Friday's Girl Page 16

  Mrs George looked heartened by the news of the projected journey, and she too seemed to think that Edith would do nothing except benefit from sea air.

  ‘You will be well out of this cold, damp climate here in the Cotswolds. Even at this time of year we are not as warm as we should be, and a lot less warm than we would wish to be, Mrs Todd, and if that isn’t the truth I don’t know what is. Besides,’ she gave Edith a shrewd look, ‘you need to get some colour in those pale cheeks of yours; need to put on some weight, too, or we will soon be seeing right through you, same as we can see through that windowpane over there, and that would never do.’

  Edith nodded excitedly, only half listening.

  ‘I’ve never been to the sea, you know,’ she confided suddenly, dropping her voice as if such an admission was scandalous. ‘I was always too busy working to be able to do anything like that. I could never be spared at home.’

  Mrs George nodded. ‘I know, my dear,’ she agreed absently. ‘I am the same, never been to the coast, nor seen the sea, but then my mother and father had never been to the next village until Father turned eighty last year!’ She gave a sudden, rich laugh. ‘We took him to Lower Broughton – he lives in Upper Broughton, mind – and he came back that shocked. Yes, he was that shocked. “Don’t never want to go to them foreign parts again,” he told Mother.’ She gave another laugh. ‘Now Mother only has to threaten him with going to Upper Broughton, and he’ll set to and do as she wants soon as a knife goes through summer butter.’

  ‘I dare say I will have to take warm clothes for the seaside,’ Edith mused.

  ‘You take just what you have, Mrs Todd, just what you have, and I am sure that will be perfect, seaside or no seaside.’

  But Edith ignored her, knowing instinctively that she would need to take only the simplest outfits from her wardrobe, although she thought she would need a warm coat for walks along the seashore.

  ‘You bring me back some shells from the beach, and yourself with a bonny look to you,’ Mrs George commanded a few days later when they were all packed up, and Edith, with Napier waiting impatiently in the hall, was hurrying out of her bedroom. ‘Maybe you will even bring us back some happy news,’ she murmured, but only to herself.

  Once on their way, and settled into their train carriage, Napier did not trouble to engage Edith in conversation but stared out of the window, watching for something at which she could only guess.

  ‘You must have lived in a great many houses—’ Edith began, determined on breaking the silence, no matter what.

  Napier stared at her. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, you must have lived in a great many houses.’

  ‘Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. I was an only child, and as such able to travel a great deal with my father. After my mother died when I was hardly more than four years old, Father never did like to stay long in one place, and seeing that he was a master builder, happily his work took him to more places than most. He built a series of follies for Lord Branscombe at Puddleton, a Dower House for Cecilia, Lady Gasper, at Winson, and a Swiss Cottage with Dovecote for Mrs Arbutnot in Derbyshire. His last commission was Helmscote, but the owner died before it was finished; so Father bought it, and then he too died, and so it finally passed to me.’ He stared out of the window again as they started to pass through the lush green countryside of the West Country.

  ‘I expect it was on account of living near all those fine houses that you became a painter, was it not, Napier?’

  ‘Do you know, I think it was. How perceptive of you.’ Napier put his head on one side, frowning. ‘Yes, it was seeing all the fine paintings in their beautiful settings. I am sure it was that, more than anything, that encouraged me from an early age to think of myself as a painter before anything else. Nothing matters more than art, you know, Edith – nothing.’

  Edith, perhaps emboldened by Napier’s compliment, ventured further. ‘What will you paint when we are in Cornwall, Napier?’

  ‘To begin with, the sea, the shore, anything but a model,’ he said, blithely ignoring Edith’s feelings. ‘For the next few weeks, while you regain your strength, I shall embark on this new idea of painting in the open air, painting the strong faces of the Cornish people. I told you Sherry is determined on my changing my ways, and turning from the Pre-Raphaelites to the realities of fisherfolk. Sherry is all too enthusiastic, even more so now that he is married. Yes, you will have company at Newbourne. I believe his wife is a beautiful American girl. I know she also paints.’

