The Things We Don’t Say

by Ella Carey

  Emma’s father, an atheist, had raised her to forsake traditional religion, but her brother and his friends’ ideas seemed to bring her father’s ideas to life. They rejected capitalism, misogyny, traditional views of marriage and family, as well as imperialism and any notion that Britain was somehow superior to other lands. Principia Ethica was the Cambridge group’s replacement bible. It espoused joy and color in aesthetics instead of restraint, freedom to love instead of repressive morals and marriage. It embraced the notion that family did not have to be limited to those who shared a bloodline. The ideas opened up a complete turnaround of what moral values should be. The views resonated with Emma, and she became obsessed with the idea of creating a new life.

  She knew she was searching for a way to heal everyone after her father’s death. What if she could finally live by these sensible principles—kindness, tolerance, the application of reason to a problem? If the world could see beyond countries and kings and languages and war and even monogamy, what could be achieved as a society and as individuals? And yet, it would not work for just her to live by such new radical ideas; she needed to gather around her those who felt exactly the same way.

  Once Arthur finally married, Emma was no longer required to accompany him to endless events. She sold the horse he’d bought for her, and her life became more entwined with Frederick’s, while her younger sister, Freya, also started to take a keen interest in the ideas the young men espoused. Freya’s mind took to it all like a streaking cat—she was erudite, sharp, and well able to keep up with the educated men. She began submitting articles to the Times Literary Supplement and reviewing novels. One of her reviews was regarded as definitive.

  Freya wrote and Emma painted—and with serious intent. Emma kept searching for somewhere to live. Someone at art school mentioned Bloomsbury—the home of the British Museum, the British Library, and the University of London, not to mention the Pre-Raphaelites, Dickens, and Charles Darwin. The theater district in Covent Garden was only a short walk away. More important, Bloomsbury was a world apart from Kensington society and the life that Emma was starting to view as utterly false.

  When she found the house in Gordon Square, Emma knew she had found her new home. The large brown town house had picture windows that flooded the rooms with light. It overlooked the fenced-off square opposite.

  There was plenty of space for Emma, Freya, and Frederick to have their own rooms both to work and live in. Emma negotiated the rent and had the entire house painted a fresh, light white. She pulled down the old curtains, left the floorboards bare, found modern furniture, and kept only a few of her father’s Turkish rugs along with the family’s collection of wonderful books. She decorated the new furniture with modern throws for warmth as a rebellion against the Victorians’ tendency to shiver in front of the fire. She hung some of Frederick’s friend Lawrence’s early paintings on the wall in the living room.

  Emma layered in all sorts of delicious rebellions—including the absence of napkin rings and the taking of coffee instead of tea after dinner.

  Once they were settled, Frederick began hosting Thursday night discussions at home. Emma spent her days at art school and her evenings at the theater or with whoever of Frederick’s friends were in London. Finally it seemed she was living life on her own terms.

  When Frederick’s friend Oscar Temple started showing an interest in her, Emma wasn’t sure about him. She was aware that all the men in Frederick’s circle of friends found both her and Freya fascinating. They’d inherited their mother’s dark eyes and long chestnut hair. She’d certainly felt flushes of attraction to the rounds of interesting men whom Frederick brought home. But often she wondered if she was more lit up by their ideas and their minds than by any thoughts that they might be contenders for her heart.

  She had no desire to give up her independence, even though Oscar proposed twice.

  Until Frederick died. After three days of feeling out of sorts, he was struck by typhoid and gone at the stroke of a hand.

  Emma collapsed with grief and took to her bed. Oscar Temple was the one who remained by her bedside for those first vital days. When he asked her to marry him once again, finally, Emma accepted him. And the reason she did so was simple. He made her feel that there was some possibility of keeping things together after the devastation of Frederick’s death. Nothing could replace Frederick, but with Oscar by her side, she could continue to live by his tolerant views. Emma wanted to gather her beloved brother’s friends around her and hold them tight, as if in some way, they would again give her the connection to Frederick that had been severed with such a cruel hand.

