The Painter

by Mary Kingswood

  “I think it is splendid of him to support his friend,” Felicia said. “Not many men would do so, under such circumstances. Poor Mr Sherrard, thrust into difficulties by an accident that was not his fault. Yet I wonder… But it is of no consequence, I daresay.”

  Jane smiled. “Your wonderings are always intriguing, Felicia. What do you wonder?”

  “I wonder why a ship sailing under clear skies should not have seen these rocks before hitting them, whether they were on the maps or not.”

  “The Minerva foundered at night.”

  “But a clear night, with stars and perhaps moonlight… and the ship should have been well out to sea, yet it hit the coast, did it not? And I wonder also about the Second Mate, who was in charge of the ship when it sank, yet swore that nothing untoward happened.”

  “That is exactly what Papa said after the inquiry,” Jane said in a low voice. “If only there had been another witness, he said, to confirm what the Second Mate had said, but the deck boy was asleep and the passenger on deck at the time remembered nothing.”

  “There was a passenger on deck?” Felicia said. “Hmm. That is all terribly suspicious.”

  “So Papa thought, but then he said that the inquiry had exonerated everyone concerned and it did no good to ask such questions, and the matter was closed. But he wondered about it, too, just as you are doing. Oh, Felicia, how glad I am to see you again, for letters are not at all the same, are they? One never knows quite what is behind the words if one cannot see the face of the person writing them. And are you settled here for good? You will not return to Derbyshire?”

  Felicia shook her head, a flood of grief washing through her. She would never return to Derbyshire, never walk through the Pillared Saloon or sit in the window in Fin’s studio. She would never watch the girls’ faces as they concentrated on their drawing, or run through the woods behind Hercules, or sit in the Sanctuary with Lord Arnwell. And she would never see Fin again… Tears rose unbidden.

  “Oh, Felicia!” Jane patted her hand gently. “I am so sorry.”

  “So am I,” she whispered. “So am I.”

  20: Boscobel Cottage (August)

  Fin was fired with new born enthusiasm. He would set the past behind him once and for all, and then Felicia would have nothing with which to reproach him. He arranged to see Wistman every week to discuss estate matters. He told Bagnall to bring his letters to the sitting room, where he dutifully sat for an hour each day writing replies. He went out for dinner at Sir Geoffrey Barnet’s house, and discovered that the experience was rather enjoyable. It would have been more fun had Felicia been there to tuck into the venison pasties and roast pigeons, and a dish of sugarplums sat forlornly untouched, but he could otherwise find nothing to complain about. There was a young lady there, a cousin or niece of some sort, but she was not thrust at his head — in fact he spoke no more than a dozen words to her — he had a pleasant hour with the gentlemen and the port, and then tested the limits of his rather rusty whist, before leaving at a respectably late hour well pleased with his own virtuous neighbourliness.

  He even walked the dog. The creature was rather puzzled by him at first, but once he realised that there was a walk to be had, he entered into the enterprise with enthusiasm, bounding away with tongue lolling as soon as he was released. Felicia had been right about him knowing the way, too. On every occasion, Hercules rushed through the woods and straight to a fallen tree where a collapsed wall gave access to Shotterbourne. Over he went, with Fin following more slowly, arriving at a small temple with a view over the estate. Arnwell was there, petting the dog and chatting happily to him. He looked up in surprise as Fin approached.

  “Finlassan? Are you short of footmen? Or has the Princess charged you with the task of exercising Hercules?”

  “The latter. How are you, Arnwell?”

  “Well enough. You?”

  “The same.”

  Arnwell poured Madeira for him and they sat side by side in silence until Hercules indicated, with wagging tail, that it was time to leave.

  “Come again, if you wish,” Arnwell said.

  “Thank you. Good day to you.”

  He went home and instantly sat down to write to Felicia, as he did rather often. Whenever he did something which he felt she must approve, he drew forth paper, prepared his pen, dipped it into the inkwell… and then stopped. She had said that she could not write to him, for it would be improper in an unmarried woman of only two and twenty to write to a man who was not a relation, but surely he, as her former employer, could write to her? That could not be improper, could it?

  With a sigh, he wiped the pen and set it down again. He had no wish to bring trouble upon her head, and yet… how he longed to talk to her! Even a letter would be something. He wanted so badly to tell her of his successes, that he was doing as she had bidden him, that he was opening his eyes to the world at last. It meant nothing if he could not share it with her.

  He rose from his desk, poured himself a glass of Madeira and went through to the studio. Her painting of the ballroom stood there on its easel, and he gazed at it, finding something new in it every time he looked. So much detail! So much movement and liveliness and life. Up on the balcony, two of the musicians were engaged in an altercation. A footman was in danger of spilling a tray of drinks — oh, it was Matthews, his valet, an excellent fellow with boot polish and starch, but an indifferent footman, pressed into service only when essential. And over by the doors to the terrace, two people were creeping away for a private assignation. Such delightful vignettes made him smile.

