As he turned to go upstairs, he passed Ben standing on the bottom step.
‘You know, Phil, I never thought I’d say it because – until recently – I’ve always admired you and looked up to you. But you’re an idiot – you have been ever since Mr Crawford promised to make you his heir. It’s gone to your head and turned you into someone I don’t like very much. Charlotte is a good person. I like her and so does Georgie and if she makes Father happy, then you should be glad. Glad for them both.’
It was the longest speech any of them had ever heard the quiet Ben make and they all stared at him. Georgie clapped his hands and began to skip around the hall, chanting, ‘Philip’s an idiot! Phil-ip’s an id-i-ot.’
‘Stop that, Georgie,’ Charlotte said sharply and held out her hand to him. ‘That’s not nice.’
The little boy stopped and came meekly back to her. ‘Sorry, Charlotte.’
She stroked his hair and smiled down at him and he knew himself forgiven. As for Philip, he stared at Ben for a long moment and then turned and ran up the stairs, two at a time.
It had spoiled their homecoming, but Ben and Georgie made her so welcome, that Philip’s cruel jibes, if not forgotten, were soothed. And once both Philip and Ben had gone back to school, Charlotte had her little golden boy all to herself.
Over the following weeks and months, life at the manor slipped into a routine that seemed to suit them all. Philip was away at school and, when he was at home, Charlotte took refuge in her studio. She studied the instructional books that Felix had left her and her work improved – even to her own critical eye. She experimented with all the different mediums that Miles had so generously bought for her. But watercolour and oils were her favourites. She grew bolder and painted larger pictures, stacking them against the walls or on the top shelf.
But she was still too shy to show her work to anyone and certainly not brave enough to hang her pictures on a wall.
At Christmas Felix visited them and now he was adamant.
‘You mean to say, my darling Charlotte,’ he said throwing out his arm in his usual flamboyant gesture, ‘that I am to be denied seeing the fruits of all my labour? I, who designed and equipped your studio?’ His eyes were twinkling merrily at her. He wanted to see her work, wanted to know if it was just a daubing of colours on to paper or canvas or whether this adorable creature had real talent.
He traced a finger down her cheek. ‘My dear girl, you have blossomed. Marriage suits you so and if your paintings are half as beautiful as their creator, then they should be hanging in every gallery in the land.’
‘Oh, Felix.’ Charlotte laughed, loving his teasing but never taking it seriously. ‘Very well, then, but on two conditions.’
‘Name them,’ he said kissing her hand.
‘Firstly, Miles must come too.’
‘At last,’ Miles said, joining in the fun and throwing his hands in the air in delight.
‘And me,’ Georgie piped up. ‘I want to see your paintings too.’ He beamed. ‘You can paint me, Charlotte.’
She laughed. ‘Do you think you could sit still for long enough?’ And they all laughed, even Georgie.
It had been agreed that the boys should not call her Mama or Mother after Philip’s outburst on their arrival home. ‘I could never replace your mother,’ she’d told them gently.
‘You certainly could not,’ Philip had muttered, but she’d chosen to ignore him.
‘And I’d never want to try, so, I’d like you to call me Charlotte. All right?’
Georgie had flung his arms about her waist and Ben had nodded shyly. Only Philip had given a sniff that sounded suspiciously like disapproval. But then, she supposed, Philip would disapprove of anything she did. She was glad, at this moment, when they were insisting on seeing her work, that he was out riding.
‘And the second condition?’ Felix prompted.
‘That you are entirely honest with me. Give me constructive criticism. I’ve studied all the books you’ve given me, but I could use some practical advice.’
‘I promise I will tell you truthfully what I think,’ Felix said solemnly. He linked his arm through hers as they mounted the stairs side by side, Miles, Ben and Georgie following.
Her heart was racing as she opened the door and ushered them inside. It was the first time anyone had been into her studio. They all, even Georgie, respected her privacy.
