Page 140 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

There were, in fact, no refreshments, but Alice was soon too absorbed in the wonderful paintings to mind or even notice. Among them she was intrigued to discover a pair of very brown eighteenth-century romantic oils by Hubert Robert, called The Flight of Galatea and The Trial of Cicero, whose provenance noted that they had once been owned by her father. Sold, she supposed, before she was born, to pay off a debt.

Passing into an anteroom, still searching for the Holbein, she saw something that made her call excitedly to Bron. ‘Come and look, come and look!’

‘Goodness,’ Bron breathed into her ear, gazing over her shoulder. ‘It’s a Wentworth!’

‘Ivor Wentworth,’ Alice marvelled. ‘One of our teachers!’

‘Seeing it here makes you realise properly that he is a famous artist. To think that we know him!’

‘Well, not “know” really,’ Alice said, in fairness. ‘But we’ve seen him in the flesh. Passed him in the corridor. Spoken to him.’

‘I count that as “knowing”,’ Bron said. ‘And he praised your drawing at the Hampstead Heath outing. That makes you practically family!’

Alice examined the painting. ‘It’s not much like his usual work. Not much colour.’

‘Cicero Denouncing Catiline,’ Bron read the title.

‘The Levens seem to have a particular interest in Cicero,’ Alice said.

It showed two banks of seats facing each other across a marble floor, those on one side populated by men in various poses of listening or whispering to each other, and on the other side only by one man, chin in hand, staring at the floor looking dejected. Standing in the middle was a man with his arms flung out in oratorical mode. All the men were wearing white togas; the only colour came from the faces, the wooden benches and the mild variations in hue of the marble floor and walls. Usually a Wentworth was full of rich blues and crimsons and lashings of gold. ‘It’s clever, though,’ Alice said, as she studied it. ‘Every face is different, and there must be fifty of them. And their poses and expressions are very natural-looking – it must have taken a very long time to paint.’

‘Are you going to copy it?’

‘It would take weeks! Besides, I’ve got my heart set on Henry.’ Alice glanced around, and saw a footman at the far end of the room – there had been several dotted about, perhaps to help the young ladies in their endeavours – or perhaps, less liberally, to stop them touching anything. ‘I’ll ask that man if he knows where it is.’

But before she could act on the thought, someone came in through the door just beside her, made a sound of surprise, or perhaps annoyance, at the sight of her and Bron. He was immediately withdrawing when, seeing Alice’s face as she turned to look, he stopped, smiled, and came forward with his hand out.

‘Miss Tallant? Well, goodness! I was told there were some young ladies wandering about, and was warned to avoid them. To think of its being you!’

‘Mr Farocean,’ Alice said. ‘To think of its being you!’ Bron gave a very small cough, and she introduced them. ‘We are two of the wandering young ladies. Why were you told to avoid us? Are we likely to annoy you, or was it vice versa?’

Bentham Farocean grinned. ‘I imagine the idea was that the young ladies are of such unworldly delicacy I might fatally shock them, being myself entirely terrestrial. Of the earth: earthy.’

‘We are students of fine art, Mr Farocean. Nudity, lust and murder are all around us, every day.’

‘By Jove, yes. Those Old Masters didn’t hold back, did they?’

‘But you haven’t said what you are doing here,’ Alice said, enjoying herself. It was nice to talk to a man again, after a diet of girls and female teachers. He reminded her a little of Richard, which was comfortable.

‘I’ve been visiting Oliver – Oliver Leven. Grandson.’ He waved a hand to indicate the entirety of the Leven house as a shorthand way of indicating whose grandson Oliver was. ‘He’s laid up in bed with a busted bone so I was relieving the boredom. We were up at Balliol together.’

‘That explains everything perfectly,’ Alice said. ‘I’m sure if in five years’ time Bron was laid up in bed I would feel duty bound to go and visit her.’

Bron laughed and excused herself, walking away briskly to give them privacy.

Bentham didn’t seem to notice she had gone. ‘So, what are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Yes, looking at the paintings, no need to be literal. Any in particular?’

‘I’m looking for Henry the Eighth,’ Alice said.

‘Oh, he’s on the stairs. Enormous great thing, no space for it in a room. Shall I show you?’

‘Thank you – if you don’t mind.’

He ushered her through the anteroom door onto a staircase. ‘Not this one – t’other side of the house. I know a short-cut. So, you weren’t in Scotland, like your sister?’

‘You saw her there, did you? She went with my aunt Vicky, who’d taken her on holiday to the South of France, and then went on to Glamis. I had to be here for the start of term. Were you staying at Glamis?’

‘No, but we were invited once or twice. We were staying with the Eassies – do you know them?’