Into the Blue (12 page)

Hester looked at her little stepmother and felt an onrush of guilt. Was she really so badly missed? Was she neglecting her parents? Her mind sank. Was she selfish to the degree of becoming uncaring? She said, she hoped, comfortingly, ‘I'm glad you find Ruby so helpful, Stepmother.' Then she added a warmer note to her voice. ‘But I'm not away all the time, you know. And I do try and accompany you on your calls quite often.'

‘Yes, dear, of course.'

She watched Emma droop back into her chair, unclasp her tightly folded hands and close her eyes. ‘I think I'll have a little nap.' But there was a hint of petulance in the quiet words, and Hester knew that, although the subject was closed, resentment lingered. She sat beside her dozing stepmother, looked into the peaceful garden, at the formal beds of scarlet pelargoniums, pale blue lobelia and white alyssum, and thought that perhaps Ruby being here was a good thing, after all.

How strange life was. And perhaps – her heart leaped – tomorrow would see the fruition of the first of her hopes. Would Mr Hayward commission her?

 

She was up early, wondering what to wear, taking first one dress from her wardrobe, then another. The lilac was too flowery, the turquoise too dressy; perhaps that pearl-grey dress with tight sleeves and a high neck? And her mother's cameo brooch to relieve the drabness, to show that she had a certain style, to emphasize her femininity despite the fact that she was setting out on a professional career.

When she left Oak House to walk to Chudleigh and catch the omnibus into Newton Abbot, she felt like a fugitive, having chosen the moment when Father went to his study and Stepmother lingered in the dining room. There was no one to see her go. She had casually mentioned at breakfast that she might be out for an hour or so during the morning, and, apart from Father's pursed lips and Stepmother's gentle sigh of resignation, no comment had been made.

Except that Ruby, busily piling up the breakfast plates, had looked
at her and Hester had felt, yet again, that strange and unwanted sense of ... what was it? Almost like a feeling of communication.

And now, walking down the drive, her hat pinned on at an elegant angle and her gloved hands carrying reticule and attaché case, Hester felt eyes watching her. She glanced around but the front door was shut and the front windows deeply curtained. Then something made her look up at her bedroom window, wide to the sunlit morning, and yes, someone was there: a figure stepping away the moment she caught sight of it.

Ruby? And if so, why? But the coming interview was too important for her to consider the matter further. She caught the bus, and was three minutes early when she arrived at the entrance gate to the Hayward Nursery, three minutes of walking up and down and wondering how to introduce herself.

As she stepped to the gate and put out a hand to open it, Nicholas Thorne appeared. His smile was a welcome and his deep voice saying, ‘Good morning, Miss Redding. Do come in,' banished all the polite words she had been juggling with.

‘Nicholas – how good to see you.' The unthinking use of his name confused her, made her fumble with her attaché case, drop it, and, then, bending to pick it up, found him far too close to her as he also bent down, eyes brilliant and full of amusement.

‘Let me help, Hester.'

They stood up and looked at each other. ‘Thank you, Mr Thorne.' She wouldn't use his Christian name again. What must he be thinking of such forward behaviour? Yet he had used hers.

But clearly he was thinking of other things. He stepped away and gestured for her to walk towards the house. ‘My father is waiting. I'll introduce you.'

 

They walked up the path and she was only dimly aware of the shrubs, full, leafy and covered with blossom, edging the entrance of the house. She could only think of Nicholas beside her, of his tall body clad in dull gardening browns and greens, a flash of excitement firing inside her, quite unsuitable to the occasion. Sternly she clung to the thought that she was here on business. As they reached the open door she had control of her feelings again and heard the steadiness in her
voice with a sense of triumph. ‘I believe your father is a specialist in alpine primulas, Mr Thorne, but my paintings are only of native wild flowers, so I don't know whether he will like what I've brought to show him.'

Nicholas led her towards a back room leading off the shadowy hallway, saying over his shoulder, ‘Don't underrate yourself. My father will soon decide if your talent suits his requirements.' Then he turned, looking at the man standing behind the desk in the untidy, cluttered little room. ‘This is my father, Edward Hayward. Father, this is Miss Hester Redding. Shall we ask her to open her case and show us samples of her work?' He pulled out a chair, cleared it of a pile of papers, then smiled as he took the case from her and laid it on the desk, long, earth-stained fingers lifting out the pile of paintings which he placed before Edward Hayward, now seated in his chair, an expression of intense interest on his ageing face.

