The Painter

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The Painter Page 22

by Mary Kingswood


  Angrily, she snapped the sketchbook shut before the tears could come, and went downstairs for dinner. It was a strange meal. They ate in the dining room, used by Miss Armiger only on Sundays and then only so that she could instruct Felicia on the correct manners for the table. Even now, with the distance of twelve years from those events, she felt the familiar nerves in her stomach as her mind recalled the stream of instructions to sit up straight… do not loll… eat small mouthfuls only… chew well and swallow… now a sip of water… lay down your knife and fork, and offer a topic of conversation.

  This meal was nothing like that. Felicia took the place of honour at the head, and Mr Trye was persuaded to take what was clearly his usual place at the foot. “Such an expert carver, Miss Oakes,” Agnes said. There was only one course and no removes, since the cook was seated at the table with everyone else, but there were eels, sole and crawfish as well as mutton, veal and partridge, and an array of vegetables, both dressed and plain, from their own garden. There was even a bottle of wine, bought by Jimmy Temple at the market to celebrate Felicia’s return, although the two men had most of it. The conversation flowed freely, as between established friends, with much teasing and laughter. Felicia could not remember hearing laughter at the cottage before.

  “This is a wonderful spread,” Felicia said, when her hunger was finally sated. “When I was a child, we lived on boiled beef and potatoes.”

  “Potatoes are for the pigs,” Eliza said, in shocked tones.

  “For the pigs! How many do you have?”

  “Five this year.”

  “Gracious! We never had more than one, and it was fed on whatever rinds and peelings and scraps we had.”

  “Potatoes are best,” Mr Trye said, although he went bright red with embarrassment at his own temerity in speaking. “With meal and clover hay, boiled up. They do better with others of their kind. Sociable animals, pigs. Clever, too. Like people.”

  “How knowledgeable you are, Mr Trye,” Felicia said. “I wish Miss Armiger and I had had the benefit of your advice. I had no idea half so many vegetables could be grown here. It always seemed to be cabbage, and not much else.”

  “Very reliable, cabbage,” Mr Trye murmured. “Tasty, too.”

  “True but even the tastiest vegetable palls after a while, when there is nothing else. I should have loved to have asparagus once in a while.”

  “Seems to me your Miss Armiger was not used to growing her own food,” he said.

  “Very likely. She was more skilled in the schoolroom than in the garden, or the kitchen, for that matter. She could never cook like this. Poor Miss Armiger! Compelled to look after me when she would rather have been studying her Greek and Latin books. She insisted on teaching me Greek, to little avail. Well, that was such a long time ago. It is all ancient history, now.”

  They smiled, but not with understanding. Fin would have got her little joke. Or the marquess, perhaps. For a moment she was overwhelmed with grief. If she could only see them again!

  Agnes patted her hand, and said how glad they were to have her home. Home! A dreadful thought. After the joy of Hawkewood Hall, a place so uplifting to her artistic soul, with beauty and elegance everywhere, could she ever be contented in the cramped environment of Boscobel Cottage? Even new paint and pretty curtains could not make it other than a remote and dismal place, nor wipe out the misery of her childhood years.

  “We all hope you’ll be as happy here as we’ve been,” Eliza said, beaming with delight. “But you must tell us what changes you want. You’re the mistress here, after all, and you needn’t expect us to be always encroaching. We’ll keep out of your way in future, but just for today we wanted to help you celebrate.”

  Silence fell, and although the Temples and Lilian looked at her expectantly, Agnes and Mr Trye exchanged glances. Of course they were nervous about their future. They had settled down here, living well, by the look of it, and would be happy to remain. Boscobel Cottage was not Felicia’s home, but it was her friends’ home and how could she turn them out of it?

  “If this is an example of your encroaching ways,” Felicia said brightly, “then I sincerely hope you will continue to encroach indefinitely. I do not know what the future may bring, but I shall make no changes at present. Let us all drink a toast to… to friendship, and fat pigs, and asparagus. Lots and lots of asparagus.”

