A Connoisseur of Beauty

by Coleridge, Daphne

  Neither Hunter nor Marilyn were formally dressed for dinner. Marilyn was, of course, as chic as ever in a pleated skirt and white blouse with a high frill at the neck. Hunter wore fawn chinos and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms. He was lifting the lid of a casserole dish and sniffing.

  “This smells good: I think it's done,” Hunter said to Marilyn.

  “Of course it's good,” she said, “I picked the herbs from the garden and used some of your best wine in it! But leave it alone for now – the potatoes won't be ready yet. Pour Amy a drink and let's start.” She set out some small marinated and stuffed peppers whilst her grandson cut slices of fresh, crusty bread. Amy pulled up her chair and tasted the white wine which Hunter had poured for her. Despite her misgivings the pair of them had succeeded in making her begin to relax.

  “I've been entertaining Amy with the antics you and Cole got up to as boys,” said Marilyn when they were all finally seated at the table.”

  “And yet she still agreed to come to dinner, so you can't have told her the snail story,” responded Hunter with a twinkle in his normally serious grey eyes.

  “What snail story?” asked Amy suspiciously. “Is there something I should be looking out for in the casserole?”

  “The casserole is safe, it is the table decoration you need to watch,” said Marilyn.

  “Yes – watch it for signs of movement,” laughed Hunter. “The incident we are alluding to happened when Cole and I were on holiday over here as boys. My parents were hosting a very fancy dinner with some government minister and at least one duke as the star guests. Of course Cole and I were packed off to bed early as being too young for such occasions, which Cole heartily resented. So when the table had been set with elaborate flower arrangements he went round the garden with a bucket and picked up a couple of dozen snails which he deployed in strategic places amongst the flowers. As luck would have it, these little critters lurked within until the second course had been eaten and then started to emerge one by one and make their way across the table to the bemused and occasionally revolted guests. My father was not amused.”

  “The sequel to that tale is that Cole was punished the next day by being locked in his room without meals. The gardener had witnessed the snail collecting part of the exercise,” said Marilyn. “But Hunter managed to smuggle food up to him in a basket attached to a rope.”

  “How did you know about that?” asked Hunter, genuinely surprised.

  “Oh, I always had my spies,” said his grandmother, laughing at the look on Hunter's face. “You were always looking after Cole – and still do.”

  Hunter looked a little embarrassed by this final comment and changed the subject by asking Amy about the studio she was going to be sharing in London.

  “It was pretty impressive,” Amy admitted. “My cottage is too dark to be any good for painting in, which is one reason why I have done so much work en plein air. But the studio has brilliant light – it is a converted Victorian warehouse. I guess I can try painting from a still life or even a model. I saw some of the work James had been doing when I was up there and it looked terrific.”

  “James is an old friend?” asked Hunter, who seemed to be studying the piece of bread he was buttering with unnecessary attention.

  “I was studying art in London before my father became ill,” said Amy. “There was a whole bunch of students and artists I mixed with. James and a couple of others were a bit older – he's about thirty – and already beginning to establish themselves. It's not that I was particularly good friends with him, just that he happened to be looking for someone to share his studio at the same moment I was looking to go to London.” Some part of Amy wanted to say that she might never have felt the need to leave Montford in quite so much of a hurry if she hadn't thought that Hunter was about to get married. In fact, if she had known he was about to return to Wolfston Hall as a free agent she might have reconsidered moving altogether. But perhaps it was better that she did start building her own life. It was all quite confusing, so she said no more but buttered her own slice of bread with as much care as Hunter had. It was Marilyn who broke the silence.

  “I must say I wish I was young and talented and about to go up to London to be an artist,” said Marilyn wistfully.

  “Do you paint?” asked Amy, recovering herself a bit.

  “A few rather tame watercolours, but nothing with the spirit and style I saw in your paintings of this place. I'm like my grandson here; more of a connoisseur than an artist myself. I hope you do really well.”

  “From what I've heard from my friends it can be hard to get noticed,” said Amy, absent-mindedly watching Hunter, who was clearing away their plates and carrying the casserole dish over to the table.

  “Well, I happen to know a very successful and influential gallery owner and collector,” said Marilyn.

  Amy suddenly realised that Marilyn was referring to Hunter and blushed deeply. She hadn't meant to come over as dropping a hint. She had actually forgotten all about Hunter's impressive credentials in the art world at that moment in time. “I think that particular art collector may be out of my league,” said Amy.

  “That's funny, because I thought you might be out of my league,” retorted Hunter. Amy's blush deepened by a further couple of shades. She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not.

