Page 13 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Oh, is that what I did? Speaking of which, how is Chloë?’

She looked serious. ‘That isn’t funny.’

‘I’m sorry. You know I am prone to sacrifice all for a bon mot. Forgive me. Is there any more talk of a European tour?’

‘No, because Sir Thomas is still down in the country with his wife, but I’m sure he hasn’t given up the idea. He’ll be back in Town any day, and then I suppose we shall see.’

‘Sufficient unto the day,’ Richard said. He looked at her keenly. ‘It must be lonely here without Chloë. With nothing to occupy you all day but teaching scales to little children.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that.’

But he had seen it in her eyes, before she turned her face away. Such a confined and confining life, for a woman of taste and intelligence, he thought. He hated it for her, and he hated that he was unable to do anything about it. He wanted to take her away from the poky rooms and the barrenness of daily drudgery. But he had nothing to offer, no way to support her. His bad arm ached, as it often did in cold weather, but just now he chose to take it as a reproach, an injunction to start racking his useless brains and work out a plan. His situation, he realised, was not so dissimilar from Angus Tullamore’s.

For the moment, however, all he could do was support her spirits. ‘What time is your afternoon pupil coming or not coming?’ he asked.

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ He drained his glass and jumped up. ‘There’s time for me to take you out to luncheon before then.’

‘Don’t you have business to attend to?’

‘It can wait until tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘Next week will do.’

‘You are entirely reprehensible!’

He grinned. ‘I’m so glad you noticed! As the old proverb says, never put off till tomorrow the pleasure you can have today.’

‘That’s not the version my mother taught me.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘Are you sure, dear?’ Aunt Caroline had kept asking. ‘It sounds a very odd idea to me.’

That was before Alice showed her the pictures. She was silent for a long time, examining each with some care before passing them on to Grandmère, who happened to be visiting. Then she said, ‘I had no idea you drew so well. These are remarkably lifelike.’

Having seen them all, she patted the sofa beside her, and when Alice sat she said earnestly, ‘All the same, dear, I’m quite surprised that Giles has agreed to this. I’m afraid it will damage your chances.’

‘My chances?’ Alice asked blankly. She heard her grandmother give a little Gallic snort of amusement.

‘Your marriage chances,’ said Aunt Caroline. ‘You see, it’s one thing to sketch prettily, or play the piano, or embroider. Talents suitable for the drawing-room. But to be trained at a special school . . . That smacks of the professional. Men don’t like their wives to be artistic to that degree. Except for artistic men, I suppose,’ she corrected herself doubtfully. ‘But, then, I couldn’t recommend you attach yourself to an artistic man. They never have any money, you know. And they lead such erratic lives,’ she mentioned vaguely. ‘And they have a distressing tendency towards soft collars. Who was that artist fellow, Victoire, that Willy knew, and invited sometimes to dinner? He wore a most peculiar kind of velvet jacket one evening, like Henry Irving playing Hamlet.’

‘That was Henry Irving,’ Grandmère said. ‘Not a painter.’

Aunt Caroline missed the correction. ‘Alice, dear, I’m afraid you would be giving up all hope of a good marriage if it were known that you had gone to acting school.’

‘Art school, Aunty,’ Alice corrected.

‘Of course, I meant art school. But it’s just the same thing. You might be classed along with actresses and ballet girls and – oh dear, I’m quite sure Maud won’t like it. I’m surprised she hasn’t forbidden you.’

Grandmère’s sharp eyes divined from Alice’s expression that permission hadn’t yet been sought. ‘But, ma chère,’ she said, ‘what do you mean to do with it when you have won your diploma, or whatever it shall be? Do you mean to sell paintings for money?’

Alice hastened to say, ‘There are very respectable people who earn a living by painting. It isn’t at all like acting. Princess Louise paints, and she’s Queen Victoria’s daughter!’

‘I don’t think she does it for a living, dear,’ Aunt Caroline objected.