The Shape of Sand (4 page)
“But why,” he asked in soft, rather sibilant, but excellently English tones, “do you not choose something where no men are needed? Botticelli's âThree Graces' comes to mind.” His smooth smile travelled from one sister to the other.
“Too easy,” said Harriet immediately. It had been thought of before, and dismissed, but she was too polite to say so. “The audience is supposed to
guess,
you see, Mr Iskander.”
guess,
you see, Mr Iskander.”
“And three such beauties would immediately give away the answer, of course.”
Kit gave a short laugh, but Bertie and Teddy Cranfield were reduced to an embarrassed British silence at this confirmation of what their instincts had already told them about the fellow. Beatrice, returning to her seat, said, “Girls, you're not to plague Mr Iskander when he's only just arrived. He needs a little peace after his train journey from town.”
“Oh, bother, yes, that train! Isn't it just too tiresome?” demanded Daisy. “Miss Jessamy should have been on it, too.” Her thickly dark-lashed hazel eyes sparkled, so attractive a contrast with that golden hair. “Are you sure you didn't see any mousy person in a governessy grey dress lurking in the shrubbery outside the station, Mr Iskander? Or did you, Kit?”
“Daisy!”
As a perfect hostess, the word tiresome in connection with guests â or even one soon to become an employee â was not one Beatrice allowed to be on anyone's lips. “I'm certain Miss Jessamy will not be like that in the least. There has simply been some misunderstanding, which will no doubt resolve itself shortly,” she added, though Rose Jessamy not being on the train would in fact mean all sorts of complications, not the least of which was that Copley would have to be available to take the motorcar (though perhaps the pony trap would do) down to the station again to meet all likely trains ⦠But how unmannerly of her, she thought privately, if she had been prevented from catching the train she had indicated she would travel on, not to have sent word to let them know when she might be expected! Such a communication would not have been difficult, they were not behind the times here at Charnley. The house, as well as being equipped with electric light, three bathrooms and hot water heating pipes running beneath the floors of the ground floor rooms, boasted a telephone set. Or if, like many people, she was averse to using the instrument, why not send a telegram? Even a letter posted in London that morning would have arrived here by now. “She is not a governess, she is an artist,” she said, as if that explained everything about the missing woman.
As a perfect hostess, the word tiresome in connection with guests â or even one soon to become an employee â was not one Beatrice allowed to be on anyone's lips. “I'm certain Miss Jessamy will not be like that in the least. There has simply been some misunderstanding, which will no doubt resolve itself shortly,” she added, though Rose Jessamy not being on the train would in fact mean all sorts of complications, not the least of which was that Copley would have to be available to take the motorcar (though perhaps the pony trap would do) down to the station again to meet all likely trains ⦠But how unmannerly of her, she thought privately, if she had been prevented from catching the train she had indicated she would travel on, not to have sent word to let them know when she might be expected! Such a communication would not have been difficult, they were not behind the times here at Charnley. The house, as well as being equipped with electric light, three bathrooms and hot water heating pipes running beneath the floors of the ground floor rooms, boasted a telephone set. Or if, like many people, she was averse to using the instrument, why not send a telegram? Even a letter posted in London that morning would have arrived here by now. “She is not a governess, she is an artist,” she said, as if that explained everything about the missing woman.
“I expect she paints pretty little woodland scenes,” Daisy said carelessly. “What a pity the bluebells are over!” Beatrice widened her sapphire eyes warningly, but chose to say nothing in front of the others, and turned her attention once more to the teapot. Her youngest child was becoming dangerously sharp-tongued. Miss Tempest's departure had come not a moment too soon.
“Don't vex your mama, Daisy,” Kit drawled, accepting a cup of tea from Beatrice and watching her from under his lids. “I can vouch for it you will be very pleasantly surprised when
you do meet Miss Jessamy.”
you do meet Miss Jessamy.”
“Will I? Oh, do tell! I had no idea you knew her!”
“Well, as to
knowing â¦
it was I who first took Marcus along to the Alpha Workshops â that's a kind of artists' commune where she's been painting and selling her work. She's regarded as a very talented and most unusual person.”
knowing â¦
it was I who first took Marcus along to the Alpha Workshops â that's a kind of artists' commune where she's been painting and selling her work. She's regarded as a very talented and most unusual person.”
An artists' commune! Beatrice frowned, but only very slightly. After forty, one could not afford that indulgence. She had not been made aware of any communes, artistic or otherwise and, not for the first time, she wondered if Miss Jessamy was indeed going to be the good idea, the solution to Daisy's companionless state she had seemed to offer at the time. When Miss Tempest had so inconsiderately left, it had hardly seemed worth the trouble of finding a new governess â Daisy was almost seventeen and would be coming out next year, and Beatrice knew only too well the tribulations of finding the right kind of person to guide a young girl, especially one so impressionable as Daisy Look how Miss Tempest had turned out! Inculcating rebellious, quite unacceptable ideas into the girl's head, a fact which Beatrice had unfortunately only learned after the young woman's abrupt departure. Yet Daisy could not be left to her own devices.
