The Art of Love (22 page)

Chapter Twelve

Tara found taking tea with Mark Reeves rather fascinating. It was not only his hair and stature which resembled Leo, his facial features were similar as well, although his eyes were milder and he did not seem to frown as much.

‘I work for a firm of solicitors,’ Mark told her. He gripped his teacup as Leo did, cupping it in his hand and sliding one finger through the handle, Tara found it hard to tear her eyes away.

‘Is it an interesting job?’ Tara asked after a pause.

‘It can be,’ Mark said and began to tell her about executing the will of the late Lord Davenham last year. ‘He was pernickety up to the last penny but generous at the same time. Everyone whom he deemed to have ever helped him or his family was given a sum proportionate to what Lord Davenham thought the help merited. It was a job to track some of the beneficiaries down, I can tell you.’

Mark’s eyebrows seemed to dance with his enthusiasm, just like Leo’s when he talked about landscapes. Tara groaned with sudden realization. What a fool she had been, he had told her painting was his passion and she had offered him a job as a farmer, no wonder he had been insulted, it was as if she hadn’t listened to a word he’d said.

‘Yes it was quite a challenge to find them,’ Mark said, fortunately misinterpreting her groan. ‘But it was very interesting too, it was rather like being a detective and solving a mystery. Do you know I had to travel all the way to Canterbury just to find the recipient of half a crown?’ His chuckle was very similar to Leo’s, Tara thought, but she couldn’t imagine Leo being amused by such a triviality. ‘But, Lady Tara, tell me, what brings you to Bournemouth?’

Despite the similarities Mark was not Leo, Tara reflected as she gave him the barest outlines of her mother’s collapse from overwork and their decision to take a few weeks by the sea. He seemed altogether more straight forward, but she found she was enjoying his company and that she could think about Leo without the painful ache in her chest which had been present ever since he’d left.

‘If you’ve come to take the sea air, I know a marvellous walk around the shoreline, only possible at low tide,’ Mark said enthusiastically.

‘When is low tide?’ Tara felt obliged to ask.

‘As luck would have it, low tide is around mid-afternoon tomorrow. Would you care to join me for a walk along the sands?’ In spite of, or perhaps due to, Mark’s resemblance to Leo, Tara was not entirely sure that she would. But turning down a sincere offer from a genuine young man had never been her strong point and besides, she had to fill her time somehow while she was here.

She smiled at him, hoping the expression was reaching her eyes. ‘That sounds lovely. We are staying at Dogrose Cottage. Will you call for me?’

Leo had found a cottage, actually it was more of a shepherd’s hut, tucked away in the lee of a hill and overlooking the bay. It was very basic, offering only a hearth by way of cooking facilities and he had to pay a boy to bring water up in a bucket every day, but it suited his mood. He did not feel like being civilized. He managed to buy an easel, canvasses, oil paints and other supplies in Bournemouth and he threw himself into his painting. He painted the sea, both by day and by night, small works, to help him get a feeling for the place and then he selected a view from the cliffs which took in Studland bay and the little island at Handfast Point. He went each day to paint it, using his horse as a pack animal for his supplies, but carrying his three foot by four canvas himself.

He was there on Saturday afternoon, having painted all day, feeling satisfied at least with this aspect of his life. When he painted, and only when he painted, he was able to put all thoughts of Tara out of his head, but the rest of the time she was present. She was the first thing he thought of when he woke in the morning and she occupied his mind as he lay on his bed staring up into the darkness in the shepherd’s hut each night. Consequently he rose early and painted all day, hoping to wear himself so that he would sleep. He liked it out on the cliff top, he saw no-one but distant sheep and dedicated walkers.

Other than when Leo had gone into Bournemouth to buy art supplies he had avoided the town, preferring to have his food delivered by the same boy who brought his water rather than to visit the market himself. Bournemouth seemed far too full of dark-haired, women who carried themselves in a way which caught the eye, and with everyone he found himself momentarily seeing Tara. Then, when they turned or came closer he would see that the resemblance was utterly superficial, none of them had her presence and certainly - as he found when he came face to face with one as he rounded a corner and greeted her before he could stop himself - none of them had Tara’s wicked, joyous smile.

