood that the moment of shared thoughts was over. Dismayed acceptance swept through her. Those few seconds of words and pictures had meant so much – but why? She could find no answer.

The barn had been tidied and prettified with swathes of greenery decorating the black timber beams overhead. A scent of hay and of the old building itself filled the air, and Hester's thoughts settled down as she took her seat.

She glanced at Nicholas beside her. He seemed relaxed, eyes on Aunt Jacks and her companion standing by the table at the far end of the barn. Perhaps he felt her gaze on him; quickly he returned her instantly hidden glance and smiled. She thought he was at ease now, no longer the inspired, even haunted man who had shared his secrets with her just a few moments ago.

Her own thoughts circled. He was good-looking and personable, exciting in some strange way, a plantsman who had offered her a gift,
which was kind of him. But how ridiculous of her to think it all meant anything more. So she lifted her head an inch higher and concentrated on the two women facing the suddenly attentive audience.

Aunt Jacks' smile was broad. ‘Let me introduce my friend, Emily Watson, one of the brave ladies who travels to foreign lands and paints the amazing new plants she sees there. She has some entertaining tales to tell you.'

The two women could not have been more different, Hester thought. Aunt Jacks was a small, insignificant figure in her old-fashioned dark dress and misshapen gardening hat, while Emily Watson, the picture of elegance in cream embroidered linen and a hat that was surely straight from a Paris boutique, took centre stage and looked around her audience with a self-possessed and experienced smile.

‘Sitting on a wooden saddle – side-saddle, of course – with one's skirt bunched up on an obstinate mule all day in very hot weather is hardly a pleasant way to travel,' she began, ‘but I have done it and will do so again before long. I will show you some paintings of the beautiful valleys that we rode through, and the mountains that we saw, on my last journey.'

Her voice was magnetic and Hester knew the audience was caught. Large oil paintings, unpacked from a portfolio, brought gasps of pleasure as exotic plants of vivid and sometimes startling forms and colours were shown.

‘And there were other plants, too.' Emily displayed a smaller painting of tiny jewel-coloured flowers and Hester felt Nicholas lean forward beside her.

‘Harebells, so delicate, iris with wonderful gold-trimmed petals, and of course the famous gentians, blue and eye-catching. And so many of them that it was like looking at a blue sea rising out of the snow still lying on the peaks.'

Hester closed her eyes; yes, she saw them. The towering mountains, shadowy valleys, great grey rocks and beneath them these jewel-like flowers. Opening her eyes, she looked at Nicholas.

Her voice was a whisper. ‘Gentians.' He nodded, and again that brief flash of a smile warmed her.

Emily Watson continued. ‘There are many other distracting
beauties in the mountains, especially butterflies, but as a painter I kept my eyes on the amazing plants that appeared with each new step my mule took.'

She talked entertainingly, with tales of rogue landlords in seedy, often uncomfortable hostelries on the way through the villages; of the misty crags and rushing rivers of north Italy. But there were stories, too, of friendly women who had cooked enormous meals and made her party most welcome.

By now Hester had built a picture of such an adventure. Not all danger, then, so why had Nicholas suggested the opposite? She imagined that his experience had been different, but how different? What had happened? And why had he not told her about the accident which had damaged his shoulder? Glancing at him, she saw his expression was taut, and felt a chill, making her edge further back on her chair.

‘Rain, of course,' Emily went on, ‘was a constant delayer. Not just showers, but storms, whipping up the rivers, making the cliffs and ravines dangerous to draw close to. And I mustn't forget the fauna – insects and reptiles.' She raised an eyebrow and the audience gasped again. ‘One had to be careful where one trod.'

She spoke for nearly half an hour and ended with a modest suggestion that she was only one of a number of women who continued to explore, and to paint. ‘We live in liberated times and we have a wonderful world to discover. I hope I have helped you to understand, and enjoy, that great gift.'

Applause rolled around the barn. Emily smiled and Hester wondered if it was her imagination, or did those deep-set eyes look particularly at her? Was she being encouraged to share this new freedom, this splendid gift of appreciation of all that surrounded them?

