Into the Blue (3 page)

Stepmother looked anxiously at Arthur Redding, who crumbled the last slice of his cake and sniffed. ‘It would be most impolite to refuse Mrs Marchant's kind invitation,' he said. ‘Of course you will go. This flora – whatever it is – must be fitted in when you have spare time. Please write a note of acceptance today and let Hoskins deliver it tomorrow.' He looked at Stepmother. ‘Another cup of tea, if you please, Emma.'

Silence filled the room until Hester allowed the knot in her
stomach to untie as she realized what was expected of her – good manners and a loving respect for her parents. Somehow she forced aside the rebellious thoughts and said quietly, ‘I'll do that directly after tea, Father.'

Cups were refilled and second slices of cake appeared on Father's plate, and hastily she changed the subject. ‘I think the new maid is going to be suitable. She served luncheon and tea nicely, and she looks neat and tidy. Mrs Caunter has said that she is willing, and indeed quite capable of every duty that she's asked to perform.' She forced a smile. ‘And so I shall no longer have to carry trays, shall I?'

Stepmother smiled sweetly, sat back in her chair, and looked at Father with a contented expression on her face. Hester tightened her lips. She would never turn into someone like this, a quiet, domesticated woman, allowing a man to run her life. An odd thought came into her mind then: would the flora help take her out of this imprisoning world?

Arthur Redding said, matter of factly, ‘Yes, the girl seems competent. What's her name?'

‘Ruby Jones,' said Hester.

Stepmother looked pensive. ‘Such a pretty name. Surely far too pretty for a servant, don't you think?'

Hester imagined that she heard a note of surprise in her father's deep voice.

‘Ruby,' he muttered, and then, sniffing, fumbled for the evening newspaper. She looked at him curiously, but his expression showed no reason for the repetition of the name. ‘Yes,' he said between crackles of opening paper, ‘She'll be getting ideas with a name like that. We'll call her something else.' He glanced over the top of the paper. ‘What do you think, my dear?'

Stepmother was happy to concur. ‘Well, I once had a maid called Gertrude – such a nice girl. Let's call this one Gertrude, shall we?'

‘No!' Hester said quickly. ‘You can't just change a woman's name because you don't like the real one.'

‘But,' said Stepmother, quite forcibly, ‘every woman, on marriage, is honoured to take on the name of her dear husband.' She looked at Hester with shocked eyes.

There was a moment of unpleasant reaction. Stepmother's face
grew bright pink, Father hid behind a page of advertisements and sniffed even harder, and Hester felt every ounce of rebellion again rising inside her.

She got to her feet. ‘Well, I shan't be doing that,' she said. ‘Please excuse me. I must go and write that note.'

Hurriedly she left the room, closing the door behind her with a resounding – and enjoyable – bang. Her thoughts raced.
Gertrude! And then probably Gertie – that's awful.
She slammed the bedroom door loudly, delighted to hear its echo wafting downstairs – into the drawing room, she hoped.

Opening her pad of writing paper she was still thinking about Ruby. ‘Dear Mrs Marchant', she wrote, but her mind went in another direction.

Even if Ruby is a bit of a miss, I won't let her be called Gertie. She shall keep the name her parents gave her. Definitely.

‘I think creating a flora is an excellent idea, Miss Redding. Let me see it as it progresses. And before the plants dry out, you must record their details so that you have the true colours in your mind for future work.' Joseph Flynn smiled and Hester felt a glow of enthusiasm.

Collecting her bag, she moved towards the door, aware of him following closely behind her. Turning to look at him, she said, ‘Thank you for your advice. I shall certainly follow it, Mr Flynn.' A pause, and then. ‘And may I ask your advice about something else?'

‘I'm in a hurry, Miss Redding.' He frowned. ‘What is it?'

She said rapidly, ‘I want to enter a school of art – do you know of a suitable place?'

