Into the Blue

By the same author

 

The Mistress of Moorhill
Village of Whispers
A House Called Sanctuary
The Song of the Pines
Garden of Hope
Bitter Seeds
Shelter from the Storm
Tide of Uncertainty
River's Reach
The Far Land

 

Writing as Christine Franklin

 

Black Witch, White Witch
The Dancing Stones

© Christina Green 2010
First published in Great Britain 2010

 

 

ISBN 978-0-7090-9117-2

 

 

Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT

 

www.halebooks.com

 

The right of Christina Green to be identified as
author of this work has been asserted by her
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988

 

 

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Typeset in 10½/14pt Classical Garamond
by Derek Doyle & Associates, Shaw Heath
Printed in Great Britain by the MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King's Lynn

The idea for this book was sparked off by reading some of the accounts of the Victorian adventurers – men and women – who travelled the world searching for new and exotic plants. The diaries of Marianne North and Amelia Edwards showed me how highly Victorian women were beginning to value their freedom, and so my characters Hester and Ruby were born.

I am grateful to all my writing friends who listened and encouraged and particularly to Monica Hazell, who so generously allowed me access to her journal, written on a visit to the Dolomite Mountains in northern Italy in 1996.

Hester dipped her brush into the paint mixed on the palette and then added the last shading to the flower painting on the page in front of her. She looked at it keenly.

Germander speedwell (veronica chamoedris)
.

Not bad. Could be better, but she was improving. She would take the blue flower home and put it in water. It mustn't die. Father would be sure to say, ‘What's that weed?', and she would tell him that it was a wild flower, growing everywhere around them, in the lanes, fields, and even in his own garden. He would harrumph and frown and pull his mouth down in disapproval but she didn't care. Flowers must be cherished.

Packing up her paints, easel and brushes, she thought how lucky she was to attend Mr Flynn's class in the Reading Room in Newton Abbot. She would continue with the lessons even though Father complained when he saw her setting out, ready to catch the omnibus into town.

It was her father's sister, Aunt Jacquetta Hirst, who had persuaded – ordered, thought Hester, wryly – Father to allow her to join this class.

‘The girl has always painted, Arthur, and shown talent. We mustn't stand in her way. If you agree to pay the omnibus fare I will deal with the charges for the lessons. Joseph Flynn, I hear, although possibly a bit of a rogue socially, is a good teacher as well as a recognized artist. Hester could do no better than learn from him.'

‘And where is this
talent
of hers' – Father had sniffed hard, the usual sign of annoyance – ‘going to get her? I need my daughter at
home here, not chasing all over the country painting flowers.'

Aunt Jacks had given him one of her pitying looks. ‘My dear Arthur, times are changing. The old queen is on her last legs and women are becoming liberated. And about time, too. Why, I myself am thinking of starting a school for women gardeners. We are gaining freedom – at last. So stop moithering on about keeping your daughter at home. She needs to flex her wings.'

Hester had listened while Father and Stepmother continued to protest, but Aunt Jacks had won in the end, and here she was at the art class, hungry for a word or two of praise from the teacher, although nervously expecting something far more realistic.

Joseph Flynn looked down at her painting and she knew at once that his downturned mouth and critical expression indicated displeasure. ‘Last leaf slightly too dark; veins too emphatic. Colour isn't quite right – Sap Green could do with a touch of Oxide of Chromium to calm it down a bit.' A hint of a smile lit his rugged face. ‘But you're trying, you're working well. I like that tiny caterpillar. In fact... .' He was on the move already, stepping towards the next easel, the next nervous student. His voice drifted back to Hester and she leaned forward eagerly to catch each word. ‘You might start working towards something, Miss Redding, a project, a career, even. Commercial art, lots of women doing it, think about it.' His voice rumbled away as he bent over the next canvas.

Hester breathed in deeply. At least his comments on her work were helpful, even slightly complimentary. Excitement grew. Yes, she would go on working. A project, he'd said; something warm began to glow inside her.

A career?

 

Joseph Flynn smiled as he held open the door for her, the last to leave the cold, bright room which served as a studio. ‘Keep working,' he told her brusquely.

‘I will, Mr Flynn, oh, I will. Thank you.'

She left the room, almost falling down the stairs as ambitious dreams filled her mind, arriving at the omnibus station just as the horses were moving. Extravagant thoughts continued to confuse her but, once arriving in Chudleigh, she found walking down the lane to
Oak House helped clear her mind. Determination said yes, she would step out into the world and play her part there. But then the confusion grew. To be truthful, being Father's dutiful daughter and showing unwilling affection for her stepmother brought little joy, except that she loved and respected Father and would always do so – but oh, for freedom.

