Into the Blue (14 page)

Mrs Kent must be the housekeeper. Relief eased an earlier ridiculous fear. So she wasn't alone here with two – perhaps more – men in the nursery, a solitary woman. She took off her hat, put it on a few empty inches of packed bookshelf, and started unpacking her bag.

‘Yes, I have, thank you. I had it at The Globe, where I shall stay.'

He stood very still. ‘You mean you're not going home after your work here?'

Hester's newfound serenity vanished. ‘No. I shall look for a room
– or something – this afternoon. I mean, I suppose I shall only work for your father for a few hours, and then ... and then... .'

And then what? Sell her jewels. Tramp the streets finding somewhere to live. Have her evening meal alone and then pack up again, ready to move into the room which as yet she had not found. She would be alone. Free, yes, but alone. She hadn't thought of this until now and it was a dark shadow abruptly overwhelming the joy of this longed-for moment.

Then footsteps broke the silence stretching between them, and Edward Hayward's wheezy voice said, ‘Ah, Miss Redding. You're on time. Let's get working, shall we?'

And then the painting took over. Hester had no more time to think about where she was to live, for a primula in a pot was brought and put on the nearby desk, together with a scrap of cardboard carrying its seeds, Edward having pushed aside papers, inkwell and piles of catalogues to make room. ‘This is the one I want you to paint first.
Primula farinosa
, a pretty thing, eh? Brought back from Europe several years ago, and already a favourite with garden people. It's also called the little bird's eye primula. Well... .' He was standing in front of her table. ‘What do you think? Can you paint it?'

‘Yes, Mr Hayward.' She could smile now, setting out the painting paraphernalia, thoughts happily settled on the work ahead of her. ‘It's lovely. I shall enjoy trying to capture those little pink petals, and the rosettes of leaves ... and those tiny seeds.'

‘Yes. Well, anything you want?'

‘Some water, please.'

‘I'll tell Martha to bring it to you.' He walked to the door, giving her a final smile. ‘Martha Kent is my housekeeper. I'll tell her to include you in the break for tea at eleven o'clock.'

‘Thank you, Mr Hayward.' Already she was inspecting the small flower, opening out the dividers, stretching the clean sheet of paper, smoothing it, getting the brushes ready for the first wash. A sigh of relief, of gratitude, of hope, and then she was lost in her craft, watching the faint lines become perfect copies of the flowers in front of her, knowing that this was the fulfilment of all those dreams. This was freedom.

Oak House was in ferment. Ruby hovered outside the drawing room where Master had, at Dr Winters' orders, been carried by Hoskins and a passing farm boy. Arthur Redding lay on the chesterfield, comatose, a grey heap of a figure now collapsed and incoherent. Emma sat in her usual chair staring at him, white handkerchief dabbing her eyes, her unsteady voice whispering his name. ‘Arthur. Oh, Arthur... .'

Ruby brought her mistress a cup of strong, sweet tea, and a small glass of brandy.

‘Drink this, Mistress – 'twill give you strength.' She smiled into the red-rimmed eyes and produced a clean handkerchief.

‘Thank you. Oh dear, poor Arthur... .'

Realizing that no orders were to be given, Ruby took matters into her own hands. Blatantly, she read Hester's letter to her father, now dropped and forgotten on the dining room carpet. Then she took the letter addressed to Mrs Hirst and thought hard before going down and telling Mrs Caunter she'd be away for a while. ‘Delivering the letter, see? Mrs Hirst must know about the Master. Don't shout at me – I know what I'm doing.'

‘But what about luncheon? All those vegetables waiting... .'

‘Let 'em wait. We won't be having no proper luncheon today.'

She walked very fast down to Brook Cottage and found Mrs Hirst sitting in her rose bower, writing something. She looked askance as Ruby suddenly appeared.

‘Ruby, isn't it? What do you want?'

No reply was needed as the letter was handed over. Jacquetta Hirst read it quickly then looked up into Ruby's face. ‘Thank you for bringing this.' She was silent and then muttered, ‘So she's got the job at the nursery, well, that's good, but leaving home?' She stopped, aware of Ruby's eyes, wide and full of something that alarmed her. ‘Why do you look like that? Is there something else?'

‘It's Master. Mr Redding. He's ill. The doctor's with him. I thought you oughta know.'

Jacquetta got to her feet. ‘How ill? Is he conscious?' She tutted. Would the girl understand? ‘Is he awake?'

‘No. Can't speak. His face is all funny.' Ruby swallowed. She hadn't imagined that Master's illness could be such a shock.

‘Come with me.' Jacquetta didn't stop to fetch a coat or a shawl, just pulled her gardening hat further down her head as she led the way to the stables. Ruby had to help harness Duchess and then climb into the trap beside the driver. They trotted up the lane and reached Oak House in four minutes.

