by Janet Woods
‘Because I love you.’
He knew exactly what she meant. He gazed down at her for a few seconds, a pulse twitching in his jaw. She could have cried at the frustration in his eyes.
‘Keep your charity, Janey. If I can’t have all of you, I don’t want anything.’ When he moved off, all prickly in his affronted male pride, she wondered if anything would ever be the same between them.
Chapter Twelve
Devlin was in America for Janey’s 21st birthday. He rang her. There’s a lot of interest in your work and we need to capitalize on it.’
‘No Devlin. I’m finished being Mistral, I feel stale.’
‘For God’s sake,’ he argued, his voice sharp and impatient. ‘This fad could end at any time.’
‘No!’
‘After all I’ve done for you?’ He sounded hurt for a couple of seconds then suddenly changed tactics. ‘How’s Saffy’s cold?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Please stop trying to manipulate me, Devlin. I refuse to be Mistral any more.’
‘Drifter came to the exhibition.’
She hadn’t expected to be hit below the belt so casually. The color ebbed from her face and she gulped in some air. ‘How ... was he?’
‘He’s been drafted.’
‘Oh no ... not Vietnam! He was so against the war. Hugging the receiver she gazed down at the child he’d fathered. ‘Did he ask after Saffy?’
‘He asked. I told him Saffy was thriving and that you were both fine.’
‘That’s all he said?’
‘What did you expect? It was over between you on the day he left, surely you understood that.’
He could have told her that Drifter had metamorphosed into a clean cut all American boy – and he’d looked as unhappy as hell when he’d found out Janey had moved in with him.
‘Of course I understood. I’m not stupid Devlin.’ She felt as cold and as sluggish as a river of ice. ‘I’m going to Winterbrook for a few days at the end of the week. Perhaps it will give me inspiration.’
Did she need inspiration? People didn’t buy Mistral paintings because they inspired. They bought them because they were fashionable and might realize a profit. She sighed. ‘Perhaps I’ll paint more Mistrals when I get back ... I won’t promise.’
She didn’t have to. She knew she would and so did Devlin. She’d paint under the Mistral signature until every drop of paint Drifter had bought her was gone. Then she’d put him out of her mind for good.
Taking Saffy up in her arms she covered her in kisses. ‘Your daddy is going to war.’
‘Dada ... dada ... dada.’ Saffy giggled and squirmed in her arms. ‘Dada.’
Saffy’s first word! Janey’s grin was tinged with sadness when she said out loud, ‘See what you missed out on Drifter.
Later, Griff dropped in. She hadn’t seen him for weeks and her heart did a tortuous roll when he gave her a ghost of a smile. He looked exhausted as he sank into the comfortable depths of Devlin’s favorite armchair. ‘Happy birthday. I’ve got the whole day off and thought I’d take you and Saffy out to lunch.’
As if time off work was something infinitely precious rather than his right. She wanted to cry – for his tiredness and his thoughtfulness. Dearest Griff.
It was bitterly cold outside, a bleak, depressing day that fused body and spirit into a uniform greyness. Griff looked so comfortable in Devlin’s chair that she invited him to stay for lunch instead.
Saffy climbed into his lap, curling like a puppy against his chest. By the time she’d prepared lunch they were both fast asleep.
There was something irresistible about Griff with a baby sleeping against him. She sketched them while they slept. With his gaunt exhausted face relaxed and his arm circling her plump little body, Griff was an arresting sight.
Saffy’s thumb was in her mouth. Her other hand rested in the hollow of Griff’s throat. Every now and then her eyelids quivered, as if she were dreaming.
When Saffy woke Janey lifted her daughter from Griff’s lap so she wouldn’t disturb him.
‘Dada,’ Saffy said, twisting to look back at him as Janey carried her through to the other room. ‘Dada ... ‘
Griff slept all through the afternoon. She guarded him like a mother with a child, watching the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He was attractive, she thought with a sudden start of surprise. A combination of olive skin, high cheekbones, dark eyes and raffish curls had endowed him with a slightly Latin American look.