He stepped back from his painting to look at it critically and a pair of walkers down on the beach at the base of the cliffs caught his eye. Tara! Once more he felt his heart leap at the sight of the dark-haired woman striding purposefully along the sands, and then cursing himself for three kinds of fool he turned away. But something made him turn back. Telling himself he should not torture himself this way he abandoned his work and jogged closer to the edge of the cliff. Then he stopped, his arm on an outcrop of rock, and stared down at the woman below.

It
was
Tara! He’d know that wild hair, that irrepressible walk and that proud set of the head anywhere. It really was Tara, here in Bournemouth, and she was walking along the shore, quite unchaperoned, with his cousin Mark! His first thought was that she had followed him here, desperate to make amends. But that was impossible, she could have had no idea where he had gone. He cast back in his mind over the conversations they had had, wondering if he had ever mentioned relatives in Bournemouth, but he did not think he had. Besides, as he looked more closely at Tara and his cousin, and the faint sound of her laugh reached him at the top of the cliff, he had to admit to himself that she did not look like a woman on the edge of despair. She looked rather disarmingly happy.

‘You’ll find Bournemouth society rather quiet, I’m afraid, after London,’ Mark said as he and Tara walked along the shore. She found the heels of her boots crunched pleasingly into the damp sand with each step, if she concentrated on that, and on the soft, continual sound of the waves smoothing the beach along with Mark’s pleasant chatter she could forget about Leo and find a temporary contentment. Perhaps she should spend more time with Mark, Tara thought. He could never compare with Leo of course, but she found his company soothing.

Tara smiled up at him. ‘I’m glad to hear there is society in Bournemouth,’ she said pointedly.

‘Oh there is,’ Mark said. ‘In two weeks Lord Davenham - you might remember I mentioned him yesterday - is holding a ball. Once he knows you are in Bournemouth you are bound to be invited.’

Tara arched her eyebrows. Mark might be quite taken with her already, but she did not see how she could make an impression on someone she had not even met. ‘How will he know I am here?’ she asked.

‘Why, my dear Lady Tara,’ Mark said in what she recognized was his professional voice. ‘I am his solicitor, it would be quite remiss of me to leave him ignorant of this fact.’

Tara laughed, but she was quite touched. Mark was only an acquaintance from a summer spent in Bath where they had had very little to do with each other and here he was, taking her under his wing, apparently quite committed to making her stay in Bournemouth an enjoyable one. He still wasn’t Leo, but perhaps she was judging him too soon.

‘There’s a concert on the promenade tonight,’ Tara said to her mother a few days later when she returned from another trip to the lending library. Lady Penge was looking stronger already, she thought optimistically. She was sitting on a bench in the back garden with some needlework in her hands and Tara realized she couldn’t actually recall the last occasion on which she had seen her mother make time for such a frivolous thing. ‘Shall we go?’ Tara asked.

Her mother examined her stitches. ‘What kind of music are they playing?’ she asked.

‘It’s a mixed programme, some Mozart, some Brahms, some music hall pieces,’ Tara said.

‘Music hall?’ Lady Penge said no more but she raised one elegant eyebrow.

‘Yes,’ Tara said, keeping the defiance out of her voice with an effort. ‘But the music is not the point of a concert.’

At that Lady Penge put down her sewing and looked quite shocked. ‘I would have said the music was the only point of a concert,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ Tara said, preventing herself from grinding her teeth with great difficulty. ‘A concert is about the people who will be there, we should be there - ’

She was interrupted by an unexpected gurgle of laughter. ‘Oh, Tara,’ her mother said. ‘You are so easy to tease! You take your social life so seriously.’

For a moment Tara stared at her mother, unable to remember the last time her mother had teased her. Then she flopped down on the bench beside her, smiling. ‘I take it you would like to come with me?’ she said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Lady Penge. ‘It should be fun.’

Impulsively Tara hugged her mother. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better,’ she said.

At seven o’clock Tara and her mother arrived on the Promenade. ‘The thing to do,’ Tara whispered to her mother after they had paid sixpence each for seats arranged in a ring around the bandstand, ‘is to circle around and see if we meet anyone of our acquaintance; anyone who is summering in Bournemouth will be here.’