‘Tell Hoskins to tether the pony.' Jacquetta disappeared into the house in one swift movement and Ruby was left looking at Duchess and wondering what to do next. Hester must be told about her father's illness. Ruby knew Hayward Nursery, and that's where Hester's letter to the Master had said she was going.

‘Here,' she said to Hoskins as he waited beside the pony. ‘Take me into town. I gotta tell Miss Hester.'

He stared at her. ‘You can't do that, not without orders.'

Ruby climbed into the trap. ‘I'm giving the orders. What you waitin' fer, eh?'

‘But—'

‘Oh, damn you and yer buts! Get in and drive – or do you want me to do it meself?'

Grumbling, he got up, waved the whip and clicked to Duchess to start off. ‘So what if I gets me notice for this, then? Tell 'em it's all your fault, I shall.'

Ruby sat straight and surveyed the road ahead. ‘Shut up and make this bloody horse go faster, can't you?'

They reached Newton Abbot in record time. Hoskins cursed at wagons delivering beer, at farmers chatting in the middle of the road, but finally trotted up Wolborough Street, towards Hayward Nursery.

He glanced at his companion. ‘Sure she's there, are you?'

‘No,' said Ruby, ‘but I reckon she is. I gotta find her. I gotta tell her about the Master.'

Hoskins sucked his teeth. ‘Why you? Mrs Hirst's the one who—'

Truth hit Ruby like a lightning strike. ‘No. It's gotta be me. I'm the one who's gonna tell her. To see that she's all right.' Something was pricking behind her eyes. Her throat was dry, her pulses raced. Funny, she never thought she would care so much about Hester. But she knew she did.

‘There, that big gate on the right. Go on, drive in.'

Duchess snorted at the pull on the reins, then walked into the wasteland beside the nursery. Ruby didn't wait. She was down and running towards the house before Hoskins could say anything.

She had to see Hester and tell her the awful news. She had to be there, with her, didn't she?

A man with bright blue eyes and a suntanned face met her as she raced towards the house. ‘Can I help?'

Ruby stopped. ‘I gotta see Miss Redding.'

He frowned. ‘She's very busy. Why do you want to see her?'

He was trying to stop her seeing Hester. ‘Oh, get outta my way!' Ruby pushed him but he didn't move. She glared at him. ‘Her father's took ill, she must get home, to be with him... .'

‘Come with me.' Suddenly the man had his hand under her elbow, taking her into the half light of the house. ‘Stay there. I'll tell her.' The dark passage smelled of cigar smoke and musty old things. Ruby pulled a face. This was no place for anyone as particular as Hester, brought up in a lovely house which was cleaned regular. She heard voices and stepped nearer the half-open door.

‘Hester, I'm afraid I have bad news.' Such a lovely voice, sort of deep and soft like velvet. Sounded as if he cared, didn't want to frighten her. ‘A girl has come with a message. Your father is ill.' Suddenly, a sucked-in breath, a chair scraping back, a rapid movement and then Hester's voice, unsteady. ‘Who is it? Ruby, I expect. Nicholas, I must go to him.'

She appeared in the doorway, eyes worried, hands outstretched as if in search of comfort. Ruby had never seen Hester look so fearful, so less than confident. She took one of the searching hands. ‘He's at home, miss, got the doctor with him. Thought I'd come and fetch you. Don't look like that, he's still alive.'

‘Thank God. Is Hoskins outside?' She whirled around, hands to her face. ‘Let me think – I must explain to Mr Hayward. What shall I do
about the painting?'

Then the man's voice again, standing behind her in the doorway. ‘Don't worry about that, Hester, my father will understand. And I'll take care of the painting.'

Ruby saw Hester turn and look at him. She saw an expression that she'd never seen before, a soft look that made her weak smile surely mean much more. Oh, thought Ruby, so he's the one, is he? And I thought as it was that Mr Hugh.

But no time then for anything but climbing into the trap, tucking herself beside Miss Hester and hoping that Master would still be alive when they got back to Oak House.

Hester jumped down before the trap stopped. She rushed into the house and then halted. There were voices upstairs, footsteps coming down; looking up she saw Aunt Jacks, followed by Dr Winters. ‘How is he?' Her heart was racing. ‘I came as quickly as I could... .'

Dr Winters said gruffly, ‘Don't distress yourself, Miss Hester. Your father is conscious now. I have left medicine for him and given your aunt instructions as to his treatment. I will come again tomorrow to make sure he makes the good progress that I anticipate. Try and calm yourself – your stepmother is in need of your care and support. Now, good day to you, and to you, Mrs Hirst.' He bowed, collected his hat and went out, to where Hoskins waited with the trap.