She wondered if he had a girlfriend. She’d never stopped to wonder if he had a private life. The thought nagged uneasily at her. It wasn’t the sort of thing she could ask him since he was the most private person she knew.
But she did ask him ... later, when they ate supper in the shiny blue kitchen – blurting it out like a curious schoolgirl, because the question had lodged in her mind and wouldn’t be discarded.
His eyes lit up with amusement and his laughter was self-mocking. ‘I haven’t got the time and energy for romance, only work and sleep.’ He engaged her eyes for a few, lonesome heartbeats. ‘One day things will be different.’
‘I’m going to the village at the weekend. Can you come with us?’
The answer was a regretful shake of his head. ‘I’m working. Go and stay with dad, he’ll enjoy your company.’
* * * *
Phil’s little cottage on the edge of the wood was a perfect retreat for her few precious days. She had an open invitation to stay at the big house, but thought it might embarrass Pamela if she did.
Saffy took to Phil without reservation, climbing straight on to his lap and giving him a hug.
‘Friendly little tyke,’ he commented. ‘Griff tells me he’s her godfather.’
‘He’s one of them. Devlin, who is my agent and Tim Brown are the other two. They always try to outdo each other. Saffy called him Dad the other day. Luckily he was asleep.’
‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she ... not having one of her own around.’ His eyes came up to hers, steady and unblinking. ‘Jack Bellamy’s back in the village.’
‘I take it you know he’s my father,’ she said straight away.
‘Folks talk. Most of the villagers knew your parentage was in doubt when you moved here.’
‘Except me.’
‘There’s nothing so innocent as child.’ Phil placed a comforting hand over hers. ‘I guessed it was Jack the first time I saw you together. I doubt if anyone else saw the resemblance under the scar. People tend not to look below the surface.
She changed the subject. ‘I must drop in on Brenda tomorrow,’ she said with determined brightness, then chattered inconsequently about nothing in particular until it was time for bed.
Over the next two days she busily visited old haunts and renewed old acquaintances. Her childhood friend, Annie Sutton had married a New Zealand sheep farmer. The Sutton farm had been sold.
She wished Griff were with her. On the surface nothing seemed to have changed, yet everything had changed – like flat water between tides. Griff would have helped her understand it.’
Her visit to Brenda and Charles Wyman wasn’t as embarrassing for Pamela as Janey had feared. Pamela brought in the tea trolly and tears came to Brenda’s eyes when they hugged each other tight.
‘Is this the cake Susie made for Janey’s visit? It looks delicious. Why don’t you fetch another cup and join us, Pamela.’
Pamela made some excuse about counting the linen. ‘Besides, we’re spending the day together at the weekend.’
‘We’re going to take photographs for my next series of Mistral paintings.’
‘You’re making a success of your painting.’
‘I do my best.’
‘Do you remember when you were a child and stayed with us for a while,’
Charles said with a smile.
‘And Lord William invited me for tea then afterwards he took me to the barn to visit his old hunter, Wellington. He was such a nice old man. We used to have battles with his sold
iers and he’d allow me to win.’ She laughed and bringing the lead soldier out of her pocket stood it on the table. ‘This belongs to his army if you’ve still got it. It became a talisman. Some on the paint’s rubbed off, I’m afraid.’
Charles picked it up and turned it in his fingers. ‘The soldiers are yours. Lord William bequeathed them to you along with some money. I thought it better to keep it all until you were of age, because they are quite valuable ... and I didn’t want them to ... well, we were not sure if they would survive.’
‘I assure you, they wouldn’t have. Will you keep them safe a little bit longer? One day I’ll buy a house of my own.’ She glanced at her daughter, seated comfortably on Brenda’s lap and being fed on cake. ‘I’d really like Saffy to grow up in the country.’
Charles leaned forward. ‘The Browns old place will be going up for sale soon.’ Of course, most of the land was sold off for the bungalows. Even so there’s a decent bit of garden left, and the house itself had quite a lot of character before it was redecorated.’