‘I’ve had a go at everything,’ she began shyly, ‘but I find I still like watercolour the best, though oil painting is now a close second. I can’t seem to get to grips with pastels.’ She laughed. ‘I always seem to end up smudging my picture. I like pencil drawing, but I find pen and ink difficult and too – too—’ She paused, searching for the word.
‘Tedious?’ Felix offered. ‘I do, too.’ He began to wander around the room, pausing in front of the canvases leaning against the wall to complete their drying process. A process that with oils took some time.
‘That’s the street in Ravensfleet,’ Georgie cried. ‘That’s my school.’
‘And that’s the manor,’ Ben pointed.
‘And the beach where we go riding with the town’s pier in the background,’ Miles put in.
Felix was silent and Charlotte waited anxiously, surprised how much his approval meant to her. Still he said nothing, standing before each one, considering it, and then moving on to the next.
‘And your watercolours?’ Felix asked when he’d pondered over each and every one of her oil paintings.
She reached the stack of paintings from the top shelf of the bookcase and, standing a sensible distance from him, she held up each one, the paper trembling a little in her nervous fingers. Now no one made any comment, copying Felix’s way of perusal. Laying the last one down, she looked at him, her heart thumping. ‘Well?’ she whispered, unable to wait a moment longer. ‘Tell me the worst. I’ve wasted your time and all Miles’s money.’
Felix stared at her for a long moment, his face expressionless. Then suddenly, he beamed and held out his arm to her. ‘My darling girl, your paintings are wonderful – magnificent. They are good enough to hang in a gallery.’
‘Felix,’ she said, somewhere between laughing and crying, ‘I asked you to be honest.’
‘I am – I am. Would I’ – he smote his chest with his fist – ‘lie about art?’
‘I – ’ she hesitated, searching his face, trying to see if he was teasing her, being kind to her feeble efforts.
Miles moved to her side and put his arm round her shoulders, then Georgie ran to her and hugged her waist. Ben was smiling and nodding.
‘Your paintings are amazing, my dear,’ Miles said. ‘I’d never imagined how good you really are. To think that all this time . . .’ He stopped, realizing that he was in danger of criticizing her father – something he’d vowed to himself he would never do.
‘All this time,’ Felix declared happily, ‘she has been learning and practising and improving. My dear, there are one or two things I could help you with, but these paintings – almost all of them – are good enough to sell now. If you wanted to sell them, that is?’
‘She can’t sell them,’ Georgie said. ‘We’ll hang them up here. We’ve plenty of room. Charlotte,’ he looked up at her, ‘may I have the one with my school on in my bedroom? Please?’
‘Of course you can,’ Charlotte laughed nervously, still overcome by Felix’s praise.
‘You must advise us on mounts and frames,’ Miles said, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze and then moving away to discuss how best to show off Charlotte’s work.
‘It depends on the pictures themselves, of course, but also where you want to hang them,’ Felix advised. ‘Not everyone would agree with me, but my taste is that, if you’re hanging say four or five together on a wall, they should all have the same mounts and frames. And the subjects should complement each other – perhaps have some sort of theme.’
‘Yes, I see . . .’
Their conversation went on whilst Georgie dashed from one to
another of the paintings, choosing his favourites.
Ben came to stand beside her.
‘I don’t quite believe this,’ she murmured.
‘Well, you’d better,’ Ben said quietly. ‘Old Felix wouldn’t lie to you. And even we non-experts can see how good they are.’ He paused and then asked, ‘Have you ever tried portraits?’
She turned to meet his gaze. ‘Why do you ask?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, even though photography’s all the rage these days, people still like their portraits painted. It’s a status thing. I bet you could make a lot of money, like Felix says. If you wanted. Felix is a portrait painter.’ It was a long speech for Ben, but he still hadn’t quite finished. ‘And – and I was thinking – it would be nice if you could do a portrait of Father. We’ve been on at him for years to have one done. We wanted him to commission Felix, but he said because he’d become a friend since then he didn’t want to put Felix in a difficult position as regards a fee.’
