Page 36 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

The talk kept Nina’s mind occupied, and eased the ache of her heart.

In the drawing-room after dinner, Mawes insisted on taking some quick sketches of her, and though Isabel told her to ‘refuse, he’s being unreasonable’, she didn’t mind, especially as Isabel went to the piano and played to entertain her ‘through your ordeal’.

She was happy listening, and watching Lepida and Decius, side by side on another sofa, talking together.

It seemed to be an earnest conversation – they didn’t laugh or smile, and Nina guessed it was something intellectual.

They were completely absorbed by it, as if they were alone in the room.

She knew how clever Decius was, and thought Lepida would be a good match for his mind, but she didn’t see any signs of romantic attachment.

They might have been brother and sister.

Later, Decius was persuaded to join Mawes at the piano and sing some comic songs, and Nina took the opportunity to sit by Lepida. She was listening, her eyes fixed on the performers. Nina said, ‘He has a nice voice, hasn’t he?’

‘Decius?’ Lepida said, without taking her eyes from him. ‘Very nice. But he does everything well.’

‘Everything? I’ve never seen him dance.’ Nina said provocatively.

‘You can see from the way he moves that he would dance well,’ Lepida said, unprovoked.

‘In my experience, musicians usually make good dancers. They have the necessary sense of rhythm.’ She looked at Nina at last. ‘You look drawn. I’m sorry about Trump, but don’t let yourself dwell on it.

There must be proportion in all things.’

Nina shook her head, unable for the moment to answer.

Lepida went on, ‘All things die. It is the natural end of life. We must cherish life while it lasts, and yield it, when the end comes, gracefully. There is no other rational course.’

‘Love isn’t generally known for being rational,’ Nina said.

Lepida laid a cold hand over hers. ‘That is why those of us gifted with a good intellect must make the effort,’ she said.

‘It’s so good to see you again,’ Nina said impulsively. ‘I don’t see you nearly as often as I’d like.’

‘It is the lot of women to move in their husband’s circle,’ Lepida said.

‘Well, we must make time for each other. And you must come and stay with me in Market Harborough when I go back. I’m sure the countryside would do you good.’ She hesitated. She thought her friend had lost weight. ‘You are all right, aren’t you?’ she asked on impulse.

‘Don’t I look all right?’ Lepida said, smiling.

‘Lepida!’ Decius called from the piano at that moment. ‘Come and sing “Very Suspicious” with me. It needs your voice.’

She got up obligingly and went.

Kitty had forgotten how nice Mr Fenchurch was, with his face that seemed always to be wanting to smile, and his gentle manners.

And it was lovely to have the entire attention of someone, especially of a man.

All the other men in her life were constantly busy, disappearing with a vague excuse as soon as she wanted to say something.

They existed as a flicker at the corner of her vision, like a mouse when you enter a dark room with a candle.

Her children loved her, of course, and were flatteringly excited to see her, but sometimes it was adult attention that one wanted.

So in the pleasant warmth of a May morning, with all the promise of the year burgeoning around them, they walked about with the initial plan open between them and talked about what was to be done.

By the end of an hour his careful formality was softening and he seemed so much more relaxed that she found herself talking to him as a friend.

‘You do understand,’ he said, when they paused by the low wall of the rose garden, ‘that it will make a very great mess? It will look like a battlefield for a very long time – nothing but mud and ruts and heaps of earth and stones – really very depressing.’

‘Are you trying to dissuade me?’ she said.

‘Not a bit! But I want to prepare you for the process. I know you see the end result in your mind, but getting there requires endurance. Most of our clients,’ he added, ‘go and live somewhere else while we’re working, and don’t come back until it’s done.’

‘But we live here all the time,’ Kitty said, ‘except when we’re in London.’

‘You don’t have another property that you can decamp to?’

‘No. And even if we did, I don’t think my husband would agree to it. Ashmore is everything to him.’

‘Perhaps I ought to have a word with him,’ Fenchurch said doubtfully. ‘Make sure he understands how much disruption there will be.’

‘Oh, he isn’t the least interested in gardens,’ Kitty said. ‘He won’t mind what you do.’

Fenchurch did not look convinced. ‘Well, I shall make out a preliminary estimate and send it to you to show to him,’ he said.