  But always his eye was drawn back to the characters in the forefront of the painting. Fin himself was directly in the centre, dancing his turn in the set with such light-footed grace! A flattering portrait indeed. But now that he had examined the dancers closely, he could see that Felicia herself was his partner, making her steps on the other side of the formation, her skirts swirling elegantly. And behind them, Juliana standing waiting her turn, smiling at the man across from her, a handsome man of around forty. Kearney, he supposed. Felicia had met him, so she had drawn him from life, as he was just before he died, whereas Juliana was taken from her portrait in the library, perpetually nineteen years of age. And there was no Godfrey Buckley, he noticed. He was nowhere to be found in the picture.

  Bagnall came in with his apologetic cough. “Matthews wishes to know if you will be dressing for dinner tonight, my lord, since the young ladies will be joining you.”

  That was an innovation, too. Thrice a week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays, he ate with Juliana and Margarita and their two stiff-rumped governesses, and Drusilla joined them, too. He had begun the habit before Felicia had left, and then he had dressed for the occasion, for it had seemed right to mark her last few days at Hawkewood Hall with appropriate ceremony. Now that she had gone, he had lapsed rather. What was the point of donning knee breeches when the only audience was his sister, two children and two middle-aged women? In his mind, however, he heard Felicia’s voice loud and clear, telling him that he should dress for dinner. So many things he should do, but had not.

  “I suppose I had better make the effort, eh?”

  “Very good, my lord. I shall inform Matthews. There are three letters on your desk that came in on this morning’s London mail. Is there anything else, my lord?”

  Fin waved him away, then, struck by a sudden thought, called out, “Bagnall!”

  The butler turned, bowed again.

  “The ball room… see that it is cleaned up.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “I might hold a ball next month… or September, perhaps. Yes, September. Tell Mrs Shayne, will you.”

  “A ball, my lord?”

  “A ball,” he said firmly. “What is the point of a ballroom if one never holds a ball? A ballroom should be used, after all. See to it, man, instead of standing there with your mouth open like a stuffed rabbit.”

  Bagnall bowed in offended dignity and withdrew.

  Fin st
rode into the sitting room, sat down at his desk and wrote with swift strokes of the pen.

  ‘Dear Miss Oakes, I am to hold a ball in September. Please say you will come. Finlassan.’

  He folded it, wrote the direction, sealed and franked it, and put it on the letters tray to go to the post office tomorrow.

  The three new letters met his eye. One was from the London lawyers, which he set aside for tomorrow. The second was from Aunt Geraldine, informing him that another of her multitude of indistinguishable daughters had produced a daughter of her own. The third was in a hand he did not recognise. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, staring at it in bewilderment.

  ‘Kkboi yeceb orosc qyxop ybqyy ngsvv. Crolo ckpox yggbs docyy xgokb obokn ipqrs.’

  What the devil? It was no language he had ever seen, and every word precisely five letters long could only mean—

  “A code!” he murmured to himself, with a frisson of interest. He looked again at the direction, but it read simply ‘To The Rt Hon The Earl of Finlassan, Hawkewood Hall, nr Derby’. It had come from London, but that told him nothing. Yet who would write to him in code? Something prickled at the back of his mind, but then slithered out of reach. Something to do with codes, but he could not recall it.