  They laughed and raised their glasses and were merry for a long time, but Felicia could not shift the heavy lump of fear in her belly. This was her life now, her horizons shrunk to these four walls, and no amount of juicy ham or buttered asparagus could ease her grief at the life left behind.

  21: A New Home

  The third time Fin took the dog to Shotterbourne, the marquess was not there. The hamper of cakes and Madeira sat forlornly in the little pavilion, but it was otherwise empty, rain dripping steadily off the roof. Hercules snuffled about for a while, before settling under one of the marble benches, nose on muddy paws.

  “Well, where is he, do you suppose?” Fin said, looking about him as if the marquess might spring out from behind a statue. “Surely a drop of rain would not put him off his daily walk.”

  A fluttering paper caught his eye, held between the upturned fingers of one of the marble nymphs lining the pavilion. Fin laughed, and retrieved the paper. ‘Lungs bad today. A.’

  Fin grunted. “What do you think, old fellow?” Hercules sat up and wagged his tail. “A good idea. Come on, then.”

  Clicking his fingers to the dog, he strode away down the hill towards the house, Hercules bounding enthusiastically alongside. The surprised butler admitted them without demur, leaving them dripping in the pillared hall with two silent footmen, no doubt wondering how long it would take to clean the marble floor of the prints of muddy paws and boots. Eventually the butler returned.

  “His lordship will see you now, my lord. He is in the Map Room.”

  Fin followed the butler up the imposing staircase to the saloon, through a drawing room, then an ante-room, along a corridor and then through another room, lined with books, and lit by a single lamp, since all the shutters were closed.

  “Why so dark in here?” Fin said. “It would be a pleasant room with a little light.”

  “The windows have an unhappy prospect, my lord.”

  Fin was about to ask what he meant when he remembered — this room would overlook the remains of the burnt-out family wing.

  Another short corridor led to the Map Room, where the marquess sat before a low-burning fire, swathed in a shawl.

  “Well now, Finlassan,” he said. Then, to the dog, who was bouncing energetically around the room, “Here, boy. Lord, you are muddy. Hillman, find a cloth, will you, and dry the poor fellow off. Madeira’s over there, Finlassan. Help yourself.”

  Fin did so, gazing around him in wonder as he did so. The Map Room was indeed filled with framed maps, and a profusion of globes and devices. One in particular caught Fin’s eye.

  “What the devil is that?”

  The marquess chuckled. “An orrery. A representation of the planets.”

  “So it is! Here is our own modest home in the heavens, with its moon, and here are Venus and… what is the innermost one?”

  “Mercury.”

  “And Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Herschel. How beautiful!”

  “Out of date, of course,” the marquess said. “There is a new one discovered lately — Ceres. Fits between Mars and Jupiter. I expect they will find more yet, as they make better telescopes.”

  “Fascinating! Has Felicia ever seen this? It would delight her.”

  “Would it? I thought you artistic types were all about the beauties of nature, not the mechanical.”

  “No one who sees such an exquisite work of art could fail to be moved by it,” Fin protested. “I assume the gears mean that it does something?”

  “Turn the handle on the side there.”

  And the planets moved, slowly spinning on their axes and revolving about the sun, and many of them with t
heir own moons, too. Fin watched, mesmerised, as the delicate little balls executed their perpetual dance before his eyes.

  A gentle tap on the door was followed immediately by Miss Buckley’s face peering into the room.

  “I beg your pardon if I intrude, my lord, but I wondered if you need anything? Some refreshments for your guest perhaps?”

  “Hillman is perfectly capable of attending to such matters, Edith.”

  “Of course, of course, but a lady is always more attentive than a servant. Are you quite comfortable? Another cushion for your back? A footstool? Are you warm enough? Lady Lucia frets so over these little matters.”

  “Tell her I am perfectly at ease, and want for nothing,” Arnwell said. “Thank you, Edith.”

  With a neat curtsy, she withdrew.