The plan to engage Miss Jessamy as a companion for her had come about as a sudden inspiration, born of one of those reckless impulses, of which few people suspected Beatrice was capable, after seeing what this Miss Jessamy had done when making over the London house of Beatrice's dearest friend, Millie Glendinning. Charnley, unlike the family's house in London, could not be considered elegant, however well-loved it was. And at that moment, its brocatelles and velvets, antique wallpapers and heirloom furniture, the buhl and ormolu, walnut and mahogany, the mountains of French porcelain collected on their grand tours by those Rodhythes whose heavy, gilded portraits still gazed down from the walls, suddenly seemed to Beatrice to be static and heavy, and lacking in any vigour or newness of ideas. Millie's daringly new and original decorations on the other hand, the colour and texture of her brightly painted walls, exuded a freshness, lightness and gaiety that was like nothing Beatrice â or indeed most other
people â had ever seen before.
people â had ever seen before.
She rarely allowed her emotions to take control of her common sense, but there were times when she could not help it, and this had been one of them. She was utterly bowled over by the riot of exuberant design that evoked such disturbing ideas and stirred something dormant within her, some longing for change, for distant remembered vistas, some undisclosed awareness that there must be something beyond the safe confines and predictabilities of life as mistress of Charnley, wife of Amory, and mother to his children. Few would have believed that beneath Beatrice Jardine's marble-cool exterior, there beat this longing for something wild and free â and even, perhaps, something dangerous, which was trying to escape. But there it was.
When she was told that the remarkable young woman who had effected this wonderful modern transformation was seeking other commissions, she drew in a deep breath and plunged: it was arranged that Miss Jessamy would undertake the redecoration of some of the guest rooms in the west wing at Charnley. Speed was not what was required: she was to take her time, as long as was necessary, and in return for an additional fee, keep Daisy occupied, which should not be difficult. Daisy was easily interested, receptive to new ideas.
At this moment, however, Beatrice wondered uneasily if she had not allowed herself to be carried away by the tide of enthusiasm that had swept over her. Had she not acted too precipitately, in contravention of her normal rules to herself where her girls were concerned, had she enquired insufficiently into Miss Jessamy's credentials as a fit person to be with Daisy? She had not yet even seen the lady in question, but had engaged her through the intermediary of Marcus, who, it had surprisingly transpired, had already encountered Miss Jessamy and her work several times. Beatrice was immediately reassured when she thought of how completely she could rely on her son's judgement, which was rarely at fault. Though not yet five and twenty, Marcus was steady and sober, like his father, Amory. If he thought Miss Jessamy suitable, there was no more to be said.
And now it seemed that Kit, too, already knew Miss
Jessamy.
Jessamy.
She looked up from her teacup, and at that exact moment, caught an exchange between her eldest daughter and Kit that she did not quite understand, an ironic look on Harriet's part which held a certain challenge, an enigmatic one on Kit's. After a moment, Harriet turned to say something to Teddy Cranfield, and Kit brought his glance to rest on Beatrice herself. Her smile answered his. It was, of course, part of his charm, that warm look he bestowed. He had this trick of making one feel there was no one else, at that moment, who mattered.
Yet, despite his sublime good looks â spoiled only (or perhaps not spoiled, simply lifted out of the Byronic cliché) by a rather large nose and an often moody expression, there was something ever so slightly louche about Kit Sacheverell. Perhaps it was his wide-brimmed hats, his flowing ties, the hair that was just a little over-long. She dismissed such thoughts, not willing to think ill of the boy â well, no, a man of twenty-six, now â though she must think of him as a boy to her almost forty-four years.
“I sometimes wish,” she had remarked a short while ago to Amory, “that he were a little â steadier, and as for Harriet ⦔ She had left the rest unsaid. Harriet was at the moment a sore point with her, though it was a state of affairs she was determined not to allow to continue. A fine looking, high-spirited girl such as she was, clever and with all the right connections, should have ended her first season engaged to be married. Vita had managed it. Beatrice herself had been married at eighteen and by the time she was Harriet's age had already produced Marcus, the son and heir, and Harriet herself. Instead, Harriet had, it seemed, fixed on Kit. Oh-so-charming but penniless Kit (though he had high expectations, when that ancient old relative of his shuffled off this mortal coil). Beatrice sighed, with frustration, annoyance â or something deeper.
Amory, she knew, did not altogether share her concern about Harriet. Though he constantly joked that his pocket was not bottomless, he had made generous settlements on his three daughters, he loved them and enjoyed their company and therefore did not see any urgent necessity for finding them
husbands. A highly moral and upright man who showed a stern face to the world but was invariably courteous and gentle with his family, he had married his beautiful wife for love as he knew it, had apparently found deep contentment and wanted nothing better for his children. Moreover, he liked Kit, and was more forbearing towards him than he would have been to his own son, had Marcus ever given him cause for worry, which he had not. Kit would sooner or later, he said, make a go of his chosen profession as a civil engineer â haphazard choice as it was, with romantic notions about building bridges, though there was not much evidence of that as yet, and it was high time he decided not to hang around so much on the fringes of the art world. “Oh, I suspect Harriet will be very good for him.”
husbands. A highly moral and upright man who showed a stern face to the world but was invariably courteous and gentle with his family, he had married his beautiful wife for love as he knew it, had apparently found deep contentment and wanted nothing better for his children. Moreover, he liked Kit, and was more forbearing towards him than he would have been to his own son, had Marcus ever given him cause for worry, which he had not. Kit would sooner or later, he said, make a go of his chosen profession as a civil engineer â haphazard choice as it was, with romantic notions about building bridges, though there was not much evidence of that as yet, and it was high time he decided not to hang around so much on the fringes of the art world. “Oh, I suspect Harriet will be very good for him.”