  “Well I think my casserole smells delicious,” said Marilyn, and the tension was broken. After that the conversation seemed to be light and pleasant and Amy was able to relax again. The evening ended on a friendly note with Amy promising to be round the following day to work on the portrait, although she was beginning to have to make preparations for her move too. As they wished her goodnight at the door Amy stooped to allow a polite exchange of kisses to the cheeks with Marilyn. Hunter, in turn, took her shoulders and delivered a quick kiss to Amy's lips. With his grandmother by his side it was perhaps understandable that this wasn't a lingering kiss, but Amy was convinced she could still feel the warmth from the contact when she arrived back home.

  Amy had fallen asleep the evening of the dinner at Wolfston Hall with something of a glow about her. But when she woke the next morning the harsh reality hit her. Hunter had indicated that he was only over in England for a couple of days and was not planning to return until the end of the month – by which time Amy would be gone. There was every possibility that she might not see him again. But there was at least a chance that she would bump into him whilst she was at Wolfston Hall that day. In hopeful anticipation of such an encounter Amy found herself taking particular care to pick out some nicely fitting jeans and one of her favourite tops – items she might not usually have risked knowing that they might acquire the occasional smudge of oil paint. She was disappointed, therefore, to have had a morning of undisturbed painting before leaving to walk home for a late lunch. She was reasonably sure that she could finish the portrait in a couple more sessions. One would take place the following day, but she didn't know when Hunter would be departing. She was still pondering these thoughts, and hadn't even left the grounds of Wolfston Hall, when she saw Hunter approaching her from out of the woods. He raised a hand in greeting and she stopped to wait for him.

  “I love the woods here,” were his first words to her. “I was thinking that you must be feeling sad at the thought of leaving this place when you have known it so well.”

  “I know the place so well that it is like one of my oldest and dearest friends,” admitted Amy. “I've tried not to think what it will feel like to move away and not even have a home here anymore. Of course I know I can come and stay with Judy whenever I like. I guess I'm just trying to focus on the positive aspects of moving to London.” She noticed how Hunter's grey eyes, serious and somehow concerned, were watching the expression on her face. She returned the look with a rather wan smile which was intended to disguise her underlying feelings of sorrow at leaving both her childhood home and the place where she knew she would at least stand a chance of getting to know Hunter better. Maybe H
unter read the thoughts behind the smile because he said,

  “Well, I can visit you, even in London. Perhaps I can come and see your studio sometime and see your new paintings?”

  “I'd like that,” said Amy. Hunter bent towards her for what was to be a farewell kiss: but this was not the polite kiss of the previous night. This wasn't just the meeting of lips but encompassed the meeting of two bodies, both of which responded to the touch of the other with a thrill of heat and arousal. As Hunter pulled her in just a little bit closer, the kiss becoming deeper and Amy felt every part of her body yearning for the contact to continue and intensify. But finally Hunter moved away, reaching out and touching her face gently. They didn't speak again, but Amy felt sure that there was something unfinished and unexplored between them, and that neither of them would be able to forget that fact over the next few weeks.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  It might have been possible for Amy to enjoy her new life in London if she had not left her heart behind in Montford. James was pleasant company and devoted to his art. The atmosphere in the shared studio was one that encouraged creativity. His painting tended to happen in frenetic bursts in between which he would go out drinking with his friends, which meant that Amy did have some time to herself, which she valued. At the same time, she had her friend Lucy if she felt like escaping from work or just giving James a bit of space to himself. She had completed the portrait of Marilyn Lewis and left it behind at Wolfston Hall where she knew Hunter would see it when he returned to England. Marilyn had been delighted to see herself depicted as a woman of classic beauty, with fine bone structure and an expression of strength softened by kindness and humour. If Amy had succeeded in achieving anything unique in the picture it was that age could be beautiful on the face of a woman of character. She had also made striking use of the sunlight through the windows and the curtain in its different intensities. She would have loved to be at Wolfston Hall to witness Hunter's reaction when he saw the finished work.

  Her first paintings in the studio were adventures in still life – she painted vases of flowers, ribbons, stones and any number of other random objects in a series of painterly sketches. But the work she kept finding herself drawn back to was a portrait she was doing of Hunter. She had never painted from memory rather than from life before, but so vivid in her mind was Hunter's face with all its changing expressions, and the way he stood, sat and walked, that she hardly noticed the absence of a physical object whilst she worked. After a while James inevitably noticed the portrait and asked Amy about it.

  “Is that an ideal man or someone you actually know?” he asked, “You've managed to make him look both determined and wistful at the same time. The determination is in the mouth and the stance, but there is a wistful look in the eyes. It makes me wonder if he is a man who really knows what he wants out of life.”

  Since there was some possibility that James might meet the original at some point if Hunter remembered what he had said about a visit, Amy decided that it was best to be honest. “It's the man who bought my house. I met him a few times and thought he would be an interesting character to paint,” she said, putting an extra touch around the eyes and standing back to examine the effect.

  “He seems vaguely familiar,” mused James.

  “You might have seen him in the papers – it is Hunter Lewis,” said Amy.

