by Anne Weale
There was an uneasy silence which he ended by remarking, 'Last night you told Hurst that Emily was in love with an older man. I take it you meant Skip Newman? How long has she had that idea?'
'He's been her hero since our first winter in Florida. Please don't let her know I told you. I wouldn't have mentioned it except that it was the only way to explain her lack of interest in dates.'
'I shan't say anything to her, but I don't approve of a girl of her age building an adolescent crush into something so important it kills her interest in boys of her own age. Maybe she should spend next winter somewhere other than Florida.'
'I think she'll be terribly disappointed if we don't go to Baile del Sol. My feeling is that loving a nice person like Skip can't do her any harm, even if it doesn't come to anything. And who's to know that her first love won't be her last love? It happens sometimes.'
'Skip's a nice guy, agreed. But he's not up to Emily's weight. As you said last night, she's on the brink of being a beauty. She also has brains and breeding, not to mention substantial private means. Rushing into an early marriage would be a mistake she would almost certainly regret. I think you should try to discourage her from taking this calf-love too seriously. Skip is already committed to the family business and the same small-town life as his parents. Emily still has a lot of the world to see.'
In the weeks following Emily's drastic method of repairing the rift between her elders, James spent less time away than he had before her disappearance.
He was in New York most of that autumn. When business took him to the West Coast, he took Summer and Emily with him, showing them the birthplace of his empire, the area south of San Francisco, between Palo Alto and San José which because of its soil and climate had once been verdant with orchards of cherries and apricots, and the plums which, dried in the sun, became Californian prunes.
To Summer it seemed rather tragic that so richly fertile a region should be despoiled by a sprawl of factories making silicon semiconductors and other products of the electronics revolution, hence its new name, Silicon Valley.
Although Emily agreed it was a pity the factories couldn't have sprung up in a desert, she was thrilled at being introduced to many of the still-young pioneers of the industry.
The trip intensified the intellectual bond between her and her uncle, and made Summer wonder if he could ever be happy with a woman unable to grasp the complexities of his life's work.
But it wasn't till the day he told them to pack for a trip to Europe, and added that he was coming with them, that she began to question his motive for spending so much time with them. The more she thought about it, the more uneasy she became. For Emily's beauty was blossoming rapidly now. People in the street turned to stare at her—especially men.
Sometimes, when he thought himself unobserved, James watched her; with the hint of a smile playing round his hard, sensual mouth, and a look in his eyes which forced Summer to face the painful fact that he might have fallen in love with the one girl he could never have.
In London they stayed at the flat where they had spent their last night in England after leaving Cranmere. It seemed half a lifetime ago. This time they didn't wander, wide-eyed and wonder-struck, round Harrods but went to Bellville Sassoon, in a quiet street behind the great store, where the Princess of Wales bought clothes, and to Caroline Charles in Beauchamp Place, another of her favourite designers.
And instead of having supper at the Chicago Pizza Pie Factory, they dined at Tante Claire in Chelsea, a mecca for London gourmets where the chef had once been a pupil of the renowned Roux brothers and now was himself a master of superb French cuisine.
'It's much better being seventeen than thirteen,' said Emily, sitting between them in the taxi which took them back to the flat.
'Almost seventeen,' James corrected her.
Watching them smile at each other, Summer wondered if he knew what was happening to him? Surely he must; and yet, if he did, how crazy to stay in their company. He ought to go away and find himself another mistress. To come under the spell of any girl of not quite seventeen was folly for a man of his age. To fall in love with the daughter of his elder brother was madness.
A few days later he took Emily to Cranmere to see how skillfully the house had been converted into sixteen houses and flats. Summer opted out of this expedition—she was reluctant to return to a place where she had experienced much loneliness and unhappiness, and where everyone who remembered her would be sure to express astonishment at her transformation. Emily was disappointed that she didn't want to go with them, but James accepted her decision without argument. She suspected he was glad to be rid of her for a day.
