by Gay, Gloria
“I don’t know that he would welcome it, retiring as he is.”
“I don’t understand you, Mama,” said Celia. “Just a few days ago you insisted I call on him.”
“I was a bit rash in proposing it, perhaps,” said Mrs. Meade. “Of course it would not be good for you to call on Sir Hugh. It would be extremely forward.”
Celia smiled. “We’ll see.”
“You must promise me not to call on him, Celia.” Mrs. Meade’s eyes were now wide with alarm.
“Don’t trouble yourself further with it, Mama. Let us think of happier things than the elusive Sir Hugh.”
“You must not make light of Sir Hugh, Celia. He is not a subject to be trifled with.”
“You mistake my tone, Mama. I would not dream of trifling with Sir Hugh.”
* * *
“Mrs. Bundy writes,” said Mrs. Meade the next day, trying to change the subject of Celia’s journey the following day. “She says she misses us most terribly.”
“Perhaps she might want to visit here.”
“Celia that would not be at all convenient.”
“And why not, pray?”
“It would give Caroline just one more reason to view us with contempt, my dear.”
“How so?”
“She would consider Mrs. Bundy not of her class, Celia.”
“Mrs. Bundy, whose uncle was a knight, is well above Caroline in rank. However much Caroline may want to pretend, she does not get past the fact that Uncle Worth’s money came entirely from trade—India tea trade.”
“Then you would be putting your father down, Celia,” said Mrs. Meade.
“Papa never made any money, from trade or otherwise,” said Celia. “That is why we find ourselves in this predicament.”
“I confess, Celia, that when you go on so, I have a hard time following you.”
“It’s not hard to follow me when I state quite clearly that Mrs. Bundy is of far greater human worth than Caroline can ever hope to be.”
“That does not count much with Caroline,” insisted Mrs. Meade. “She would view her as just one more of our ‘rude’ friends.”
“Mrs. Bundy rude!”
“I don’t consider Mrs. Bundy rude, Celia. I ‘m exceedingly fond of her,” her mother assured her quickly. “I’m merely telling you how Caroline would view her. In spite of her money, Mrs. Bundy’s clothes are not elegant, Celia,” insisted Mrs. Meade. “She favors a shade of red that is not becoming to her age and once she starts eating she does not stop. Can you imagine her with Caroline? Caroline is impossibly rude to me, can you not see how much more rude she would be with Mrs. Bundy?”
“Enough, Mama,” said Celia. “I will not listen to criticism of our friend. Her choice of clothes is her business. Ladies of her advanced age may have their eccentricities. I don’t hear you criticize Lady Femwalt’s penchant for walking her ten dogs at once. They have even made a drawing of her in The Times.”
“If this were a better world than it is, Mrs. Bundy would come in through the front doors of the best houses in the area and Caroline would be condemned to the scullery,” Celia added.
“But it isn’t a better world,” said Mrs. Meade, in territory she recognized, “and until it is, I think Mrs. Bundy should not call. We have enough trouble with Caroline without looking for more reasons for her to shun us.”
“I hope you’re not becoming as hard as Caroline, Mama.”
“You’re being rude, Celia.”
“I’m being truthful. But perhaps I should not hope to change your views, as I should not hope to convince Mrs. Bundy that the shade of red she favors does not become her at all. Personally, I don’t mind her manner of dress in the least, nor her red ribbons. I love her dearly, just as she is. She is one of the best people I know. And it would surprise you to know above how many of those you admire I place her.”
“Why do you insist on seeing my observations as criticism of Mrs. Bundy, Celia, when I am trying to protect her from Caroline’s cruelty?”
“I will miss you dreadfully, even so, Celia,” she added. “Please, I beg you to think again about leaving me to Caroline’s clutches. You might not find me alive when you return.
“Do be serious, Mama,” Celia said with a laugh.