  “Unpleasant woman, always sneaking here and there,” Arnwell said. “I found her searching through my desk once. She said she was looking for wafers, but she could have asked the housekeeper if that was what she wanted. I would have her out of here in a minute if I could, but Lucia likes her and that is the end of it. No one else knows how to deal with Lucia when she gets into her little upsets. So you like my orrery, do you, Finlassan?”

  “It is glorious!” he breathed. “I wish Felicia could see it.”

  “She wrote to me,” the marquess said.

  Fin’s head shot up. “The devil she did! I wrote to her, but she has not replied. How is she? Is she well? Is she happy there? Is she working on a new painting?”

  The marquess grunted. “Read it for yourself. Over there.”

  Jumping up, Fin followed the direction indicated to a small desk by the window, where a letter lay opened. He recognised her elegantly curved script at once.

  ‘Boscobel Cottage, Hants. Buongiorno Conte, thank you so much for your letter. Yes, I am settled in my little house at last, the mud is not so bad as I had feared, and I have not eaten boiled beef, potatoes or cabbage soup once. Even the sun is shining, which I swear it never did once when I was a girl. I miss my walks to the Sanctuary with Hercules, because although I can walk for miles in all directions here and the scenery is pleasant enough, there is no reward of lemon cake and Madeira at the end of it, which as I am sure you are aware was almost as great an attraction as your company. I shall certainly not pass on your impertinent message to Mr Warborough, except to reassure him when next he visits me with his friends that his curate is ministering to his flock adequately, which will please him, since he plans to stay in the county for a few weeks. This conclusion is drawn from his having purchased a subscription to the Summer Balls at the Dolphin Hotel. Therefore you may enjoy Mr Cotham’s entertaining sermons for a while longer. My good wishes to the Lady Lucia and Miss Buckley, and especially to you, mio caro Conte, from your affectionate friend, Felicia Oakes.’

  “Giles is staying in the south?” Fin said in bewilderment. “A few weeks? A subscription to balls? What the devil is he playing at? And who are these friends? He has no friends in Hampshire.”

  The marquess chuckled. “And now he has. How old is he?”

  Fin performed some mental calculations. “Five or six and forty, I should guess.”

  “Well, then. A man in his prime, would you not say?”

  “In his—? You cannot mean—? No, surely not!”

