The Painter

by Mary Kingswood

  By the time he returned his horse to the stables, he was buoyed by his own conscientiousness, and summoned Wistman, his steward, to discuss replanting the trees around the temple on the hill. He was surprised to discover that the trees had been cut down to please his mother. The temple being a favourite spot with her, when she had grown too ill to go there, Fin’s father had caused the trees to be removed so that she could see it from her boudoir. Wistman had agreed enthusiastically to replant.

  “I’ll get men to work clearing the ground in preparation, so that we may undertake the planting work in the autumn. I wonder, my lord… would you care to ride over to the old mill one day? It wouldn’t take a great deal of work to repair the water wheel and we could do our own grinding again, like we used to in your grandfather’s day. And I have some improvements in mind over at Fulton…”

  “Very well, very well, tomorrow, perhaps. Anything else you wish me to do, Wistman, while you are dragging me away from the house?”

  “Only the barn at the upper dale, my lord, and then there are the cottages at—” Fin pulled a face. “Well, well, maybe those can wait a while. I wonder if you plan to do much shooting this year, my lord? If not, Sir Geoffrey Barnet would be happy to have the use of some of your lesser coverts. He likes to have his house full of sporting gentlemen all through the autumn, what with his brothers and nephews and his own sons, and now that his two eldest are married, he has their brothers-in-law as well.”

  “What, Roger and David are married already? They are younger than I am.”

  “Indeed, my lord, but Mr Roger Barnet turned thirty last year. He has been married for four or five years, I believe, and has a son of his own already.”

  “The dev— I mean, does he, indeed? Good grief. I had no idea. I am sadly out of touch.”

  This conversation spurred him to find Felicia, and ask her if she recalled any such neighbourly news from her reading of the letters. So much had passed him by! Probably Drusilla would have relayed such information to him, if he had ever listened to a word she said. Felicia never came to the studio these days — where was this painting she was engaged on anyway? — so he bethought him of the billiard room. Perhaps she was still sorting letters for him. She was not there, but she had begun several new piles of letters on the table. Idly he picked up one or two. A distant cousin was betrothed, he discovered. And there was an invitation to dinner from Lady Barnet. Perhaps he would even accept, and then he could discuss the shooting arrangements with Sir Geoffrey.

  But where was Felicia? Surely she could not be out walking so early in the day? She usually walked the dog at three o’clock or thereabouts. Helplessly he looked around, as if she might be hiding in a corner of the room. Ah, the door to the card room was ajar and there was a dim light beyond. Perhaps she had gone exploring? She was not in the card room, but the door to the East Conservatory stood open and again there was light beyond.

  What the devil? Who had gone in there and opened the shutters? And if someone had ventured this far, perhaps he — or she — had dared to go beyond and—

  With a growl of displeasure, he flung open the doors to the East Conservatory. No one there. The door to the ballroom was almost closed, but there was a noise beyond, some distant, low sound. Humming… some devil was in the ballroom — in the ballroom! — and was humming! The nerve! The absolute nerve!

  He crossed the room in a few strides and threw open the doors so hard that one of them banged against a table. Something broke, with a tinkling sound. Felicia jumped, turned, smiled.

  “What the devil do you think you are doing in here?”

  Her smile vanished. She gazed at him uncertainly, her box of pastels in her hand. Behind her stood an easel with a large painting, but he had no interest in that.

  “No one is allowed in here!” he yelled. “This room is sacred, do you hear? Sacred! No one comes here, no one. Get out!”

  “I… I did not know.” Her face was ashen. “I only wanted to—”

  “Get out! Get out!” He strode towards her and hurled the box from her hands so that it flew across the room and crashed to the floor, scattering sticks of colour everywhere. “GET OUT!”

  With a scream, she jumped back into the easel so that it wobbled dangerously, then with a gasp of dismay, picked up her skirts and fled.

  She was gone. The only sound in the room was Fin’s rasping breath.

