The Painter

by Mary Kingswood

  He burst out laughing. “Miss Oakes, you are refreshingly original. Have you healed the breach between yourself and Arnwell?”

  “Not yet,” she said, her face suddenly serious. “I fear I shall not be forgiven. He wrote me a very conciliatory letter asking me to resume my visits, but I have told him that if he wishes to see me, he will find me at St Miriam’s for Morning Service. That is another should, my lord. He should attend church regularly, and so I told him.”

  “Do you think I should attend church, too?”

  She frowned. “At least you permit Mr Warborough to hold a service in the chapel here, but…”

  “It is perfunctory, is it not? Giles comes here for his dinner, and twenty minutes of mumbled prayer is a small penance to pay for a seat at my table. Is he more conscientious in his own church?”

  “He preaches a proper sermon, if that is what you mean, as well as the full measure of the office. He does not write his own sermons and as often as not he leaves it to his excellent curate, but a man may still be a dutiful incumbent despite that. I greatly prefer the service at St Miriam’s, and I meet some of the local people, too.” After a small hesitation, she added mischievously, “That would not be an attraction for you, I daresay.”

  “But you think I should, do you not, Miss Oakes? I should mingle with my neighbours.”

  “You should get to know them, certainly. There is much good that may be done by the principal landowner in a parish, if he is so minded, to assist with disputes, to help the poor and to advance the careers of the worthy. It is your duty, I believe.”

  He grunted in annoyance. “My duty! You will be telling me I should marry, next.”

  “I hardly need to tell you that, because you must be aware of it,” she said quietly, then, her humour bubbling up again, “I am quite certain that Lady Drusilla has pointed it out to you.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “True enough.”

  “We all have our duties, my lord. Yours are pleasant ones — to set an example to your neighbours, to add your voice to the government of the country and to find yourself a congenial wife. Mine are to do as I am told.”

  “Yet your duties are not unpleasant, I think, Miss Oakes? Boring, sometimes, but not unpleasant. And I must leave you to be bored by my letters.” He had turned for the door when he remembered why he was there. “Where were you this morning? I expected you in the studio as usual. I wanted your opinion on a new work.”

  “I was out for my daily walk.”

  “Why so early? Do you not usually take your exercise later in the day?” She tipped her head on one side, a quizzical expression on her face. Perhaps she was right, so he went on quickly, “I beg your pardon. It is no concern of mine.”

  “I have found,” she said slowly, “that if I walk at my usual time, I am inclined to encounter Mr Godfrey Buckley also walking about the grounds.”

  “And his company is disagreeable to you?”

  “Not at all. He is a very pleasant man, but I do not feel it proper for me to stroll about the grounds with him as if I were someone worthy of his notice. It is kind in him to be attentive to a mere governess but it is better not to encourage him.”

  Fin considered whether to say more. His own opinion was that Buckley’s intentions were not dishonourable, but even so, his object might be no more than a pleasant flirtation to while away his sojourn in Derbyshire. It would be wrong to raise hopes that might easily be dashed.

  Cautiously, he said, “Better for whom? Is your aim to prevent him from making an unfortunate alliance, or to protect your own reputation? Or your heart?”

  She chuckled. “My heart is in no danger, and I have no reputation to protect. I am a bastard, after all, the lowest of the low. But since nothing can come from an association with Mr Buckley, I prefer to meet with him as little as possible.”

  That was very much as he had supposed. And yet… “Supposing there were the possibility… would you be tempted?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  So very decisive! “No? If a future marquess were to offer you marriage, you would turn him down?” For some odd reason she blushed furiously, and he was immediately contrite. “Yet again I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Oakes. My questions are intrusive. You have no need to answer them, or to explain yourself to me. Whatever your views on Mr Buckley, however, I fear you are destined to be an object of his attentions for some time yet. He wishes to take you on an outing to Derby.”

  “With Juliana and Margarita?”

  “I believe not. With Miss Claypole.”

  “Oh dear. I wish he would not! And yet I should dearly love to see Derby. There are many fine churches there, so I hear.”

