Into the Blue (5 page)

‘You don't want bloodstains on your sewing, do you, Sarah?'

‘No, M'm,' whispered the child.

Emma looked aside. ‘Yes, Ruby, what is it?'

Ruby took a deep breath and said very politely, ‘Can I ask you about my sewing, Madam, seein' as how you're helpin' these girls with theirs?'

A moment's pause while Miss Chatters and Emma exchanged glances but then Emma smiled. ‘I didn't know you were a seamstress,
Ruby. What are you sewing?'

‘Haven't started yet, madam, but I wants to do some patchwork, like the lovely counterpane on me bed. I'd like to do that.' Ruby dared to meet her employer's surprised eyes. Was it going to work? Had she gone too far?

But Emma's sweet smile surfaced and she said, ‘What a good idea. Yes, Ruby, you can come with the children every week. Would you like that?'

‘Oh yes, madam, thank you ever so. I'll do that. But—' She fidgeted from one leg to the other and added, ‘But I can't really start till I got some pieces, you know, squares and bits which I can start sewing together. Do you think... ?'

Emma fell for it. ‘Of course. Have a look in the rag bag that Miss Hester keeps and help yourself to a few pieces of material. And come next Tuesday and show me what you've done.' Delighted that she had the opportunity to educate this new maid, who might well learn to deal with household linen needing repairs, her smile grew. She would ask Hester to produce the rag bag and let Ruby have her pick.

 

Hester was in her room changing for dinner when Ruby knocked at the door. ‘'Scuse me, Miss Hester—'

‘What is it, Ruby?' Hester frowned, pinning her mother's pearl brooch on to her dress. She wasn't sure about this new maid and at the moment her thoughts were far away. Collecting plants in the mountains. Playing tennis with Hugh on Thursday.

‘The rag bag, Miss Hester. Madam said as I can take bits from it. For me sewing, you see. Patchwork, an' Madam's going to help me.'

Hester stared. What a strange little creature Ruby was. Patchwork? And Stepmother agreeing to help her? Concealing a smile, she nodded. ‘Very well. It's hanging in the broom cupboard on the landing. Take what you want, but be sure and put the bag back.' She watched the girl turn to the door and noticed the smile on the small, cat-shaped face and for a few seconds wondered why Ruby should look like that simply because she had access to the household rag bag. But then, with a bob, Ruby went out of the room, and Hester dismissed the matter from her mind.

Downstairs she joined her parents in the drawing room, planning
how she would tell them about Aunt Jacks' guest. Tell them about Nicholas Thorne, whose smile and voice she was finding so hard to dismiss from her mind.

And then, pushing aside the appealing images and musical sounds, another thought flew in, even more exciting than anything else.
Flowers
. In the garden, around the village, through the fields and woodlands.
Painting
. Mr Flynn and his suggestion of private classes. Stronger now came the certain instinctive knowledge that this way lay her freedom.

She hurried into the drawing room, saw the filled sherry glasses and smiled lovingly, full of expectancy and warmth, only to feel a shadow falling on her when her father's gruff voice said disapprovingly, ‘You look very flushed, Hester. Not at all becoming. Sit down at once.'

The evening passed quietly without Hester saying anything about Nicholas Thorne, and although her father's immediate dismissal of the idea of studying with Mr Flynn still shadowed her mind, she had been overtaken by a new awareness.

Since the longing to get on with her painting had grown stronger, occupying all thoughts, she realized that she had outgrown the need for the quietness and comfort of Oak House. But – and here the bleakness of filial responsibility grew powerful – she accepted that Father and Stepmother enjoyed her presence, needed it, and would never willingly let her go. She was all they had in their increasing old age, so surely she must stay here with them. Irritation churned as her own need for freedom challenged the guilt she felt.

The routine of going to bed as the hall clock struck ten o'clock forced her into smiling stiffly and saying, ‘It's late, isn't it? I hope you both sleep well,' and then watching them climb the stairs to their bedroom.