  18: Forgiveness

  Felicia flew up the stairs to her room, locked the door and hurled herself onto the bed in a paroxysm of weeping. How could she have known? No one had ever told her that the ballroom was forbidden. Neglected, yes, and out of use, but not forbidden. And Bagnall had brought her trays of food, and said nothing. Perhaps he assumed she had permission to be there. She was painting, so naturally he would think that Fin knew all about it. Dear God, what had she done?

  After a while, the flood of tears dwindled and then stopped altogether. Felicia was not one to waste time in useless regret. Whenever she had cried as a girl, after a fall, or the time the fox got into the hen house, Miss Armiger had said briskly, “No use crying over it, child. Tears never mended anything.” So she had always wiped away her tears quickly and put on a cheerful face. She had been astonished when she had first gone to Miss Latimer’s Academy to find the girls so often in tears, calling out for their mamas, and always one of the others would offer a consoling hug. Sometimes Miss Latimer herself would be the comforter. Felicia had mostly given up crying by that time so she seldom needed comfort from anyone, but she had thought how lovely it would be to have a sister or a mama to console one, and enter into one’s feelings when one ached with misery.

  Now she rose from her bed, washed her face and straightened her rumpled clothing. Then she went to her closet and examined her clothes, deciding what to pack. Her boxes could be sent on to her, but she would need to take a few things for the journey. Four nights on the road for the journey north, but that had been a very different mode of travel. She could hardly afford a post-chaise and four! It would be the mail coach for her, most likely, down to London and then west to Southampton, a far less comfortable affair. She pulled out her portmanteau from under the bed, and began to pack.

  She had not been thus engaged for long when there was a scratching at the door, so faint that she was not sure if she heard anything or not. When she opened the door, the maid who attended to her room stood there.

  Bobbing a quick curtsy, she said in a rush, “Beg pardon for disturbing you, madam, but I’m to give you this.”

  Thrusting a small box into her hand, she dashed away.

  Felicia shut the door again, and looked in bewilderment at the box. It was of light wood, with the name of a Derby confectioner stamped onto the lid. When she opened it, a folded paper fell out, revealing rows of tiny fruits. There was an orange, a lemon, a strawberry, something could have been a peach or a pear, it was hard to tell. Several she could not identify at all. But when she picked up the orange and gingerly bit into it, it tasted of almond paste. She laughed in delight. Marzipan fruits! How ingenious.

  She reached down for the paper that had fallen out.

  ‘Forgive me. Fabian.’

  His Christian name. He had shared his name with her. Such a proof of intimacy. Fabian. She ate the lemon and something that might have been a cherry, then returned to her packing.

  Half an hour later, another scratching at the door revealed the maid again, bearing a plate of cakes. Treacle, her absolute favourite, still warm from the oven. She ate three, one after the other, eyes closed in bliss, before unfolding the note that accompanied them.

  ‘I should very much like to talk to you, if not inconvenient. Fabian.’

  She was not sure she was ready for that. She ate another treacle cake, then a marzipan strawberry, and then, absentmindedly, another cake. It would be best to pack and then send a footman to procure tickets for the mail coach. Derby… it would run from Derby, but at what hour? Could she leave tonight? She would need to look it up, and that would mean v
enturing down to the library, and what if he should be there? Could she face him? She decided she could not. She ate one more treacle cake, then determinedly set the plate and the box of marzipan on a high shelf. She changed into her travelling gown and returned to her packing.

  The slightest sound from the door. Not a knocking, more a sort of sliding noise. When she looked there was another paper there, pushed through the gap between door and floorboards.

  ‘Please come out.’

  Nothing else.

  Cautiously, she opened the door and peered out. Fin was sitting on the floor just a short distance down the corridor, legs crossed, arms folded, head sunk almost to his chest, the very image of desolation. He jumped up at once.