To find my way through life, using my strength and ideas. It's hard to be a woman with all this male dictation, even arrogance, running the world. I will have a life that's all my own
.

Her mind was full of suddenly delirious new ideas. Painting might just help her find freedom! Those wonderful flowers that she loved copying onto paper, with magical colours miraculously showing them alive and bright on the page.

Chrome Yellow. Crimson Lake. Cerulean Blue. Green Oxide of Chromium.

The late April countryside was shining with colour, vibrant with life. A chaffinch sang and a robin in the hedge looked at her with a bright eye. She stooped down, picked a budding dandelion and some leaves, and started arranging a woodland scene in her mind. This afternoon, when Father napped and Stepmother had gone visiting, she would make a start. And she would remember that Mr Flynn was particular about which green she used.

Walking up the drive of Oak House, she saw Aunt Jack's trap waiting by the front door, with the pony tethered. She heard voices in the drawing room: Aunt Jacks spoke in a commanding tone and Hester thought that Father's curt reply sounded annoyed.

Aunt Jacks was in full flood. ‘Very foolish to take in a girl you don't know. She could have come from anywhere, and no reference, you say?'

Now it was Stepmother's softer voice. ‘But we do know, Jacquetta, dear – Cook says this girl is well behaved and biddable, the daughter of a friend of hers. And so, surely, we need no other reference?'

Silence for a long moment, save for a snort from Aunt Jacks, and then Father saying sharply, ‘We'll soon see how the girl behaves, and what sort of a worker she is. No need for you to fuss, Jacks. Emma and I are quite capable of managing our own servants, thank you.'

Time to make an entrance and bring some peace to the
proceedings: Hester went into the room, smiling at the three faces turning to look at her. ‘I'm back, and it's time for luncheon. Aunt Jacks, I do hope you'll stay and eat with us?'

The small erect woman got to her feet, nodded briefly at Arthur and Emma, and hurriedly came to Hester's side. ‘No, thank you,' she said. ‘I have too much to do in my own home and garden. Can't waste time. But—' Her voice dropped. ‘A word with you, Hester, if you please... .'

In the hall, Hester shut the drawing-room door behind her She looked at her aunt, resplendent in what were probably her gardening clothes – drab tweed skirt with pulled threads, a jacket of dark green that had seen far better days, and her customary shabby, out-of-shape black felt hat pulled tightly over the wisps of still bright red hair that refused to grow old and grey. Hester wondered, yet again, how Father could be so grumpy and remote while Aunt Jacks was full of life, indeed, almost bubbling over with energy.

Aunt Jacks turned and looked up into Hester's enquiring face. ‘Your parents,' she said rapidly, ‘and particularly your stepmother are far too soft. This new maid they're taking on – she could be anybody. Never mind Cook knowing her mother – I advise you to keep an eye on her, Hester. I don't trust servant girls – they don't know their place these days. Now I must go. Don't bother to see me out – I can manage, thank you. Goodbye.' She was off through the open front doorway, untying the tether, climbing into the trap, and then, clicking encouragingly at Duchess, rattling down the drive and out into the lane.

Hester watched until she was out of sight, then closed the door and walked back through the hall towards the drawing room. She had no idea what Aunt Jacks had been saying, apart from the fact that a new maid had been engaged. Mrs Caunter, their cook general, had been bewailing that Katy had left to get married, so this girl, whatever she was called, was surely the answer. Things would settle down very soon. Father hated disturbance and Stepmother was happy to agree with his every thought, so things would sort themselves out.

But she would watch the new girl. Aunt Jacks was observant and sensitive to other people's behaviour. Then Hester forgot domesticity and instead thought of Mr Flynn and his amazing suggestion. She
would speak to Father. See how he was after his nap, and then gauge whether this was the right moment. She went into the drawing room for the customary pre-luncheon glass of sherry with a smile, aware that life had suddenly become extremely interesting.

After helping clear the table – Katy had left yesterday – Hester was ready to go upstairs to her small studio, but Stepmother had other ideas.

‘Hester, dear, will you please tell Hoskins to bring the carriage round in half an hour's time? You haven't forgotten that we are going to call on Mrs Marchant this afternoon, have you?' Emma's face wore its usual patient expression, and at once Hester felt something stir inside her. Visiting – or work?

‘No, I'm sorry, Stepmother, I have some painting to do. Yes, of course, I'll tell Hoskins – but please give my apologies, will you? Perhaps another day.'