  “What – the guy who pays millions for paintings? I've been to one of his galleries – and he bought your little cottage that you told me about?”

  “Oh, no,” said Amy, realising her mistake with a blush. “He bought Wolfston Hall in Montford – it belonged to my ancestors and I spent a lot of time there as a child. It was never mine, though.”

  “You ought to get him to put something of yours in one of his galleries,” said James enthusiastically.

  “I could hardly just ask him to – it would be a bit embarrassing. He does have a couple of my paintings at Wolfston Hall – but he was probably just being nice.”

  “You ought to advertise that sort of thing a bit more,” advised James, “it helps to build your reputation.”

  “I don't know,” said Amy uncomfortably. “He's sort of a friend and I don't want him to think that I'm just trying to take advantage of him.”

  “Most people I know would do anything to get their work noticed,” remarked James. “Jade was saying that she wanted to seduce famous people and then put one of her paintings on their face in indelible ink whilst they slept – but we reckoned it might actually count as assault or something. She wanted to tattoo it on at first, but we reckoned that they might just wake up before she got very far – and drugging them would definitely be dodgy.”

  “I really hope you were joking,” laughed Amy.

  “I think we were,” smiled James, “but you get my point – we artists really have to work hard to get noticed in the right places and you seem to have a great connection ready-made. I guess it's typical of you that you won't exploit it.”

  “Well, he did say he might pay a visit to the studio,” said Amy, “but I wouldn't hold your breath.”

  “Really?” said James in genuine excitement. “I'll tell you what; if you can get him over here I'll let you off a whole month's rent! But let me know a bit in advance so that I can casually arrange all my best work about the place.”

  “All right,” smiled Amy, but only if you promise to distract him whilst I hide his portrait if he turns up unexpectedly.”

  As it turned out, there was no opportunity to warn James of Hunter's visit, which came quite suddenly in her third week at the studio, just when she was beginning to resign herself to never seeing him again – it seemed an eternity since that last kiss in the grounds of Wolfston Hall, although in reality only a matter of weeks had passed. She had abandoned the painting of a vase of roses she was meant to be working on and returned to making a few extra touches and changes to the portrait of Hunter, when her mobile phone rang.

  “Amy – it's Hunter,” said the voice. “Can we meet up – one o'clock by Nelson's Column and maybe walk through some of the parks? It looks like being a nice, sunny afternoon.”

  “Yes – sounds lovely,” said Amy, ignoring the fact that he had called without warning and expected her to instantly drop everything for the pleasure of his company – which, of course, she would. Looking at her watch she realised that she had very little time to get herself ready and she hastily pushed the painting of Hunter into the middle of about six other canvases which were against one wall. After a tussle with public transport she arrived at her destination quite hot and flustered only to see Hunter standing beside a fountain looking a picture of composure. The smile he greeted her with was one of genuine pleasure.

  “I brought you one of my picnics – remember when you were doing that painting for me at Wolfston Hall? I thought we could find a bench to sit on.” They took the short walk to where the park opened up, bright with flowerbeds and sunbathers and striped deckchairs under the trees. Most benches were occupied, but they found a pleasant space of sun-dappled shade and sat down together. Hunter had brought white wine and glasses and a selection of little sandwiches, some strawberries and some cakes which he claimed to have made himself, with a wink at Amy which indicated otherwise.

  “I went to Wolfston to see your portrait of my grandmother,” Hunter began as they shared the food onto two plates. “It's quite brilliant, of course. It's all about age and beauty – and my grandmother loves it. It's in the gallery upstairs. I'm afraid I may have moved one of your ancestors to make room for mine. My grandmother is back in the States, by the way, and sends you her best wishes.”

  “It was a pleasure to paint her,” said Amy, “with the added bonus that I gained an insight into your boyhood days with Cole.”

  “Ah, yes, Cole...” said Hunter, his grey eyes clouding a little. “I don't know what my grandmother told you or what you've read in the papers, but I hope you know now that I wasn't leading you on when otherwise committed to Loretta. She wa
s a girlfriend, but I think I knew that she was always more genuinely attracted to Cole. At the same time I think she was shrewd enough to know that I would – how shall we put this – be a better provider for a child, my brother being somewhat unreliable. That's one of the things I've been sorting out, and I must admit that it has all taken longer than I expected. In fact I've done a lot of sorting out of things before I felt free to come back and see you. I don't want to go into details on such a sunny afternoon, but suffice is to say we all came to an agreement at Lewis Eames which means that my cousins, Ryan and George, will be taking over. Somewhere along the way Cole was given a considerable sum of money and won't have any further involvement with the company. Rather to my father's disappointment I have also decided not to have any further involvement with the company. And I've set up a trust fund for my niece or nephew separately, because with Cole you just never know.” He settled back into a comfortable position propped on one elbow, apparently glad to get this preamble out of the way.