Wondering if she could be mistaken about his feelings for his niece, and worrying about the outcome if she were not mistaken, she spent the morning idly window-shopping.
In Bond Street an arcade devoted to antiques lured her inside to browse at stalls selling jewellery, porcelain, silver and bric-à-brac. A stairway led down to a lower floor with more stalls, among them one devoted to portrait miniatures.
Summer spent some time admiring the many tiny portraits on display before the friendly face of the women behind the counter encouraged her to ask, 'If one wanted to trace a miniature painted about twenty years ago, without knowing the name of the artist, how would one go about it?'
Ten minutes later she left the arcade on her way towards Trafalgar Square. For although, according to her adviser, it would be a laborious business to locate a portrait of a undistinguished sitter, the whereabouts of a painting of the younger son of a marquess might be known at the National Portrait Gallery.
'I'm afraid we haven't a photograph of Lord James Lancaster,' said the girl who dealt with Summer's enquiry. 'But it has been shown in a number of exhibitions and we have a note that it's in the possession of the artist, Miss Diana Kendall.'
'How would I track down Miss Kendall?'
'The Royal Society of Miniature Painters would put you in touch with her.'
By mid-afternoon Summer had the artist's telephone number. Rather than ring from a call-box, she went back to the flat which gave her time to think of a way to introduce herself to the woman who had known James before his metamorphosis.
The telephone was answered by a man who, when Summer asked to speak to Miss Kendall, asked who was calling.
'My name is Summer Roberts. Miss Kendall doesn't know me. It's about having a miniature painted.'
'Would you hold on, please. My wife may be painting, in which case I shall have to ask you to ring back.'
A husband who took his wife's work seriously, thought Summer, as she waited. That he was at home during the morning suggested that he might also be a painter, or had retired. Diana Kendall could have been as much as fifteen years older than James when they met. In which case she would now be fifty and her husband might be sixty or more.
After a short interval a woman's voice said, 'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs Roberts. I was in my studio. You want a miniature painted, I understand. Of one of your children?'
'No, of myself. I'm not married.'
'Ah, I see. The majority of my commissions are for portraits of children, and my husband said "Mrs Roberts" so I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I'd be pleased to paint you, Miss Roberts, but I'm very busy at present, and indeed for some time ahead. I doubt if I could manage it before Christmas. Do you live in London?'
'No, in America.'
'I thought I detected a slight American accent. How long are you over here for?'
'Only until the end of the month. I realise a well-known artist is booked up a long time ahead, but I felt there might be a slight chance that you could have had a cancellation through illness or something.'
'I'm afraid not. In fact I'm even busier than usual at the moment. How did you come to hear of me?'
Summer said, 'I'm tutor to Lady Emily Lancaster, the granddaughter of the last Lord Cranmere. I think you used to know Lord James Lancaster.'
There was a pause before the a
rtist said, 'Yes... yes, I did. Do you know him?'
'We live with him. When Emily's grandfather died, James took her under his wing.'
There was another pause. Then Miss Kendall said, 'Even if I can't paint you, Miss Roberts, I should very much like to meet you and hear how James has been getting on since I last saw him. Are you free this afternoon? Could you come and have tea with me?'
'I'd like to. Thank you.'
'Come at four. You know the address, do you? Yes... good. Till four o'clock then. Goodbye.'
Shortly before four Summer's taxi arrived in a part of London rarely discovered by tourists and unknown to many Londoners.
Lying to the north of Paddington Station, the area called Little Venice was the neighbourhood surrounding the junction of the Grand Union Canal, once a busy link between the Rivers Thames and Trent, and the waterway to the Paddington Basin.
The house where she was to have tea was an early Victorian building with an elaborate white stucco façade which had recently been repainted.
Soon after she had rung the bell, the door was opened by a stout middle-aged woman who Said, 'Miss Kendall's up in the studio. This way, please.'