* * *
Celia gazed at her brother. He had grown since they left Spitalfields. He had always looked older than his real age because of the neighborhood where he had been practically raised in. Celia had always sensed in him a morality and decency. The light green of his eyes was as yet untried; there was in it an unalloyed hope and trust of youth. Celia loved and admired her brother, though he would have been surprised at her high evaluation of his character, for he had little insight into his own character as yet.
Yet Celia was certain that in any situation she would always trust Fred to do the right thing.
“Kiss, me, dear Fred,” she said, her eyes misting, “for I am to leave in the morning.”
“So soon?” asked Fred, his voice cracking. He embraced Celia and kissed her with great affection.
“I leave Mama and Bella in your care,” said Celia. “Please keep a close watch on them in my absence. Mama is in dreadful fear of Caroline.”
“Caroline is in dreadful fear of herself. She must shudder when she views herself in the mirror,” Fred countered, making Celia laugh.
“I hope you’ll be happy at the Lodge,” he added. “You will come back in a month as you promised?”
“I will.”
CHAPTER 14
Celia threw open the shutters of her bedroom and looked down at the courtyard of the lodge. A row of evergreens on one side made a dark splash against a copse of trees that were already changing into autumn colors, as if impatient to get on with the next season. She breathed the pure air and was thankful to be at last in a place where she would not fear running into Robert: a place away from strife and away from the tearing on her emotions. She felt free and eager to begin the new day and looked forward to many walks in the nearby woods and many pleasant conversations with Henrietta and her sister, Dora.
There were twenty acres of park surrounding the property and a picturesque little church on the summit of a small hill at the edge of the village, Squireville.
Henrietta informed her over a hearty breakfast that the area was favored by artists for the many scenes for painting it possessed. Many who had arrived at the beginning of summer were still around so there was a bustle of activity in the town, even though many others had left or were ready to leave.
“As we drove here I saw many prospects I would love to draw.”
“Mr. Welsh told me he will begin your lessons as soon as you’re settled,” said Henrietta. She reached across the table to press Celia’s hand. “He has called several times to inquire after you. He said since your stay will be short, you should begin as soon as you are able to.”
“Tell me about Mr. Welsh,” said Celia. And for the next two hours Celia treated herself to her friend’s conversation and talk that brought nothing but pleasant warmth and anticipation.
Later, while Henrietta tended to her mother and Dora had gone to call on a friend, Celia donned her fur-lined cape and went out to inspect the park.
The area had an abundance of beautiful scenery. Henrietta had told her of hay rides and charming soirees around the fire which had been customary in the Lodge when she had visited as a child.
“There is a tradition of celebrating the end of summer and the beginning autumn at the lodge, Celia.” Henrietta said happily. “You must help me to do it, for Mama is not yet able to direct the housekeeper. And we must do everything we can to raise Mama’s spirit by including her in the preparations.”
“I can think of nothing more I’d rather do,” Celia said, her spirit rising.
Later, over a leisurely tea by the long window from which they had a view of the park and sitting close to the cheery glow of the fire, Henrietta and Celia settled for a pleasant long coze.
Henrietta was a buxom girl w
ith a face sprinkled with freckles that stood out in her very white skin. There was a comforting look in her hazel eyes and her smile. Her favorite color was purple and she had a wardrobe that went the whole range of this color in all of its shades, from the deepest plum to the softest violets. She now wore a velveteen gown with cream lace at the throat and cuffs.
She asked Celia why Bella had not wanted to make the trip.
“Mother would not have spared both of us at once,” answered Celia. “She could hardly let go of me. Besides, Bella was anxious to remain.”
“Is Bella happy at Rook’s End?”
“She is attracted to a young man related to Caroline. But I cannot approve of her choice simply because the family opposes it tooth and nail. As you know, Henrietta, when the family opposes a match, only unpleasantness can be in store, as you well know.”
“Yes, we had a fine example of that in my case,” Henrietta agreed. “Dear, Celia, I cannot begin to tell you how your friendship made the difference for me in that difficult time two years ago.”
