by Ella Carey
She sensed James’s eyes on her. Had she gone too far? But the problem was, she meant it. She hated to think what her family would make of the words she’d just spoken. For a ghastly moment, she pictured her sister, Caroline, throwing back her head and mocking her, her beautiful green eyes alight with mirth. It’s to do with being human? What are you talking about, Tess? Just focus on the prize! And Tess’s whole family would laugh and laugh at what they would see as a gauche attempt to speak some truth she thought she’d found.
But Edward’s expression was serious. Of course it was. He was Edward.
James was watching him and staying quiet.
“Tess,” Edward said, finally. “Let’s forget the commercial side of things for one moment. Because, to me, there is a difference between writing how I feel about life and making sense of it in a certain way, as opposed to telling the world about my experiences and thoughts in base terms, in some sort of television interview, which I think is what you have in mind. It seems too naked to me—unsavory. Does that make sense?”
James glanced at Tess before he spoke. “With all respect, your story and the ideals of your friends would resonate with people were you to talk about them openly. And then there is Rebecca. What you young moderns did, what you felt, was real. You were searching for the truth. And I have to say that in this day and age, the modernist philosophy seems more important and more relevant than ever. We live in an era of greed, but you and your friends questioned everything, and goodness knows, we need more of that right now. It’s more important than ever not to sit back and believe all that we are fed these days about wealth and money building and greed. To me, we move in circles. Our prosperity means that we are rotating back to valuing exactly the things that you modernists fought against. And where will that take us in twenty, thirty years’ time?”
Tess could only agree. While she’d originally thought that Edward needed to move with the times and take a more commercial approach to his work, perhaps it was equally important to look to the past, to not replicate the mistakes that people such as Edward’s family and their class had made, because the bubble would burst in the end. And now, with the prevailing attitude toward power at all costs—power suits, power meetings, power lunches, even power naps had become catchphrases of the decade—maybe it was time for Edward to write about the long-term costs of such attitudes.
Tess leaned forward in her seat. “If you opened up about Rebecca, imagine. You’d be bringing her to life again. All her drawings, all her paintings hidden away there at Heide. What if they were released? Wouldn’t you like that for her? Doesn’t she deserve to be remembered properly? If you let it get out there that your novel is based on a true story, it would also be your opportunity to get the story right, rather than waiting for some hack, some smarmy journalist, to find that it is a true story and sensationalize it. You wouldn’t want that for Rebecca, and quite frankly, I’ve grown fond of her. So neither would I.”
She sensed James smiling next to her.
But Edward looked despondent. “I don’t want to put a brake on your plans, Tess. But I don’t want to go public with my past. Some things are too . . .”
Personal, Tess thought, close to the bone, as Edward’s voice drifted off. She saw a smile flicker across James’s face as he looked at her. As if he were sharing something private with her, an unspoken truth. But she could only feel that if Edward had really wanted to protect his past secrets, he would have changed the names of the characters in his book. So why had he not altered them if, deep down, he didn’t want anyone to find out the truth?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Haslemere, 1946
Celia Russell announced that they were repairing to one of the family beach houses for a few days just as Edith tried to convince Edward to come out riding with her for the afternoon.
“We are going out to the far paddocks. Do come with us, Edward! I always get lost out there. I know my way around my own property, just not yours especially well, I am ashamed to admit.”
Celia’s eyes glistened as she glanced from Edward to Edith and back. Rebecca hated to think cruel thoughts, but she couldn’t stop imagining dollar signs running through Celia’s head as she planned a union between the two. Their lands would be joined. It would cement the Russells’ and Hardings’ vast wealth if the two families became one, even if Edward was the second son. Plus, if Edward were married to Edith, he’d have little time for those bohemians. Edith would take over and charm him away.
Rebecca shuddered at the thought.
Edward instantly turned to place his hand over her free hand on the table. He shot a glance toward her. Rebecca felt her cheeks going pink. Now Celia was looking at her too. She mustn’t let this get to her. She and Edward were real. They were what mattered among all the things that didn’t count. Their love for each other was it. She just had to calm down about Edith. But the problem was, the girl was actually . . . nice.