“The point is, rather,” she had replied, a little sharply, surprising herself, “will he be good enough for Harriet? Will any man? She has such high standards, rather too high, I think, and men do not like clever â or sharp-tongued â women. As for Kit ⦔
“Well, you are not suggesting Kit falls short in that direction? You know the boy better than any of us, you get on so well with him, Beatrice,” Amory said, smiling and patting her hand.
With slight irritation â sometimes, she wished Amory would show just some impatience or disapproval, that he would be less predictable, perhaps (dare she say it?) be a little less
dull â
she had let the conversation lapse, but at the back of her mind lingered something Kit had once said to her. “I should like, above all else,” he had declared passionately, “to have no necessity to worry about whether or not I might afford to buy what I admire â you know, paintings and works of art, things like that.”
dull â
she had let the conversation lapse, but at the back of her mind lingered something Kit had once said to her. “I should like, above all else,” he had declared passionately, “to have no necessity to worry about whether or not I might afford to buy what I admire â you know, paintings and works of art, things like that.”
It was a pity for a young man with such ambitious tastes and such a disinclination to put his shoulder to the wheel and
work,
that his father had not left him enough money to indulge them, for the present, at least. The old relative had had one foot in the grave for the last twelve years, and was still inconsiderately hanging on. We must not, she thought, let Kit marry Harriet simply because he would then be rich enough to buy
anything he wanted. The thought that this idea could be in his mind was so exceedingly distasteful to her, she tried to dismiss it immediately. Kit was not like that. He would not marry Harriet because it was expedient. Beatrice very much wanted to believe this, but at the back of her mind, she thought he might. There were unexplained simmerings, impatiences, ironies below the surface of Kit's sometimes cynical outlook that occasionally unsettled her. Gave off the whiff of danger. The thought made her feel a little breathless.
work,
that his father had not left him enough money to indulge them, for the present, at least. The old relative had had one foot in the grave for the last twelve years, and was still inconsiderately hanging on. We must not, she thought, let Kit marry Harriet simply because he would then be rich enough to buy
anything he wanted. The thought that this idea could be in his mind was so exceedingly distasteful to her, she tried to dismiss it immediately. Kit was not like that. He would not marry Harriet because it was expedient. Beatrice very much wanted to believe this, but at the back of her mind, she thought he might. There were unexplained simmerings, impatiences, ironies below the surface of Kit's sometimes cynical outlook that occasionally unsettled her. Gave off the whiff of danger. The thought made her feel a little breathless.
Â
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the spreading branches of the cedar, lighting her face with gold. How beautiful she is, thought Kit. No one else could come anywhere near her, her daughters, no one. He was in danger of losing his admittedly not very stable balance over her.
Â
Amory Jardine and his son rode down from London in a first class compartment of the early train they always took on Fridays, when guests were often expected for the weekend. For a while, they spoke of matters of the day: Mr Asquith, the Prime Minister's problems with trade disputes and strikes; the high words in Parliament over the ever-present question of Home Rule for the Irish; incredulity expressed by certain letter writers to
The Times
that the earth could be thought to have actually passed through the tail of Halley's comet, and the growing menace of the presumptuous, troublesome Suffragists. The opinions of father and son were not entirely in accord over this last, and presently they fell silent. Amory opened his attaché case and took out some papers, but Marcus remained uncharacteristically unoccupied. Stretching out his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, he stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out of the window as the train belched and clattered through the dirty London suburbs and into greener, ever greener countryside, and thence on to a branch line, while pleasurable, rather daring, thoughts stirred in him.
The Times
that the earth could be thought to have actually passed through the tail of Halley's comet, and the growing menace of the presumptuous, troublesome Suffragists. The opinions of father and son were not entirely in accord over this last, and presently they fell silent. Amory opened his attaché case and took out some papers, but Marcus remained uncharacteristically unoccupied. Stretching out his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, he stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out of the window as the train belched and clattered through the dirty London suburbs and into greener, ever greener countryside, and thence on to a branch line, while pleasurable, rather daring, thoughts stirred in him.
Other books
Future Imperfect by K. Ryer Breese
Superstar by Southwell, T C
Maratón by Christian Cameron
Wicked Love (Wicked White Series Book 3) by Michelle A. Valentine
The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer
Moonlight and Margaritas by Cindy Stark
The Concrete Blonde by Michael Connelly
El hereje by Miguel Delibes
The Killing Kind by Bryan Smith
Boy Band by Jacqueline Smith
