After so many quiet days on the deserted Sussex Downs with just birdsong and the whisper of the wind for company, he had almost forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by people and vehicles.
Richard adjusted the heavy portfolio of paintings he was carrying into a comfortable position under his arm.
Which of the various smart galleries that lined the pavements should he approach?
It was a difficult decision.
Since he was only just starting out to be a painter, perhaps he should go to one of the smaller places, which had just a few pictures hanging on their walls.
But what was wrong with starting right at the top?
What if he was to boldly take his work into one of the larger establishments where the wide front windows gleamed in the sunshine, displaying row upon row of fine masterpieces?
Then Richard’s heart began to quicken as he saw a familiar name over the door of a medium-sized gallery.
Gabriel Harker – the dealer who had bought all the paintings from his old home in Lanchberry Close!
As he stepped inside, the owner came towards him.
“I am afraid I am not taking on any new artists at present,” he said in a cold haughty voice, eyeing Richard’s portfolio.
But Richard did not hear him, for he was looking at one of the paintings hanging on the wall, of the cherry tree in blossom with the pretty girl standing beneath it, that he had once bought for his father.
Elissa, with her cloud of golden hair and her slim graceful figure –
“Sir, I must regret that if you are here looking for representation, I cannot help you,” Mr. Harker was saying very close to Richard’s ear.
Richard tore his eyes away from Elissa.
He looked down and noticed that his boots placed firmly on an expensive Oriental rug still had some Sussex mud on them.
Obviously Mr. Harker did not recognise him as the young gentleman he had bought the paintings from not so long ago.
In fact he now had his hand on Richard’s arm and was about to forcibly eject him from the gallery.
“Mr. Harker, forgive me,” said Richard, removing his felt hat, which was perfect for keeping his head warm while he was painting, but rather incorrect for Bond Street. “I should have introduced myself, Richard Stanfield!”
Mr. Harker dropped his hand from Richard’s arm and gazed at him in astonishment.
“Mr. Stanfield, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Why should you? I have completely transformed myself and I am sure I must look completely disreputable.”
He politely stepped off the beautiful rug.
“My mistake, Mr. Stanfield, I have been regrettably rude.”
Mr. Harker was now looking at Richard’s portfolio with interest.
“Have you brought any further paintings to sell?”
“Yes, in a manner of speaking – ”
Much to his annoyance, he found himself blushing.
“These are – my own work.”
Mr. Harker now seemed at a loss for words and was staring at him with his mouth open, so Richard laid the portfolio down on a table and opened it up.
It was unbearable to watch him slowly turning over his paintings, holding them up the light, putting them down again.
“What do you think?” Richard managed to blurt out after a few painful moments.
Mr. Harker shook his head.
“You put me in a difficult position, Mr. Stanfield.”
“You mean – they’re no good?”
Richard felt a chill of despair run through him.
“Not exactly. Perhaps it would help if you could tell me what you are trying to achieve.”
Richard looked up at the painting of the cherry tree, at the sunlight sparkling on its leaves, at the girl’s glowing hair, a moment of beauty and happiness caught perfectly on the canvas.
“I’m trying to do what Leo Valentine does – did, I mean. The way that he catches things just as they are, only they seem even more real, more beautiful.”
Mr. Harker sighed.
“A lifetime’s work, Mr. Stanfield, to achieve such mastery.”
“I’m determined to do it, whatever it takes.”
“Well, this one shows promise.”
Mr. Harker then picked up the picture Richard had called ‘Old Newman’ after the shepherd whose tiny figure appeared at the foot of the Downs.
Richard’s mood now swung from utter misery to soaring hope, as he heard these words.
Mr. Harker propped the painting up onto the table and stepped back to look at it from a distance.
“The composition is unusual – stark and strong.”
He turned back to the portfolio and closed it.
“These others are clearly the work of a painter still learning his craft. But Mr. Stanfield, I should be happy to take this one, ‘Old Newman’, and try to sell it for you.”
“Oh, thank you,” stammered Richard, feeling sad to think that the painting would no longer be his, but happy that Mr. Harker had agreed to take it.
“It isn’t every day that a gentleman turns up to try and sell me his own work!” Mr. Harker said, going to the back of the shop and pouring two glasses of whisky.
“Whatever made you decide to embark on such a course?”
Richard explained about the sale of the house and the decision he had made to start a new life.
“I admire Leo Valentine so much,” he said, looking at the cherry tree painting. “I should like to paint as well as he did one day.”
Mr. Harker raised his glass.
“I salute your bravery,” he told Richard, “you have been in Sussex I take it from the landscapes? Well – Mr. Stanfield, I advise you to take yourself somewhere where the countryside is much wilder, more dramatic. I shall be interested to see the results.”
They raised their glasses in the sunlight that poured in brightly from the street and drank a toast to Richard’s future endeavours.
*
“My dog has become a different creature,” Lady Hartwell said, several weeks later, as faint March sunshine shone in through the parlour windows. “Before you came he was constantly barking and misbehaving.”
Nelson rolled his black eyes up to look at her from where he lay peacefully in front of the fire and gave a little twitch of his curly tail.