“I’m going to do some gardening this afternoon,” Edward said, his voice matter of fact, his hand warm and strong on Rebecca’s. “I want to mulch some of the more delicate beds before the weather turns and the nights become cooler. I have some seedlings growing in the glasshouse that I want to plant out before we leave.”
Edith started as if he’d slapped her in the face.
“Edward.” Celia was firm. “We employ five gardeners. Don’t be ridiculous. Go out and keep Edith and Vicky company. I’ve told you time and again, dear, that this is not your role, nor do you need to concern yourself with such matters as the garden. Can you imagine someone of your consequence in England digging potatoes, when they have two young women offering an afternoon of riding? Honestly, Edward. I do hope that you get over this tiresome phase. Once we are at the beach house, at least you will not be able to persist with this notion of dirtying your hands!”
Rebecca sat back in her seat and felt her eyebrows rise to the decorative ceiling.
Edward firmed his grip on her hand. “I assure you, Mother, it’s not a passing phase.” Edward’s voice was firm. “And I do remind you that were I to go out riding with Vicky and Edith, then Rebecca would be left alone.”
“Rebecca and I can take tea in the sitting room. I would never have left her on her own,” Celia said. “I was going to spend some time with her, Edward. Rebecca and I need to get to know one another a little better.”
Rebecca saw Edward’s eyes narrow. He waited a beat before replying. “Very well. Rebecca, darling, would you be happy to spend the afternoon with my mother, while I garden? I’m so sorry, I can’t go out riding today,” he said, softening his tone as he addressed Vicky and Edith.
Rebecca didn’t look at either of the other girls. But she felt indignation emanating from Edith as if it were fire.
“Of course,” Rebecca said, meaning it. If she were honest, her feelings for Celia were confusing. She understood the older woman’s desire to see Edward married to a girl of whom she approved. Rebecca also had to admire the way Celia ran things. Her husband was clearly unable to cope, and she must be worried about her oldest son. The burden of the family’s responsibilities would rest on Edward’s shoulders since Robert didn’t appear to be able to manage their holdings without him. Rebecca could see that Celia needed Edward to stay in line, to support the family and not to stray.
But she hated the fact that all her time with Edward had to be fought for. Celia seemed determined to interject, to try to run things her way, whether it was by introducing Edith to the house party, or in myriad other ways. One thing was clear: Rebecca was up against a singular opponent.
It had gotten to the point where the Tower was the only place that they could be themselves.
Breeding and good manners seemed as important to Celia Russell as false appearances were to Mrs. Swift. It was clear that to Celia, Edith wasn’t just the perfect match for Edward, she was the only one.
But then, what else could anyone expect of a woman of Celia’s background? Had Rebecca honestly entertained any idea that Edward
’s mother would somehow share her and Edward’s modernist views? She had to stop wishing Celia would change. She had to stop wishing that Celia would become a Sunday, a kindred spirit, someone who would have more concern for the things that mattered.
No matter how much Rebecca wished Celia was different, or had a deeper, more sympathetic attitude toward life, Celia was not going to change. Rebecca knew she had to accept Edward’s mother as she was, just as countless women before her had done, no doubt. She had to try to see things from Celia’s point of view and do her best to get to know her. There was no point trying to glean from Celia something that clearly was beyond both her way of thinking and the set of beliefs that governed her entire existence. None of this was really her fault.
Rebecca gazed out the window at the garden. The fountain sent lazy spirals of water into the heat. She’d fallen gradually under Haslemere’s spell. Over the past few days she had forged a real connection to the land out here and had taken to walking up the long oak-lined driveway in the mornings before everyone was awake—well before Edith or Vicky made an appearance at breakfast after being attended to by their maids. Rebecca ventured alone into the paddocks early in the mornings, reveling in the fact that her shoes were muddied on the grass. She understood and could see why Edward loved this place so much, and why he must feel such conflict at the fact that none of it married with his views on building a new life after the war.