Ruby was at Hester's side. ‘Go on up, Miss – I'll see to Mrs Redding.' She disappeared into the drawing room and Hester looked into Aunt Jacks' taut face. ‘You've seen him – will he be all right? The doctor seems to think so, but—'

Aunt Jacks took Hester's hands in her own and said, ‘Stop worrying. It won't do any good. Go and talk to your father. Be cheerful, don't let him see you're upset. And Hester—' She frowned. ‘Tell him that you haven't gone away. Your father needs you here. You must forget the painting until he recovers.'

They stared at each other, Hester's face drooping as the truth hit her, and then Jacks added, ‘It's your duty, child. You can paint later, when all this is over.'

Hester breathed very deeply. Her dreams were shattering, falling in small pieces all around her as duty called again. Now she could no longer neglect it – she knew she must answer the call. Wretchedly she
nodded. ‘Yes, Aunt, I know. I'll do my best for Father.'

A long, shared moment of understanding. Then Jacks said, ‘I shall return this afternoon. If you need any errands run, send Ruby. She seems sensible enough.' A last smile, an encouraging nod, and she walked towards the open front door.

Hester watched her aunt leave. Then, slowly, she climbed the stairs, mind full of one thought, which like a doom-laden bell reverberated around her head, clanging the terrible knowledge that her departure had almost certainly been the reason for Father's seizure.

 

Nicholas stood in the office; suddenly it was empty. Hester had only been here for a short time but already she had made a difference to the feel of the room. Her painting equipment was spread on the table, the jar of coloured water awaited her return, and her hat perched on the end of the bookshelf. Her reticule lay on the floor.

Frowning, he pondered. A difference to his life? Ridiculous. Hester was a lady, he was a gardener, an adventurer. She could have no time for him, no feelings, no wish to extend their tenuous acquaintanceship. And yet he knew there was something within him recalling the importance of her smile, the way he thought he saw her when she wasn't there.

He strode out into the nursery.
Good God, this is sheer imagination, get on with your work
. And yet. She seemed to be walking beside him, her smile warming his heart. It became vital to clear his mind. Finding his father in the far glasshouse, he explained that she had gone home.

Edward pursed thin lips, frowned, removed his hat, put it on again. ‘And my painting?'

‘It's safe. I've put it where no sun will reach it, no hungry mice ... don't worry.' Nicholas forced a smile. ‘I don't imagine she'll return – not until her father's recovered. So you may have to find another artist. Will that Flynn fellow help again?'

Edward huffed noisily. ‘It's infuriating. She was so good. She put life into her painting ... well, I'll think about it. So annoying.' He stormed out and Nicholas returned to the office with a sense of having to do something but not quite knowing what it was. Then he saw the hat, the reticule, and immediately knew. He must return these
two items to her. She would wonder where they were. She might need her purse. He must see her.

Telling the apprentice he would be out for a while, he packed both items into a small haversack and left the nursery. The walk to Chudleigh would do him good, thinking as he walked. Deciding what to say to her, to Hester, to the girl who had suddenly become far too important in his life; who even appeared to be banishing the cold, dark guilt that he still felt about Jonathon West.

 

Hester sat beside her father's bed, looking down at his drained face, seeing the ageing lines that had become so much deeper, listening to his breathing, praying that he would recover. After a while she moved to the window, staring into the garden, trying to find comfort somewhere.

Out in the May sunshine flowers filled the long borders which Aunt Jacks had introduced, growing in single clumps, in drifts and great bushes. Delphiniums, tall and darker than the cerulean blue in her paintbox, luring bees under their hoods; all the garish red, white, blue and yellow bedding that her father admired; blowsy roses billowing up the arches and pergolas that stretched away from the house; and her favourite cottage pinks, white with picotee edges, handsome laced purples, maroon centred doubles, dancing in the breeze, all crowding the beds. She smiled, imagining that she could smell the sweet clove fragrance up here.

And there, in the scree garden, was the gentian Nicholas had given her, uplifted blue flowers reminding her of his eyes. Something arose in her mind then and she felt a lessening of the pain that grasped her body, but she knew that the deep abyss of guilt would never go.

Turning, she looked at the still figure on the bed, and then returned to the bedside. ‘Father?' An eyelid flickered, one hand twitched. She leant over him, her hand on his forehead. ‘Father, it's Hester. I'm here, Father.'

Slowly – so slowly – his eyes opened, closed, opened again, flickered and widened. His tongue licked dry lips. He saw her, and the unafflicted hand made the slightest upward move.

Guilt, love, something buried deep inside her, erupted; she felt near collapse but slowly she gathered the courage to stop the
threatening tears. She smiled, took his cold hand in both hers, chafing him, and said, very quietly, ‘You're better, Father, thank goodness. Just lie there and rest. I'll sit with you.' She pulled the chair nearer the bed. ‘Is there anything you want? A drink? Some broth? Tell me... .'