Dutiful thoughts returned. One day she too would be old, immersed in memories and doubts of the future. Who would care for her? And she knew then that she must devote to her parents all the time and loving consideration they needed.

Yet dreams of that elusive freedom still stayed; she longed for it, thought about it even as her responsibilities made sense and weighed her down.

In bed she lay awake, listening to night sounds before finally sleeping. Dreams came and went. Mr Flynn was demanding a reply. Nicholas Thorne sailing away to a foreign land. Hester's fingers
flexed as she prepared paper, took up brushes, selected her paints and tried to create a beautiful flower but all she painted was a dark blob with no shape or structure. Beside her, Ruby gave a sly smile, took away the paper and tore it in half. Mr Flynn muttered that her painting was a disgrace and she was thankful when dawn awoke her, hearing the Bartley dog barking.

She got up, weary and confused.
What shall I do?

 

Ruby was settling down nicely. She knew now how to deal with Mrs Caunter's rages and imprecations, turning them aside with a joke. Carefully she watched Mr and Mrs Redding and soon discovered how to please them without pushing herself too much.

For instance, Mrs Redding often came down late to breakfast, her legs slow as she descended the stairs. So to be on the landing as this happened was easy; a suggestion of ‘Can I help, Madam?' and the offer of a strong arm brought a smile and a nod of gratitude.

Oh yes, thought Ruby, hurrying away to make beds, dust rooms, clean the bathroom and water closet and then help to prepare luncheon, I'm glad I'm here. One day it'll all work out proper, I'll tell 'em and then... . Her quick smile was triumphant. Time would help and the paper upstairs was safe. But one lurking feeling of unease stayed. What about Miss Hester? Not soft like her stepma. What would she make of it all, when she knew?

Going into the grey-walled scullery to wash pans left from breakfast, Ruby thought. I must get to know Miss Hester better.

And then, as a demand trumpeted out from the kitchen, she dried her hands, muttering ‘All right, I'm coming,' before adding silently, ‘Mrs C., you're an ole cow. Jest you wait till I come into me own.'

 

After breakfast Hester went to her room. She must paint. Only that would calm her restlessness. Some painting, and then she would go to Brook Cottage. Nicholas Thorne would be there. A smile touched her lips, but firmly she concentrated on finishing the painting of the dandelions she had started last week. Some more shading. Some light and emphasis on the strong, tooth-shaped leaves.

Slowly, her confused thoughts relaxed. She knew this was her panacea, a talent she must be grateful for and develop. And in that
moment the fateful decision was made: she would accept Mr Flynn's suggestion of private classes. How she would attend them she was not sure. But she would find a way.

I must.

 

Aunt Jacks was already in the garden, picking a bunch of fragrant white pinks that lolled over the path between the borders. She straightened up as Hester approached.

‘Good morning, Hester. You can give a bunch of these Mrs Sinkins to your stepmother.'

‘She'll love them, Aunt. Don't they smell wonderful? May I have a couple to paint?'

‘Certainly.' Aunt Jacks looked at her keenly. ‘You never did tell me what it was you wanted to discuss yesterday.'

Hester hesitated, and then said, ‘I just wanted to tell you I am going to study painting privately with Mr Flynn.'

‘That sounds a good idea.' Aunt Jacks paused, but only for a second. ‘And what does your father say?'

‘He was extremely angry and forbade me to do so, but it's something I must do. Mr Flynn is encouraging me to work towards a career but Father has said he won't let me do that.' Hester's voice slowed as she remembered his stern words and her subsequent frustration.

‘A career – how splendid.' Aunt Jacks smiled. ‘Women must be true to themselves. No more kowtowing to our dictatorial menfolk. Well, I will certainly try and help you in this plan, Hester. Give me a little time and I will think of an idea to get you away from your father's eagle eye and off to do your studying. Now I must go and put these flowers into water.'