For a moment Joseph Flynn was silent. He pursed his lips and then, carefully, he said, ‘Of course, Miss Redding, I can give you details of many institutions where you might enrol, but perhaps for a young woman on her own it would be better to stay here, in your own locality. In which case' – he smiled – ‘I could offer you private classes in my home. At a very competitive price.'

She stared in amazement, and he added, ‘Your family would probably prefer you to study with someone you already know, rather than going somewhere amongst strangers.' He watched, seeing her astonishment slowly become consideration, and then growing enthusiasm. He slid her another smile. ‘Perhaps your mother would like to come and meet my wife and inspect my studio, Miss Redding?' He put his hand on her arm, moving her into the passage. ‘We shall get locked up by the caretaker if we stay any longer,' he said wryly. ‘I'll escort you downstairs, Miss Redding.'

Standing beside him in the entrance lobby, Hester tried to find sensible words. ‘May I give you my reply next week, Mr Flynn? After I've spoken to my father?'

‘Of course, Miss Redding.' Raising his hat, he watched her walk away towards the omnibus station. Then, smiling thoughtfully, he made his own way home.

Hester's excitement died as she saw the waiting omnibus start to move. That brief conversation had taken precious moments, and she began running, one hand to her hat, the other carrying the bag of painting equipment. She reached the corner of Halcyon Road, only to see the horses being whipped up and the conveyance swaying and rattling away from her. ‘Oh no!' How could she have been so foolish?

And then someone called, ‘Hester!'

Turning, she saw Hugh Marchant reining in his pony and trap, halting by the pavement at her side, gesturing to her to stop.

‘Hugh! What are you doing here?'

‘Taking you home. Give me your bag – that's it – now, in you get.'

His face was full of welcome and instantly Hester forgot Mr Flynn's amazing suggestion and her anxiety about telling Father.

‘Good to see you again, Hester. Hold on to your hat – we'll be home before you know it. Let's race the bus, shall we?'

‘Must we? I'd prefer to get home in one piece, please.' She was laughing, gripping her hat as the pony trotted on. How lovely being with Hugh again: the old friendship easily established, and the knowledge that she could say whatever she liked, for he would understand.

‘Don't you trust me?' Swerving past a lumbering coal cart, he slid her a wicked grin.

‘Of course I do.'

Trust
. The word lingered for a second and she frowned – was it something to do with Mr Flynn? But then it was gone.

As they drove along the Newton Road she asked, ‘How did you know where I was?'

‘I called in to see your parents. They said you were doing some sort of class at the Reading Room and I had an errand to do myself, so here I am.' He looked at her over his shoulder. ‘Painting, are you? You were always good at it. Remember your sketches of the family picnics?'

Hester let her mind wander. Memories flashed of those picnics, with Mother, Father, Katy unpacking food hampers ... a time of no worries. For some reason, she sighed. ‘Happy days,' she said very quietly, but he heard and looked at her with a frown.

‘What's wrong with life today? Surely not unhappy, is it?'

Thoughts of Father's ultimatum swept through her mind, followed by embarrassment. Did Hugh have any idea that she was being prepared to become his chosen bride? And then, what if he didn't want her? Suddenly she was laughing and clutching his arm as he performed another tricky swerve around the irritatingly slow carriage ahead of them.

‘No, Hugh, not unhappy. Confused, perhaps. But let's talk about something else. What about the tennis party on Thursday – who else is coming?'

‘Oh, Fanny and Norah Wellington, I suppose, and perhaps another friend or two. We should make up a foursome and a couple of pairs.' His brown eyes locked on to hers and his voice deepened. ‘I intend to partner you, Hester, so don't let anyone else get a look in, will you?'

She smiled back. Life was good. Hugh was back and, even if she had no intention of marrying him, he was excellent company – for a while. Yes, she would allow him to partner her, and perhaps even tell him about her painting, how she was creating a flora, and possibly going to study at Mr Flynn's studio. Perhaps. But at the moment she just wanted him to go on talking.