Brenda made a face. ‘It’s pink and blue cozy, with tea roses on the walls and frilly crossover curtains. The present owner has no taste ... but then, their ideal of country living fell short after they’d countrified the place to a trendy interior decorator standard that is well past its prime.’
‘Now ... now, my dear.’
‘If I recall Charles, that last observation came from you.’
He grinned ‘I deny that completely. Have you ever been inside it, Janey? If you want to have a quick look round I have the key.’
After tea they trooped up to the solid stone house and inspected it.
‘If the fireplace is opened up in the lounge, the paint stripped from the oak beams and the walls painted a soft cream ...? ‘It’s a nice size and the converted attic would make a perfect studio.’ Janey pulled her mind back into reality and grinned. ‘I couldn’t begin to afford a place like this.’
‘Couldn’t you?’ Charles’s blue eyes were twinkling. ‘You, young lady, are in for a bit of a surprise.’
And she was. There was a substantial amount of money invested in her name – so much in fact that she decided to leave it in Charles Wyman’s hands for the time being. The house wasn’t on the market yet, and when it was, he was much better equipped to handle the purchase for her.
There was a hunger growing in her, a hankering to build a nest for herself and her child. Mistral would furnish the means to supply it.
Despite her earlier misgivings she did find inspiration in Winterbrook. There were goblin faces in bogs, bats with human eyes in the purple dusk, their faces puckered like lost or abandoned children. If Griff had been with her now she wouldn’t allow herself to be swayed. She’d close her eyes and feel the earth turn, and her hand would know the power of the creativity that lay beneath her consciousness and drove her on.
‘Did Griff say anything about what happened to me in London?’ She asked Phil one evening.
‘Griff wouldn’t discuss anything that was confidential between you.’ He placed the kettle on the hob and gave her a comfortable smile. ‘Issues don’t go away if you avoid them, Janey. Jack Bellamy has come out of one prison and gone into another.’
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered, feeling the knot of pain gather in her temple.
‘He’s been in that cottage for six weeks and the shutters are still on the window. He’s living in the dark.’
‘He didn’t do it you know ... he didn’t lay one finger on me. I feel so guilty.’
‘If you know it wasn’t him, then you must know who hurt you.’
Her eyes slid from his. ‘I’ve told you all I can ... I don’t know what to do about it, since nothing can give him back the time he lost from his life.’
‘You do know.’ There was no bending in Phil as he handed her the cup of tea. ‘You know exactly what you must do.’
She reached for the wooden Griffin handing around her neck, but instead her hand closed about the heart Mary and Douglas had given her. So many had been hurt by her father’s actions against her.
* * * *
The next day Janey put Saffy in her pushchair and walked over to Canford Cottage.
She stared at the place. It was depressing with its shuttered eyes. A rusted gutter flaked paint and there was mould on the windowsills. The gate sagged open and a thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney.
It was the house of a recluse set among a decaying garden. It needed sunshine to warm it and laughter to bring it to life again.
He was inside – her father, frightened to face the daylight. His life was is ruins and it was all her fault. How could she face him?
Her hand trembled as she softly knocked at the door. She waited for the sound of footsteps, her heart pounding. Nothing! She pressed her face against the door, but heard only the pulsing of her heart against her eardrum.
She knocked again, without result. He wasn’t in. Relief defeated her disappointment. Taking a note pad and pen from her bag she wrote him a polite little note saying she’d called, then stuffing it through the letter box she turned and hurried away.
* * * *
Inside, Jack jerked awake. He’d thought he heard a noise. He listened for a moment but heard only the wind sighing a dirge about the house.
Rising from his chair he placed another log on the fire, stirring it into flames with his foot. He managed a twisted smile as he gazed at it. He couldn’t get used to being his own master – couldn’t remember what life had been like before prison. As for the future, he didn’t have the will left to plan one. He’d been robbed of willpower in that awful place. He wasn’t able to function without being told where to go and what to do.