Hester watched her aunt disappear into the cottage. Those determined words rang in her ears and she smiled again, wandering down the border, taking in the loveliness of the flowers filling it. Dignified blue delphiniums, rich scarlet snapdragons, and tiny pink and white mop-heads of daisies made a blur of colour, a background to her more positive thoughts.

To study she must get out of the house on some pretext. Then walk up to the village, catch the omnibus into town and on to where Mr
Flynn lived. Yes, she would do it. And then, a sudden, brilliant idea – perhaps Hugh could help her. They would play tennis on Thursday, and afterwards she would ask him if—

‘Miss Redding, good morning.' The deep voice snatched her back from plans and deceptions and she turned quickly.

‘Good morning, Mr Thorne – yes, it's a beautiful one.' Her smile mirrored his and she stood still as he came down the path, holding something in his left hand.

‘I found this in the hedge on my way here.' His expression was thoughtful. ‘Will it be useful? Your aunt told me you are painting your flora.'

With the small white and delicately marked flower in her hands, she looked at it closely. ‘Bastard balm – not very common. How kind of you. Oh yes, I'll include it in the flora.'

Looking at each other, she thought their minds were at one because of the bond of flowers. And something else, perhaps, which she didn't recognize, but which filled her with an exciting and guilty disturbance. She felt close to this tall, strong man, this gardener, this adventurer, who worked for his living among plants and made dangerous expeditions in search of new ones.

Then an extraordinary thought came: she felt closer to Nicholas than she had ever felt to Hugh, friend though he had been for most of her life. She knew it was ridiculous and impossible that she and Nicholas might become friends. But – a quick breath – why not? The world was changing, and attitudes and prejudices, too. A quick vision flashed of herself introducing Nicholas to Father and Stepmother, and then she was almost laughing at the thought.

Lightness of heart swept through her, until she blinked, recalling the conventions of her upbringing, and she stepped away from his side, ashamed of the feelings running through her.
I'm out of my depth. What am I thinking of? Perhaps I should go home.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Thorne,' she said unevenly. ‘I-I can't stay, I'm afraid. I-I have to go now... .'

His smile died. Did she see disappointment? Her emotions raged.

The low voice was alarmingly persuasive. ‘But you are going to help with the weeding, because my one hand can't manage alone.' He took the single flower from her and walked towards the stream at the
bottom of the garden. ‘I'll put this here while we get to work. It mustn't die before you can paint it.'

Turning, he looked back at her and she wondered if he was feeling the same thing that so disturbed her. That warm instinctive flash of attraction, and then the cold, imperative need to banish it? Of course not. Nicholas Thorne was merely expecting her to carry out the offer of help which she had made yesterday. And of course she would stay. She was a woman, not a gauche child.

‘Thank you. I'll collect it when I go home.' The strange feeling had gone now and she smiled cheerfully. ‘And I suppose you're relying on me to clear Aunt Jacks' border?' Her voice was light, but a certain anticipation remained.

‘I certainly am.' Laughter gleamed in his eyes. ‘Where shall we start? At the far ends? I'll find you a kneeler and a hand fork. Watch out for nettles, won't you, Miss Redding? I wouldn't want those painting fingers to get stung.'

She watched him stride away to the garden shed at the back of the cottage, emerging again with the tools, a couple of baskets and a well-supported kneeler which, slightly awkwardly and using only his uninjured arm, he loaded into the wheelbarrow. As he approached, she acknowledged that this was an unexpected, slightly disturbing experience. But then her thoughts strove for balance. Why shouldn't she work alongside him? He seemed more than just a gardener, even though that was all he was. A man whom Aunt Jacks clearly thought of very highly and with trust – treating him almost like a son. He had a certain charm about him, and seemed to be offering easy friendship, which Hester knew she would like to accept. But what would everybody say?