  “The same might be said of any town in England. They all have many fine churches with carved medieval rood screens, some Roman antiquities and two or three coaching inns. Every village has a church, too, where a monument of note may be viewed beneath a Norman tower, and there is a manor house nearby where Good Queen Bess once slept. That woman was never at home. However, Derby is a fine place, so by all means go if you wish, Miss Oakes. Should you like me to accompany you, in order to defend you from the unwanted attentions of Godfrey Buckley?”

  She blushed again, even more deeply, and murmured something incoherent. Seeing that he had embarrassed her again, although he could not quite see why, he made some non-committal noises and left her to her letters.

  13: Morning Service At St Miriam's

  Felicia was discomposed by this conversation with Fin. In truth, his presence always discomposed her, but when they worked together in the studio or met around the dinner table on Sundays she could produce some semblance of ease in his company. The neutral subject of art or the presence of others enabled her to act in what she hoped was a convincingly natural fashion.

  She was all too aware, however, of the growing intimacy between them. His confidences in the churchyard at St Oswald’s were flattering, and she could sense that he was beginning to regard her as a friend. Nothing more than that, obviously, for it was clear that his heart still belonged to Juliana, but increasingly he turned to Felicia. Their conversation that day had been more intimate than she liked. Yet how difficult it was to maintain the proper distance from him, and remember that he was merely her employer for a short time.

  Gazing at the piles of papers laid out on the table, she sighed. The box was not yet empty, for although much of Fin’s correspondence was dull stuff, to do with the estate or impenetrable legal matters, there was so much that set her imagination flying. The distant relations reporting betrothals or births or celebrations. Naval or army promotions, ordinations, a scientific expedition to China, inheritances. Houses bought and sold, journeys to the Continent, moves to Bath or London. A few deaths. An election as a Member of Parliament. People’s lives recorded in small measures. So fascinating.

  The unintelligible letter caught her eye again. She picked it up and squinted at it, but it still made no sense. Perhaps if she were to examine it in better light? But even carrying it to the window was no help. It still looked like a jumble of meaningless letters. Each letter was clear to read, but combined into no words that she could make out.

  Perhaps it was indeed some sort of code? If she transcribed it onto fresh paper, she might be able to disentangle the meaning. For ten minutes she worked at it, diligently copying every letter exactly as she saw it, then stuffed the copy into her reticule to be worked on in her room. It would be a good project to fill an evening after the girls had retired to the night nursery, and if she could finally make sense of it, that would bring her some satisfaction and chase away the niggle of annoyance. She so disliked mysteries! There was no way to solve the mystery of her own origins, but here at least was a small mystery that might be amenable to unravelling.

  As always when she was unsettled, she wandered through the echoing saloons, the vast and beautiful public rooms of Hawkewood Hall. At the southern end of the house, where lay the studio, Fin’s private sitting room and the library, ther
e were fires, and sunshine and signs of life — books open, a bowl of walnuts or vase of flowers, a discarded plate or glass. Here at the northern end, however, the rooms were cold and empty, the curtains tightly drawn and shutters closed.

  From the billiard room, she walked through the gloomy half-light of the card room, its tables folded away, the sideboards shrouded. She imagined it as it must have been, the guests intent on their games, the sudden bursts of noise at a good play or an unlucky throw of the dice. There would be silent footmen moving about with wine, and another figure moving here and there, helping the jollity along, would be the master of the house — Fin’s father, the image in her mind taken from his portrait of old age hanging in the library.

  From there, she stole through the high doors into the East Conservatory. After tripping over a chair on her first venture there, she had left a shutter ajar to provide some light. Now she moved swiftly over the dusty tiled floor, her light feet making no sound, and threw open the double doors beyond.