Hugh drove the trap up to the front door of Oak House and made an excuse for not staying any longer. ‘Mater's got a luncheon party on and wants me to host it for her as Father is otherwise occupied. I'll come and pick you up on Thursday – bring your racquet and be prepared for some fast games. Goodbye, Hester.' He turned the pony on flying gravel and saluted with his whip. Giving her a warm last smile, he rattled out onto the lane.

Hester sighed. Hugh was fun, he was easy to talk to, he seemed to enjoy her company and certainly she enjoyed his. She made her way upstairs to take off her hat and to tidy herself ready for luncheon, almost looking forward to being with Father and Stepmother again. And then something made her step into the little boxroom where she kept her painting materials and where the wild flowers she had
painted had been laid out on the desk top, drying.

Just an empty space now. A bare desktop, blotting paper neatly pushed to one side. Her flowers had gone.

 

Ruby was slowly getting used to service in Oak House. Mrs Caunter was an old dragon, but she cooked lovely meals and already Ruby could feel the waist of her dress getting tighter. Her bedroom wasn't bad, small and square up in the attic, reached by a flight of wooden stairs which creaked with every step, reaching a tiny space between her and Mrs Caunter's room. The wallpaper was decorated with cherries, and there was a washbasin and a chest with drawers, one of them a good hiding place for the secret paper. A chair stood beside a window looking out over green trees and a distant view of Dartmoor, all blue and grey in the mist. The iron bedstead had a pillow, clean sheets and a good wool blanket topped by a colourful patchwork counterpane.

Ruby wondered who had sewn this and where the many squares of cotton had come from. Perhaps someone in the household – a nanny, a governess? – had spent their evenings cutting and pinning and sewing. She quite liked the idea of all that work going into her bedcover. It was a satisfying bit of work which added up to being useful and part of a busy life. She began to dream. She would like to sew something – it would make her feel a real part of the house.

She thought she would be happy here. Mr and Mrs Redding were old and wrapped up in their own lives. She had to make sure she was polite and bob a curtsey when they expected it, because she needed them to like her. And Hoskins, the groom and gardener, was all right. Not much to say, but he gave her a lovely flower yesterday. ‘Here you are, maid. Buttercup. Put it under yer chin and see if you likes butter... .'

Remembering, Ruby giggled as she went downstairs, having dusted and polished the bedrooms and cleaned the bathroom and landing. She was taking all the rubbish out to the bin, where Hoskins had a weekly bonfire. This was mostly dust, cobwebs, bits of unwanted paper, hair combings (poor Mrs Redding was thin on top, under her cap) and today there were the weeds that Miss Hester had forgotten to throw away, leaving them on the desk in the room next to her bedroom.

Ruby tipped the rubbish, then returned to the house and found herself thinking about Miss Hester as she did so. Miss Hester was tall, very upright and pretty, with deep brown hair which she rolled up around her head. A few curls always fell down her neck and sometimes on her cheeks. She had a lovely voice – Ruby thought about trying to imitate the way she spoke – and was polite but seemed to live in a different world.

‘Why isn't Miss Hester married?' Ruby asked Mrs Caunter. ‘Hasn't she got a beau?'

Mrs Caunter glared. ‘Don't you say things about Miss Hester, my gal. She's a lady, different from us. Ladies take as long as they wants to marry. And yes, o' course she's got a young man. Mr Hugh Marchant is keen on her and I wouldn't be surprised... .' And here Mrs Caunter gave a huge wink and changed the subject. ‘None of our business. Go and get some parsley for these potatoes, Ruby. And don't stop out there talking to Hoskins.'

So Miss Hester would soon get married. That meant she would leave here. Good. Ruby, handing over the parsley, started laying the luncheon tray and thought about her secret.

Always there at the back of her mind, the old paper upstairs, a nice warm glow making the worst household jobs bearable because she knew that in the end everything would work out. Not yet, of course. She had to live here much longer before the plan could start to happen. But then there was Miss Hester.