  Edith looked away from Napier and stared out of the window, trying not to feel daunted. A beautiful American girl who was also a painter would surely never want to be friends with someone like herself? She would be clever, and most likely a bluestocking too. She would look down on Edith as she knew Napier looked down on her for not knowing anything about art, or perhaps even about life. It was not a happy prospect, but at least she would see the sea.

  In the event they had left Helmscote so early they were able to arrive at Newbourne before the sun had begun to set. The pony and trap that brought them from the station had been hired by pre-arrangement with Sheridan. The noise from the sturdy creature’s hooves was drowned out by the insistent cries of the seagulls, but nothing, alas, could drown the smell of the fish that permeated the town at dusk.

  ‘Welcome to Newbourne.’

  Almost as soon as the trap came to a halt the front door of the house to which the driver had been directed was opened by a young woman, white-aproned, smiling, her hair caught back into a net.

  ‘Mrs Harvey, it’s Mr Todd from last summer,’ Napier called up the flight of steps. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Of course. I remember you well, sir.’

  Napier walked up the steps towards Mrs Harvey, leaving Edith to struggle out of the trap. The driver, seeing her difficulties, jumped down from his seat to help her over the debris in the road. Slightly out of breath, she gained the top of the steps and smiled at Mrs Harvey, who smiled back.

  ‘Good afternoon, ma’am, and a truly fine one it has been.’

  Napier walked ahead of them both into the house, followed by the driver carrying their luggage, one piece on his head, the other in his hand.

  ‘I have supper prepared for you whenever you may wish it, ma’am, but a hot bath before might be what you would be wanting, I dare say.’

  The idea of a hot bath after such a long journey appealed to Edith as being near to bliss, but it seemed that Napier was determined on going straight out again to visit the Montague Robertsons.

  ‘You can stay here, Edith. There is no need for you to come, I don’t suppose.’

  ‘I had rather go with you, Napier, really I would. I had rather not be left here.’

  Napier looked surprised, as if he did not quite know what he would do with Edith if she did come with him.

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  He walked determinedly along the narrow streets, the houses of which seemed about to topple over on to them, so near to the passers-by did they appear to Edith. After her illness and convalescence she had a job of it to keep pace with her husband, but as she did so she made sure to keep on his inside, away from the fish scales and debris that littered the sides of the narrow streets.

  It seemed that the town was divided into two, and they were lodged in Newbourne Town, whereas Napier’s friends were living on the other side of the river in a place called Street-anlyne. Despite the pace that Napier had set, Edith determined on memorising everything they passed, until all at once it appeared that they had arrived, because Napier was knocking at the door of a pretty white-painted house.

  To the side of the front door were fishing nets and easels, and all sorts of homely paraphernalia that spoke of a happy, industrious life, and once again the door was opened by a white-aproned figure, but this time an older woman, who nevertheless smiled her welcome, and turning back called to unseen people inside.

  ‘Your friends are a-coming in, Mr Sheridan – Mrs Sheridan – here be your friend
s, and they’re a-coming in to find you in the garden!’

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Molesworth. You haven’t changed an iota—’ Napier began, but he broke off and frowned as the landlady curtsied to him. ‘Come, come, Mrs Molesworth, let us have none of that. We live in a democracy.’

  As she drew up from her courtesy Napier absentmindedly, or just rudely – Edith herself had not yet quite made up her mind as to which – went to walk in front of his wife, as was generally his habit, but the housekeeper gently caught his arm and held him back, making way for Edith to go in front of him.

  ‘Nay, Master Napier, you’re a married man now, you mun remember.’ She nodded firmly at Edith to walk ahead of Napier. ‘Make way for your little wife, Master Napier, or I shall want to know the reason why, I shall.’

  ‘Gracious, Mrs Molesworth, seeing you there I confess I had almost forgotten I was married since I saw you last summer, I am sure I had,’ Napier muttered, trying to pass the moment off with a laugh.