She kept silent as Nicholas rose and ushered her out of the barn into the orchard, and back to the garden, where a buffet luncheon had been laid out in the summerhouse and on tables beneath the shrubs and trees. As they walked, he looked at her and asked, ‘Did you enjoy hearing all that?'

‘I did. Yes, I did.' She nodded and smiled, glad that his taut expression had gone, his mouth now twitching at one corner, as he
said, almost mischievously, ‘and is your curiosity satisfied, Miss Redding? Now that you know about rushing waters, collapsing cliffs and snakes lurking behind every plant that you bend to admire?'

She laughed, suddenly feeling elation and hope spread through her. Of course, Emily Watson's work was very different from her own delicate watercolours, but now she knew for certain that she must find her place in that world of artists and free exploration. Her talent was small, but she would improve; she would indeed use it well, as Emily had ordered. Reaching the summerhouse, Hester looked at Nicholas and said, with warm spontaneity, ‘I'm even more grateful now for your lovely gentian than I was when you gave it to me, Mr Thorne.'

‘Nicholas.' The vibrant depth of his voice surprised her.

She stared. ‘I don't think—'

He stepped away, expression at once stiff and full of regret. ‘No, of course not. Forgive me, Miss Redding.' A pause, and then he frowned, brows shadowing his suddenly steely-blue eyes. ‘It's just that we seemed to think alike for a moment or two ... and I enjoyed it.' His gaze was deep, and she wondered if he could see into her mind.

She nodded, ashamed of her unthinking response, and impulsively laid a hand on his damaged arm, wondering what she was doing but knowing it was right, even if unconventional. ‘I felt that, too ... Nicholas.'

They looked at each other, hesitant and uncertain, and then Aunt Jacks was beside them, leading Hester away. ‘Nicholas, you must go and get your plants ready for the talk you are to give us after luncheon – and Hester, Emily Watson wants to see you.'

Emily Watson sat in the shade of the arbour where the scented white rose sprawled in lazy drifts. She smiled. ‘Come and sit down, Hester. I've had time now to look at your flora more carefully, and I feel I must do all I can to help you get on. You paint well.' She looked at Hester with a wry, enquiring expression. ‘But how determined are you to succeed?'

Firmly, Hester said, ‘I've made up my mind that nothing will stop me from improving my work and' – she took a deep breath – ‘and having a successful career.' It was out. She had committed herself. She looked at Emily and, with relief, saw approval on her face. ‘I know it
will be hard. And it will upset my family. But I have to do it... .'

Emily put her hand on Hester's. ‘You have the right attitude, my dear. If you feel passionate about your talent, then you will let nothing prevent you from working with it. Now... .' She removed her hand and smiled. ‘The best advice I can give you is to copy the masters. Discover their techniques, develop them in your own work. And take commissions. As many as you can. Enter competitions, apply for a place in an art college. Are you prepared to travel? London would be the best place. Have you relatives who could offer you a room?'

The advice continued until Hester could hardly remember it all, but by the time luncheon was over and Emily and the other visitors had returned to the barn to hear Nicholas's talk about alpine plants, she had mapped out a plan. Find someone who would commission her as a first step. On Monday, she would ask Mr Flynn again.

She slipped into the barn, finding a seat at the back, as Nicholas began to show some of the many alpine plants already displayed on the table in front of his audience. She listened to his quiet, deep voice, watching his movements as he picked up one plant after another and talked about them, describing their habitats, their ways of growing, and finally smiling and saying, ‘Perhaps this gentian is my favourite of all. Even the primulas, the saxifrages, the iris, beautiful as they are, don't hold a candle to this blue flower.'

She watched him stroke a leaf and then heard him say, as if to himself, ‘There is a legend among the natives in the mountains, that somewhere a double gentian has been seen.' He looked up, raised a dark eyebrow, and flashed a smile at the listeners. ‘Can you imagine anything more wonderful than to find it? To bring it back here, raise it and allow the rest of the world to enjoy its rare beauty?'