Opposite him, Hester sat on the hard-backed chair, mind ablaze as she awaited his verdict. She was aware of Nicholas standing beside his father, looking down as page after page of her paintings were picked up, scrutinized, then laid aside in a neat pile.

The sun glared through the window and she felt half dazed by the light and the mind-sapping anxiety that suddenly shot through her. This was an important moment – so important, her whole future life depended upon it.

Nicholas looked up, met her eyes, shook his head very slightly, and gave her that remembered brief flash of a smile. ‘Stop worrying,' he said, the words hardly loud enough to hear. Certainly Edward Hayward did not hear them, but she did, wondering at his awareness, and at once his encouragement made her breathe more smoothly, lower her taut shoulders, and return the smile. After all, what did it matter if this first interview was a failure? Aunt Jacks had suggested it might be and if it was, then she would just wait for Mr Flynn to produce another one.

Slowly she relaxed, watching her paintings move from one pile to another, saw Nicholas's hands reach out, take one and raise it for further inspection. Gratefully she smelled the fragrance of a shrub outside the open window, felt the sun as a blessing, and then was able
to sit back on the uncomfortable chair, waiting for Edward Hayward to give her his decision.

‘When can you start?' Edward Hayward's voice was eager. He tapped his desk and leaned over, smiling at her. ‘Your work is excellent. Delicate and full of vitality, Miss Redding. Yes, I can well imagine how you will portray my primulas.'

He looked up at Nicholas. ‘You agree?'

‘I do.'

Hester thought she heard a clear note of relief in the spontaneous reply.

‘Miss Redding's paintings are beautifully detailed.' He smiled at her, that remembered quick flash of warmth and brilliance. ‘And, as you say, Father, full of life. I'm sure your book will be all the better for her help.' He paused; looked intently at her. ‘You have great talent.' Spoken very low, the words were clearly meant for her alone.

She sat back on her chair and felt a great wash of joy, like a seventh wave crashing up the beach, engulfing her in pleasure and relief. For a moment she couldn't speak. So many thoughts ran around in her mind: this first step, professional work, the excitement and challenge of illustrating Mr Hayward's book. And then suddenly, a stab of something else, unfamiliar but stirring; she would be working here, with Nicholas not far away.

Then she became aware of the two men and all the thoughts vanished with the need to show her gratitude, to agree to whatever conditions were demanded of her.

‘Thank you,' was all she could say, looking into Edward Hayward's impatient eyes. ‘Thank you. I'll do my very best, Mr Hayward. And I can start whenever you wish.' Father would have to be told, but even
if he disagreed, she would still accept the commission. She must! This was the chance she had been dreaming about, and now the path ahead looked clearer. She told herself determinedly that the parents would – must – accept her news; she would catch the omnibus every morning, and she would work hard.

She ventured a glance at Nicholas and returned his smile but could think of nothing to say. He was looking at her with such an intense expression that for a moment she felt a stab of unease. Perhaps he didn't want her here, in his nursery. Was he one of those men who didn't think women should be free – like Father, like Hugh? Her smile died and she got up, to collect the paintings scattered over the desk, to avoid the watching eyes. Coldness hit her as abruptly another shocking idea came: if Nicholas didn't want her here, half the joy of the work would be gone. She wanted to share his company. She felt a strange excitement whenever she saw him. What was happening to her? Where was her well-bred self-control? Why did she feel this way about Nicholas and not Hugh?

Edward Hayward's voice cut into her churning thoughts, offering her a remuneration far higher than she had dared to hope. ‘Is that acceptable, Miss Redding?'

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Hayward.' Her voice was unsteady, her hands clumsy as she put the paintings into the attaché case and closed it.

‘Good. And if you can start tomorrow, that will suit me very well. We'll have a corner of the room cleared, a table brought in, perhaps, and no doubt you'll bring your own painting slope, or do you prefer an easel?'

The reality of his expectation helped to banish the wild thoughts. She picked up her reticule and the attaché case, hoping she looked confident and reliable. ‘I shall bring my slope, Mr Hayward, and yes, a table would be excellent. By the window. So – tomorrow morning. At nine o'clock, or is that too early?' In her head she heard an echo of Emily Watson's clear voice and knew she was trying to copy the same self-assurance.