  And there it was. The ballroom, that ‘extremely splendid apartment, furnished in the most chaste yet expensive style, with a very handsome ceiling.’ Moving down the room, she flung open one shutter after another, until the room was flooded with light. There were no holland covers here, no shroud for the chandeliers. The sconces were neatly filled with fresh candles, the side tables bore trays of upturned glasses. If there had ever been carpets laid, they had been rolled up and taken away, the polished wooden floor left ready for the dancers. On the balcony, the music stands for the orchestra could be seen. Chairs lined the sides of the room, awaiting the silk-clad forms of the noble guests.

  But there had been no guests. The planned ball, to celebrate the marriage of the heir to the Earl of Finlassan to the daughter of the Earl of Cottersmere, had never taken place. Juliana had run away with her architect, and the ballroom had been closed up, untouched, abandoned just as it was. No footman had gone in to put away the crystal glasses or cover the furniture. No housemaid had waved her feather duster. Long cobwebs dangled from every protrusion and the floor was thick with dust.

  It was a sad place, and yet, seeing it thus exposed, not shrouded like the other rooms, it was easier to picture the splendour of a ball. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine it all, could hear the music, could watch the couples moving to its rhythm. The ladies’ gowns swirled, their jewels flashed, their arms moved in elegant poses. The gentlemen leapt and twirled, their feet skipping energetically. Felicia twirled, too, taking her place in the imaginary set, her feet moving, her arms outstretched, her skirts swirling about her legs.

  But it was not just dancers. Around the fringes of the room, the matrons watched, together with a few young men too shy or lethargic to dance. Young ladies without a partner looked on eagerly, hoping for better fortune in the next set. One or two couples would be slipping out onto the terrace for a private assignation. Everywhere there would be meaningful glances, polite disdain, gushing deference, hopeful mamas and evasive suitors. All human life existed in a ballroom, as much at this polished level of society as at the rougher assemblies in Southampton.

  She had to paint it, this scene so vivid in her mind. She would begin at once.

  ~~~~~

  ‘To Miss J. Pollard, Charles Street, Mayfair. My dear Jane, I am very sorry the son of the baronet failed to come up to scratch. Are you much disappointed? You sound cheerful, but you must be a little downhearted. He sounded a most amiable man, and I daresay you would have ceased to notice the squint after a very short time. Every man has some affliction and better a squint than weakness of character. As you see, I am still in Derbyshire and not likely to return south very soon. Lady D is still dithering over the new governess, and Lord F insists I stay so that he has a fellow painter in the house. You need not be concerned about Boscobel Cottage, for Mrs M and the T’s have very kindly agreed to stay on there to take care of it for me. They are raising a pig and growing vegetables, and Mr T has asked if he might undertake some small improvements, such as painting and minor repairs to the wainscoting and shutters. It is very good of them, when they might be looking about for a new employer. I hope your new cook is an improvement on the three previous ones, and that the card party goes well. Have you decided where you will go when the season ends? Yours in affection, Felicia Oakes.’

  ~~~~~

  On Sunday, Felicia walked to St Miriam’s Church with Juliana and Margarita and the two nursery maids, Ellen and Mary. Some of the servants preferred the brief chapel service, but for most, the church was an opportunity to meet friends and exchange what news a small village and two great houses might afford. The two girls chattered together, and a few paces behind the two maids did likewise, but Felicia was subdued. She was beginning to realise that, for her own peace of mind, she ought to leave Hawkewood Hall, yet how could she? The girls still needed her, and now it seemed that the earl needed her too. What on earth would she do with herself at Boscobel Cottage?

  The walk lifted her spirits, however. The Derbyshire air was so clear and fresh, and the summer greens all around her — so many greens! — could not fail in their effect. She could not be downhearted when there was such beauty all around her.

  Her spirits sank again as they reached the village and joined the streams of people entering through the lych gate, for the first person she saw, loitering as if awaiting her arrival, was Mr Godfrey Buckley. He smiled widely as he saw her, and moved at once in her direction. With a sigh, she accepted the inevitable.

  “Mr Buckley,” she said as she rose from her curtsy. “Good day to you.”

  “Good morning, Miss Oakes! Good morning! No need to enquire how you are for I can see that you are in the very bloom of health. Such roses in your cheeks! I have never seen you in greater beauty.”