  ‘Before you do away with bobbing and curtsying, Mr Todd, I’ve a mind to tell you to remember your wife’s place. Anywhen you’m in my house, I’ll be thankin’ you to behave. Painters!’ Mrs Molesworth clicked her tongue and shook her head firmly at his back. ‘They know all about how the world should be run, but nowt about how it is run.’

  Perhaps because it was the first time since her marriage that she had seen Napier out of his own environment, or perhaps because it was the first time she had seen him told off publicly, Edith found herself struggling to keep a straight face as she saw him struggle, albeit briefly, to find a suitable reply to Mrs Molesworth’s robust put-down and, not really finding one, colouring in embarrassment.

  ‘Did I hear Mrs M telling you off, Napier?’

  They had emerged into the garden by now, and turned as a voice spoke to them from behind. Looking up, they saw Sheridan standing beside an easel on a large balcony above them.

  ‘I’m coming down this minute,’ he called, smiling delightedly at them both. ‘How capital to see you, and earlier than we had hoped. Celandine will not be long; she is changing. Stay just where you are and we will join you in a matter of minutes, my dear friends. We have been so looking forward to this.’

  Edith stared round the garden. It was not large but it had the air of being cared for, and the choice of flowers, the use of shells and exotics, made her feel as if she had travelled all the way from the Cotswolds not to another corner of England, but to a foreign country. And of course, because of the clear, bright air of which Napier had already told her, the colours seemed more colourful, the blues bluer, the pinks pinker, even the sky above them, despite its going to be dusk quite soon, seeming to her to be more beautifully blue than any sky she had known. And then Sheridan, with Celandine moving quickly ahead of her husband and dressed in a charming sailor top and white skirt, an embroidered jacket and white lace-up boots, seemed to burst upon the garden scene, both of them smiling, arms out in welcome.

  ‘My dear chap, I can’t tell you, when we received your letter, how pleased we were!’

  They had hardly finished their greetings and introductions before Edith had seen that there was no pretending that Sheridan was not everything to Celandine, and she to him. Despite the beauty of the garden, the clarity of the air, the feeling that evening was not quite upon them, they had brought their own aura of warmth and sunshine to the already romantic scene – as if there was not enough romance around them already! What was more, she could see that they turned and referred to each other often, while pretending not to take each other’s conversation at all seriously.

  And, too, she noted with a sinking heart that Celandine, seated now and pouring drinks for them all, had no need to wait or defer to Sheridan. She could be herself, allow her own character to shine. She could even tease him publicly, and still it seemed her husband loved her.

  Edith sipped her drink, silently watching, trying to smile and laugh along with the rest, despite not being able to contribute much to the conversation; remaining, outwardly at least, the beautiful relaxed young wife while inwardly struggling with a misery so potent it seemed to her that she was filled with unshed tears. Her emotions were in marked contrast to the happiness she could see emanating from their hosts.

  Finally, as they rose to go into supper together, and she realised just what she was missing, she allowed the sadness to overcome her, at which point she excused herself. Letting herself out of the front door, she vanished into the street outside, her rich auburn hair catching the last of the evening sunlight as she did so.

  Chapter Six

  Edith lay in bed absorbing the sound of the seagulls, the chugging of the boats coming into harbour, the early morning feel to the light coming through the curtains, and remembered Napier’s coming to find her in the street outside the Montague Robertsons’ rented house. He had looked puzzled but unworried as she begged to be allowed to return home.

  ‘A slight nausea?’ Napier appeared vague and disinterested, all at the same time. ‘Ask Mrs Molesworth for something. She will be sure to have something that will help you feel better.’

  ‘No, I would prefer to go back and rest. It’s been a long day. I expect I am just tired after my illness.’

  ‘Well, of course. I keep forgetting you have been unwell. It will take some time for you to get your strength back, I dare say.’ He leaned forward and patted her arm in an avuncular manner. ‘I also dare say Mrs George and Dr Bennington will be telling me off if I don’t send you back to your bed,’ he added, turning back to the house behind them even as he spoke.