‘Not for us, Miss Redding – eh, Nicholas? Up with the lark, we gardeners are.' Edward's wheezy laughter filled the room and Hester smiled back at him. She took a step towards the door and glanced at Nicholas as he came to her side.

‘Let me carry your case, Miss Redding. I'll come to the bus stop with you.'

She walked down the dark passage, through the open doorway and into the brilliance of the sunlit garden, aware only of his presence behind her. And suddenly it was all too much – the excitement, the knowledge that her talent was good enough to be professional, and now Nicholas wanting to walk beside her. Escape became imperative.

She turned and looked at him. ‘No, please don't.' Her voice was sharp and instantly she regretted her impulsive reaction. ‘I can manage. I'm used to being on my own in town. Thank you, but please don't bother.'

At the gate they stopped and he opened it, looking at her quizzically. ‘It wouldn't be a bother, Hester, more a pleasure. But if you don't want—' His voice was slightly rough, his eyes alarming her with their sudden coldness. She stiffened. What had she said? What had she done? Words erupted. ‘I must hurry, Mr Thorne. The bus will be waiting ... goodbye... .' She flew down the street, not looking back, furious with herself, with him, with the fact that she was behaving childishly and must be showing him how immature she was.

The journey back to Chudleigh helped to calm her thoughts and fears and by the time she reached Oak House she was almost her usual self again, already rehearsing the conversation she must now have with her father.

 

Nicholas watched her walking away and stayed in the gateway, thinking. So she would be here tomorow, which was a pleasant thought. But clearly she had no use for him. He took in a long breath and then expelled it, returning to the nursery and the work awaiting him. Hester Redding's rude dismissal suited him: he had no time for dallying with her, however attractive and intelligent she was. Plants, he thought wryly, were far easier to deal with than an ambitious young woman with her mind so obviously focused on her potential career.

And then a last thought dared to surface: yes, he had been looking forward to her arrival this morning but now – narrowing his eyes he squinted into the sun, and pulled his hat further down over his brow – she was just the artist who would be coming to illustrate his father's
book and he wouldn't need to give her any attention.

A pity. But better that way.

He walked towards the glasshouse. ‘Jim, have you done the spraying?' And then he pushed aside all thoughts of the attractive young woman whose presence tomorrow would conspire to divert his attention. After inspecting the apprentice's work, he went back to the office and sat down at his desk.

Time to deal with the morning's post. A packet addressed in Emily Watson's familiar handwriting. Opening it, something fell out, something so familiar, so charged with emotion and foreboding, that for a few seconds he had to wait for his heart to stop racing. A pale blue leather book, scuffed and dotted with mud: Jonathon West's journal.

For a moment he was back there in the Dolomite Mountains, along with Jonathon, and other members of Emily Watson's party, feeling the rain, the wind, hearing the porters arguing about the packs they were carrying, demanding more money and causing Jon to lose his temper. Cursing them, he had stepped forward quickly to help Nicholas, who, dodging a blow from a raised staff, had overbalanced and fallen, hitting his shoulder on a rock.

Nicholas sat back, remembering the passion of that moment. He had recovered, standing upright again, rubbing his shoulder, telling Jon to watch out for the slippery, moss-edged track running beside the raging river. And now, eyes closed, Nicholas saw again the terrifying waters; in his mind he feared the rocks that struck upward through the current, sending white water surging along in powerful waves.

Then the final image and sound. Jon's voice shouting for help as he slipped and fell; his shouts growing weaker and weaker as he was rapidly swept out of sight, away from all attempts of rescue. Nicholas knew he would never forget. Never forgive himself for not, somehow, rescuing his friend.

He forced himself to open his eyes again but knew that the sight of Jon disappearing in the swirling water would haunt him for the rest of his life. He hadn't saved him and the consequent guilt had been a dark, threatening shadow ever since, always present.

Slowly, he fought for self-control, and read Emily's accompanying letter.

Nicholas opened the book, finding the last entry on a blurred, crumpled page. Jon's writing was hard to decipher, scribbled, full of misspellings and comic sketches, but in Nicholas's mind the words were deeply engraved, reminding him of that terrible day and the reason for the disaster.