  She gave a little bow to acknowledge the compliment, but felt no inclination to respond to such arrant nonsense.

  “I wonder, Miss Oakes, if I might venture to make a small proposal to you. I have it in mind to go to Derby, to look about the shops and so forth, and it struck me that it might be an enjoyable expedition for a lady such as yourself. It would be of no interest to your charges, I daresay but I have it in mind to… have it in mind… Good God!”

  Felicia followed his frozen gaze to see a carriage drawing up outside the lych gate, one she had not seen before. The coachman and his junior wore full livery, and two footmen stood behind, and if she had had the least doubt of the importance of the arrival, the coat of arms on the door underlined it. Even as she murmured, “Who is it?” to Mr Buckley, she knew the answer.

  The carriage stopped, the footmen jumped down, opened the door and let down the steps. The Marquess of Arnwell descended. Turning, he offered his arm to an elderly lady, her hair as white as his beneath her cap and old-fashioned broad-brimmed hat. With a wide grin, looking up at him coquettishly, she took his arm and they began the walk through the lych gate and up the path to the church. A second lady of middle years emerged from the carriage, drably dressed, whom Felicia recognised as Miss Edith Buckley. She briskly smoothed down her skirts and set off after the marquess.

  The assembled parishioners watched in astonished silence, dropping into deep curtsies or low bows as the little procession passed by. At the church door, Mr Warborough issued some terse instructions to the verger, and then raced down the path to greet the newcomers with several bows, and a great many deferential words of welcome. Since the marquess did not slow down his progress, the clergyman was obliged to walk backwards in front of his noble parishioner all the way to the church steps.

  “Is that him?” Mr Buckley whispered, as the group disappeared into the church.

  “Do you not recognise him? Yes, that is the marquess.”

  “Never expected to see him alive,” he said breathlessly. “Yet I am heartily glad of it. I cannot imagine he would acknowledge me — how could he, when we have never even been introduced? — but I am delighted to have seen him. A fine figure of a man, despite the disfigurement. Such an upstanding
carriage! Such dignity! And yet, not overweening, not proud. I see nothing of conceit in his bearing. I hope I shall look half so well at his age, indeed. And that must be the Lady Lucia Buckley, Lord Arnwell’s sister. She is said to be deranged in the head with the sudden rages of a child. She must have been quite a beauty in her day. Did you see her complexion? So clear, and hardly a wrinkle, yet she is older than— Ah, we are going in.”

  They separated inside the church, he to join Lady Drusilla and Lady Mabel in their pew, and Felicia, rather relieved to have escaped him at last, to join Juliana and Margarita in the Hall’s rather grander pew. There she found that the other richly appointed pew, directly opposite, was now filled by the faces of the Shotterbourne family. The marquess gave her the tiniest nod of acknowledgement before turning his attention to his Prayer Book.

  The outer doors were closed with a solid clunk, and Mr Warborough stood before the congregation in his vestments.

  “I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Psalm 51:3,” he began, as he always did. “Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness; and that we should not dissemble…”

  The door creaked and he broke off, his face a picture of astonishment. Booted feet thumped down the aisle in the silence that fell, then the Hall pew door opened and Fin sat down beside Felicia, slamming the pew door closed again.

  “Carry on, Uncle,” he said loudly. A ripple of laughter passed through the church.

  Mr Warborough cleared his throat. “Manifold sins and wickedness,” he said with emphasis, glaring at Fin. “And that we should not dissemble nor cloak them before the face of Almighty God our heavenly Father; but confess them with a humble, lowly, penitent, and obedient heart; to the end that we may obtain forgiveness of the same…”

  Felicia gripped her Prayer Book tightly and gazed down determinedly at its pages. She would not laugh, she would not! Oh, but it was so tempting. On her other side, Margarita leaned forwards to gaze at Fin and when she caught his eye, she beamed at him and waggled her fingers. Felicia tapped the Prayer Book in the girl’s lap pointedly, and she dutifully turned her eyes towards it, but the grin remained.