Father would rant about class differences, Stepmother would be terribly shocked, even Aunt Jacks might suggest this wasn't quite right. And Hugh? Hugh, with his Cambridge colleagues, his degree in law and his gentrified family – would he be angry and shocked too? But, as Hester accepted the small fork handed to her, she decided that there was no need for Hugh to know about Nicholas.

Pulling aside her skirt and kneeling down, she wondered what Nicholas himself was feeling. Opposing ideas pulled her thoughts apart. Her feelings were clear enough, but what must it be like for
him to try and offer friendship to a well-bred girl with middle-class values?

Difficult. Yet perhaps appealing? His smile had been very friendly.

For a moment they looked at each other. Then he moved away, took the wheelbarrow to the far end of the border and began his own work while Hester stared down at the weeds which were clogging the mauve scabious and the Canterbury bells in front of her, and began forking them out. She felt very happy. Would that life could stay just like this.

Aunt Jacks offered sandwiches and soup for a light luncheon, but Hester said she must go home, and Nicholas also had to leave. ‘I can't be away from the nursery for too long – who knows what young Jim will get up to when I'm not there to boss him around.' He smiled at Aunt Jacks as he washed and dried his left hand free of garden soil and then glanced at Hester, standing by the door, the pinks and the bastard balm safely in her basket.

‘I hope we meet again before too long, Miss Redding.'

She saw the twitch of the straight lips and wondered if the polite words hinted at something closer. But she knew Aunt Jacks listened and watched so her voice was cool when she replied. ‘I hope so, too, Mr Thorne.'

They left the cottage together, and walked up the lane in silence, she turning off at the entrance to Oak House while he continued on into the village, and then to Newton Abbot.

‘Goodbye, Miss Redding. It's been a pleasure working with you.'

Warmth spread through her, but she merely nodded her head and gave him a controlled smile. ‘Yes, we dealt with a few weeds between us, didn't we? I hope your arm improves.' She stopped. Were the clear blue eyes telling her something? Really, she was being quite ridiculous. Briskly she said goodbye, and then walked away, up the curving drive. She didn't turn back to see if he watched – that would be common, flirtatious behaviour and not worthy of her, but an emptiness suddenly filled her, striving to turn away all the pleasure of the morning.

Entering the quiet house, with strength of mind she banished the extraordinary thoughts Nicholas Thorne had engendered and went to her room to get ready for luncheon with her family Her attention was
on the flowers in the basket as she went upstairs and onto the first-floor landing; this afternoon she would paint the balm.

Her door was ajar, and she thought she heard a sound as she neared it. Entering the room, she stopped. Ruby stood by the dressing table, hand reaching out to touch something. For a long moment neither spoke. Hester felt her heartbeat quicken, recalling what Aunt Jacks had warned her about, and stared at Ruby, whose small face coloured and then quickly widened into a grin.

‘Lost me duster, Miss Hester. Looked everywhere, an' here it was.' She produced the duster from the shadowy space between Hester's jewel box and the silver-plated hairbrush, bright eyes at once looking at the basket Hester carried.

‘Oh, what lovely flowers. Shall I put them in a vase, Miss Hester?' Her smile was infectious, and despite her suspicions, Hester could only join her. What a child Ruby was; and how foolish and unpleasantly judgmental she was to think badly of her.

‘Thank you, Ruby. A small vase for the wild flower – this one. Bring it back up here, and take the other scented flowers into Mrs Redding's room.'

‘She'll be pleased, Miss Hester. Oh, they smells lovely... .' Ruby buried her nose in the pinks before leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Hester looked into the mirror at her reflection and said questioningly, ‘There's something not quite right. But she seems very willing. Too familiar, but she'll soon learn.'

Soon there was a tap at the door and Ruby reappeared, holding a vase with the bastard balm in it. She giggled. ‘Cook says it's got a rude name, Miss Hester, did you know? Beginning with a B.' The giggles grew louder and Hester frowned. Ruby put a hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, Miss Hester, shouldn't 'ave said that.' And then she was gone and Hester was left looking at the innocent wild flower, frowning, and wondering why.