  He tucked the letter in his waistcoat and went to change for dinner.

  ~~~~~

  Felicia waited at the Dolphin at precisely three o’clock on Tuesday, her luggage in a neat pile in the yard. At half past three, she began to grow restless, and by the time Jimmy Temple drove into the yard, a few minutes before four o’clock, she was blazing with anger, not assuaged by observing that the gig was already laden with packages, and even two ducks in a cage.

  “Well, this is a fine thing, Mr Temple, to keep me waiting all this time, and now you have no room for me,” she said coldly. “I could have hired a chaise any time these last three days, but thought it best to wait for you. I now see that that was a mistake.”

  “G’day, Miss Oakes,” he said, with a cheerful wave. “Plenty o’room for you, and your boxes may be sent on the cart, I dare say.”

  “My boxes travel with me, Mr Temple. You may leave all your boxes here, and they may be sent on the cart.” She did not like to remind him that he lived at Boscobel Cottage on her benevolence, and although she paid him no wage, he was still in the position of a servant to her, and she was his mistress.

  Perhaps he realised it, for he rubbed his nose thoughtfully, looking chastened. “Well… I canna leave the birds, but the rest may be sent on the cart, I suppose.”

  After no more than a half hour of negotiation with the Dolphin ostler, and some unloading and reloading, they eventually set forward, and Felicia tried not to mind having to carry a crate of ducks on her knee as they drove up the High Street. It was rather a salutary reminder of her newly reduced circumstances. She was no longer a governess in the household of an earl, with the ability to summon the carriage at will or ask the footmen to cart things about for her.

  The remains of market day slowed their progress somewhat, but before long they were passing through the outskirts and then into open country. Felicia had passed that way but twice before, the first time at the age of ten when Mr Vickery and Mr Pierce, her guardians and trustees, had removed her to Miss Latimer’s Academy, and the second time a year ago when she had come of age and been permitted to see Miss Armiger’s effects. On both occasions it had rained. It was not raining today, but the sky was grey and threatening, and the country was flat and dreary. Felicia’s spirits lowered with every mile post they passed.

  “Is all well at the cottage, Mr Temple?”

  “Oh aye, well enough.” Long pause. “Pigs are doing well.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  After that, conversation lapsed, and Felicia supposed she would have to wait to find out the truth of the matter.

  Eventually they came to the small hamlet of Delstone St Clements, where Mr Vickery was parson, but drove straight through, and then they were into the woods. Felicia had no very good memories of the woods surrounding Boscobel Cottage, which had always seemed vast and darkly threatening to her child self, but from the greater height of the gig she could see clearings and trees of great beauty tucked away in the gloom. She was struck by an urge to walk amongst the trees with her sketchbook. Fin would enjoy it too, for he had a way with trees, as his paintings of the temple on the hill showed.

  Sooner than she expected, the gig drew to a halt outside a smart white fence surrounding a flower-filled garden. The neat house behind it boasted freshly painted window frames, cheerful yellow curtains at the open windows and roses growing in profusion all round the door. If it were not for the neat sign on the gate reading ‘Boscobel Cottage’ she would not have recognised the place.

  “That was never five miles from Delstone!” she said.

  “Three, Miss Oakes,” Mr Temple said. “’Tis three miles, and less through the woods. Daresay it seemed further when you were a girl.”

  “Miss Armiger told me five!” she said indignantly.

  The door opened and the familiar faces came tumbling out, smiling and waving — Agnes Markham, the former housekeeper at Summer Cottage, Eliza Temple, the cook, and Lilian, the housemaid. And another man, whom Felicia had never seen before, slender to the point of emaciation, wringing his hands nervously and averting his eyes from hers.

  “You remember Mr Trye?” Agnes said brightly.

  Felicia dredged around in her memory. “The curate?” she said. “Gracious, I thought you had long since departed back to Delstone, Mr Trye. But thank you for caring for Boscobel Cottage for me while I was unable to live here myself.”

  “And a grand job he did, too,” Agnes said briskly. “Come inside, dear, and let me show you to your room. Not that you need to be shown, naturally, for it’s the same room you had as a child, but I’d like to assure myself that you have everything you need.”

  In they went, past the front door now a smart shade of blue, and up the stairs, the balusters also newly painted, and into her room. Felicia’s stomach clenched in anticipation of the dreary walls of some indeterminate shade of dark green, the plain deal washstand and chair, the bed cover inexpertly crocheted by Miss Armiger and the single shelf for her Bible, Prayer Book and candlestick.

  Agnes threw open the door and Felicia cried out in delight. Gone was the gloom. The wainscoting was painted saffron with a delicately patterned wallpaper above it, and there was more yellow in the curtains and matching bed cover. Lacy cloths covered the several small tables now scattered about, three more shelves had appeared and beside the fire was a comfortable armchair.

  “This is lovely!” Felicia cried, tossing aside her bonnet and giving the bed an experimental bounce. “You have even provided a new mattress. The old one was stuffed with lavender, and so lumpy you cannot imagine! I have had the greatest aversion to the scent of dried lavender ever since. You have done wonders, Agnes.”

  Agnes heaved a great breath. “Oh, thank goodness! We talked and talked about it, and wondered if perhaps you would be upset if we changed anything, but really, Miss Oakes, it needed livening up. The whole house was so dark when we first came here.”

  “Oh yes! Such a gloomy place! I was quite dreading it, but this is so cheerful that I hardly recognise it. I hope you have kept a good reckoning of all you have spent on my behalf.”

  “Oh, well… as to that… Mr Pierce told us to make the place ready for you and undertook to settle the cost from your account, which he still has in his management. I hope he did no wrong, Miss Oakes.”

  “Not at all. I am delighted, and shall tell him so. I saw him yesterday, and he assured me he will visit in a few days to go through the accounts and so forth, and discuss what I wish to do. He suggested that I might sell the cottage and move into Southampton. Or there is Summer Cottage, which is still without a tenant.”

  Agnes’s face fell, but she said stoutly, “That is as you wish, my dear, of course. We have been very happy here but we always expected our sta
y to end eventually.” She sighed. “We shall have to find employment somewhere, and that will split us apart, I daresay. And poor Gerald — Mr Trye — will have to squeeze in at the parsonage. How he will miss this garden!”

  “He enjoys the garden, does he?”

  “Enjoys it? He spends every spare minute out there, and what we should have done without him, I can’t think, for none of us know about the growing of parsnips or when to prune the pears. Now then, here’s Lilian with hot water for you, so we’ll leave you to clean off the dust of the road. Dinner in half an hour.”

  Felicia washed and then changed into a clean, if rather rumpled, gown. From her portmanteau, she gently withdrew one of her sketchbooks and settled in the armchair. Reverently, she turned the pages. Fin painting. Fin glowering at her. Fin sealing the letter she had written for him, a resigned expression on his face. Fin sternly reprimanding Bagnall for placing the sugarplums out of Felicia’s reach. “Beside Miss Oakes, man!” he had said. “Such sweetmeats are of no interest to me.” The memory warmed her inside. And then Fin smiling… ah, that smile! Even looking at her own representation of it, a faint echo of the real thing, made her melt into a puddle.