He’d thought freedom would be easy, but it wasn’t. He felt exposed in the daylight so resorted to doing things at night. Mary brought him shopping once a week. Poor Mary, she didn’t know how to handle him. He didn’t know how to
handle himself. He was in a prison of his own making and couldn’t find the key.
* * * *
On his return from America Devlin found Janey hard at work. She was painting with renewed vigor, so he asked the young nanny to return to her, and set about making sure they were fed and comfortable.
There was a change in her ... a remoteness he couldn’t put his finger on. He figured she felt awkward about what had happened between them. He still burned with embarrassment when he thought about it, but that didn’t alter the fact that he wanted her with every breath he took. Damn it! Why had he let it bother him? He should have just taken her.
Like the dirty sod who’d ruined her in the first place? He loved her, so how could he.
Janey seemed tireless, the work she produced brilliant in its concept. She started the next one before the paint had dried on the previous canvas, sometimes working on two at a time.
In the corner of her studio was a separate easel, and on it a painting taking place.
It interested him. Each day it grew, by one careful brush stroke after another. He’d never seen her work like this, so patiently, so mathematical. After she caught him examining it she threw a cloth over it. His frown was rewarded with a steady look.
‘Leave it ... it isn’t for sale.’
* * * *
April came. The rain showers sparkled and the parks glistened with daffodils. The grimy diesel of London began to change. People exchanged smiles, joggers had an extra spring in their step, ducks wagged their tails and trees blossomed.
Janey didn’t notice. She painted non-stop, her concentration absolute. At Book One the beginning of June she had enough canvasses for the exhibition Devlin had planned. There was nothing cheap about this one. He’d invite everyone who was anyone.
She argued with him when he asked her to be at the opening.
‘What for when I have work to do. Besides ... I have nothing to wear.’
‘You need to be seen, and it won’t hurt you to do a bit of networking.’ He bought her a dress of black silk with a drifting, tie-dye
d purple scarf that wound about her neck and trailed down her back. There were fingerless lace gloves for her arms. Black fingernails. He called in a hairdresser to style her hair, a breathtaking medieval style ... a make-up artist. More than a touch of purple eye shadow and Khol emphasized her haunting blue eyes.
She laughed when she saw herself in the mirror, a spontaneous girlish giggle that made him grin. ‘Is this how you see Mistral?’
He kissed her cheek. ‘No, but it’s how I’m going to sell her.’
She looked stunning and behaved perfectly. She answered questions about her work and accepted accolades with self-assurance.
Janey rather enjoyed assuming the role of sophisticate for the evening. There was a lot of pretentious talk going on, each guest trying their utmost to out-clever the next. Red dots appeared on her work, as Devlin, ever the salesman, conducted his business. He oozed charm and grace. A naturally effusive and charming man he was now working the crowd – a smile here, a flirting word there, a practiced laugh.
She grinned when she caught his eye and winked at him over her glass.
Then she spotted a black-bearded man in a cloak, and wearing a pair of round old-fashioned spectacles. Holding a long black cigarette holder, he smiled and nodded to himself. Her insides churned with laughter. The ghost of Toulouse Lautrec was nodding in approval, what better endorsement could she have?
Her mouth nearly dropped open when Linda came in. She was with an older woman of exquisite beauty. A momentary hush came over the crowd and then the voices began to babble again.
Who’s that?’ she asked Devlin.
‘Sarah Wyman. She’s a bitch, but she’s loaded. Rumour has it she’s about to marry an earl.’
Sarah Wyman! The woman her fa ... Eddie Renfrew used to work for. Janey stared at her. So this was madam. Linda had certainly worked her way up in the world.
‘I don’t know who the other woman is,’ Devlin said.
‘I do ... she’s my sister. Is there any way I can hide: She doesn’t know I’m Mistral.’
A pained expression flitted over Devlin’s face. ‘You can hide in plain view. It’s about time she learned how talented her sister is.’