Now, the maid, Clare, appeared. She stopped right by Rebecca’s chair and held out a small silver platter. An envelope addressed to Rebecca sat on it, along with a letter opener. Rebecca sensed the other women’s glances, along with their raised eyebrows. She turned the envelope over. The letter was postmarked Heide. Sunday’s handwriting looped across its back.
“Do you mind if I excuse myself?” Rebecca asked. A sense of delicious anticipation arose in her heart.
Lunch was almost finished. Fine porcelain plates held the last of the cucumber sandwiches, cut in precise squares, and everyone was too polite to take what was left. Rebecca felt more and more like some sort of mess in such tightly controlled surroundings. A silver teapot sat pristine on the tablecloth and next to it was a plate of elegant cookies. Rebecca hated to think how hard the servants worked to support the extravagance of the Russells’ lifestyle.
“Go ahead, Rebecca,” Celia said. “I’ll be in the green sitting room when you are finished with your letter.”
Edward let go of her hand.
Rebecca didn’t like to admit even to herself the enormous relief she felt at seeing Sunday’s handwriting.
“Enjoy your afternoon, everyone,” she said, and slipped out to the gallery, then along to her bedroom, where she threw herself down on her bed.
Heide
Darling Rebecca,
I hope you don’t mind. I have taken some time to peruse your work. (I always take my time to consider art. I think it’s important to do so. I don’t hold truck with hasty decisions anymore in life. Once bitten and all that, I’m afraid!) Well. The point is, I have shown some samples of your work to the other members of the CAS (The Contemporary Art Society in Melbourne)—the sketches that you did while you were here for lunch with Edward. We are intrigued by your style, especially the rendering of faces so finely done in brush and ink, the way you capture a person’s nature in barely a few strokes. We also love the landscapes of Heide that you “threw off” while you sat on the floor by the fireplace.
Thank you for leaving them here for me. I feel that if an artist has talent, then I will do all that I can to lend my support. The thing is, the CAS would like to see you expand your work so that it can be exhibited as part of our next exhibition here in Melbourne. What do you think?
You have real talent. What worries me is that we don’t want you to be seen as “Edward Russell’s girlfriend,” the girlfriend of a member of one of Australia’s foremost families. You need to establish yourself as Rebecca Swift. It’s been a horrid problem for Joy Hester. She’s always viewed as Albert Tucker’s wife.
Anyway, can we exhibit a few of your pieces here in Melbourne? Let me know what you want to do.
Sun.
Rebecca read the letter twice, then lay back on her bed, staring at the white ceiling. Rebecca glanced back at Sunday’s correspondence in her hand. She was right. Referring to women artists as somebody’s wife or girlfriend was something that had to stop. Rebecca stood up, opened her wardrobe, and placed the letter in the pocket of one of her light summer coats. She then made her way out to the gallery and down toward the small ladies’ sitting room, where she knew Celia would be waiting.
With an instinct that seemed to kick in all too often of late, Rebecca ran a hand up to her cheek as she sat down on the sofa opposite Edward’s mother. Pale pink sofas rested on soft cream carpet and the whole room was framed by a picture window that gave a splendid view of the well-tended garden. A peacock called in the distance.
“Tea, Rebecca?” Celia asked, reaching for her bellpull.
Rebecca refrained from pointing out that she was already awash with tea. Hadn’t they just had lunch? Still, if tea was going to improve relations with Edward’s mother, then tea she was going to have. Rebecca loved Edward and found herself determined to make things work with his mother.
“Thank you,” she said, arranging her legs just so on the delicate sofa.
“How are you finding Haslemere, Rebecca?”
“I love the landscape around here. The light on the paddocks is different every time I go out. I’ve been trying to blend the right color in my room, to capture the green in different states. And the scent of it is heavenly.” She stopped. What was she doing? Celia would think she was mad.
