Blackthorn Winter (7 page)

"Oh—you must be the people living in the Old Mill House Cottage," the girl said. "Everybody's talking about the new artist and her three kids. That must be you."

"We're big news?" I was surprised.

"Well, it's a small village. Any new thing is big news." Her voice was a little defensive, as if I had somehow insulted Blackthorn.

"Anyway, what's your name?" I asked hastily.

"Oh! Sorry! Mother always goes on at me about my atrocious manners, and I guess she's right ... I'm Kate Glendenning. It's nice that I'm meeting you now, because we were going to meet tonight at Quent Carrington's party, and I was a bit nervous."

"Nervous? How come?"

Kate ran one hand through her wind-tossed hair. Her eyes still held that worried look. "Well, I don't know. Meeting new people ... well, it's hard. I never know what to say, and I always make a fool out of myself somehow. Mother says I'm highly strung."

So it seemed I wasn't the only one with problems. But at least I didn't go around
announcing
mine to people I'd just met. "Well," I said encouragingly, "we've met now, so you don't have to be worried anymore, and you've said all the right things—and I'm the one looking like a fool, tripping over my own feet and falling on my ... my
bum.
So now when you come to the party, we'll have each other to
talk to, and that's good because I don't know anybody here except Duncan Carrington, and he's not very talkative. At least not to me."

Kate nodded. "Duncan's shy at first," she agreed. "But he'll loosen up, and once he starts talking—watch out. And by the way," she added, "his last name isn't Carrington actually; it's MacBennet. Quent Carrington is his stepfather."

Had I already been told that? I couldn't remember. "So, why are you coming to the party tonight?" I queried. "I mean, I'm glad you are coming ... but it must mean your parents are artists, right? Because isn't this party about introducing my mom to the artists of Blackthorn?"

"Neither of my parents is an artist," Kate said, "but
I
want to be. I mean, I am—rather. I'm quite interested in photography, you see, and I've been taking and developing my own pictures for about a year now. Oh, I know it's not really
art
—or at least that's what Mother says. It's just dabbling, I know that. But I saved up and bought myself this really good camera, and it's brilliant."

"I think lots of people consider photography to be art," I countered, not much liking the sound of Kate's mother. "Loads of museums have exhibits of photographs. And there are tons of famous photographers—"

"Dabbling, that's all it is," repeated Kate sadly, running her fingers over her camera. "Mother says. And she knows. She knows everything there is to know about art. That's why she's invited to this party—she likes to buy original artwork, and she especially loves discovering some new artist whose work isn't known. She's got several Carrington pieces, and she was especially excited about Nora Cooper—that was Duncan's mum—who was absolutely fabulous."

"What about Liza Pethering?" I asked. "The one who has the portrait gallery—"

"Oh her." Kate grimaced. "Don't even mention that woman's name around Mother! Mother is absolutely
furious
about a portrait she commissioned from Liza Pethering that turned out to be sort of—well, rather unflattering. Mother hates it. She says that's
it
for Liza Pethering. Mother says she's going to boycott the gallery and won't buy any more of Liza's work, and she'll tell other people not to."

"Your mother feels betrayed?" I asked.

"Exactly. Mother says, how
dare
Liza Pethering paint such a thing after all she has done for her?" Kate shook her head. "I hope Liza won't be at that party tonight."

"Oh, but she will be," I told her, wondering daringly if maybe Liza had just painted Mother as she really looked, but Mother imagined herself some incredible beauty. "She'll be there. Guaranteed."

"Oh dear," said Kate, the worried expression firmly back in place. "It may mean fireworks. And I do hate Mother's scenes..."

She broke off as the Goops came running over, bleating that they were
freeeeeezing
cold and
staaaaarving
hungry. I introduced them to Kate, then said we'd better hurry home, but we'd see her that night. She walked with us back to the main road, then we said good-bye and set off in different directions. Edmund insisted on carrying home the glass bottle he had found, now filled with sand, seaweed, and water. A souvenir, he said it was, of their trip to Russia.

"It's an ancient potion," Ivy informed me loftily. "Mrs. Bobblehead gave it to King Henry the Eighth."

