Into the Blue (4 page)

This afternoon, Ruby, she thought grimly, and took her seat at the dining table in silence.

 

They faced each other in the shadowy passage below the staircase leading down to the basement kitchen. Firmly, Hester shut the kitchen door, and looked into Ruby's sharp green eyes.

‘You threw away my flowers,' she said icily.

Ruby stared. ‘What, those ole weeds? Yes, I did, miss. Thought they was dead, see.'

Hester drew in a deep breath. ‘Miss
Hester
, please, Ruby.'

‘Sorry, Miss. Miss
Hester
.'

Was that a flicker of an insolent smile breaking the expressionless young face?

Hester swallowed, giving herself time to gain self-control. ‘Perhaps you thought they were dead weeds, Ruby, but they were actually living flowers I was leaving there to dry. I am an artist, you see, and I am painting all the wild flowers that grow in this village. When I have painted them, they must be dried so that they can be preserved in a book. Do you understand?'

‘Oh yes, Miss ...
Hester
.' Again that hint of a quickly hidden grin.

Hester heard Mrs Caunter poking the fire in the kitchen, the noise echoing down the long bare passage. She watched Ruby reacting, turning away, and then looking back, almost impatiently, as if asking permission to go. She sighed. What good had this done? The girl was not yet used to service and there would probably be other mistakes before she settled down. But that smile had suggested that her mistress telling her off was just a joke.

Without thinking more, Hester said sharply, ‘And please behave a little better, Ruby. We expect our staff to be polite as well as obedient.'

‘But I haven't done nothin' wrong.' The uneducated voice rose shrilly. ‘I don't see why you're goin' on about those ole weeds. Just a mistake, that's all.'

Hester gasped. So she was right – the girl was insolent and must be shown her place. Sharply she said, ‘Don't speak to me like that. Apologize at once,' and then waited.

Ruby's small face coloured and her sea-green eyes glared through the shadowy passage. ‘I'm not sayin' sorry just for a few ole weeds. You got it all wrong, miss .'

Hester tightened her lips, staring back in amazement, waiting.

Ruby lifted her head, returning the stare, slowly put up a hand to neaten her cap, and then muttered, ‘Miss
Hester
.' A few seconds' silence brought the tension to breaking point, and then she said sullenly, ‘Can I go now? I've got work to do in there else Mrs Caunter'll be on at me. And I don't want to have two rows in one day, do I?'

Hester could think of no reply. Shocked, unused to such anarchic talk, she nodded, and watched Ruby march down the passage and disappear into the kitchen.

Very slowly, and suddenly remembering that her first thoughts of Ruby had been of an explosive entity coming into the household, she went upstairs to sit by the window in her bedroom, looking sightlessly into the garden and thinking about the many problems that seemed to hedge her in these days.

A happier thought arrived and her tension faded: Aunt Jacks. She would go and see dear Aunt Jacks and learn what was happening about the proposed gardening school. As she left the house and walked quickly down the lane towards Brook Cottage, it dawned on her that leaving Oak House and its vexatious problems behind her was highly beneficial, each step edging her into a more relaxed mood. Freedom, she thought, and then smiled.

When she arrived at the wicket gate she was expecting the best to happen. Aunt Jacks would discuss her plans and Hester could ask what she thought of the idea of studying with Mr Flynn and how to persuade Father to change his mind. She entered the cottage, calling her aunt's name and then stopped. Voices were humming in the kitchen. Hester knocked on the door and said, ‘Can I come in?' as she entered.

Aunt Jacks sat at her usual place at the long table, and beside her sat a tall man, who at once got to his feet, looked at Hester and smiled.

Vivid eyes, ultramarine blue, or perhaps paler cerulean blue. Hester caught her breath as the paint names flashed through her mind and hardly heard her aunt make the introductions. ‘Hester, this is Nicholas Thorne, who, with his father, runs the Hayward Nursery in town. Nicholas, Hester Redding is my niece. Come and sit down, child.'

He was tall, heavy shouldered, right arm in a sling. Hester noticed a dark suit and white shirt but was more concerned with the blue eyes looking at her.

He offered his left hand. ‘Good day, Miss Redding. I'm delighted to meet you. I understand you are an artist.'