“Yes.” Celia waved in the maid with a tray of tea. Ran her hand over her chignon. “I’m glad you like the . . . paddocks.” She pouted while the tray was set down on a small polished table between them, set with a glass bowl of pink roses. Visibly took in another breath. “It can be rather quiet out here though. Not ideal for a city girl like you.”
Rebecca watched while the older woman poured tea. There was something calming about the timeless ritual. Perhaps it was because it crossed barriers. In any case, Rebecca’s heartbeat steadied a little as Celia handed her a porcelain cup.
“Thank you,” she said. “You know, I’m happiest when I’m drawing or sketching. I do love the excitement of the city, I admit that. I love meeting people. Melbourne is full of such interesting folk.” Folk. Woops. That wasn’t part of the language of the Edith Hardings of this world. Rebecca felt her cheeks tingle. She started over. “What I mean to say is that I find the countryside inspirational, for my work, but it also soothes the mind.”
Celia stopped with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “Oh, I see,” she murmured.
Rebecca winced. “It is clear that Edward adores Haslemere,” she said. But she was floundering, panicking about her use of the right word. Was love too strong a word for people of Celia’s background? Was it a word they used in their circles? Rebecca shot her gaze around the rosebud-wallpapered room as if it held all the answers.
“Edward is intimately connected with this place,” Celia murmured. “It is his home.”
The woman stared out the window a moment and something passed across her face, a shadow. But her voice was firm when she spoke. “I’m afraid that . . . well. I would hate to appear indelicate, but . . . there is something you should know. Our wills are clear in that nothing goes to any spouse of Robert’s, Edward’s, or Vicky’s. Everything goes directly to their children.”
Rebecca gasped. “Please,” she said, “I’m not—”
But Celia held up a hand. “I’m not saying you are,” she said. “But I like to make things clear to people. I don’t like to beat around the bush. You see, under the circumstances, we need to be careful about such things . . .”
Rebecca stared at the luxuriant carpet. It was almost as if it, too, were rejecting her. As if she’d ever think anything of Edward’s inheritance. If only Celia knew he
r true feelings about what was important.
Which of course was the problem. Celia simply did not think that way at all. And not only did she not think that way, the older woman would have difficulty understanding that anyone else would. But Rebecca was going to try to understand Edward’s mother, even if it killed her.
“I can assure you that my motives are genuine,” Celia went on. “The boys have had every gold digger you can imagine setting her cap for them. I’m afraid I’ve become a little cynical. You see, the Russell family is quite unique.”
Yes. Rebecca stayed quiet. She was beginning to see, indeed.
“You see, dear, Edward’s position is unusual.”
Rebecca smiled at Celia. And for some reason, started to feel sorry for her. This life of hers had to be on the way out. Was this some attempt to stop the inevitable? Did she have no regard for the fact that Edward had a will of his own?
“Edith’s mother and I hope to see Edward and Edith married. And, while, dear, I know he finds you sweet, I just can’t sit here and allow you to build your hopes that he is in any way available or not already spoken for, if you see what I mean. I do know this is awkward, but I hope you understand. And I’m genuinely sorry because I can see that there is real affection between you and dear Edward.”
“Yes, it is real,” Rebecca said. “It’s based on truth.”
She suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to push her own point. “Don’t you think, Mrs. Russell, that affection, that the things that run deep are more important than a match made for social reasons? Because, you see, I love Edward. And I can promise you, I always will. I know I could never hurt him or leave him. He is so very dear to me. Don’t you think that is important? I just . . .” her voice trailed off. All her senses were heightened. She had to advocate for herself, even if she was shooting herself in the foot.
Celia turned to her. “Well, of course, yes. But surely affection between a couple will grow after marriage. I do find you quite lovely, my dear, and I’m sure Edward does too. It’s just that, well, Rebecca, if we are being honest, the heart of the matter is that the people with whom you are friendly, the Reeds, those artists, could pull Edward away from his family. Angus and I are most concerned about it. And I’m sure you don’t want that.”