“I’m sorry I reminded you of it,” Celia said quickly. “Let’s forget that time. You, at least, are level-headed. Bella, I fear, has little common sense when it comes to attachments. Her impulsive nature worries me so.”
“Then perhaps the separation from you will force her to rely more on her own good sense. It cannot but be better for all of you. Celia, your family depends entirely too much on you, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I don’t mind, Henrietta. How can I, when the very same thought keeps me awake at nights? Mama was desolate; she tried her best to dissuade me. This will be the only time I have been away from them for more than a few days.”
“What a strange name that place has, “Rook’s End”. Why was it named that way? Do you know, Celia?”
“There was a sort of square lookout tower where rooks gathered, apart from the main building of the house—quite some distance from it, in fact and not close to the original building, in the west. That tower where the ravens gathered was known informally as the rook’s end,” Celia explained, “and when the house burned down, more than sixty years ago, Uncle Worth’s uncle, Ambrose, having had to put up with several fires up to that time, was told that the house was located in an area where there was a tunnel of wind that was created by the canyon. This caused any fire to quickly get out of control as a result of this natural fanning. When Ambrose rebuilt the place he moved the site to the place where the rooks’ tower had been. The estate had been called some mild name like Midland or Midpark. Anyhow, no one ever called it that again and the owner finally gave in and called it Rook’s End.
“How interesting,” said Henrietta. “Is it very large?”
“The house is huge and very haphazardly run. Uncle Worth asked Mama to direct the staff but Caroline insists on treating Mama as merely a housekeeper and often counteracts her orders. The area around it, especially the small wood that belongs to the estate is most appealing. A lot of its appeal also comes from the fact that none of our cousins ever venture there. I spend a lot of time in that wood. It adjoins the large forest belonging to the Earl of Shelton, who is bedridden.”
“How difficult it must be for you,” said Henrietta. “The running of the house sounds chaotic. Is it that way, then?”
“Oh yes! No one ever knows where anyone else is. My cousins certainly never feel they need to let us know if they will be in or out when a word to the butler would do.”
“That’s so rude.”
“Sylvia and Tom are not too bad when Caroline is not around. As for Caroline, I would rather she were merely rude, for she is openly hostile toward us.
“But Uncle Worth is very nice and Sylvia would be if she hadn’t the constant glares from her sister to deal with when she makes any effort at friendship toward us. I’m certain both Sylvia would act differently toward us if she were not afraid to cross their sister.
“Tom is seldom in the house. He, at least, has counteracted Caroline’s wishes and has befriended Fred. I often hear them laughing together. It’s easy for Fred to make friends with that humor of his.”
“Yes, your brother often made me laugh, too.”
* * *
Celia spent the next two days in pleasant occupations. She had met and liked Professor Welsh more than she had dared to hope and had started her lessons with him. He was a middle-aged, gentle-mannered man, so dedicated to his art that he spoke of little else. He was an ardent follower of Delacroix, an artist who had influenced his life and his art and of whom he spoke only in reverent tones.
Professor Welsh was a man of middle height and a precise voice that became passionate when the subject was art, and being around him the subject often was about art, as Celia happily found out. Starved for talk of art as she had been all her life, she felt like someone who dying of thirst comes upon a lagoon.
Professor Welsh’s pleasant, muted still life paintings had a soft, gentle glow about them and were painted in the neoclassical mode of the day, but it was his landscapes that Celia most liked. In them she saw a different approach, a tendency toward a more modern way of painting. She wondered why it was that he painted landscapes in one way and vibrant still life in another and she determined she would find the reason.
Very soon she was taking her lessons in his studio and accompanying him to the houses of the young girls he taught. Life for Celia had taken on a pleasant routine. She eagerly looked forward to the discussions on art she had now and then with her teacher, for in these she learned a great deal, expanding her knowledge in ways she had never dreamed possible. She was only sorry a full week had already elapsed in this enjoyable manner and there was only three weeks left in her sojourn.