"
You're
the guest of honor, so why do
I
have to dress up for this party, too?" I sulked after dinner. Mom was standing in the doorway of my little bedroom, stunning in a slinky black number, high heels, a velvet jacket, silver earrings—the works. I was wearing jeans as usual, and the thick fleecy sweatshirt my friends Jazzy and Rosy had given me as a going-away-to-a-cold-land present, and I wanted to keep it that way. Our cottage was chilly, and the central heating that Liza had raved about didn't really do the job very well. The fire in the woodstove blazed cheerfully, but you had to stand close to feel its warmth. All afternoon I'd been wandering around, trying to help unpack things while cupping mug after mug of hot tea in my hands. It was hard to get much done with my hands full, but the warm mug kept the shivers away. Plus, I figured the nice strong fragrance of tea would mask any salty whiffs of weirdness, and maybe even keep the creepy child's voice out of my head, too. It seemed to work because there had been no repeat of yesterday's strangeness so far. Still, I felt wary.

"I want you kids to look presentable," Mom was saying now. "I want all the artists of Blackthorn to be impressed by my three charming children. Wear a dress."

"But I don't have anything warm enough!" I wailed. "It's freezing around here!"

"Then wear a skirt," Mom suggested, "with that fleecy top you've got on."

Giving up without much of a fight, I exchanged my jeans for a longish denim skirt, rebraided my wind-tangled hair, dabbed on some lip gloss, and then I was ready. I never had been much of a glamour girl.

I wondered if Duncan liked glamour girls.

The Goops were ready, too, their yellow hair still damp from the baths Mom had insisted they take after their tower-building on the beach. They complained bitterly that the bathwater was no warmer than the sea had been. I hadn't tried the bath in our cottage yet, and I wasn't looking forward to it.

We ran through the dark, rainy garden to the Old Mill House. Quent Carrington opened the door even before we had a chance to knock. "The guests of honor have arrived!" he announced with a flourish. Looking past him into the large hall, we could see it was already full of people. The carved wooden wall panels gleamed in the light from chandeliers overhead. Candles flickered in sconces along the walls. There was a little balcony at one end of the long room (
the minstrels' gallery,
Mom whispered to me), hung with red velvet curtains.

"I love this," breathed Ivy.

It was an impressive room—and for a moment I felt like my sister must, imagining how the same room might have looked in the long-ago past, with a formal ball taking place here, and musicians playing dance music up in the minstrels' gallery.

Liza Pethering, looking less like a witch than she had the day before, wore a sequined red sheath and had her black hair pulled back into an elegant bun. She came gliding over
to link her arm through Mom's. "Hedda, darling, let me take you around and introduce you to everybody!"

Her husband, Oliver, bobbed at her side, smiling genially. "Hello, Hedda. Hello, little children. Wonderful spread in the dining room. Liza's been here much of the afternoon. Helping to get everything ready, you know." He winked at Edmund and continued, all his sentences coming out in short, staccato bursts. "No doubt sampling the wine, too! But now, come and look, lad. There's quiches and ham. Sausage rolls and all sorts of cheeses! Ought to do for a hungry boy like you! Or do you prefer cakes and trifles, lad? I bet you do! And we've got all the best sorts from our Emporium. Laid right out on the table in there. Better hurry! Can't let these starving artists get it all."

"This way, duckies!" caroled Liza, and we all followed as, tottering slightly in ultrahigh heeled pumps, she headed for the dining room. In seconds we were surrounded by guests eager to meet Mom. Mom introduced us as her Life and her Inspiration, and chattered brightly to everyone, immediately seeming right at home. I smiled a lot and shook their hands, but it was hard to keep the names straight.

One large, imposing woman with very short, mannish hair and long, dangling earrings pumped my arm. "I'm Celia Glendenning," she boomed. "And you're Juliana!" I was getting used to hearing it pronounced the English way—
JuliAWna
—by now, but this woman said it with a special emphasis, almost gleeful. "How fabulous to meet you! My Kate told me she'd found you at the beach today, and I am so glad she did. The poor girl needs to socialize more, I always tell her, and make an effort! But, no, she'd rather wander around the village with that camera of hers. A shocking waste of time, I try to tell her, but will she listen? No, indeed not, but that's teenagers for you. Ah, well, it's a hobby, I suppose." She peered closer at me. "Heavens—you do put me in mind of someone. Or have we met before? No, of course not; you've only just arrived! But you're tall, and with that long fair plait down your back—it's very striking—I'll bet you resemble some Hollywood star, do you think that could be? Or one of those awful, bare-midriffed pop singers?"

