Page 22 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Then we shall meet again when you begin my classes. À bientot, mesdemoiselles.’ He gave a theatrical bow, and continued on his way, walking with rapid steps towards the back of the house where an enormous glazed structure – originally the orangery – was now known as the Studio. So far, they hadn’t used it – their lessons had been in the two classrooms upstairs.

‘Who was that?’ Alice asked, in an urgent undertone, as they trod up the stairs.

‘Ivor Wentworth. He teaches figure studies. We’re not allowed to do those yet.’

‘Ivor Wentworth?’ Alice said. ‘But he’s famous! I’ve seen pictures in the magazines. He does those wonderful paintings of Egyptian and Roman scenes. I can’t believe he’s so young!’

‘Why not?’ said Bron.

‘I don’t know. You always think famous people must be really old, don’t you? Like Mr Ffolliot.’

‘He’s not famous. Not properly. Isn’t Mr Wentworth handsome?’

‘He is. Very,’ said Alice. She remembered his words, We all desire talent. He was just making a joke about her name, wasn’t he? But when he said it he had looked at her in a certain way . . . ‘Like a Greek god.’

‘I don’t think there was ever a Greek god called Ivor, was there?’ Bron said. ‘But he’s like an angel. Glorious English angel.’

Angus presented himself at Mr Cowling’s house on the other side of the square, telling himself not to hope for too much. The servant seemed to be expecting him, and conducted him straight to the business-room, where Mr Cowling, behind his desk, rose to his feet and invited Angus to sit. He looked him over for a nerve-racking age and, placing both his hands flat on the desk in front of him, he said, ‘Now then, young man, let’s have your story. What’s this trouble you’ve got yourself into? And don’t bother denying it, because I wasn’t born yesterday.’

Angus was not sure how much detail he ought to give, but Mr Cowling had a very absorbent way of listening, alert, attentive and silent, which seemed to draw him out. When he finally stopped, Mr Cowling sat in silence for a few moments, as though reviewing the story in his head, and Angus made himself sit still and not fidget.

Finally Mr Cowling said, ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear of such a falling-out between father and son. It’s a puzzle. It’s not as if you wanted to make a low marriage. An earl’s daughter ought to be good enough for anyone, I’d have thought. What d’you think minded your father to take such a position?’

‘He’s my father, sir, and I don’t wish to speak disrespectfully,’ Angus began.

‘Quite right. Honour thy father and thy mother, the Good Book says. But you may be open without being disrespectful, as long as what you say is the truth.’

‘Well, then,’ Angus said, a little awkwardly, ‘the truth is that when my father gives an order he won’t brook dissent.’

Mr Cowling frowned, the fingers of one hand drumming on the desk-top to aid thought. ‘I don’t know your father, but I know he’s a successful man in his field. I admire that. I don’t have a son.’ For an instant he stopped, and a shadow briefly crossed his face. He resumed: ‘But if I had, I should expect him to obey me.’

Angus’s heart sank. Of course he would be on Father’s side! ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘However.’

Angus’s heart stopped sinking and hovered uncertainly.

‘Would I force my son to marry when he’d a strong inclination another way? If that other way was not disgraceful in itself ?’

The fingers drummed.

‘I’ve no experience of buying influence that road – through ties of blood. I know high-up folk do it – aye, I know that well enough! And maybe it answers. I suppose it must, or they wouldn’t do it, and it’s been going on long enough.’

The heart began sinking again.

‘Nine times out of ten it must pay. But then comes the tenth time.’ Mr Cowling was looking at him now, searching his face for information. ‘Are you sure your father won’t budge?’

‘Quite sure, sir. As far as he’s concerned, I no longer exist. Even if I went now and said I’d seen the error of my ways and would marry as he chose, he wouldn’t take me back, because that would be to show weakness.’

‘Well, it passes me!’ Mr Cowling muttered. ‘If I only had a son, I’d make good sure to keep him by me, whatever it took.’

Angus’s heart now didn’t know which way to go, but on the whole it was looking upwards, sensing a peep of daylight.

‘Now, I want to be sure if I help you I won’t be treading on anyone’s toes. I don’t like to make enemies in the world of business. And to come between father and son . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Tell me honestly, will your pa think I’m interfering in his family’s private matters?’

‘I’m sure he won’t, sir. He won’t care what happens to me. If he ever even hears about it, which I doubt, he’ll only shrug and think you a fool for helping me.’

‘Will he, by God!’