A deep voice, with an edge of sweetness. A hint of a Devon accent, clearly a working man. How intriguing. She liked the strength of his hand. His words hung in the air and she said, ‘I'm only an amateur, but I do love to paint.'

He nodded, his thin, suntanned face showing a quick, brief smile. ‘I look forward to seeing your work, Miss Redding.'

‘Yes, well,' Aunt Jacks broke in. ‘Nicholas is only here for an hour or so, Hester, and we are planning the programme of talks for my garden day.' She tapped the table impatiently.

Hester realized that she had come at the wrong time. She said quietly, ‘I'll come back again, Aunt, when Mr Thorne has gone.' She turned to leave, but his undamaged hand reached out and touched her shoulder.

‘Don't go on my account, Miss Redding.'

His smile was warm and Hester forgave the slip of behaviour. ‘Very well,' she said, ‘I'll stay, but I won't be a nuisance. I'll go into the garden.'

‘Stay here, Miss Redding. I promise not to divide my attention.' That flash of a smile and then he drew out a chair for her, sitting at her side. He stretched his long legs under the table, turning to Aunt Jacks.

‘Yes, Mrs Jacks, I'm ready to talk about your plans. And I promise that I won't let Miss Redding divert me.' There was mischief in the last words and Hester was surprised at his familiarity in calling her aunt Mrs Jacks and not Mrs Hurst. She looked down at the table quickly as Aunt Jacks'mouth tightened, her small hand picking up a pencil. ‘Very well, Nicholas. So get out your diary and we'll arrange the timing for your talk.'

Hester listened to what they said but was too aware of the man sitting next to her to take in much of it. She found him attractive, but his behaviour, although charming, was unconventional. Father would have no time for Nicholas Thorne, and she wondered if she had time for him, either. Not the sort of man she was used to meeting. So very different from Hugh Marchant.

But those eyes, with their intent, direct gaze. And that voice. And had she been wrong in hearing an unsaid invitation in his seemingly harmless words? She made herself concentrate.

As she wrote and then put down her pencil, Aunt Jacks said, ‘It's possible that Miss Watson, the traveller, may be able to come down to my garden day. I've written to invite her – and reminding her that we met as young women. I know she's living in England again and has some wonderful paintings to prepare for showing.'

‘Yes,' said Nicholas. ‘Emily Watson would be a speaker in a million. And she's a delightful lady, too. I met her when I joined her expedition to Italy last year: she impressed me with her courage and commitment.' He looked at Hester, about to rise.

‘As an artist yourself, Miss Redding, you might benefit from meeting Miss Watson.'

Hester felt ill informed. ‘Emily Watson?'

‘Yes, she is following in the footsteps of the legendary Marianne North, another brave and famous lady painter who travels from continent to continent, painting the weird and wonderful new plant species she finds there.' Nicholas was on his feet, smiling at her. ‘How would you like that, Miss Redding? Travelling miles up the mountains, across rivers and flimsy bridges, sleeping where you could and eating native food?'

Hester shook her head. ‘Not very much. The wild waste of Dartmoor is quite enough for me sometimes. I like my comforts, you
see.' But even as the words left her lips, she wondered if she was being truthful. What about adventure? Freedom?

Had he expected better of her? She was glad to turn away, saying, ‘Shall I make some tea, Aunt? Why don't you and Mr Thorne sit in the garden while I get it ready?'

Aunt Jacks got up, adjusted her hat, tucking in a red curl, and said, ‘What a good idea. Come along, Nicholas. We'll sit in the summerhouse and carry on talking.'

‘You can sit there, Mrs Jacks. I shall help Miss Redding with the tea.'

In the kitchen, Hester moved across to the black range, aware of her aunt disappearing into the garden. She felt awkward about Nicholas Thorne remaining in the house, but why should she be embarrassed by him? Pushing the kettle closer to the flames, she turned and met his steady gaze.

‘One of the farm girls comes in every morning, tidies up for Aunt Jacks and cooks for her. There's probably a cake somewhere.' At the dresser, she took down cups and saucers, adding casually, ‘Have a look in the larder, will you, Mr Thorne?'