  But the marquess only chuckled again, and Fin was left to wonder what precisely was the great attraction for Giles in Southampton, and, with a horrible gnawing feeling, whether it had anything to do with Felicia.

  ~~~~~

  Felicia had managed to fill several days in ambling about the house and garden, reacquainting herself with Agnes, the Temples and Lilian and getting to know the timid Mr Trye and his garden, bursting with produce. Then came Sunday, and church, and the astonishing revelation that the path she and Miss Armiger had habitually taken was indeed five miles long, but there was a shorter way which led past a farm and several cottages. Neighbours! They had had neighbours, and she had known nothing of it. How credulous she had been as a child, believing everything Miss Armiger had told her. She could have had friends of her own age, she discovered, for the farmer and his manager both had daughters near in age. She remembered them dimly from church, but Miss Armiger had never stopped to talk after the service, always hurrying home again.

  “They tried to visit you,” Agnes said, as they walked past the farm lane. “Tried several times, Mrs Wellings told me, but Miss Armiger sent them to the rightabout. Very reclusive, wasn’t she?”

  Mr Vickery, the Delstone St Clements parson, welcomed Felicia with great kindness.

  “So happy to have you home,” he said, his round face split by a wide smile.

  “Look at you, all grown up, and quite the young lady,” his wife said. “So pretty, you turned out, Miss Oakes.”

  Felicia was greeted by a number of people she recognised from years ago, but had to admit that she had forgotten their names, if she had ever known them.

  “Ah well, Miss Armiger never liked to mingle with the likes of us,” one affable yeoman told her. “Thought herself a touch above mere farming stock, I daresay.”

  Felicia protested at it, but during the sermon, she wondered if he might not be right. Her insistence that Felicia should learn to behave like a lady, and acquire the full range of accomplishments expected of the daughters of the gentry, was curious. No matter the needs of the garden, there had been two hours of lessons every morning, including not just reading, writing and arithmetic, but history, geography and a little of the sciences, music, drawing and painting, as well as French, Italian and Ancient Greek. Not Latin, however, which Miss Armiger had said was the language of men. In the last few months before her death, there had been deportment and the extension of Felicia’s sewing skills, previously confined to hemming handkerchiefs and darning stockings, to include netting, tatting, embroidery and tapestry. The battered old harpsichord had been replaced with a new pianoforte and there had been talk of a harp for the future. And then, when lessons were over, they had grubbed in the dirt to feed themselves, or else boiled cauldrons of water for the laundry. It was eccentric in the extreme.

  Mr Vickery had told her that he and Mr Pierce would call upon her on Tuesday morning at noon to discuss her financial situation and her plans for the future. As her former guardians and trustees, they had retained their management of her modest fortune while she was engaged at Summer Cottage, but now that she had been released from the care of her charges, they not unnaturally wished to know how she intended to proceed. She had no idea.

  It had been in her mind to sell the cottage and move to Southampton, where she could obtain lodgings at little cost, and would perhaps only need one maid of all work to help with the cooking and cleaning. She could, if she wished, offer her services once more as a teacher of art at Miss Latimer’s Academy.

  Now that she had seen the cottage, however, and had understood how settled the others were there, it seemed cruel to uproot them. Nor was the place so isolated and dispiriting as she had found it as a child. With the gig, she could go into Southampton whenever she wished, Mr Trye and Jimmy Temple kept the table fully stocked, and Agnes and Lilian managed all the work of the house. Felicia would be free to paint all day, if she wished, and that was an attractive prospect.

  Still, it would take her a long time to be happy at Boscobel Cottage herself, for the darkly lowering presence of Miss Armiger still hung over the house. Every room contained memories. The kitchen, of endless peeling, scraping and chopping. The outhouses, scene of boiling laundry and churning butter. The schoolroom, with the table at one end where they ate most meals and the desks at the other. The back parlour, where they had spent the long Sunday hours reading sermons or the Bible. Even though the fresh paint and cheerful presence of the new occupants had laid a happier veneer over the cottage, and Felicia was grateful for her own bright room, still she could not entirely shake off the old, bad memories.

  Two rooms in particular were filled with Miss Armiger’s shade, if that were not too f
anciful a description. Felicia remembered her bedchamber as a dismal room, the narrow bed a twin to Felicia’s own, the only furniture a washstand, press and bedside table. Every morning, it had been Felicia’s task to bring her protector a cup of tea, placing it carefully on the little table beside the bed, next to the Bible and Prayer Book. Once a week, they had dusted the surfaces, changed the linen on the bed and swept the floor. Twice a year, the blankets and mattress stuffing had been changed, the curtains and rug beaten, and the window washed. Felicia’s strongest memory was of Miss Armiger’s final days, lying with closed eyes in the bed, seemingly asleep. Three times Felicia had crept in with the morning cup of tea, but Miss Armiger did not wake. At the end of each day, she had crept in again and removed the stone cold tea from the morning, wondering when the sleeping woman would finally wake up, and yet shamefully glad that she did not, and Felicia was free from her hectoring. For a long time afterwards she had been guilty about that.

  Then there was the front parlour… that had been Miss Armiger’s sanctuary, where she retreated each evening after Felicia had gone to bed, there to do… who knew what? The door had been kept locked, and Felicia had never been in there, except once, after she came of age and Mr Vickery and Mr Pierce had at last permitted her to view Miss Armiger’s papers.

  Perhaps it was time to address the bad memories directly.

  “Agnes, do you have the key to the front parlour?” she said one day at breakfast. “I shall speak to Mr Pierce and Mr Vickery in there when they come tomorrow.”

  “The front parlour? You mean Miss Armiger’s study? I do, and the key to her bedroom, too. Lilian and I go in from time to time to clean, but we are very careful not to disturb her things.”

  “Has nothing been touched, even in her bedroom?”

 

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