The whole of the staircase wall was covered with framed architectural drawings, not of the present century, which suggested Miss Kendall's husband might be an architect who collected the drawings of his forerunners.
On the landing at the top of the flight there was a large full-length portrait of a girl in the clothes of Queen Elizabeth I's reign. The wall of the second flight of stairs was hung with about twenty samplers.
The top floor of the house, where once there would have been several attics, had been converted into one large, light room. As Summer was shown in, a woman who had been bending over a table at the far end, looked up and transferred her spectacles from the bridge of her nose to her red hair.
Some grey hairs at her forehead and temples had toned down the colour, but when she was younger it must have been as fierily red as Emily's hair. The realisation made Summer's heart sink. It seemed yet another piece of evidence to support her theory that James had fallen in love with his niece.
Diana Kendall rose from the table and came swiftly across the room to greet her.
'Miss Roberts... how do you do? Come and sit down over here.'
She indicated a large sofa over which was flung an antique Paisley shawl. In front of it was a large cabin trunk transformed into a colourful table by being painted all over with the pine cone motif which patterned the shawl.
'I'm interested in your reason for wanting to have your portrait painted in miniature,' said Miss Kendall, as they sat down. 'Is it to be a present for someone?'
This was a question for which Summer had no ready answer. After some hesitation, she said, 'Yes... in a way. I thought I might give it to Emily when my time with her is over. It would be a nicer memento than a photograph.'
'Much nicer. How long have you been with her?'
'Since she was twelve and she's almost seventeen now.'
'And James must be in his middle-thirties. How life flies. I'm surprised he remembers me. What did he tell you about me?'
'That you met on a ski-lift years ago and you taught him to recognise fine antique miniatures. When he came to Cranmere after his father's death, he showed me a miniature by George Engleheart of Lady Maria Lancaster, one of Emily's ancestors.'
At this point the woman who had let Summer in reappeared, carrying a tea tray which she put down on top of the trunk.
'Mrs Brown is the mainstay of my life,' said Miss Kendall. 'Without her, all would be chaos. Sometimes it verges on chaos even with her, doesn't it, Mrs Brown?'
This remark was acknowledged with a chuckle as Mrs Brown arranged the tea things which included small brown bread sandwiches and half a home-made cake.
After she had left them, Miss Kendall said, 'I'm so lucky to have Mrs B. Not least because she never utters when a nod or a shake of the head will do. Alex, my husband, is an architectural historian. He's away a good deal, but when he's at home we enjoy entertaining, and I also have four grown-up step-children who often stay with us. In order to paint professionally, I have to delegate almost everything domestic. Now, tell me about James. Is he married?'
Summer answered her questions, discreetly studying her as she poured out the tea. The youthful lines of Diana Kendall's figure were emphasised by narrow black trousers and a short-waisted sweater patterned like tortoiseshell. She wore a necklace of old silver beads interspersed with polished lumps of reddish-brown copal resin, and swinging silver ear-rings. Seen from a distance she would have seemed still in her thirties, but close to her age showed in the lines on her neck and the crow's-feet surrounding her eyes. They were hazel, like Emily's, but her skin was not freckled.
'So he's still a bachelor. What a pity.' She explained this comment by adding, 'Having been twice married—very happily—I think everyone needs a mate. My first husband was killed, and I was a widow when I knew James. I was lonely and he was lonely and, in spite of the difference in our ages, we became friends. Obviously you knew Lord Cranmere. Did you ever meet Lady Cranmere?'
'No, I didn't.' Summer explained a little of her own background.
Having handed her a cup of tea, her hostess offered the sandwiches.
'You have very beautiful eyes, Miss Roberts,' she said. 'I noticed their shape and colour the moment you came in. Unfortunately, there's no possible way I can make time to paint your portrait before the end of the month, but I could paint one of your eyes which used to be done at one time. You may have seen some eye miniatures in the form of brooches or lockets. Would that be an acceptable compromise?'