And, in the margin of the page, a hand with an index finger linked with the next one.

Very slowly, almost tenderly, Nicholas closed the book, smoothing the rough cover and still seeing that wild scene of lashing water and the small, fast-disappearing figure of Jon, arms over his head as if in supplication, white, half-submerged face taut with fear and hopelessness. And then it was gone, only the water surging down, ignoring this latest bit of flotsam as of no account.

It took moments of determined strength to convince himself that the past could not be remedied. Jon had died, and here was his journal. Nicholas kept staring at the book and very slowly felt a new hope rising from deep inside him. Yes, Jon's resolution to keep
searching for the double gentian must be continued. There was a scribbled map showing the almost completely obscured track leading to the supposed location. A track to be explored and searched.

Resolve hit him. He must go back to the mountains and carry on Jon's search. Perhaps there was a double gentian. And if he found it, then, by God – suddenly he stood up and smiled into the sunshine beaming through the window – he would be doing something to avenge Jon's death, and – the smile grew broader, stronger, as a great surge of determination flowed through him – he would be doing what he could to rid himself of the dark sense of guilt that haunted him and threatened to ruin his life.

He would talk to Father, explain that he must join Emily's expedition. He must plan for the future.

 

Hester entered the house, stowed the attaché case and her reticule in her bedroom, looked at herself in the mirror and wondered who this newly confident figure might be. Each step, going downstairs, was firm and quick, coming to a halt outside the study door where she guessed that her father would be busy.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked, heard ‘Come', and went in to confront him.

Arthur Redding looked up, eyes dark, face tight. She saw he was irritated at being interrupted and so stopped just inside the door, suddenly deflated, not knowing what to say.

Leaning back in his chair, he pushed away the scattered papers on the desk and looked at her. ‘What do you want, Hester?'

She blinked. She must break through this hostile non-welcome. It was important to talk – properly, warmly and without any of the old boundaries. She smiled nervously. ‘Just to talk, Father.'

Frowning, he gestured at the untidy desk. ‘I'm busy, as you can see. Can't it wait until after luncheon, whatever you want to say?'

Abruptly all the old annoyances, resentments and frustrations fell away and she knew exactly what to say. She stepped nearer the desk. ‘No, Father, it can't wait. I have to talk to you.' She paused, saw him frowning, but continued. ‘I want to tell you what I plan to do with my life.'

His expression was unwelcoming. Hester drew in a huge breath,
and walked towards the chair facng the desk. ‘May I sit down?'

She saw a gleam of surprise in his narrowed eyes as he nodded.

‘Father... .' She was searching for words. They came slowly. ‘Father, I have been given a private commission to illustrate a book about primulas.' She saw the change on his face from annoyance to growing surprise and anger but went on.

‘Mr Flynn, the artist I have been studying with, suggested that I visit Mr Edward Hayward at his nursery in town this morning, and—'

The dark eyes were furious. He sat up in his chair. ‘But I told you I wouldn't agree... .'

Hester rallied her courage. ‘I know. And I disobeyed you – but, Father, it's wonderful that I have gained this commission.' Her voice rose and confidence grew. ‘I am to do a professional piece of work for Mr Hayward, and he will pay me—'

‘
Pay
you?' Quick fury flew out of the two words and Hester instinctively edged back in her chair. ‘Becoming a working woman, are you? A common girl who has no idea of behaviour or of education, a woman who is out on the street and... .'

Arthur Redding ran out of words and breath and could only glare at her across the desk.

Hester straightened her back. She met those furious, near-black eyes and said, as steadily as she could, ‘No, Father, I will not be a common girl, neither will I forget my education and upbringing. But I will, most certainly, be a working woman, and proud of the fact.'

They stared at each other. Then Hester said, her voice softer, in the hope of still persuading him, ‘I just ask you, that when you've given it more thought, you will try and be proud of me, too.'

Silence. Her hopes fell. A nervous tic moved in Arthur Redding's jaw. She sat there, full of apprehension, waiting. He made no reply and, dismayed, she knew she must try and placate him. ‘I'm sorry, Father, I know this is not what you want. But I can't marry Hugh. I don't want a dull, domestic life; I have this talent and I believe I must use it. And so, you see... .' The words faded.