  Their honeymoon in Italy was a revelation. Oscar was an experienced lover and a charming companion. Emma for a time was content.

  When she became pregnant, everything changed. Oscar resumed his affair with the married woman he’d been seeing before they were engaged. Then Emma collapsed with grief for the second time since Frederick’s death, and it was their friend Lawrence who looked after her.

  Her affair with Lawrence started after her son’s birth. Lawrence’s wife had been in an asylum for more than two years; there was no hope of her recovering, and he was lost. Although Emma found him charming, she was not in love with him. She was still bruised after Oscar’s sudden turning away from her. But, in spite of the feelings that tore at her, she was determined not to judge Oscar. Lawrence made her feel appreciated and seen rather than invisible, just when she most needed that to be the case.

  But ultimately, while she valued Lawrence’s kindness and friendship, there was not enough of an emotional connection with him to pursue their fledgling love affair. Because she did truly want to be in love with someone, Emma knew she had to pull away from Lawrence, but she did so tactfully, citing the reason that she wanted to be a mother, wholly, to Calum and to paint for a while. Lawrence was his usual accepting self, but he threw everything into his career.

  When Patrick arrived in Provence, Emma was ready to fall in love. If she had believed in fate, timing, or serendipity, then she would have said that his arrival in her life, like Oscar’s and Lawrence’s, was part of a pattern. She would have said that it was meant to be.

  London, 1980

  Laura walked from Marguerite’s house to Covent Garden Station, her thoughts in turmoil. Once she’d arrived at Bond Street Station, she took a shortcut down a narrow lane, glad of the tall, shadowy buildings with their windows protected by bars. For some reason, the run-down old street was reassuring when she was about to walk into the heart of illustrious Mayfair.

  Ewan Buchanan’s art gallery might be in the smartest part of London, but it was also the part of London that Emma and the Circle had rejected outright. There was no doubt Emma had been successful in forging a life far apart from the commercial side of things, but it seemed ironic that this very world had the power to topple Emma from her life’s achievement with one fatal blow. Well, sods to that. Laura would stop that happening if it killed her first.

  As she made her way into sophisticated New Bond Street, Laura wanted to close her eyes as a chauffeured Bentley swept along the road, a glamorous insignia gleaming on its polished black door. The shops that lined the street vied for attention, their banners showcasing famous logos outside windows filled with discreet and luxurious displays that most people could only dream about owning. Laura stopped outside the elegant gallery where Ewan Buchanan worked.

  Her palm, sticky with sweat, slipped on the brass handle as she pushed the glass door open. She took in the cool, vast space for a moment, until she stopped to stare at one of Patrick’s paintings, stark and beautiful, on prominent display.

  Laura took a step closer. It wasn’t any old painting of Patrick’s either, if there were such a thing. This was a rare abstract, one of the few remaining examples of Patrick’s short fling away from realism before the First World War, when he had worked in collages in an effort to elicit emotion from the viewer using only mosaic-like patterns and color. Patrick had been strongly influenced by P
icasso and Matisse at the time. He met Picasso in Paris while studying there, and the two men had kept in contact over the years. Not many of these experimental pieces had survived after Emma and Patrick’s shared studio in London was bombed during the Second World War, but here was one rare example right on this wall. So this gallery knew what they were about.

  After several moments, Laura made her way across the elegant space to the empty receptionist’s desk; it was an expensive antique in walnut wood. Carved with curlicues, it seemed to float on the pale marble floor. Laura waited a moment before the inevitable clip of footsteps echoed into the room.

  Even though Laura had grown up surrounded by sophisticated artists in Emma’s circle, she couldn’t help but gape at the woman who appeared from a room in the back. The receptionist who swayed toward her wore a swirling caftan, her sharp cheekbones highlighted by the way her hair was pulled back sharply from her face.

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said, her eyes narrowing as they ran up and down Laura’s old trousers, her scuffed shoes, and her ill-fitting brown coat.