As she poured boiling water into the teapot he came back, carrying a large plate. ‘Looks good,' he said, and put it on the table. ‘A pound cake, if I'm right. When I was a boy and always hungry, my stepfather used to make one on a Sunday. One piece, that was it, and just the taste of it having to last until next time.'

Hester heard warmth in the deep voice and turned to look at his face, full now of a softness she hadn't seen before. ‘Always hungry?' she queried. ‘Were you working?'

Nicholas nodded, opening the table drawers and finding knives and spoons to put on the tray. ‘From six years old I helped my stepfather with odd jobs in the nursery, and then I was properly employed as a garden boy when I was ten,' he said, suddenly looking up and meeting her gaze. ‘I was well looked after, but the work was hard. And I was a skinny little urchin.'

He wasn't very different now, Hester thought, thin and tall but muscular. She saw him blink, as if wiping away memories. And then he laughed. ‘Which is why I'm partial to cakes now... .' More laughter, and a new brightness in the eyes regarding her so intently.

‘It sounds as if you deserve them.' She felt herself warming to the hidden glimpse of a past, which she sensed would be fascinating to hear more of.

‘I'll carry the tray. You bring the cake.' He was ordering her, but she nodded obediently and preceded him into the garden. Something about him. Someone who was so different. Someone she instinctively wanted to know better.

The summerhouse was enclosed by the sloping garden, facing south-west and with an open view of everything that grew in the half-acre space. Hester had always loved coming here. Even the spiders with their dangling webs, which hung around the stone walls, capturing adventurous insects, held interest for her. She was always on the alert to free the struggling, minuscule captive, for even as a child she had seen freedom as a vital part of life.

Now she and Aunt Jacks sat on the two shabby cane chairs while Nicholas folded himself onto the bench seating running the width of the summerhouse. Fragrance from the white rose climbing just outside filled the air, and Hester heard a cuckoo calling down in the pasture.

They talked for nearly an hour, Aunt Jacks clearly relaxed at having Nicholas at her tea table, and asking questions about the nursery.

‘We're doing quite well, Mrs Jacks. The new plants are growing – the old man is hoping for great things this summer.'

Aunt Jacks saw the curiosity on Hester's face and smiled as she explained. ‘Edward Hayward agreed to Nicholas going to north Italy last year with Emily Watson to collect new species of plants. All the nurseries are doing it these days. He came back with some particularly fine alpines which Edward is very pleased with.'

‘And about which he's writing a book. He's keen to tell the world about these new plants.' Nicholas grinned.

‘New plants? How exciting.' She felt a glow of curiosity.

He nodded. ‘Exciting indeed, Miss Redding. A plant-hunting expedition is certainly that, but dangerous.' His left hand reached out to touch the damaged arm and a grim expression slid across his face. ‘This cracked shoulder was the result of a fracas among my native helpers which I tried to stop. Doing so, I was thrown against a rock.' A flash of a smile. ‘A particularly large, hard rock. And only last week
I had the bad luck to strain the healing joint. Hence the sling.'

Hester could only stare, images suddenly vivid. Difficult porters, snow and huge mountains. Exotic plants, brought back to England, to the nursery where Nicholas worked. How fascinating and exciting.

She looked at her aunt. ‘Why are such expeditions being sent if it's so dangerous?'

‘Because all our landowners and London merchants want to show off their wealth, dear child. To have wonderful new plants in one's garden is the thing these days.' Aunt Jacks pulled a wry face. ‘As if we haven't got enough marvellous native plants in England. And this is why I am starting my gardening school – to make gardeners aware of our own beautiful flora.'

She looked at Nicholas, her smile warm. ‘Which you also are enthusiastic about, Nicholas. Why' – her smile broadened – ‘I remember how our friendship started when I came to the nursery with Frank, my late husband, and you showed us around the wild flower beds because your father was indisposed. We got on well – we still do.'

He nodded, laughing with her, and Hester was intrigued by the warmth of their unlikely friendship.

‘Will you be going abroad again, Mr Thorne?' she asked.