‘Tara,’ her mother whispered back, ‘I have been to a concert before, you know.’ Tara cast her eyes across the gathering crowd, the ladies in their pale coloured summer dresses and the gentlemen in light evening coats. They were not as smartly dressed as their London counterparts, but the chattering and greetings were just as loud. She was sure Mark would be here, perhaps with his family, and then, just for an instant, her heart seemed to stop beating as she saw Leo. She only glimpsed him for a moment. He was dressed, as the other gentlemen were dressed, in buff and black. Then a large matron and her noisy offspring obscured her view and when they had passed, Leo had gone. Heedless of her mother, Tara eeled her way through the crowd to where she had seen him, standing alone, beyond the ring of chairs but there was no sign of him. She whirled back and scanned the crowd, wondering in which direction she had gone, then turning abruptly again she found herself face to face with Mark.

He too was dressed in buff and black and he was smiling at her genially, in a most un-Leo like fashion. ‘Were you looking for me?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Tara said, and then recalled her manners, ‘that is to say, yes. But I seem to have lost my mother.’

‘Is that her?’ Mark asked, and looking over her shoulder Tara saw her mother making her way towards her looking rather unimpressed.

‘Yes,’ Tara said. ‘Mother, this is my friend Mr Reeves, Mr Reeves, may I introduce you to my mother Lady Penge.’ She hoped very much that her mother would not say anything about the way in which she had abruptly abandoned her.

But Lady Penge merely said ‘How nice to meet you, Mr Reeves,’ and allowed him to escort them both over to meet his parents and sister. It transpired that Lady Penge and Mrs Reeves had been debutantes together and although she had not seen each other since they were very pleased to become reacquainted. Tara let the bright conversation between the two women flow over her while she leaned back in her seat and listened to the orchestra warming up. She must stop thinking of Leo, even if he had been there chasing after him would do no good. He had walked out on her, she had written her letter of apology and it was up to him to make the next move. The warming up of the instrumentalists coalesced into a piece of music, but Tara found she couldn’t concentrate. Suddenly coming to the concert did not seem like such a good idea and she wished she were elsewhere, except the only place she wished to be was by Leo’s side, and that was not possible. She wondered once more where on earth he was.

‘You seem distracted.’ Tara became aware of the fact that Mark was speaking to her and that the musicians had reached the interval.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, trying to pull her thoughts back to the present.

‘Is something weighing on your mind?’ Mark asked lightly.

Tara shook her head, ‘Music often sends me into a dream,’ she lied. Mark looked quite surprisingly sympathetic, but she was not prepared to spill her heart to him.

‘Perhaps you would like to take a turn around the bandstand with me,’ Mark suggested. ‘I could introduce you to some of my friends and expand your circle of acquaintance here in Bournemouth.’

‘That would be very kind of you,’ said Tara, touched by his thoughtfulness and found herself really looking at Mark, seeing him not Leo, for the first time. He had a kind face, she thought. Not exciting and passionate, like Leo’s, but kind. He looked as if he would really listen if she chose to pour all her troubles in his ear, but allowing him to take her arm in his own, feeling his steadiness and self-assured manner as they walked, Tara had a better idea. She liked Mark, she would do what she did with all the personable young men she knew, she would flirt with him. That was the way to make herself forget about Leo. She smiled up at him brightly as they walked and was gratified when he smiled in return. Really, it would not be hard to flirt with Mark, it would be fun.

‘That was a lovely concert,’ Beatrice Reeves said after the national anthem had been played. There had been rather a lot of music hall pieces and Tara hoped her mother would not say anything disparaging about the quality of the selection, but she was in luck, the sea air seemed to have had a mellowing effect on Lady Penge.

‘It was so nice to see you again,’ her mother said instead, clearly choosing not to answer Mrs Reeves’ remark directly. ‘Would you like to come to dinner with us on Thursday, just our two families for a tiny dinner party? We are staying at Dogrose Cottage.’ That would suit her down to the ground, Tara thought with satisfaction as Mrs Reeves accepted the invitation. The principal obstacle in her plan to flirt with Mark was the fact that he spent his days working in his office on the high street and was largely unavailable during the week. Other than dealing with wills she had only a vague idea of what he did. Soliciting, she supposed, and suppressed a grin.