Softly, she said, ‘As a companion to one of your mother’s?’
‘Well – ’ He hesitated, anxious not to hurt her feelings. ‘Felix did the ones of mother. That’s how we met him. I think he was going to do one of Father too, at that time, but then – but then Mother died and – and Father lost heart.’
She squeezed his hand and whispered, ‘I’ll show you something.’ She led him to the far side of the room where, from behind a stack of new canvases, she pulled out a picture. With her back to the others, she showed him the painting she had done of Miles.
Ben gasped aloud. He glanced up at her and then back to the picture. ‘Oh Charlotte, it’s brilliant. Your others are good – very good – but this – this is fantastic.’ Now, reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from the picture. Shaking his head slowly, not understanding, he said, ‘Why have you hidden it?’
‘I didn’t know whether your father . . .’
‘You mean he doesn’t know? He didn’t sit for you to do this?’
She shook her head.
He touched her hand. ‘Please show it to the others. You must.’
‘Well, if you think . . .’
‘I don’t think – I know. It’s truly wonderful. Let me show them – please.’
‘All right.’
‘Sure?’ Ben was gentle. He was not one to persuade someone into something they really didn’t want to do.
She laughed nervously, ‘No, I’m not, but if you think so, then – ’
She thrust the portrait towards him and he took it, carrying it carefully to the centre of the room.
‘I say, chaps, just look at this.’
They turned with one accord and Charlotte, still standing in the far corner, almost as if she was hiding, watched their reactions.
Georgie clapped his hands in glee. ‘You can do people. Oh paint me, Charlotte. Please, please, please paint me.’
Felix threw out his arms. ‘Ah, the masterpiece. Magnifique! Such care has gone into it. A work of love.’
But Charlotte was watching Miles’s face. And then, slowly, he looked up and smiled. ‘It’s marvellous, my dear.’
And her happiness was complete.
Well, almost. There was one more thing she would dearly love to do for this man she loved so very much. And that was to give him what he desired most: a daughter.
Fifty-Three
But it seemed it was not to be.
As time passed and the family settled down into their new routine, there was no sign of Charlotte becoming pregnant and eventually they ceased to speak about it, but it lay between them like an unanswered prayer.
Apart from that one sadness, they were content. Miles was happy to play the country squire and to leave the running of the estate to his foreman, though more and more he sought Charlotte’s opinion. She still ran Buckthorn Farm and saw that her father was well cared for and that Mary and Edward had all they needed. Osbert had improved sufficiently for Nurse Montgomery finally to depart, but she had promised to come back if there were any problems.
The community seemed shielded from the economic devastation that troubled the rest of the country during the early years of the nineteen thirties. Joe and Peggy flourished at Purslane Farm and whilst Jackson continued to enjoy his bachelor state and had a string of girlfriends all eager to lead him to the altar, he resolutely resisted. John, meanwhile, quietly married his long-time sweetheart. They rented a small cottage in Ravensfleet, and John continued to help his father and brother run the farm. Eddie and Lily, having moved into the Warrens’ old cottage on Buckthorn Farm with Alfie, added to their family with another son and a daughter.
‘They can breed like rabbits, but it seems you’re barren, girl,’ Osbert goaded Charlotte crudely. ‘I hope you’re doing your duty by your husband. I want a grandson.’
At such times, Charlotte would silently turn her back on him and walk out of Buckthorn Farm to her home, where there were no recriminations. Miles never once broached the subject, though secretly Charlotte consulted the doctor to see if it was her fault. Dr Markham declared her fit and healthy and told her not to worry.
‘Sometimes conception doesn’t happen, my dear, because you want it too much. You’re too tense. Just relax and enjoy your life. You’re happy, aren’t you?’
‘Very. I’ve never known such happiness,’ she confided. ‘But I know Miles so wants a daughter.’