“What have you been doing to him, Elissa? Have you been rubbing him with one of your herbal potions?”
“No! Although perhaps he might well enjoy some lavender water in his bath next time!”
“Well, I should not recognise him, he is as quiet as a lamb. And his waistline is much improved too as he was quite portly before.”
Elissa knew that Nelson’s calm behaviour and new slim figure were entirely due to the long walks the two of them had been on while Lady Hartwell took her afternoon nap.
But she did not say so, as she still had a lingering fear her grandmother might easily forbid her to spend so much time out of doors.
“What do you think of my new gown, Elissa? Is it too garish? I don’t want my grandson to think I am mutton dressed as lamb!”
Lady Hartwell took a slow turn about the room, her mauve silk skirts rustling across the carpet.
“It is perfect,” enthused Elissa. “A soft colour, like the spring crocuses and the violets that are coming out just now in the garden. I think Lord Hartwell will approve.”
Lady Hartwell gave a wry little smile.
“Ah, what do gentlemen ever know about fashion? Especially where their grandmothers are concerned, but I do like to look my best for him.”
“Will he arrive in time for dinner?” asked Elissa, a little tremor of nervousness shaking her body.
“He says so, my dear, in his letter. But, of course, we can never be sure.”
Lady Hartwell then sank down onto a sofa, her silk skirts settling around her like the petals of a flower.
“I do rather like this gown after all. Please send for Ernestine, so that it may be hung up ready for to
night. I must not crease it while I take my siesta.”
“Of course and do you need anything else?”
Lady Hartwell gave Elissa a sideways look.
“Ah – I know what you are after. Well – go! Take yourself off to the garden. I must rest before tonight. Go!”
And the old lady turned away, a faint flush on her wrinkled cheeks, as she was already anticipating the arrival of her grandson.
The sun felt warmer today and so for the first time Elissa ventured out without her coat.
As she walked through the garden, making her way to the gate in the garden wall, the sweet scents of narcissi and wallflowers drifted through the air.
There were no flowers growing on the hillside, but its colour was subtly changing, turning a softer green in the distance.
It was not a day for hurrying and so Elissa strolled along her favourite path, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on her face until she found a little dip in the moor, where she sat down to rest for a while, Nelson at her side.
‘Perhaps Lord Hartwell will leave me alone on this visit,’ she said to herself, recalling her cousin’s mocking dark eyes and teasing manner. ‘If I stay quiet, he will not notice me next to Grandmama in her new gown.’
She felt her anxiety melting away in the warmth of the sun and within a few moments her eyes closed and she began to doze.
But it was not a peaceful sleep she fell into.
Immediately Elissa found herself in a vivid dream. She was still sitting on the hill, but the grass and heather had turned from a soft greeny-brown to a bright gold that almost hurt her eyes.
She was not alone.
Someone was kneeling behind her and soft hands as gentle as the warm sunshine were stroking her hair.
“Mama?” she exclaimed and tried to get up, but her limbs were heavy and would not move.
Something small and white was drifting down out of the blue sky, twirling round and round until it fell into Elissa’s lap.
It was a small white feather and as she looked at it, she remembered the dove she had seen a few weeks before, escaping the talons of the falcon.
“What is it, Mama?” she asked, fighting against the heaviness in her body. “What does it mean?”
And then the brilliant gold hillside melted away and her eyes flew open as she woke up, startled by the sound of her own voice.
Nelson was there gazing at her and making a little whining noise.
“It’s all right, Poppet,” she told him. “Just a dream, that’s all. Come, let’s go back.”
Suddenly she no longer felt safe alone on the empty hillside.
*
“I’m making a go of it!” trumpeted Richard, raising his champagne glass, as he sat with Monty in one of their old haunts in Piccadilly. “One of my paintings is now in a Bond Street gallery!”
“Steady on, man!” replied Monty, looking doubtful. “How much whisky did you say you’ve had? It’s not sold yet, is it? Your painting? You’ve not actually the cash in your hand yet, have you?”
“Oh, Monty, stop talking like a lawyer!” Richard retorted, trying to quell the excitement welling up inside him. “Mr. Harker thinks my landscapes show promise.”
“I cannot see the attraction of that subject myself. Why don’t you try your hand at portraits? Beautiful girls, that’s what you should be painting – ”
Richard shuddered visibly, recalling his sketches of Mercedes with her gleaming dark eyes and her mane of red hair he had burned before he left London.
“So, anyway, old friend – what’s next?” Monty was asking.
Richard then explained that he intended to take Mr. Harker’s advice and go to more remote areas with dramatic scenery.
“You know, somewhere in the North of the country – Yorkshire, perhaps.”
Monty looked disappointed.
“Too far away, old man, we’ll never get to see you. Stay in London!”
“I just can’t afford it. Where would I live? And I’d never be able to keep up with you, Monty, going out for dinner and champagne all the time.”
“You could quite easily afford it, Richard, if you did what I have always advised and claimed your money back from that evil woman.”
Richard shook his head.
“I don’t know where she is and I don’t want to.”