"Um, I don't think so," I said hesitantly. This woman was alarming.

"In any case, I wish my Kate would take a good look at your hair, dear. I do wish she wouldn't chop hers off in such a boyish style. Most unbecoming, don't you think, in someone so young? Of course, mine is short, but that's entirely different."

"Well, no—I thought Kate's hair looked nice..."

"No, it
most definitely
does not look nice!"

This woman was
most definitely
a royal pain. But I just smiled. "Kate told me she's into photography. I guess it's easier to take pictures out in the wind if you don't have long hair blowing into your face and getting in the way of the lens..."

Mrs. Glendenning cut me off sharply. "No, indeed not. Long hair properly cared for—tightly dressed in a classic plait like yours, for instance—would not get in the way! You do put me in mind of someone ... someone who also wore her hair in just such a way. And as for Kate's being, as you say, into photography, all
I
can say is that it is nothing I would consider an art form. Now, young lady, tell me what do
you
do?"

"Well, I love to read—," I said cautiously, but she cut me off again.

"I mean in the way of artistic pursuits! Are you a painter like your talented mother?"

"Oh, no ... not at all..."

"Perhaps you would like to learn the art of glassblowing," said a tall, thin man wearing his fair hair pulled back in a curly ponytail. He winked at me. "You're welcome to come by our studio any time you want to," he said. "Juliana, isn't it? I think that's what your lovely mummy said you're called."

"Yes," I said, eagerly turning to him. It would be a relief not to have to chat anymore with Mrs. Glendenning. "And thanks. I'd like to see glassblowing."

"This is Rodney Whitsun," said Mrs. Glendenning with a big toothy smile at him. "He's brilliant. I have several of his pieces on display in my own home, and I always buy new ones to give as gifts. He and his partner, Andrew Parker, have just opened a new studio over by the Shreenwater. They offer classes for children, don't you, Rod, dear?"

"Andrew will, starting next month," Rodney said. He frowned. "It's just so hard to find space in the new property. Since we want to hold classes in glassblowing technique as well as have a separate display room, we really needed something larger, and it makes me just
furious
that we didn't get—" He broke off and glanced around the crowded room. "Well," he said with a little shrug, "you know the story. I've bored everyone with it for months now."

"Indeed I do know that story," said Mrs. Glendenning, nodding vigorously. "And I have every sympathy. The woman is a positive menace to this village!"

"Who is?" I asked, confused and intrigued by this mean-spirited gossip.

"Liza Pethering, that's who! Your mother's old school chum!" Mrs. Glendenning's face grew red. She pointed. "Right over there, causing who-knows-what trouble!"

We all looked across the dining room to where Liza was standing in a circle of guests, her head thrown back, laughing wildly. Her face looked flushed to me. Feverish, even. Nearly matched her sequined dress. I wondered if she were drunk already.

"Manners, manners," chided Rodney Whitsun, taking Mrs. Glendenning's elbow and turning her away from the circle of party guests that included the Petherings, Quent Carrington, and my mom.

"You're right, Rodney, dear, of course," said Mrs. Glendenning with a little laugh. "I mustn't forget myself. But you have to admit she's become more and more unpleasant and grasping with every sale she makes and every drink she takes. Really fancies herself. She's a terrible portrait painter, actually. And a terrible person altogether." She put a confiding hand on my arm. "Rodney and Andrew are too gentlemanly to spread the tale, dear, but I don't mind telling it. You see, they were angling to buy a new studio—needed more space. And the corner building where the Emporium is now was for sale last year. Liza knew—everyone in town knew!—how delighted Rodney and his partner were with the chance to buy it. They were working out the finances, when all of a sudden, Liza Pethering decided it would be perfect for her husband's shop. Their Emporium used to be in a teeny alley off Dark Lane—just a small shop, where Oliver was the butcher. But then he bought the shop, and then Liza decided they needed to expand, and so she convinced him to buy the very property that Rodney and Andrew wanted! The Petherings swooped
in with the ready money, and the sale went through quickly—and in the end there was nothing for Rodney and Andrew to do but buy the old shop building that the Petherings were selling! Galling, wasn't it, Rodney? And it's not nearly as desirable a location, I'm sorry to say." She shook her head and glared over at Liza in her bright red dress. "That woman is poison. I don't know why Quent Carrington tolerates her at his parties."