  “Felicia…”

  There was so much grief in his face, that she could not bear it. She had disappointed him! So much he had given her, and she had abused his trust. “I am so sorry… I did not realise—”

  He held up his hands, as if to ward off a blow. “No, no! Do not you apologise to me! It is for me to apologise… I do, I do apologise, I humbly beg your forgiveness, if you can find it in your heart to pardon my fearful lapse of temper. Felicia, may I—”

  “Oh please, say no more!” she cried. “It is not right for you to speak so. You are an earl and I am your employee, so why should you not upbraid me when I transgress?”

  “You are too generous,” he said in a low voice, bowing his head again. “I would not have you afraid of me, as if I were a tyrant. My rages may seem terrifying, but they exhaust themselves in moments and would never turn against you. I would never hurt you, Felicia. Do not fear me!”

  That surprised her. “Oh, I do not! I was upset because I had done wrong, and—”

  “You did nothing wrong!” he cried, crossing the small space between them and sweeping her hand into his, lifting it as if he intended to kiss it. Perhaps thinking better of so intimate a gesture, he released her again and stepped back a little. “Oh God, what must you think of me? Surely I am so sunk in your estimation that recovery is impossible. Can you ever forgive me for frightening you so? What can I do to make things right?”

  “My opinion of you is greatly improved already,” she said solemnly.

  “It is?” He looked disbelieving. How she longed to smooth away the anxious expression on his face, to kiss away his pain. The desire to reach across the small space that separated them was almost overwhelming. To touch him, stroke his face, wrap her arms around him… He would be shocked indeed if she attempted any such thing! He must not know how she felt… he must never suspect it.

  She hoped her tone was light enough as she answered. “Indeed it is. Treacle cakes will always make me think well of the giver, and as for the marzipan sweets…!”

  His lips twisted a little. “The marzipan was Mrs Shayne’s… a birthday present for her sister. I was desperate for something, anything, to give you while the cakes were baking. Did you like them?”

  She nodded, finding it hard to answer him. He looked so hopeful, like the puppy when he saw her coming with his lead.

  He went on eagerly, “I am sorry that so many of your pastels were broken, and the box is damaged, too, but I shall buy you another. A new box, fresh sticks, whatever you want. May such things be obtained in Derby, or should I send to London? I shall do it today.”

  With a bubble of laughter, she said, “Shall I write the letter for you?”

  He did not laugh in return, but some of the tension left his face. “Such a fool you must think me!” He leaned his back against the wall and folded his arms. “I am a fool, I admit it. Felicia… will you come with me to the ballroom. I… I should like to go back there, but not alone. Your company would be the greatest help to me.”

  She nodded, and they walked side by side along the corridor, down the northern staircase and as far as the main doors to the ballroom. There he stopped, hands on hips, his breathing rapid. She waited, and after a moment, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and then opened the door.

  Felicia followed him into the room, and stood while he gazed all around — at the uncovered chairs, the side tables with their rows of dusty glasses, and the cobwebs dangling from all the sconces.

  “What a sad place,” he said softly. “Everything in readiness for the nuptial ball, and the only thing lacking was the bride. No wedding, no ball, no celebration. My father found me howling with grief in here, so he ordered the place shut up, to be left untouched until such time as Juliana returned. For we all agreed that sooner or later she would return. It was a momentary madness on her part, and for a certainty she would think better of it. Nothing was to be moved or put away, because that would be to admit that she was gone for good. I had a special licence ready, and surely she would be back before it expired. But Juliana never came back, so this place stayed just as it was. Not long after that, Mama became ill, and then Papa, and they died one after the other, as if they could not bear to be apart, and still this room was shut up, untouched. I was still waiting, you see. Still hoping. Like a hedgehog, I went into hibernation, waiting for a spring that never came.”

  “There is always a spring,” Felicia said. “No matter how desperate the winter may be, it is always followed by spring and warm sunshine and bluebells in the woods. And spring is followed by high summer and poppies in the fields. Then autumn, and hazelnuts and blackberries.”