Nicholas edged back on his seat. When he spoke Hester heard an unexpected note of hardness in his deep voice and wondered at the care with which he chose his words. ‘Probably, Miss Redding, but not yet. I'm not fit enough at the moment. Although I agree that we must continue searching for unknown plants; we are part of these adventurous times and so we must continue to search for new treasures.'

Hester listened, absorbed by this fascinating information and, wondering at Nicholas's past, dared to ask, ‘After your spell as a garden boy, what did you do next, Mr Thorne?'

He looked at her. ‘Left my father's nursery, wanting more varied work. And eventually I became head gardener on Lord Daley's estate in Cornwall, but then Father recalled me as he grew older, and I've been here at the nursery ever since.'

Aunt Jacks sat back in her chair, stirred her cup of tea and smiled nostalgically into the distance. ‘And we've been friends, haven't we,
Nicholas, always chatting about plants and how to grow them?'

‘We certainly have, Mrs Jacks.' His eyes met hers and Hester thought how clear it was that they shared both their knowledge and pleasure in working with plants, with flowers. Hester felt, deep inside and not yet ready to venture out, her own longing to share in that pleasure.

Flowers. She must go home and paint.

At last Aunt Jacks looked at her fob watch and said firmly, ‘Time for you to go back, Nicholas, I know how busy the nursery is these days.' She rose, dark eyes smiling as he got to his feet, tall at her side, looking down at her with what Hester knew instinctively was fondness.

‘No, Mrs Jacks, I mustn't delay any longer. Because of this sore arm, I've left young Jim Dawkins, our apprentice, to help Father in the nursery for a couple of days, to see how he'll get on, so I can be here again tomorrow morning, if I may take up more of your time? I could do some weeding for you, if necessary. One hand out of action doesn't mean I'm quite useless, you know.'

Hester saw understanding in her aunt's face and wondered again at this unlikely friendship. As Nicholas bowed, making his farewell, she said spontaneously, ‘Perhaps I can come and help with the weeding tomorrow? Three hands might be better than one, Mr Thorne – what do you think?'

He laughed, his face opening into almost mischievous warmth. Reaching out, his hand touched hers and then dropped. ‘I think I'm looking forward to it, Miss Redding. Let's see what we can do between us!'

He refused the offer of a lift into town, saying three miles to Newton Abbot was nothing to an explorer like himself. Then she and Aunt Jacks watched him leave, closing the gate behind him and saluting as he strode rapidly up the lane and out of their sight.

‘Where does he live, Aunt?'

‘In their old home at the nursery, a rather decrepit building, but his father is more involved with plants than repairs.' She looked at Hester very directly, adding, ‘Nicholas is very much his own man; yes, he's just a professional gardener, but he has excellent and sensitive manners and would never embarrass either you or me. In fact, he is
what I call a natural gentleman. Now, child, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?'

Hester stared at her aunt as they returned to the kitchen. Indeed, what had she come here for? Meeting Nicholas Thorne had thrown everything else out of her mind.

 

Ruby cleared away the tea tray and then opened the front door to Miss Chatters and the little girls who came from the village school every Tuesday afternoon to show Mrs Redding their sewing. Occasionally they were told to unpick their ugly stitches and start again, but Emma was more inclined to encourage than to admonish.

The children stood awkwardly around the dining-room table while Emma greeted Miss Chatters and then were told to sit down and show her their work. Ruby loitered in the passage outside the dining room, listening to the voices and suddenly aware of a wonderful idea; a step in the direction that she wanted to take. She went back to the kitchen, washed up the tea things and then asked Mrs Caunter, drowsing by the fire, ‘Is it all right if I ask Mrs Redding something?'

Mrs Caunter opened her eyes, yawning ferociously. ‘Course not. You don't speak to Madam 'less she speaks first.'

‘Oh,' said Ruby, turning away and polishing a saucepan lid with her apron. ‘All right, then. Can I go in the garden for five minutes? 'Tis awful hot in here.' She smiled sweetly at Cook and, having received a grudging nod, disappeared from the kitchen. But not to go into the garden, instead tiptoeing up the stairs and standing outside the dining room, thinking, planning. And then, after a quick knock on the door, she went inside, keeping her eyes down and standing quietly beside Emma, who was telling a small girl that she must try and make her stitches neater and not prick her fingers so much.