  Edith knew Napier well enough by now to recognise that particular look which had come into his eyes. He was ready to dine and wine, ready to let his hair down, as he had been sometimes at Helmscote when something happened to disturb the unrelenting artistic regime, such as when a neighbour called, quite unexpectedly, and Napier invited him to stay to dinner; or when a fellow painter, such as Alfred Talisman, had come to Helmscote for a night, and Edith was banished to the upper floor to have supper in her room and to fall asleep all too early, with only a book for company.

  Napier turned and called to her from the top step of Mrs Molesworth’s lodging house.

  ‘I will make your excuses. I will also tell Celandine to be sure to call on you tomorrow, as Sherry and I are going to start on our open-air painting straight away. He has some splendid scenes all set and ready for us both. You two ladies can go off and do your little commissions, or whatever you wish; perhaps even some tasteful watercolouring on the harbourside?’ Napier smiled. ‘At any rate I will tell Celandine to be sure to call for you about eleven o’clock. You will be better by then, I know. As a matter of fact, since you are not quite the thing tonight, it is probably easier if I stay here, and set off with Sherry in the morning. That would mean we can take advantage of the light, which will be capital, and I can enjoy a late evening without too much thought of keeping you up.’ He went to kiss his hand to her, but Edith had hurried off up the street. ‘Oh, very well.’

  Napier shrugged his shoulders, and hurried back up the steps and into the house and the welcome smell of Mrs Molesworth’s excellent lamb stew, not to mention her fruit pudding and syllabub, last tasted the previous summer.

  Edith hurried on, heading she hoped for the beach and the river that divided Newbourne, and promptly becoming lost. What with the sun setting out to sea, the dusk gently descending, and the narrowness of the streets, her feelings of dark despair seemed to be increasing and not decreasing, so that she found herself wandering further and further without caring too much if she was heading back to her lodgings or not.

  Once or twice a drunkard would lean out from a doorway and try to catch her dress, but she managed to sidestep them, and hurried on until she found herself at the top of the town.

  She had never contemplated such dark feelings before, not even when her mother had died, but now it seemed to her that she was losing out to some part of her nature that she had never before known existed. She felt dizzy and
dry-mouthed, knowing with complete certainty that had there been some easy means for her to end it all, she would; knowing that when she had left Napier it was the river she had hoped to find, the deep stretch of water where she could finally escape her distraught feelings.

  She sat down on a low wall, pulling her coat about her, and found herself staring round in increasing despair, not only because she had married someone with whom she had been sure she was in love, only to find that he cared nothing for her, but because she had no idea where she was, and it was quite probable that she would never find her way back to her lodgings until daylight came.

  She put her head in her hands, feeling the tears dripping through her fingers, tears that suddenly seemed to be illuminated by the light of a lantern.

  ‘Can I help you? You seem to be in some distress.’

  Edith quickly ran an arm across her eyes, as she would have done when she was a child, trying to compose her face.

  ‘No. At least, yes,’ she said, in a half-whisper.

  ‘Distress can come to us all, or is it just lost you are?’

  ‘You are right, I am lost,’ Edith admitted, raising her voice. ‘You see, I am new to Newbourne . . .’ She gave a faint smile because it sounded so stupid.

  ‘So you’re new and quite lost, is that what you are saying?’

  Edith stared up into the kind, bearded face. ‘Yes, yes, I am, in every way.’

  ‘Do you remember your address, do you think? Seeing that you are so new here you might be able to remember it.’

  Dimly Edith remembered it, but as her throat once more felt constricted she shook her head wordlessly.

  ‘Name of the person you’re staying with, might that come to you, my dear?’

  ‘Mrs Harvey.’ That came out better.

  ‘Mrs Harvey? I know Mrs Harvey – of Primrose House?’ As Edith nodded, he went on, ‘You’m on the wrong side of the Slip, my dear. You come with me, and we’ll soon find our way.’

  He swung the lantern encouragingly and Edith straightened up, knowing that she would have to go with him.