Page 68 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

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.

Having been sitting for so long, the girls were happy to stand and walk about while eating the sandwiches and pasties the school kitchen had provided. Bron had made friends with a young golden retriever belonging to a strolling couple and was throwing a stick for it. Julia had asked Miss Palgrave about a small plant she had found growing in the grass, and Miss Palgrave told her it was self-heal, and was describing how it had been used in the past to stop bleeding, heal wounds and cure scrofula.

In another group Alice was discussing the exciting possibility that one of the senior girls might have something accepted for the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. Then someone else said that Mr Wentworth was working on a painting of Cleopatra and Caesar, and if he finished it in time it would almost certainly be selected.

At the mention of his name, Alice instinctively looked round for him, and saw to her horror that he was standing by the rug where she had been sitting and was looking through her sketching-pad. She abandoned the group and hurried over, wondering if she dared snatch her book away.

But as she reached him she saw it was too late. He had folded it open at his own portrait. He looked up at her with a glinting smile.

‘So, Miss Tallant, we bring you all the way out here to show you these wonderful views so that you may practise your landscape drawing, and you scorn the very idea!’ She blushed, and tried to think what to say. He went on, subjecting her to a thorough examination, which did nothing to restore her equilibrium. ‘Miss Tallant, I think, has an independent spirit.’

‘I – I prefer figures to landscapes, sir,’ she muttered awkwardly, wondering if she was in trouble. She couldn’t tell from his voice, not knowing him well enough. He sounded mocking rather than angry, but of course that could change in an instant.

‘So I see.’ He looked at the drawing again. ‘And I see from the style of the jacket and the hair that this is meant to be me.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she mumbled.

‘Don’t be,’ he said. ‘It is quite good. You have a talent for figures. It is not very like, though.’ He looked up at her quizzically. ‘You have the folds of the jacket quite well – fabric is a whole skill of its own and we can work on that – and the hair is mine, but the face? No, not very like.’

Alice felt her blush increasing as she realised she had drifted without realising it into drawing the profile she knew best. She stared at the page, willing it to burst into flames, rather than meet Wentworth’s eyes.

‘And I do not think I have a neck like this,’ he went on. ‘Or such broad shoulders. No, it is not like me – but I think it is like someone?’

She felt him looking at her insistently, and suddenly rebelled. ‘It’s a fancy head,’ she said defiantly. ‘Just my imagination.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, keeping her gaze, and she made herself meet it steadily, hands clasped behind her back, chin jutting just a little. What had she done, after all, that was so terrible?

Then he smiled, a dazzling smile that seemed to be minted just for her. ‘No need to look like a startled fawn, Miss Tallant. If you drew this face from imagination – or was it memory?’ He paused, but she was not tempted to answer. ‘Either way, you have a promise that should be nurtured.’ He put her sketching-pad into her unresisting hands and strolled away.

Bron and Julia, who had been drifting closer, wondering what was happening, hurried to her side. Alice explained.

Julia clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘You drew him? I wouldn’t have dared! He’s the Ivor Wentworth!’

‘Was he very angry?’ Bron asked.

‘No,’ Alice said. ‘I think he was laughing at me, really.’

‘Show me the drawing,’ Bron demanded.

Alice handed it over reluctantly, and the two bent their heads together over it. ‘It doesn’t look very like him,’ Julia said after a moment.

‘That’s what he said,’ said Alice.

‘You haven’t got the proportions right,’ Bron said. ‘But as a picture, it’s very nice.’ She looked up. ‘You should think of specialising in portraits. A person can make a good living – rich people always want to have themselves done in oils and hung over the fireplace.’

‘It sounds like a mediaeval torture,’ Alice said, and the conversation ended in laughter.

Kitty had never needed to know anything about money. Before she married, everything had been bought for her; now she charged all purchases to account. And she had always known she was the heiress of a large estate, so that anything she had wanted, within reason, had been within her reach. So when Fenchurch’s estimate arrived, she had no idea whether it was a shocking, impossible sum, or something reasonably affordable to the man who now owned her inheritance.

She was intending to pick the right moment to approach Giles, but seeing it all written down, suddenly so much closer to being real, she couldn’t wait, and hurried along to the library where she knew he was alone.

He looked up when she came in, and his expression was not welcoming. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I’ve something to show you,’ she said eagerly.