‘A daughter, eh? Well, well,’ he murmured, knowing full well the humiliations that had been heaped on Charlotte’s head all her life for being a girl. ‘Life’s strange, my dear, isn’t it?’
In time, Philip gained a place at university to study law and after qualifying found work in London. Ben attended agricultural college and at the end of the course he came home to help run the estate. His career was mapped out for him and it seemed he was happy to follow it, gaining a quiet confidence in his own abilities and his future.
As for Georgie, all he wanted to do was to learn to fly aeroplanes and the RAF seemed to be the best place he could do that.
‘Cranwell, Father,’ he said as he neared his eighteenth birthday. ‘That’s where I want to be.’
But Miles had frowned. ‘I’m not so sure, Georgie. There are storm clouds gathering in Europe, I fear. And if there’s a war, the RAF would be in the front line.’
Georgie only grinned. ‘Then I’ll be a fighter pilot.’
He’d not altered at all. Of course, he’d grown and was now tall and handsome with fair, curling hair and a strong, lithe body, and seemed always to have a permanent grin on his face. But he was still the same mischievous, lovable scamp he’d always been.
‘Georgie’s never-failing good humour can get a little wearing,’ Philip would remark loftily on his rare visits home. ‘Is he ever going to grow up?’
Privately, Charlotte hoped Georgie would never change. She couldn’t help him being her favourite, though she would never have voiced such a thing. She treated all three boys fairly and only Miles was aware that her eyes lit up and her mouth curved into a smile when Georgie entered the room or even when his name was mentioned.
Nothing could dissuade the young man from applying to join the RAF and though they did nothing to try to stop him, both Miles and Charlotte felt their hearts sinking with fear when he waved the letter of acceptance, dancing a jig around the breakfast table.
Miles reached across the corner of the table and covered Charlotte’s hand where it trembled on the white cloth. ‘He’ll not be far away. Cranwell’s still in Lincolnshire. And Ben’s home now.’
He did not mention Philip, sensitive as ever to the fact that his eldest son and his young wife had an uneasy relationship. Though it was never talked about, it was sometimes like watching two fighting cocks, skirting each other warily. He dreaded the day when one might push the other too far and there would be a flurry of feathers.
Charlotte continued her painting and Felix would visit every so often and bear away several canvases and watercolours, sending her what she regarded as a ridiculously large cheque when h
e sold them in his London gallery.
The only thing that she remained adamant about was refusing all attempts to encourage her to advertise her talents as a portrait painter. Those she confined to the people around her whom she loved, presenting them, rather shyly, with a work of art they would cherish.
She visited her mother, aunt and uncle in Lincoln regularly, often taking Miles with her, but her mother steadfastly refused to come to Ravensfleet.
‘As long as I can see you from time to time and hear from you by letter, that is all I ask,’ Alice declared. And for once, even Euphemia could not move her.
‘They’ve quite a stubborn streak,’ Miles laughingly commiserated with Charlotte’s aunt. ‘For such seemingly docile creatures, they can dig their heels in at times. I cannot get Charlotte to paint portraits by commission. She’d be in great demand, I know she would.’
Euphemia had smiled at him archly. ‘The only thing she wants to do is to make you happy, dear boy.’
He’d smiled readily, even though there was the longing for a daughter that never left him. ‘Oh, she does.’
‘And you make her supremely happy,’ she’d patted his arm, ‘I never thought to see the dear girl so contented.’
Euphemia had not alluded to the ‘patter of tiny feet’ making their idyll complete. Her own childlessness made her sensitive to the feelings of both Miles and Charlotte.
Fifty-Four
At a few minutes past eleven on the morning of Sunday, 3 September 1939, the whole family at the manor sat in Miles’s study, clustered around the wireless set listening to Mr Chamberlain’s solemn pronouncement that the country was now at war with Germany. Electricity and even the telephone had come to the manor in recent years, though not to Buckthorn Farm. Osbert Crawford resolutely refused to have ‘such newfangled nonsense’ installed.
Sons and Daughters Page 33