Emma's voice rose. ‘But Mrs Marchant is expecting us and there was talk of tennis next weekend when Hugh comes down from university. Really, Hester, I don't know what your father will say – he expects you to accompany me on calls.'

Hester tightened her lips. ‘I'm sorry. But I prefer not to come.' Her mind was suddenly cluttered with new thoughts, new resolution, new aims in life. She looked at the ageing woman in front of her, whose pale eyes were full of astonishment, and knew this was just the first step in an ongoing battle which hopefully would end –
must
end, she promised herself fiercely – in freedom.

‘I'll see about the carriage.' She turned away and went into the stable yard.

From upstairs, in the boxroom adjoining her bedroom – her so-called studio – she heard the rattle of harness and hooves coming around to the front door. She set up her easel by the window, then emptied out the bag of paints and brushes and the palette, but something disturbed her. A glance from the window saw Hoskins returning into the yard and untacking the horse. So, no visiting today. Guilt arose then as she guessed at once that Stepmother had been too upset to carry out her plan alone.

No doubt she had returned to her bedroom to give way to blaming thoughts and easy tears. Hester sighed as she picked up the dandelion
and its leaves and set them on the small table beside her. She knew Father would hear about his daughter's unseemly and rude behaviour once he had awoken from his afternoon nap. Tea, she thought wearily, would be an unpleasant meal.

But determination, and the pleasure which arose from arranging the small flower and then mixing paints and beginning to outline stems and leaves on a fresh piece of thick paper, soon banished such thoughts. From flowers, stems and leaves, she moved on to sections of flyaway seeds. Botanical paintings required every minute detail to be shown and she was lost in her world as she worked. The light illumined every petal of the dandelion which she was looking at so keenly – the colours flowed, the shapes created themselves – and then, reluctantly, she heard sounds from the outside world intruding.

Below, Hoskins was cutting the grass with the newfangled machine Father had bought recently; Frank Bartley's heavy voice shouted at his cows as he herded them from the pasture, down the lane towards the farm and the milking shed. A dog barked, and then quietness returned. She stared at her painting.

A sense of peace contained her, and she felt she was in a dream. The brush had worked smoothly, the colours were true, the light was wonderful, and she knew she was doing something that she was meant to do. Mr Flynn's rough voice was a background song echoing quietly in her mind, and the resolution to paint, and somehow to escape, grew large and fulfilling. Teatime came without her knowing, until Stepmother's thin voice called up the stairs.

‘Hester, are you there? Your father wishes to speak to you.'

The drawing room was shaded by drawn curtains and Hester could only just make out the figure of her father sitting in his big leather chair beside the fireplace. ‘Shall I draw the curtains?' she said, hoping that her cheerful tone would cancel whatever brooding thoughts her father was having.

But his voice, clipped as usual, was hardly friendly. ‘Hester, your mother has told me about your refusal to accompany her on her visits.'

A whirlwind of feelings swept through her and she said, ‘Emma isn't my mother, she's my stepmother,' and then stopped, horrified at the unkindness of her words. She took a step nearer to his chair and
looked down into Arthur Redding's narrowed eyes. ‘I'm sorry, Father – I didn't mean to be rude or hurtful.'

She watched him struggling to sit up straight, the afflicted leg slowly stretching out in front of him. Saw his mouth tighten, a grimace of pain almost hiding his eyes, and wished with all her heart that she could take back what she had just said.

Kneeling beside him, she put her hand on his arm and whispered, ‘Please forget it, Father – forgive me. I'm fond of Stepmother, of course I am, but sometimes I remember Mother and then... .'

Arthur Redding leaned back again and briefly laid his hand on hers, where it rested on his arm. He sighed, a deep painful breath, that Hester sensed took him back to those dark days sixteen years ago when Mother had died in her sleep after her weak chest had failed to survive the winter storms.

Slowly he nodded, and allowed a stiff smile to relax his thin face. ‘Never mind.' His voice was as strong as ever but Hester knew that, for once, he had allowed emotion to get the better of him and was now regretting it.

She patted his arm, then moved across the room to sit in Emma's wing chair. ‘Father, please can we talk it over? I know I'm too immoderate in my thinking to please either you or Stepmother, but I can't help it.' She leaned forward, suddenly eager to explain, to gain his understanding. ‘It's the age we live in, Father – nearly into a new century with such amazing and exciting ideas, inventions and huge steps forward. Can you blame me for wanting to go into the world and sample some of it?'