  “Hello.” Laura fought the tremor in her voice. “I was wondering if Ewan Buchanan was free by any chance?”

  A frown passed across the woman’s face, but then it was replaced by a knowing look. “I’ll see, Miss . . . ?”

  “Taylor. Laura Taylor. Emma Temple’s granddaughter.”

  No hint of friendliness marred the disdainful expression on the woman’s face. She sighed and reached for the phone, the only suggestion, apart from Patrick’s collage, of the modern world in a room that seemed entirely devoted to glorifying the aristocratic past, a time when only certain people were admitted to places such as this and were allowed to purchase certain things—although, had all this changed so very much? Laura felt a wave of sympathy toward Emma and the Circle’s strong beliefs as the distinct sound of a male voice answering on the other end of the phone echoed in the room.

  “Ewan. I have a Laura Taylor here to see you.” The woman pronounced Laura’s name as if she were something distasteful that deserved to go in the trash bin rather than be admitted to the gallery. No mention of Emma Temple.

  Did the woman know who Emma was? If she was as commercial as this gallery, Patrick’s would be the only name that caused her to perk up her ears where the Circle was concerned.

  Laura wiped the hand that wasn’t clutching her violin down the side of her coat.

  “Mr. Buchanan will be out in a few moments, Laura,” the woman said, patronization oozing from every syllable. “You can take a seat over there.”

  Laura moved toward the pair of Chesterfield sofas that sat in a back window overlooking a courtyard decorated with sculptures and a fountain, along with a selection of immaculate blooms. She perched uncomfortably on the edge of her seat and put her violin down, rubbing her shoulders where they ached from the long hours of practice that she had to put in for her exams.

  After what seemed an interminable wait, she glanced up sharply at the sound of footsteps clipping across the floor. The woman in the caftan disappeared as if she were exiting stage left.

  Laura leaped up and stood face-to-face with a man who was a little taller than she and who looked to be a few years older—in his early thirties, perhaps. Laura held his gaze, and Ewan Buchanan held out a hand, smiling, a dimple appearing as if on cue in his left cheek.

  His handshake was firm.

  “What can I do for you, Laura?” Charm and confidence oozed from him like steam curling from a china pot.

  She fought down the ridiculous flash of intrigue that flickered through her at the sound of his Scottish accent.

  “I am Emma Temple’s granddaughter,” she said.

  “I see.” He startled a little on the spot.

  Laura glanced around the gallery. She should get them out of here. Talk to him on neutral ground. A park would do the trick. Perhaps a pigeon would come and perch on the shoulder of his Savile Row suit, dropping something particularly repugnant right on his tailored arm.

  Laura shook away the murderous direction in which her thoughts were going. “I’d like to talk to you about The Things We Don’t Say, Mr. Buchanan,” she said, keeping her tone light.

  “Ewan.” He met her gaze and ran a hand through his dark-blond hair. “I can understand that you would. Laura, how about we go to a little place down the street? It might be better to talk there.”

  “How charming.” Laura fought to keep the sarcasm from her tone.

  He held the door open.

  “After you,” she said.

  “You go first.”

  Laura made her way out, holding in the words that wanted to escape in a torrent until he stopped at an elegant café on the nearest corner and held the door open for her again. Laura couldn’t halt her continuing cynical thoughts as she followed him through the café’s elaborate glass entry. The floor was swathed in red carpet, and the walls were lined with gilt mirrors that would not have looked out of place in Versailles.

  “You call this a little place?” Laura asked, genuinely perplexed. She turned around and nearly walked into his chest.

  “Would you like tea?” he asked politely.

  “Coffee. Black. Strong. Thanks.” She took a deep breath and perched on the edge of a red plush velvet seat. If there was a dress code in this opulent café, she’d be kicked out before she’d ordered a thing.

  Ewan caught a waitress’s eye and waited while Laura ordered a double espresso. He ordered Twinings Tea with a twist of lemon.