Any arrangement which would enable Summer to spend more time talking to this intriguing woman was acceptable. She agreed to the suggestion with enthusiasm.
'I believe you did a miniature of Emily's uncle,' she said. 'It would be interesting to see how much he's changed. But perhaps you don't have it any more.'
'Indeed I do. It's one of my best pieces of work.'
Miss Kendall rose and crossed the room to a tall cabinet of shallow drawers.
'I keep most of my collection of early miniatures in here because often the pigments are fugitive. Light, particularly sunlight, fades them. This top drawer contains various relatives and friends whom I've painted for my own pleasure.'
As she returned to the sofa with a miniature and a magnifying glass, she went on, 'Like his niece now, James was almost seventeen when I did this. Most people aren't at their best at that age. But occasionally one sees a girl who has an almost magical freshness about her, or a youth who looks like a young god. He was one. He outshone all the dashing ski lehrers who usually bowl the girls over, but he was never one of the après-ski crowd. The friend whose family he stayed with was a tremendous flirt, I remember—but not James. He was rather serious and aloof. He skied brilliantly, and sometimes with terrifying recklessness.'
The small oval portrait she handed to Summer showed a sun-burned, unsmiling young face which was recognisably James Gardiner but without the air of authority and the penetrating gaze he had developed in the meantime. Nor had his mouth and eyes acquired the hardness and the cynicism which characterised his expression in repose, only disappearing when he was amused or listening indulgently to Emily expounding a brainwave.
'If he's changed—if his hair is thinning and his neck thickening—please don't tell me,' said Diana Kendall. 'We all have to age and decay, but I'd rather remember James as the "golden lad" he was then.'
'That's what he said about you,' Summer told her. 'He gave me a beautiful miniature of an "unknown lady" in a blue silk dress for my last birthday. I asked then if he was still in touch with you. He said that, after a long interval, it was a mistake to go back to places or to seek out old friends. I—I think he was in love with you.'
The older woman smiled. 'Perhaps. It's a long time ago. I was not so much older than you are.'
Summer looked again at the portrait. The white open-necked
shirt he was wearing emphasised the dark sheen of his hair and the burnished bronze of a naturally dark skin exposed to dazzling alpine sunlight. The portrait radiated health and strength, yet the eyes, when she studied them through the magnifying glass, held a curiously sombre expression as if, in spite of his looks and his privileged birth, he hadn't been a carefree young man.
'Let me look in my diary and see when I can fit you in,' said Miss Kendall. 'It shouldn't take more than two hours. Could you manage next Thursday morning, rather early... at a quarter to nine?'
When Summer had agreed and, reluctantly, given back the portrait—which she would have liked to study for much longer—she was shown some of the finest examples in the artist's collection.
James wasn't mentioned again, or only indirectly. But she went away feeling that perhaps, next time, she would learn something more; something which would help her understand the complex personality of the man she loved.
On Thursday Mrs Brown let her go up to the studio unescorted. As she mounted the upper flight she heard the sound of a typewriter and found that the typist was Miss Kendall, using two fingers but tapping away at great speed.
As Summer entered, she stopped. 'Heavens! Is it a quarter to nine already? Let me take your coat. Shall we use each other's first names today?'
Having directed Summer to a chair and hung up her raincoat in a corner concealed by a Chinese screen, she went on, I'm an early riser and between eight and nine I try to keep pace with my correspondence. At the moment I'm writing to one of my godchildren who is very unhappy because her parents are divorcing. Were Emily Lancaster's parents happily married?'
'I think they must have been reasonably content with each other. I was told that Lady Edgedale couldn't have any more children. In which case, if they hadn't been happy, I imagine her husband might have changed wives in order to secure the succession. Nobody seems to have expected James to reappear. But the reason why he left Cranmere is a mystery I've never fathomed.'
'You've been with him some time. Couldn't you have asked him?'