* * *
With the daily letter from her mother she received a letter from Scott on her third day at the lodge. In it Scott told her he counted the days until she would return.
Celia thought about Scott’s pursuit of her. Yet she could not consider him in a serious way. He was a bit on the flippant side, she thought, not taking anything in life too seriously. She just could not see Scott as anything but an acquaintance.
And thinking of Scott, Celia was suddenly reminded of that wrenching scene on the walk back from the wood, where in one stroke she had lost Robert’s regard. His good opinion of her had suffered a blow. He probably thought the reason she had rejected him was that she preferred Scott. Hopefully, her absence from the area proved she had no interest in Scott.
But who could tell what Robert thought of her? That last time she saw him, the evening of that terrible afternoon, he had not looked her way once. The grief of that evening now came back to Celia in nauseating waves so that she had to rise and seek fresh air from the window.
Up until now she had managed to keep her grief at bay, allowing her art and her lessons with the professor to absorb her, but sometimes in unguarded moments such as this one, it so overwhelmed her that she wanted to cry out at the unfairness of life and let go of her tears, tears that no longer came unbidden as they had done before, for she kept a constant check on them. There was now only this dry sorrow locked away in her heart.
A bird’s song, the breeze bringing the scent of flowers—anything might trigger a memory with Robert and then a shudder would run through her body at the thought that he was lost to her, that she could never again be in his arms, in the warmth of his love…
Her work was now the only thing that sustained her, so she piled more work on herself, because it kept her away from enchanting memories that were hurtful because she must suppress them.
So much work she was now doing for Professor Wells that not only was he not charging her for her lessons but was even giving her a sort of wage.
“Just a little, my dear Miss Meade, for your art supplies. I find myself depending on you more and more. I wonder I was able to get along without your assistance. I do wish you would extend your visit.”
Celia smiled in satisfaction. If life was not at the dizzy heights she had known with Ro
bert, at least it was contentment and suited her very well. But in her new hurried schedule, she had not gone back to Rook’s End for a visit as she had promised her mother. There just didn’t seem any time to fit it in. Thankfully, her mother and Bella were so busy of late that they did not insist she visit. And anyhow, she only had one more week left and then she would be forced to return—to heartache and misery as she saw in her mind and Caroline succeeding in her obsession with Lord Merrick.
She looked forward to each day to begin and had great enthusiasm for reaching new goals. Her daily lessons with the professor were also yielding fruit. She derived enjoyment from aiding the professor in teaching art to the young girls and from her lessons. She was learning a great deal and marveled at how little she had known before and how raw her talent had been when the professor had taken it in hand and straightened a few misconceptions in perspective and color.
She was becoming more able in the handling of the oils and there came a day when having completed a landscape of a nearby meadow, she showed it to the professor and his exclamation of approval from him, the first such exclamation over her work, gave Celia a glow that lasted a few days because Welsh was not one to hand out compliments.
“There is in it that vibrancy of color that recalls Delacroix—the tension between the complimentary colors,” said the professor with a lift to his tone. Talk of his hero always made him sit up with energy.
“Eugene Delacroix is a great force in the world of art, Miss Meade, and there are many who speak out against him. And do you know why this is so, Miss Meade? It’s because he is changing art for all time. “See here, Miss Meade, along these lines,” he said, pointing at the horizon in the painting, you, too, are becoming influenced in your oil paintings by the reproductions I have shown you of his work.”
He went on to recall anecdotes of his months in Corot’s atelier while Celia listened in rapt attention.
Celia was now familiar with the area of Paris where the professor had lived in a little garret as a young man. The Boulevard de Clichy and many other streets and places of Paris had become real to Celia through the professor’s words. She yearned to see Paris as she had never wanted to see another city as she listened to the professor. Celia could easily picture Professor Justin Welsh as an eager art student in the art movements of the day