  When her coffee arrived, she swigged down the strong black liquid as if it were whiskey and gathered her strength.

  “What could have possessed you to assert that the Patrick Adams portrait of my grandmother was done by some student? And what gave you the right to go to the Times rather than approaching Emma Temple first? After all, didn’t you think she might have something to say? An opinion to contribute on the matter of her own portrait’s authenticity? After all, my grandmother is an artist in her own right.”

  He lifted his teapot and poured before taking a slice of lemon with the pair of tiny silver tweezers that had been provided for such a delicate operation and placing a slice in the porcelain cup.

  Emma would hate the porcelain, Laura couldn’t resist thinking.

  He stopped with his teacup held aloft.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice dropping an octave or three. “I honestly, truly am.”

  Laura lowered her voice. “You know, I’ve grown up around artists, and I know a thing or two about the shady side of commercial art. You’re a dealer. You know how to make a buck.” She winced at her brazen choice of words. Emma and Patrick never, ever discussed money. It was just not something they did. “Getting yourself a name in lights while simultaneously ruining the reputation of the recently—and, I have to say, conveniently—dead artist Patrick Adams seems beyond the pale.”

  He remained silent.

  Laura focused her thoughts on her darling gran. “Wouldn’t it be preferable to sell some painting for an inflated price in order to make a cheap buck?” Buck. There it was again. Laura sat up in her seat. Avoiding conflict may have underpinned the Circle’s philosophy, but sadly it was one thing that was not going to work now.

  Ewan placed his teacup down in its saucer and showed that dimple again. “Laura—let’s take a step back here. You’ve jumped to the wrong conclusions.”

  “Do you have any idea what the ramifications of your claim would be for Emma and for Patrick’s memory?” Laura held his gaze.

  “I have a distinct feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “I’d hate you to think you could exploit Patrick’s memory in this way.”

  “I would never go to the media,” he said.

  Laura ran her finger around the rim of her white saucer. This time when she spoke, her words came out as if she’d measured them with one of the exquisite silver teaspoons that were doled out in this gilt-edged café. “How did your opinion of Patrick’s work get out then? Because it se
ems extremely convenient from where I’m sitting—you get the fame and people see you as the expert on the Circle, while the elderly Emma, who to you is an easy target to exploit, is made to look like a fool. But you forgot about me.” She shook her head at him. “Research is always a good idea.”

  “The work was about to be exhibited at the Tate. I couldn’t stay silent, Laura.” He crossed his elegant legs.

  “Perhaps we’d best go straight to stage two,” Laura said.

  His smile was tight.

  “You are a salesperson.”

  “No.”

  To Laura’s surprise, a hint of amusement passed across his face.

  “Yes, you are.”

  He raised a brow at her and waited.

  “You are trying to sell a rare Patrick Adams in your gallery right now. You kill a few birds with one shot—you set yourself up as ‘the expert,’ reassure everyone that the piece you have up for sale is authentic, make a name for yourself as the bloke who quite rightly exposed that the portrait of Emma was not in fact by Adams, and sell the collage for a drastically inflated price. I’m telling you, it won’t work.”

  He eyed her. “You’ve inherited your grandmother’s wild imagination, but you clearly don’t have her tact.”

  Laura felt a stab below her ribs. Don’t rise to him.

  “The Things We Don’t Say has been at Summerfield since Patrick Adams completed it in 1923. Emma Temple, my grandmother, was there when it was painted. Were you? Patrick told her he was painting her and only her. All his other portraits are of people he hardly knew. That makes your claim even more sensational, does it not? You become the famous one.”

  “I had to tell the truth. It’s not an Adams. I don’t know how many times I have to repeat myself.” The Scottish accent was a dream. He curled his r’s and rolled his tongue around every word.

  Laura forced away that reaction and, instead, made herself go on. “On to part three. You make the claim, increase the value of the ‘real’ Adams collage in your gallery, and—game, set, and match—go straight to the Times.”