‘Is that necessary? I do want to get on with it.’

He looked embarrassed. ‘As the works are so extensive, I believe it is. But we can begin very quickly once he agrees. I should like to take advantage of the good weather for the earthworks. Will I be liaising with your head gardener? There should be someone to act as a go-between, to convey your wishes and receive progress reports.’

‘I shall place my under gardener, Allsuch, at your disposal,’ Kitty said, ‘but you will report directly to me. I want to be involved in everything.’

He smiled. ‘That will be my pleasure. As soon as your husband agrees the initial estimate, I’ll make out a schedule of works and we can begin.’

On a fine May day a char-à-banc drawn by two strong horses pulled up outside the Blackwood School in Old Burlington Street and twelve girls in sensible serge skirts, neat blouses and straw hats climbed aboard, followed by three teachers.

Servants loaded rugs and a picnic basket into the luggage space.

Each girl carried a bag containing a sketching-pad, pencils and charcoals, and whatever else they deemed essential to a sketching party on Hampstead Heath.

The twelve healthy young faces were wreathed in smiles, and they made a happy noise like a treeful of starlings as the driver cracked his whip and the vehicle jerked into motion.

Each row in the char-à-banc took three people, and Alice was seated with Bron and another girl she had become friendly with, a petite, cheerful redhead, Julia Stevens.

As the char-à-banc made the awkward turn out onto Piccadilly a little shriek went up as all the girls were thrown against one another, and Julia cried, ‘Emily Bronte Strachan, stop taking up all the room! And keep your elbows in! You tall girls ought to learn to squeeze yourselves up.’

‘Am I squashing you, shrimp?’ Bron replied. ‘You’re so small I simply didn’t see you there.’

The three teachers, Miss Palgrave, Mr Wentworth and Miss Jukes – who specialised in landscapes – tried from time to time to quiet the excited chatter of the girls, invoking the honour of Blackwood School: ‘Remember wherever you are, you are the school’s ambassadors!

’ Or, rather, the two female teachers did.

Once, when Alice looked back, she saw Mr Wentworth staring out at the street and smiling enigmatically, as though he was alone in a private carriage and enjoying the scenery.

He’s a famous artist, she reminded herself, and far above us. I wonder he bothers with us at all .

Once they reached a quiet spot on Hampstead Heath, the girls settled in groups to work, and the teachers moved around, helping and criticising.

It was pleasant sitting on the rugs with their pads on their knees, sketching the panoramic views.

It was warm, with a slight breeze, which created interesting clouds in the sky.

Early bees murmured in the clover, and the soft sound of the girls’ voices added to the background music.

People passing by smiled indulgently at them; dogs on their walks broke away to investigate these strangers at their own level.

One old gentleman actually came up to Bron, looked over her shoulder at her drawing, and tried to instruct her on how better to portray the perspective, until Miss Palgrave spotted him and hurried over to drive him, ever so politely, away.

Alice liked figures better than landscapes, and did some rapid sketches: people passing, a couple sitting on a bench not far off, a military-looking man scanning the horizon with a telescope.

Then, turning a page, she saw that Mr Wentworth had sat down at a little distance to take his ease and smoke a cigarette, and she started surreptitiously drawing him.

He was three-quarter-profile to her, her favourite aspect of a man’s face.

She finished a first quick sketch in charcoal and, as he had not moved, began another more carefully in pencil.

Soon she was completely absorbed. Inevitably her mind went back to Castle Cottage, and Axe Brandom, whom she had drawn so often and so lovingly.

She missed him sharply; but the action of drawing was soothing, and she felt oddly, perilously happy as she worked on Wentworth’s profile and the way his hair grew – he had taken off his hat and the breeze was ruffling it interestingly.

She was working on the folds of his jacket when she realised that his profile had changed, and that he was looking at her.

Her eyes met his for an instant, and she blushed and looked quickly away, pretending to be studying something else.

When she dared to glance back, he had stood up, and for a moment she was afraid he was coming to see what she was up to, but it turned out to be time for the picnic luncheon, and everyone was putting their pads aside, standing up and stretching, while Miss Jukes was calling for volunteers to unpack the hampers.