‘Ruby!' Mrs Caunter broke into her thoughts. ‘Hurry up, gal, you haven't laid the table yet – dreamin' again, I dunno.'

Ruby pouted, shrugged and got on with the work. She had plenty of time to learn what sort of person Miss Hester was.

 

Hester was ablaze with anger. It must be Ruby who had thrown her precious plants away! No one else ever came into her studio. Or perhaps the wind was to blame? No, the day was calm and balmy without even a breeze, so yes, it had to be Ruby. Hester went downstairs into the basement kitchen, where Mrs Caunter, red faced, stood over the stove with Ruby beside her, holding vegetable dishes.

‘I want to speak to you, Ruby – please come outside for a minute.'

Mrs Caunter's voice overrode hers. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Hester, but
she can't, not right now. I'm dishing up and I don't want it to get cold, so if you don't mind—'

Guiltily, Hester withdrew. She would corner Ruby after luncheon.

The parents were, as usual, in the drawing room, sipping their sherry. They looked up and Emma smiled. ‘Hester, I fear you missed Hugh Marchant this morning. He called, but of course you were at your class.'

‘I did see him, Stepmother. He found me coming out of the Reading Room and brought me home.' Hester refused the offer of sherry and sat on the chesterfield between her parents. She wanted to get on with the meal and then talk to Ruby. But of course, in Oak House, nothing could be hurried.

Arthur Redding put down his glass and said, with a stiff smile lifting his mouth but not reaching his eyes, ‘And how was Hugh?'

‘He seemed very well.' Hester's impatience began to mount.

‘And have you arranged about the Marchants' tennis party? What will you wear, Hester?' Emma's face lit up and she beamed across the room. ‘You should wear white, as they do at Wimbledon – and I expect your tennis racquet will need oiling or whatever it is they require... .'

‘I shall do what needs to be done, Stepmother. And I will wear the tennis clothes I wore last year and the year before that.' Hester instantly regretted the tone of her voice. She should be grateful that Emma was interested enough to make suggestions, foolish though they were. ‘I beg your pardon,'she said hastily. ‘I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that—' She stopped, wondering whether they needed to know about the loss of her plants and then decided to continue. After all, she had to tell them about Mr Flynn and his exciting suggestion, so this might be an easy introduction. ‘Something has annoyed me,' she said, smiling and choosing her words carefully, ‘because the flowers I have painted and now want to dry for my flora have disappeared. I imagine the maid cleared them off my desk.'

‘Just as well.' Arthur Redding's voice was short. ‘This flora business seems to be merely an excuse to fill in time that should properly be spent on caring for your parents.' He looked at her coldly and Hester felt rage swelling inside her.

She heard the stridency in her voice as she said, ‘I'm sorry you think that, Father, but I'm determined to continue my flora. And another thing – this morning I had an offer from my painting tutor to give me private lessons which I've decided to accept.' She waited, before adding firmly, ‘I have a little money saved.'

There was a sudden silence. Emma caught her breath, and Arthur Redding sat up straighter in his chair, hands at once going down to rub his painful leg.

‘Certainly not!' He stared at Hester who defiantly looked back. His voice became deeper, sharp with rising anger. ‘You forget you can make no decisions for yourself without my consent, and I will not hear of you chasing off to study with some artistic nobody whom I have never met, and never wish to. You will kindly forget the whole idea.'

Hester's thoughts were full of anger and frustration, but out in the hall the luncheon gong sounded and the tense moment was broken.

Emma rose, smoothed her dress and looked at Arthur Redding. ‘Come along,' she said, her voice childlike and placating. ‘Time for luncheon. And let's forget all about this, shall we?' She walked towards Arthur, who was carefully getting to his feet. ‘We can talk about it later, can't we? Now, dear, take my arm... .'

Struggling to control herself, Hester went to the door and opened it, then stood back, allowing her parents to slowly cross the room and make their way into the dining room, where Ruby waited, eyes cast down, neat and obedient. Hester felt her anger change direction. She couldn't rage at Father, but—