“What was her name again?” Monty asked, dipping into his pocket to pull out a crumpled newspaper cutting.
“Leave it, please do!” Richard huffed.
But he could not help looking down at the snippet of paper that Monty was unfolding on the table as he read out slowly and deliberately,
“Lady Talbot’s delightful salon was illuminated this week by the presence of a recent arrival from South America – the exquisite heiress Señorita Mercedes de Rosario. We are sure it will not be long before we see her name again – perhaps in the Engagements column, as she is guaranteed to turn the head of every young Society gentleman she meets.”
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Monty insisted. “She’s taken all your money, old man, and now reinvented herself as an heiress!”
Richard felt suddenly sick.
He sincerely wished he had not had quite so much champagne and whisky to drink.
The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to see Mercedes’s beautiful deceitful face again.
He would leave London first thing tomorrow.
Yorkshire was a bleak and cold place – or so he had heard and, as he took up his brush to capture its forbidding hills and moors on canvas, he would soon forget all about the temptress who had caused him so much pain.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Why did I worry so that my cousin might pay too much attention to me?’ thought Elissa, as she sat down at table that evening in the dining room at Fellbrook Towers.
She watched closely as Lord Hartwell settled into the chair opposite her.
He seemed lost in another world, his handsome face as dark as a thundercloud.
Even Lady Hartwell’s beautiful new mauve gown, which gleamed exquisitely in the soft candlelight, attracted no comment from him.
“Dearest,” she began in a rather tentative voice, “I asked the butler to send up the very best champagne. Will you not try a little?”
Lord Hartwell roused himself and glared at the tiny bubbles drifting upwards in his glass.
“Such extravagance,” he growled.
Lady Hartwell looked shocked.
“But Falcon, I thought – you are here so rarely – ”
“In future,” he scowled, “I shall choose which wine is brought to table.”
“Of course, my dear, but the bottle has been opened for you, it will not keep.”
He picked up his glass and drained it in one gulp and then grabbed his fork and moved the food around on his plate, but he did not eat any.
After a few moments, Lady Hartwell tried again to engage him in conversation,
“What news of the horse you went to try last time you were here? Did you buy it, my dear?”
Lord Hartwell nodded, his eyes on his plate.
“And how does it run?”
“It doesn’t. Useless beast – they told me it was a perfect Pegasus and it would fly over every obstacle and beat all competition.”
He shoved his plate away so that it skidded along the polished surface of the table and held up his glass for the butler to replenish.
“Yes!” he shouted, as the champagne flowed from the bottle. “A toast to Black Prince – the most calamitous beast that ever stepped onto a Racecourse. Fell at the first fence, broke its neck and darned near broke the bank as well!”
“Oh, poor creature!” Elissa piped up before she could stop herself.
Her cousin glared at her, his black brows creased in a frown.
“I doubt it felt a thing. Save your pity for the poor ruined owner it left behind!”
“Oh, Falcon! Surely you did not make some foolish bet on this horse,” Lady Hartwell tried to admonish him.
“And
what if I did? My fortune is mine to do with whatever I choose, what gentleman does not like to gamble a little? The horse was well-bred, it had good form. They told me it was a certain thing and I thought I would make back the vast sum I paid for it.”
“Oh, Falcon – ”
Lady Hartwell’s voice was trembling.
Her grandson stood up, his face red with anger.
“I have no appetite! Especially for your nagging, Grandmama.”
And then he strode out of the dining room.
Lady Hartwell sat still and dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.
“May I fetch you anything?” Elissa asked her.
“No, my dear. My peace of mind is shattered, there is nothing to help me. Oh, how do I wish these young men would not risk so much at the Racecourse!”
“Perhaps my cousin has learned his lesson.”
Lady Hartwell sighed and shook her head.
“I fear not. The remedy is always to try again and place some other reckless bet to regain what has been lost. I have seen it so many times with other hot-headed young men. And when the money runs out – they will then wager anything – their land, even their fine houses that have been in their families for centuries.”
“I am sure it will not come to that!” cried Elissa. “Your grandson would never – ”
“The Towers belongs to Falcon,” Lady Hartwell interrupted, “it came to him when his father died and I may live here if he so chooses, but it is his to throw away upon the Racecourse and nothing I say will stop him.”
A chill of fear ran through Elissa’s veins.
Lady Hartwell belonged at The Towers. She could not imagine the old lady making her home anywhere else.
But perhaps it might not go so far as this.
She remembered a favourite saying of her Mama’s, whenever she had been worried that there would be no money to pay a bill.
Now, she told it to Lady Hartwell,
“Let us not meet trouble halfway.”
The old lady looked at her, brows raised in surprise.
“What?”
“I mean you must not worry too much as so often what we fear the most does not come about. Mama used to say so.”
“Ah!”
Lady Hartwell’s arched brows sank into a frown.
“I thought I had heard that phrase before. Some nonsense that Helena picked up from her nanny. Well – Elissa, I can tell you now that all my worst fears came true when your mother ran away. Why should I now expect that things will turn out for the best with Falcon?”
The Trail to Love Page 7