His mouth opened slowly and muttered words that didn't reach her. She leant nearer, listening, trying to understand what he found so hard to tell her.

‘Hester.' A long pause, a lick of the lips again, an endeavour to move his head from the pillow, and the hint of a smile around the thin, dry mouth. ‘You're here. All... .' A gasp for breath, and then, ‘All I need. Dear girl.'

Her heart was bursting. She swallowed the tears and the pain and bent to kiss his hand. ‘Dear Father. Yes, I'm here. I'll never leave you. Never.'

The smile stayed on his racked face as he slowly turned his head into the pillow. She watched his eyelids close, heard his breathing become slow and knew he slept. Only then did she put her head into her hands and allow her shattered dreams to fill her mind.

 

The hours passed. Ruby came, offering to take Hester's place at the Master's bedside while she went down to Emma, still weeping in the drawing room. Hester sat with her stepmother, trying to help her understand that Father was alive and conscious, with a definite hope of recovery. She held Emma's hands and realized, with dismaying truth, that this was what her future held. Domesticity, comfort and caring for the sick and the old.

When the front doorbell sounded, knowing Ruby was upstairs, she went to answer it. ‘Nicholas—'

He stood motionless, looking down at her. ‘I've brought back your hat and your reticule. I knew you would need them. And I thought I would offer my services. Hester, is there anything I can do to help?' Opening the haversack, he took out her hat and purse.

She took them silently, thoughts crowding in. He must have walked in from town; no gig or trap in the drive. That meant he cared. Mustering her manners, she said, ‘Thank you. Come in. Perhaps you'd like a drink? It's so hot today. I'll go down to the kitchen and fetch some lemonade.'

‘No, I don't want to trouble you. I'll be on my way again. But—' His eyes were very dark, his voice gentle, and she felt herself longing to tell him how awful everything was. She hardly heard him add, ‘How is your father?'

Footsteps behind her, Ruby coming down the stairs, pausing on the last one, looking at the visitor. Hester turned, suddenly in command of the situation. ‘Ruby, can you sit with Mrs Redding for a short while?'

‘O' course, Miss Hester.' The green eyes were wide.

Hester smiled back. ‘Thank you,' she said. Perhaps she should explain. ‘I have to discuss several things with Mr Thorne.'

‘I see.' Ruby nodded, and disappeared into the drawing room.

Uneasily, wondering if Ruby saw too much, Hester looked back at Nicholas. He was waiting. ‘Come into the garden.' She held out her hand.

Slowly, he took it, turned to put down the haversack, and stood aside while she led the way out of the dark house into the light and comfort of the garden, wondering what she was doing, what she meant to do, what she would say when they were alone. But now the sadness had gone and she was floating in warmth and a sense of something so lovely that she was able to smile quite freely, leading him down the long borders, towards the privacy of the summerhouse, already anticipating the joy of being alone with him.

The summerhouse was warm, the sun's brightness deflected by the oak tree growing at the side of the small wooden building. Hester went in, turned, watched Nicholas stop in the doorway. His body blocked the light and for a second she thought. This is wrong. We shouldn't be here, together, in this intimate space. But then deeper feelings swamped the conventions. He was someone she could talk to.

‘Nicholas.' She looked into his eyes; they were darker, filled with something that excited yet alarmed her. ‘My father had a seizure, and it's my fault. I left a note for him, saying I was leaving home. He must have read it and – and – collapsed.' Her voice died away, as the awful truth returned. She sank into a cane chair, hiding her face in her hands. ‘I – I feel so guilty... .'

The words were low and uneven. She was on the verge of tears but knew that she must contain them. Where was her strength, her
resolution and passion? Sniffing, she fumbled for a handkerchief, only to have one put into her hand.

Nicholas stood beside her, his face expressing what she sensed was pain. ‘Guilt,' he echoed, staring at her, and then blinking, as if to hide the dark shadows veiling his eyes. And then, suddenly, he knelt on the dusty floor, close beside her, saying, ‘Hester, cry if you want to. I understand. But guilt is a curse you must get rid of. Don't let it grow any stronger.' He stopped, then added, ‘We're safe here. You can tell me anything you want.'

A pause while she dealt with the threatening tears, and then looked up into his face, a hand's span away from hers.

‘You do trust me, Hester?' Rapid, low words, warm and comforting.

She was too close to him, yet full of an extraordinary feeling of rightness; they were together and talking freely. Relief filled her. ‘Yes, I trust you, Nicholas. Of course I do.'

He put an arm around her, lowering her further back into the chair, his other hand lifting her face. He looked deep into her swimming eyes. ‘This is all wrong.' There was tautness in his voice and she guessed he was trying to check the words which needed to come out. He said, very low, ‘You know I admire you.'

She nodded, mesmerized by the light in his eyes, by the touch of his hard fingers on her face, the sound of his voice. ‘Do you?'