  “And then winter and desolation again.”

  “Yes! Everything changes, nothing stays the same, and there is goodness and beauty in every season. Even in the darkest days of winter, there is the promise of the spring to come in the tiny snowdrop flowering in the snow. To pretend that it is always winter, as you have done for thirteen years, and Lord Arnwell for even longer, is to waste your life in regret. Life is to be lived and enjoyed. Look to the future, not the past, for the future is full of hope.”

  “Is it? What hope is there for Arnwell, with all his family gone?”

  “That is no reason to wallow in bitterness!” she cried. “He could have married again and given himself the comfort of female companionship. He could have gathered his remaining family around him. He could have devoted his life to his duties as a peer and landowner. There is much that he could have done of good for his fellow man that would also have assuaged his grief somewhat. Instead, he dwells in such misery that even the company of a boisterous dog and a woman of no family brings him pleasure. It is such a waste! And you are no better, hiding away here, going nowhere, seeing no one. Mankind is designed not for hibernation, but for the society of others. It is time to wake up and be joyful again.”

  “Joyful? How can I ever be joyful again?”

  He meant it, too. He truly could not even conceive of the possibility of happiness. She reached out a hand and touched his sleeve, feeling the heat of his arm beneath the linen. “You are alive! How can you not see the joy in the world, when it is all around you? When you wake each morning, are you not excited to know what the day will bring? Yesterday, there was a bluebottle in my room, buzzing back and forth between the windows until I freed him. Have you never noticed how beautiful a bluebottle is? Such colours, such flimsy wings, such great eyes! He was fascinating, and I managed to sketch him before he flew away.”

  He laughed then, and it was a real laugh, not forced. “You see the good in everything, Felicia.”

  “I see what is there,” she said. “And if it is not there in the real world, for it cannot be denied that life is sadly deficient sometimes, then my mind is able to create it. In my head, I have a loving father and mother, I have brothers and sisters and a place in the world. I can be a princess, a beloved daughter, a friend of the heart. I can be anything I want in my mind.”

  “And in your art,” he said, moving down the room to where the painting still stood on its easel, the floor around it sprinkled with dust of many colours where the pastel sticks had broken. “Here you are dancing,” he said, pointing at a figure in the painting. “That is you, is it not? And I am here, too, although hopping more elegan
tly than I ever did in reality, I believe. And this… this is Juliana.” His voice softened. “I can see Drusilla, too, and Giles, and this is Lord Arnwell, whose visage is miraculously free of scars. He looks like such a kindly old man, by your hand.”

  “So he is, beneath the hardened bitterness,” she said quietly. “The man who adored his wife and children, the man who was happy, is still there, buried deep inside. If he would only turn his face to the sun, he would learn to be happy again. Indeed, I think he is already learning it. As you could, also. If you would only open your eyes to the world again, you would find it a wonderful place.”

  “And how should I do that, o wise one?”

  “You mock me, but you know it is true. You should go to London. Take your seat in Parliament again, find yourself a wife, raise children who will make you smile.”

  “I do not mock you,” he said earnestly. “You are wise — wiser than I am, certainly. I… I want to smile again, to be happy, and I will open my eyes to the world, as you put it. Indeed, I have already begun. I have ordered the trees replanted around the temple, and I am minded to accept an invitation to dinner from Sir Geoffrey and Lady Barnet.”

  “That is excellent progress!” she cried.

  “But no wife… not yet. One step at a time. Ah, now you frown. Are you going to tell me that it is my duty to marry, as Drusilla does with such tedious frequency?”

  “You need an heir,” she said firmly. “A son to secure the succession, so that no one need worry about your Uncle Percival.”

  He sighed. “It is awkward, certainly, not knowing whether Percival is alive or dead. Giles is convinced he is alive somewhere, and surely Percival alone could have taken that money from the safe, so he must have survived the fire. But that is a problem for the future, for I am young and healthy and unlikely to die soon.”